Only then did he look the youth in the eye. The Count felt he’d made an impact.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“What you and your friends thought about Lissette.”
The youth smiled. He threw his half-smoked cigarette in the direction of the garden and returned to his rib count.
“What we thought? Is that what you’re after? Look, pal, I’m seventeen, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You want me to tell you what I think and put myself in the shit? That’s a fool’s game, if you’ll forgive the expression. I’ve got a year and a bit left at Pre-Uni and I want to end on a high, you know? That’s why I repeat that she was a good teacher and that she helped us a lot.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Jose Luis. Just remember one thing: I’m a policeman and I don’t like people spending all day prevaricating with me. I think I like you, but don’t get the wrong side of me because I can be real hard. Why did you answer me that day in the lavatories?”
The boy swung a leg nervously. Like the Skinny of old.
“Because you asked. And I told you what anyone could have said.”
“Are you afraid?” asked the Count looking him in the eye.
“Common sense. I told you I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t complicate life for me.”
“All of a sudden nobody wants complications. Why don’t you dare?”
“What’s in it for me if I dare?”
The Count shook his head. If he was a cynic, as Candito had said, then what was this kid?
“I really had high hopes you’d help me. Perhaps because you’re like my friend Skinny from when I was at Pre- Uni. Why are you acting like this?”
The youth looked serious and now shook his leg more quickly, stroking himself again around his sternum that divided his chest like a keel.
“Because it’s the only way to act. I’ll tell you something. When I was in sixth grade my school was inspected. A dad had said that our teacher hit us and they were investigating to see if it was true. They wanted someone apart from that dad and his boy to say it was true. Because it was true: that teacher was the worst bastard you can imagine. He belted us for pleasure. He used to walk in between the rows of desks and if he saw you with one foot on the desk in front, for example, he’d kick you in the leg with those boots of his… And, of course, nobody said anything. Everybody was scared. But I did: I said he abused us and kicked us, slapped us round the head, pulled our ears when we didn’t know something and thwacked more than one face with his register. He did it to me. Naturally, the teacher got the boot, justice was done, and another new teacher came. A really nice guy. He didn’t hit or hurt us… At the end of the year two people in the class didn’t pass: the boy who first kicked up a fuss and myself. What do you reckon?”
The Count remembered himself in Pre-Uni: so what would he have done? Would he speak to that unknown policeman he had no reason to trust, beyond the simple notion that he wanted justice to be done? And what if that was how justice was done? He took out his packet of cigarettes again and gave one to skinny Jose Luis.
“Don’t worry, son. Look, here’s my number, at home, and if anything comes to mind, give me a ring. This is more serious than a slap round the head or an ear-pull. Remember that… Otherwise, I think you’re right to be scared. But the fear’s of your making. I hope you pass without any problems,” he said and held the lit match out to Jose Luis’s cigarette, but didn’t light his: his mouth tasted unmistakeably of shit.
“Hey, Jose, I need your help.”
As usual, the front door was open to the wind, the light and visitors, and Josefina was spending Saturday afternoon in front of the television screen. Her taste in television – like her son’s in music – covered a range that included every possibility: whatever films they showed, even Soviet war films and martial arts films from Hong Kong; then soaps, soaps galore, whether Brazilian, Mexican, or Cuban, and whatever the theme, romance, slavery, working-class struggle or high society drama. Then, music, the news, adventures and puppets. To clock up more television she even swallowed Nitza Villapol’s cookery programmes, for the pleasure of finding fault when she spotted missing ingredients or pointless extras in some of the expert’s recipes. She was now watching the week’s repeats of Brazilian soap and that’s why the Count dared interrupt her. The woman listened to the cry for help from the Count who’d sat next to her, and concluded: “Just what my father used to say: when a white man looks for a black you bet it’s to fuck him up. So what’s wrong, my love?”
The Count smiled and wondered whether he’d made the right decision.
“I’ve a real problem, Jose…”
“The new girlfriend?”
“Hey, dear, you hit bulls-eye.”
“But you lot shout it to the heavens…”
“Well, she’s says she’s always lived round the corner, at number 75. But I’ve never seen her and Skinny’s never heard of her. Give me a hand. Find out who she is, where she’s from, anything you can.”
The woman started swaying on her chair again and looked at the screen. The heroine in the soap was having a lousy time. Fine, thought Conde, that’s the price you pay for being a heroine in a soap.
“Did you get that, Jose?” the Count then insisted, craving the attention he thought he’d lost.
“Yes, I got you… And what if you don’t like what I find out? Hey, Condesito, let me tell you something. You know you’re my son too and that I’ll find out what you want to know. I’ll act like a policeman. But you’re making a mistake. I’ll tell you that for nothing.”
“Don’t worry. You help me. I need some badly… And is the little fellow awake yet?”
“I think he’s listening to music on his headset. He just asked me if you’d rung… There’s some fried rice for you in the pot on the stove.”
“Hell, you really are my mother,” said the Count and, after kissing her on the forehead, he started to ruffle her hair. “But remember I want that info.”
The Count entered his friend’s room, a plate in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. His back to the door, his gaze lost in the foliage of the banana trees, Skinny was singing very quietly the songs he was listening to on his headset. The Count made an effort but couldn’t identify the tune.
He sat on the bed behind the wheelchair and, after lifting the first spoonful to his lips, kicked the wheel nearest to him.
“Say something, savage.”
“You’ve put me on the scrap heap,” Skinny protested, as he took off his headset and slowly swung round the chair he was sentenced to.
“Don’t gripe, Skinny, it was one day I didn’t call on you. Yesterday life got very hectic.”
“You could have rung. Things must be going well: look at the bags under your eyes. So? Did you dance her?”
“We danced, but I didn’t get to dance her. But look,” he said, pointing to his shirt pocket, “I’ve got her here.”
“I’m happy for your sake,” said Carlos, and the Count noted a lack of enthusiasm in that declaration of happiness. He knew Skinny was thinking how a relationship like that would deprive him of nights and Sundays in the Count’s company, and the Count also knew his friend was right, because at root nothing had changed between them: they continued to be possessive, like insecure adolescents.
“Don’t have a go, Skinny, it’s not the end of the world.”
“I really am happy for you, you beast. You need a woman and I hope you’ve just found one.”
The Count put down his plate that looked as if it had been washed clean and flopped onto Skinny’s bed, glancing at the old posters on the wall.
“I think this is it. I’m in love like a dog, like a mongrel. My defences are all down: I don’t know how I can fall in love like this. But she’s beautiful, savage, and intelligent.”
“You’re exaggerating. Beautiful
“I swear by your mother she is. If it’s a lie, she needn’t save any more fried rice for me.”
“So, how come you didn’t lay her?”
“She told me to wait, that it was too soon.”
“You see, she can’t be that intelligent. How can she resist the ardour of a brilliant, handsome good dancer like
