We were zero-zero in the eighth inning, when it was Skinny’s turn to bat, for he was fifth up, and he hit a drive past the shortstop and he got to second. All hell was let loose: people started shouting “Violeta, Violeta”, and Skinny went “Balls, we’ve got balls” till the umpire had a go at him for swearing. And it was all down to that bitch destiny, because Isidrito, who was sixth up and never blew it, made a pig’s ear out of it, was the first out, and Paulino the Bull’s Testicle, who was seventh, rolled it into Yayo’s hands who leisurely stroked it over his balls before throwing it to first base, and Paulino was the second out. Then it was my turn to hit.
I was shitting myself, legs shaking, hands sweating and everybody went dead silent, and even Skinny, who knew me well, didn’t shout at me and I think he reckoned the innings was done for. Then I picked myself up, spat into my hands and rubbed them with earth and remembered I should lift the bat right back, raise my elbow, grip tight when I started my swing, a deep, deep silence, and Yayo Butter pitched it straight, a mean fucking fastball, and I said here we go, lifted my bat back, raised my elbow, gripped tight, shut my eyes and swung. And it was Sodom and Gomorrah: fuck! It was one hell of a hit right down the middle of the field, real hard, like I’d never hit before, and it was like seeing the ball flying in slow motion, flying till it hit the fence right under the scoreboard, and I started to run hell for leather, and it went so far I could go to third, almost enough for a homerun, they screamed, Skinny scored, then ran to third base and scooped me up in his arms, Isidrito who hadn’t spoken to me from the day we’d had that fight, kissed me he was so excited, and the whole team came to hug me, and I deserved it, right? I was over the moon, the fans were going crazy, and I looked to the terraces to see things differently and felt I would die: Tamara and Rafael had left…
In the ninth innings the La Habana lot scored twice and beat us two-one. But it was the best game of my life.
Before he knocked on the door, he glanced at his watch: ten past four. If she’d been having a siesta, she’d be up by now. Perhaps she was watching the Sunday matinee film, he thought, then thought he didn’t exactly know why he’d come or else he knew only too well and didn’t want to give it another thought. Lam’s sham figures rested under the shadow of a ceiba-tree, possibly quite deliberately planted next to the concrete jungle, and the well- pruned hedges and lush hibiscus created the atmosphere of a colourful artificial wood he really liked. In fact, as he had reminded Manolo, it wasn’t a house for policemen, and the pain of nostalgia the place provoked was so intense, his temples and chest felt ready to burst. He was pleased he’d had a couple with Manolo; when and after he’d pressed the bell, he felt calm and relaxed.
The ring of the bell echoed round the huge house, and while waiting he lit a cigarette and adjusted the regulation pistol in his belt, the weight of which he’d never accepted, and finally she opened the door and greeted him with a smile: “Well, if it isn’t the Prince of the City. I watched that film last night and pitied the policeman. Recently all the police I’ve seen have looked sad. Though that guy doesn’t look much like you.” And she stepped back to let him in.
“Lately I don’t feel much like myself,” he retorted as she shut the door, and they headed for the television room. “Do you want to see the rest of the film?”
“No, I saw it three months ago. Rafael brought the video, but as I was bored…” She settled down in a plush armchair that matched his. “I felt drowsy. I slept very badly last night.”
The curtains were closed, and the room got little of the cold light from outside. He searched for an ashtray and finally spotted a metal one, of the lidded variety to hide the ash and cigarette ends. It was annoyingly clean and shiny, and he moved the lid two or three times before enquiring:
“Who cleans this place, Tamara?”
“A lady who’s a friend of Mummy’s. She comes twice a week, why?”
“Nothing really, I just pollute ashtrays.”
She smiled almost sadly.
“Nothing new there, right, Mario?”
“So here we are again, Tamara,” he lied, not feeling the slightest remorse, and wondered how much of the truth his old comrade knew.
“That’s what I’d imagined. My mother-in-law called this morning and told me you’d been round to see her. The poor woman was in tears.”
“It’s to be expected. And then I spoke to Fernandez-Lorea, who confirmed what an excellent fellow your husband is. And with Garcia, from the union at the enterprise, and he insisted on singing Rafael’s praises like everyone else. I was quite won over.”
“That’s good then,” she replied, and her almond eyes shone even more brightly. But he knew she wouldn’t start crying. “You’re always prospecting for mud.”
“Can I tell you something? I don’t swallow all this. I know Rafael, and I’m sorry but I saw him do two or three things I never liked.”
“What kind of things?” she asked and started tangling with her wayward lock.
“No, nothing serious, don’t worry, but enough to make you wary.”
“And what did Alberto tell you?”
He contemplated the
“Nothing new of note. We’re trying to find Zoilita, who’s still not put in an appearance. And tomorrow we’ll start at the enterprise to see if anything turns up there.”
And she crossed her legs and studied him as if he were suddenly a very alien being she was seeing for the first time. But he could only look at her legs and dress, nothing more than a very long white pullover revealing almost all the front of her thighs.
“Why did you leave that day at the baseball game?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, taken aback.
“Oh, nothing. I want to find your husband and find out why he went missing… And I want to know how you’re feeling.”
She made an effort to tame her impertinent lock and rested her head on the back of her chair.
“Quite at a loss. I’ve been thinking a lot,” she said before standing up. He watched her walk towards the library, and the mere sight of her brought to mind his masturbatory frigging of the previous night and he was almost ashamed he liked that woman, when she returned with two glasses and a bottle of Ballantine’s. She pulled a coffee table over and poured out two big chestnut-coloured shots, and the unmistakeably oak smell hit the Count.
“What are you scared of, Tamara?”
“Scared of?” she asked looking back at him. “Nothing. What about you, Mario?”
He felt the whisky’s dry heat on his tongue and thought he should take his jacket off.
“I’m scared of everything, every little thing. That maybe Rafael’s dead or maybe he’s not and that he’ll turn up and everything will get back to normal. That the years are passing me by, putting an end to any likelihood I’ll ever fulfil my dreams. That Skinny will die and I’ll be left alone and will feel even guiltier. That tobacco will be the death of me. That I don’t do my job properly. That I’ll be really lonely, incredibly lonely… That I might fall in love with you, Rafael’s wife, you who live in such a clean perfect world and whom I’ve wanted all my life,” he said and looked at
The precise day his life changed, Mario Conde was wondering how destinies are forged. A few days before he had read Thornton Wilder’s novel
