Havana Fever

Paralysed by that vision, conscious of his breath’s halting rhythms, Conde wondered whether he’d have the strength, then ventured three cautious steps forward. When he crossed the threshold, he realized, in state of total shock, that the quantity of shelves packed with volumes extended down every side of the room, covering the roughly thirty-six square yards of wall. It was at that precise moment of more than justifiable emotion and awe, that the tumultuous symptoms of his hunch hit him – a feeling quite distinct from any surprise prompted by books or business, with the power to suggest that something extraordinary was lurking there clamouring for his presence.

“What do you think?”

Paralysed by the physical impact of his hunch, Conde didn’t hear Dionisio’s question.

“Well, what do you make of it?” the man persisted, standing in the Count’s field of vision.

“Simply fantastic,” he muttered finally, as his excitement led him to suspect he was most certainly in the presence of an extraordinary vein, one of those you’re always seeking and which you find once in a lifetime, if ever. Experience screamed to him that it must hold unimaginable surprises, for if only five per cent of those books turned out to have special worth, he was potentially looking at twenty or thirty bibliographical treasures, able on their own to kill – or at least fend off for a good while – the hunger now torturing the Ferreros and himself.

When he was sure he was fit to make another move, the Count went over to the shelf that was looking him in the eye and, without asking for permission, opened the glass doors. He reviewed at random some of the book spines, and spotted the ruddy leather jacket of Miro Argenter’s Chronicles of the War in Cuba, in the 1911 princeps edition. After wiping the sweat from his hands, he took out the volume and found it was signed and dedicated by the warriorwriter “To my warm friend, my dear General Serafin Montes de Oca”. Next to Miro’s Chronicles lay the two imposing volumes of the much prized Alphabetical Index of Demises in the Cuban Liberation Army, by Major-General Carlos Roloff, from its rare 1901 single printing in Havana and, his hands shaking even more violently, Conde dared remove from the adjacent space the volumes of the Notes Towards the History of Letters and Public Education on the Island of Cuba, the classic by Antonio Bachiller y Morales, published in Havana between 1859 and 1861. Conde’s finger caressed even more lingeringly the lightweight spine of The Coffee Plantation, Domingo Malpica de la Barca’s novel, published by the Havana printers Los Ninos Huerfanos in 1890, and the pleasantly muscular, soft leather covers of the five volumes of Jose Antonio Saco’s History of Slavery, in the 1936 edition from the Alfa printing house, until, like a man possessed, he fished out the next book. The spine was only engraved with the initials C.V., and opening it he felt his legs give way, for it really was a first edition of The Young Woman with the Golden Arrow, Cirilo Villaverde’s novel, in that first, mythical edition printed by the famous Oliva print shop, in 1842…

Conde felt that space was like a sanctuary lost in time, and for the first time wondered whether he wasn’t committing an act of profanation. He gingerly returned each book to its respective place and inhaled the lovely scent emanating from the open bookcase. He took several deep breaths until he’d filled his lungs, and shut the doors only when he felt inebriated. He tried to hide his discomfort as he turned to the Ferreros, whose faces now burned with a flame of hope, that was determined to triumph over the only too conspicuous disasters life brings.

“Why do you want to sell these books?” he asked, against all his principles, already seeking out a path to the history of that exceptional library. Nobody consciously, so abruptly, got rid of treasure like that, (and he’d only glimpsed the first promising jewels), unless there was some other reason, apart from hunger, and the Count felt an urgent need to know what that might be.

“It’s a long story and…” Dionisio hesitated for the first time since he’d encountered the Count, but immediately recovered an almost martial aplomb. “We still aren’t sure we want to sell. That will depend on the offer you make. There are lots of bandits in the antiques trade as you well know… The other day two paid us a visit. They wanted to buy our stained-glass windows and the cheeky bastards offered three hundred dollars for each… They think one is either mad or starving to death…”

“Of course, lots of people are on the make. But I’d like to know why you’ve decided to sell the books now…”

Dionisio looked at his sister, as if he didn’t understand: how could the fellow be stupid enough to ask such a question? The Count cottoned on and, smiling, tried to refocus his curiosity for a third time.

“Why did you wait until now to decide to sell them?”

The transparent woman, perhaps stirred by the urgency of her hunger, was the one who rushed to reply.

“It’s Mummy. Our Mother,” she explained. “She agreed to look after these books years ago…”

The Count felt he was treading on typically swampy ground, but with no choice but to press on.

“And your Mother?…”

“She’s still alive. She’ll be ninety-one this year. And the poor thing is…”

Conde didn’t dare keep on: the first part of the confession was on its way and he waited in silence. The rest would come of its own accord.

“The old girl’s past it… she’s been a bundle of nerves for a long time. And the fact is we need some money,” spat Dionisio waving at the books. “You know what things are like these days, the pension goes nowhere…”

Conde nodded: yes, he did know about that. His eyes followed the man’s hand towards the shelves crammed with books and he felt the hunch that he was on the verge of something big, still there, rudely pricking him under the nipple, making his hands sweat. He wondered why it hadn’t gone away. He knew he was surrounded by valuable books, so why should the alarm-call still sound so loudly? Could it be there was a book that was too much to hope for? That must be it, he told himself, and if that were true it would only stop when he’d inspected every shelf from top to bottom.

“I’ve no wish to pry, but… But when was the last time anyone touched this library?” he asked.

“Forty… Forty-three years ago,” the woman answered and the Count shook his head incredulously.

“Hasn’t a single book left here in all that time?”

“Not one,” interjected Dionisio, confident he was upping the value of the library’s contents by making such a statement. “Mummy asked us to air it once a month and clean it with a feather duster, just along the tops…”

“Look, I’ll be frank with you,” Mario Conde decided to issue a warning, aware he was about to betray the most hallowed rules of his profession: “I have a hunch, in a manner of speaking. I’m quite sure there are books here worth lots of money, and others so valuable that they can’t or shouldn’t be sold… If I might explain myself: there could be books, particularly Cuban books, that shouldn’t leave Cuba and almost nobody in Cuba has the money to pay out what they’re really worth. The National Library, for a start. And what I’m telling you now goes against my own business interests, but I believe it would be a crime to sell them to a foreigner who’d only take them out of the country… and I say a crime because it would be more than unforgivable, it would be a felony, and that’s the least of it. If we can agree terms, we can do business with the saleable books, and if you then decide to sell the more valuable books, I’ll get out of your way and…”

Dionisio stared at the Count with unexpected intensity.

“What did you say your name was?…”

“Mario Conde.”

“Mario Conde,” he chewed on the name slowly, as if extracting from the letters an injection of dignity his blood sorely needed. “Standing where you can see us now, my sister and I have really run ourselves into the ground over this country, in a big way. I risked my life here and even in Africa. And although I’m starving to death I won’t do anything like that… Not for a thousand or ten thousand pesos,” and he turned to look at his sister, as if seeking out a last refuge for his pride. “Will we, Amalia?”

“Of course we won’t, Dionisio,” she assured him.

“I’m glad that we understand each other,” nodded the Count, moved by the naivety of the heroic Dionisio, who thought in pesos, whilst he calculated similar figures, but in dollars. “Let’s do it this way. I’ll choose twenty to thirty books that will sell well, although they’re not particularly valuable. I’ll separate them out now and come for them tomorrow with the money. After that I’d like to check the whole library, so I can tell you what I’d be interested in taking, what books would interest no buyer, and which books can’t, or rather shouldn’t, be sold, right? But first I’d like to hear the whole story, if you don’t mind, that is… I’m sorry to insist, but a library that has books like those I’ve just fished out and that’s been untouched for forty-three years…”

Dionisio Ferrero looked at his sister, and the colourless woman stared back at him, nibbling the skin on her fingers. Then she swung her head round towards the Count: “Which one? The story behind the library or the one