man flip. That’s all I have to… Look, I’m a shitty old man who can hardly even speak and even the food I eat hurts me, and I’m living on borrowed time. But I’m glad it happened to her, and say as much quite without remorse and without expecting God’s forgiveness, because I’ve known that dickhead’s not existed for quite some time. What do you reckon?”
“Conde, Conde, Conde,” Manolo jumped up and down as happy as a birthday boy, when the lieutenant came out of the building. “I think we’ve got it,” he said, pointing at his closed fist.
“What happened, then?” asked Conde trying not to seem too enthused. In truth, the conversation with the old carpenter had depressed him: it must be terrible to live thinking about the pain from your next pee. But he liked the mixture of love and hate still bubbling up in that lunatic on the edge of the grave.
“Look, Conde, if what I found on the Pre-Uni lists checks out, then we’re all done here.”
“But what did you find, pal?”
“Listen to this. I made a list one by one of the names of Lissette’s pupils, beginning with this year’s lot, and then went on to the previous lot, who are now in their last year. I came across Jose Luis, who got ninety-seven in chemistry, and ninety-two in everything else. I reckon he’s a top student, don’t you? You know, I was getting fed up of listing names and marks and it left me cold until I reached the last name on the last list from last year. You do know that the lists are alphabetical, don’t you?”
The Count wiped his hand over his face. Do I hang or behead him? he pondered.
“Get to the point, guy.”
“Hell, Conde, keep your hair on, the best about all this is the suspense. It was just what I found. You write down name after name and finally, when there’s only one pupil left, you get to the name that can get us to the bottom of this pile of shit.”
“Lazaro San Juan Valdes.”
The sergeant’s surprise was spectacular: he raised his arms as if a dog had bitten him, dropping all the papers, like a crestfallen child.
“Hell, Conde, you knew all along?”
“A little bird whispered in my ear when I left Pre-Uni,” smiled the Count, showing him the sheet of paper that bore three names: Lazaro San Juan Valdes, Luis Gustavo Rodriguez and Yuri Samper Oliva. “Yes, San Juan, as in Orlando San Juan, alias Lando the Russian. Hey, Manolo, how many San Juans are there in Havana?”
“Fuck his mother’s cunt, Conde, it’s got to be him,” replied Manolo, as he ran after the list of names the wind was blowing away.
“Off we go to headquarters, then. And put your foot down if you want, because you’ve got leave today,” he said, although he had to withdraw his authorization six blocks on.
“Hey, Conde, I’m really hungry.”
“And do I live on air?”
“Don’t force me to go upstairs now,” begged Manolo when they walked into headquarters.
“Go on then, get something to eat and tell them to keep something back for me even if it’s only bread. I’m going up.”
Sergeant Manuel Palacios went down the passage to the canteen, as his chief pressed the lift button. The figures, on the board, showed it was on its way down but Conde kept his finger on the button until the doors opened and then pressed for the fourth floor. In the corridor he decided to make a pit stop in the lavatory. He’d not urinated since he’d got up, almost six hours ago, and he anxiously watched a spurt of dark, fetid pee hit the bowl and raise reddish foam. My kidneys are fucked, he thought, as he hurriedly shook himself. That must be why I’m losing weight, and he remembered the old carpenter and his wee worries.
He returned to the corridor and pushed on the door to the Drugs Department. The main room was empty and the Count was afraid Captain Ciceron was out on the street, but he rapped the glass in his office door.
“Come in,” he heard and turned the door handle.
Lieutenant Fabricio was sitting in one of the office chairs nearest to the desk. The Count looked at him and his first thought was to leave but he stopped himself: he had no reason to beat a retreat and decided to be pleasant, like any well-bred citizen. Hang on, he thought.
“Good afternoon?”
“What was that?” came the reply.
“Where’s the captain?”
“I don’t know,” came the reply, as Fabricio put the papers he was reading down on the desk, “I think he’s having lunch.”
“You think or don’t know?” asked the Count, making an effort not to seem supercilious.
“Why do you need to see him?” asked Fabricio, slowing the pace of the exchange.
“Please, tell me where he is, it’s urgent.”
Fabricio smiled and asked: “And can’t you tell me what’s it’s about? If it’s concerning Lando, I should say I’m in charge of that case now.”
“Well, congratulations.”
“Hey, Conde, you know I don’t like your sarcasm or your arrogance,” said Fabricio, standing up.
The Count thought he should count to ten but didn’t bother. There were witnesses and it might be a good opportunity to help Fabricio sort out once and for all his problems of taste in matters of sarcasm and arrogance. Even though they kick me out of headquarters, the force, the province and even the country.
“Hey,
Fabricio took one step forward to deliver his riposte.
“Hey, Conde, you go fuck yourself. Do you think this is your department as well?”
“Look, Fabricio, it’s not mine and it’s not yours, and I piss on your mother’s twat,” and he took a step forward, just as the door opened. The Count looked round and saw the figure of Captain Ciceron in the doorway.
“And what’s going on here?” he asked.
The Count felt every muscle in his body was shaking and was afraid his rage would bring on tears. A sudden stabbing headache had started at the nape of his neck and spread to his forehead. He looked at Fabricio and his eyes promised all the shit they could.
“I needed to see you, Ciceron,” the Count said finally, taking the Captain by the arm and leading him out of his office.
“What was going on back there, Conde?”
“Let’s go into the corridor,” asked the lieutenant. “I don’t know what that bastard has got against me, but I’ll not stand anymore. I swear I’ll smash the bloody queer to pieces.”
“Hey, calm down. What’s got into you? You gone mad or what?”
His headache throbbed and throbbed, but Conde managed a smile.
“Forget it, Ciceron. Wait a minute,” and he looked for an analgesic in his pocket. He went over to the tap and sluiced it down. He then extracted the pot of Chinese pomade from his other pocket and rubbed some over his forehead.
“You feeling ill?”
“Just a little headache. But it’ll go. Hey, what’s the news on Lando the Russian?”
Ciceron leaned against the big window in the corridor and took out his cigarettes. He offered the Count one and saw the lieutenant’s hands were trembling. He shook his head.
“He’s started to sing. We did a parade with the Luyano people and they picked him out as the man who sold them marijuana in Vedado. He admitted as much and gave the names of two other buyers. But he says he bought the marijuana from a peasant from Escambray. I think he’s invented someone but we’re checking it out anyway.”
“Look, in terms of the teacher, I’ve got a name that may have to do with Lando: Lazaro San Juan, a student at Pre-Uni.”
Ciceron looked at his cigarette and thought for a moment.
“So you’d like to speak to him?”
“Huh-huh,” the Count nodded and rubbed in more Chinese pomade. The searing heat from the balsam started
