and the public telephone. He lit a cigarette that tasted of wet grass. Inside lay Rafael Morin, dead and ready for oblivion, and it would be a very sad funeral: none of his New Year’s Eve, management-board and trips-abroad friends would come. The man was plagued in more than one sense, and perhaps not even his wife would want to be there. His old friends from high school had fallen by the wayside long ago, would only find out months later, perhaps have their doubts, and wouldn’t believe it was true. He imagined what the wake could have been like in other circumstances, the wreaths of flowers piled up all over the floor in that room, the laments at the loss of such an outstanding cadre, at such an early young age, the funeral oration, so moving and so packed with generous heartfelt adjectives. He dropped his cigarette in the ashtray and walked over to the door to Room D. Like an intruder he gingerly put his face to the glass door and observed the almost empty room just as he’d imagined: Rafael’s mother, holding a handkerchief to her nose, sobbing amid a group of neighbours: the two women who had been doing their washing on Sunday morning; one held the old lady’s hand between hers and was speaking into her ear: for all of them Rafael’s failure was in some way their own failure and the finale to a tragic destiny the man had tried to elude. Tamara was in front of her mother-in-law, and the Count could just make out her shoulders and artificial indomitable curls. She was still; perhaps she’d cried a couple of silent tears. Two chairs from her, also with her back to the door, was another woman the Count tried to identify. She seemed young, her hair style showing off the nape of her neck and straight shoulders, the taut skin on the arm that was visible, and then the woman looked at Tamara and revealed her profile: he recognized Zaida and acknowledged she was being loyal to the end. Seven women; a single female colleague from work. And, at the back, the sealed coffin, wrapped in grey cloth, shockingly bare as it awaited the flowers that always arrived late for a common wake. It would be a sad funeral, he thought yet again and went into the street.
He looked for a cigarette in his jacket pocket. He was really dry, and noticed Baby-Face Miki on the pavement opposite, as he waited for a gap in the traffic and wondered why he was coming to the wake. But he felt he could take no more, quickened his step and walked up the street that ran parallel, spontaneously bursting into song: “Strawberry Fields forever, tum, tum, tum…”
Skinny Carlos looked at his glass as if he couldn’t understand why it was empty. He felt like that after the fourth or fifth shot, and the Count smiled. They’d already seen off half a bottle of rum and hadn’t seen off their sadness. Skinny had wanted to go to the wake, and the Count refused to take him, why do you want to go, don’t be morbid, he said accusingly, and his friend ordered him not put any music on. Skinny felt the respect for death of those who know they will soon die and have decided to drown their bad memories, fatal thoughts and gloomy ideas in rum. But those fucking bastards always come up for air, thought the Count.
“So what do you intend to do with Tamara?” asked Skinny when his glass regained its rightful weight.
“I don’t know, you beast, I don’t know. It won’t work, and I’m afraid of falling in love.”
“Why on earth?”
“Because of what might come later. I don’t like suffering for the sake of it and so prefer to suffer in advance, right?”
“I always said you liked punishing yourself.”
“It’s not easy. You know, it really isn’t,” he said, gulping his rum down. He put his glass on the small table in the centre of the room. “I must go. I’ve got to write a report in the morning.”
“You going to leave me almost a pint? You’re not eating? Do you want old Josefina flying into a tantrum? No, wild animal, no, for I’m the one who will have to listen to her saying you don’t eat properly, that you’re really skinny and that I’m the bad boy for starting you on the rum, that you’ve got to look after yourself more and asking when are you going to marry the nice girl, get this, and have a kid. And I’m not up for it today, you know. It’s been fucking awful enough as it is.”
The Count smiled but wanted to cry. He looked over his friend’s head and saw on the wall the faded Rolling Stones poster and Mick Jagger’s buckteeth; the photo taken at the coming of age party for Rabbit’s sister, Pancho smiling, Rabbit trying not to laugh and Skinny in his special party hairdo, the fringe he hid at school over his eyebrows and almost closed eyes, putting an arm round Mario Conde’s shoulders, looking as if he’d had a fright, soul brothers from time immemorial; the tatty medals under false colours Skinny had won when he was a very skinny baseball player; the now almost invisible Havana Club label that someone had stuck to the mirror years ago during one hell of a drinking binge and that Skinny had decided to preserve for eternity in that same spot. It was a sad wall.
“Skinny, have you ever thought why you and I are mates…?”
“Because one day I lent you a knife at high school. Come on, don’t harp on about life. It just comes as it comes, fucking hell.”
“But it could be different.”
“Lies, you brute, lies. That’s just one tall, tall story. Hell, don’t get me on that tack, but I
“One day I’ll write about this, I swear I will,” said the Count, pouring two generous shots into his friend’s glass.
“Right, just do that, get writing and don’t just keep thinking about doing it. The next time you want to bring the subject up, please put it in writing, OK?”
“One of these days I’ll tell you where to get off, Skinny.”
“Hey, what’s the point of all this chitchat?”
Mario Conde looked at his glass and looked like Skinny looked when it was empty but didn’t dare say a word.
“Nothing, just forget it,” he replied because he thought one day he wouldn’t be able to converse with Skinny or call him my brother, wild animal, pal or tell him life was the most difficult profession going.
“Hey, and in the end where did he put the suitcase full of money?”
“He copped out and threw it into the sea.”
“With all those notes?”
“That’s what the man said.”
“What a fucking shit.”
“Right, a fucking shit. I feel very odd. I wanted to find Rafael and really didn’t mind whether he was dead or alive, and now he’s appeared it’s as if I’d like to disappear him again. I’d rather not think about him but can’t get him out of my head, and I’m afraid this might last a long time. Whatever can Tamara be feeling, do you reckon?”
“Hey, put some music on if you want,” Skinny suggested, “Whatever.”
“What do you fancy?”
“The Beatles?”
“Chicago?”
“Formula V?”
“Los Pasos?”
“Credence?”
“Uh-huh, Credence,” they concurred, and listened to Tom Foggerty’s rich voice and the guitars of Credence Clearwater Revival.
“It’s still the best version of ‘Proud Mary’.”
“By a long chalk.”
“He sings like a black. Just listen.”
“You’re kidding. He sings like God.”
“Up on your feet, lads. Man doesn’t live on music alone. Time to eat,” said Josefina from the doorway where she was taking her apron off, and the Count wondered how many more times he’d hear that call from the wild that summoned the three of them to the incredible feast Josefina struggled daily to create. It would be a difficult world without her, he told himself.
“Let’s have the menu,
“Cod Basque-style, boiled rice, a Polish mushroom soup I’ve improved with cabbage, chicken giblets, tomato
