It was then I decided to do something with the decorations, paintings, vases and books – the only things of any value we had. I swear it was a matter of life or death. Even so I stalled for months until I decided that we were going to starve to death from lack of food if we carried on like that; you only had to see how skinny Dionisio was, who, after being a major and leading men in the war in Angola, was now forced to plant bananas and yuccas in our patio and get himself a job as a night watchman to earn a few extra pesos… One day we stopped debating and started to sell what was left of the dinner services, then the decorations and paintings, which were nothing special, although we practically had to give them away, because we couldn’t find anybody who’d pay us what they were supposedly worth. Then we sold a few pieces of furniture, some lamps, and got a decent amount for them, believe me, but it ran through our fingers like water and four years ago we finally decided to sell the Sevres vases to an upstanding Frenchman living in Cuba who does business with the government. He paid us well for the vases, just imagine, they were this high and hand-painted, and that saw us through up to now. Those vases saved our lives… But after so many years, and at present prices… Dionisio and I have been thinking for some time that we should sell the books. I mean, Dionisio started thinking that way, because I’d made my mind up long ago. Whenever I went to dust the library I’d always ask myself what did it matter if nobody read them and nobody was ever going to reclaim them… Besides, I’d always felt resentful towards those books, not the books themselves, but what they represent and represented: they are the living spirit of the Montes de Ocas, a reminder of what they and others of their type were like, the people who thought they owned the country, I find it upsetting just to go into the library, it’s a place I feel rejecting me, and one in turn rejects it… So, that’s the story. I know there are people who aren’t having such a bad time as they did five or ten years ago, that there are even people who live very well, but you just add it up: on two pensions and with no one to send us dollars, we’re still in the same plight, if not worse. In the end, life itself made it easier for us: we don’t have any alternative now and my brother understands… we either sell the books or gradually starve to death, poor Mummy included, who luckily is completely detached from reality, because I expect she’d forgive us for selling everything else, but if she ever realized what we intend to do with the Montes de Ocas’ library, I think she’d have it in her to kill us both and then starve to death…”
The Count swallowed Amalia’s torrent of words sitting on the edge of their threadbare sofa, smoking and using his hand as an ashtray, until Dionisio returned with a chipped, gold-edged dessert dish which he apologetically handed to the smoker. But Dionisio’s actions went unnoticed by the Count, entranced by that chronicle of irrational loyalty. His emotions hadn’t, however, entirely stifled his critical powers: the automatic alarm developed by his time in the police was alerting him to the fact that it was only part of the story, perhaps the most pleasant or dramatic part, though for the time being he had to go along with what he’d heard.
“Well, if you’ve made your minds up… I’ll come back tomorrow…”
“Won’t you take any books now?” Amalia almost implored.
“I’m really not carrying enough money on me…”
Amalia looked at her brother and took the initiative: “Look, we can see you are a decent, honest fellow…”
“It’s years since I’ve heard that phrase,” the Count responded. “A decent, honest…”
“Yes, we can tell,” the translucent woman assured him. “Can you imagine the number of bandits we’ve had to deal with to sell the vases and other adornments? And how often they offered a pittance for things that were really valuable? Look, just make us an offer, take a few books and… pay us what you can. How about it? You can come back, draw up whatever inventory you want and take the books you then decide to buy…”
Conde noticed that while Amalia was talking, Dionisio reacted almost defensively as if he wanted to shield himself from the words he was hearing. He discreetly averted his gaze in the direction of the library, whose mirrored doors remained open, as if inviting him to walk in and help himself to the royal banquet spread out there.
“I’ve got five hundred pesos on me… Four hundred and ninety, to be exact. If I’m going to take a few books with me now I’ll need ten for a minicab.”
“That will do…” she replied, unable to rein in her eagerness.
Conde preferred to walk into the library rather than return Amalia’s look, let alone Dionisio’s. Able to obliterate the remnants of pride and an old pledge, their despair was the last scrap of dignity to be destroyed by the calamities that had destroyed those lives. Yet again, he regretted the sordid side of his trade, but soon found relief from remorse in his quest for books that would easily sell on the market. Two volumes of population censuses prior to 1940 that an Italian was after, a client of his partner Yoyi Pigeon, were the first he put aside. He then picked out three first editions of works by Fernando Ortiz – that were always easy to place with readers keen on rumbling the mysteries of the world of Afro-Cubans; a first edition of
With his bag of books over his shoulder and his stomach gurgling in joyful anticipation, Mario Conde returned to the reception room, where the Ferreros awaited him looking grave and anxious. He only then noticed how the fingers of Amalia, who was at that moment wiping the sweat from her hands, were atrophied and sore around the cuticle edges, like frog toes, no doubt because of her compulsive need to nibble her nails and the skin surrounding them.
“All right, I’ll take these sixteen books. There’s only one that’s special, the one on Cuban cooking, though it doesn’t have a high market value… I want it for myself. How about five hundred pesos for the lot?…”
Dionisio looked at his sister and they stared at each other. They both slowly turned to the Count who rather uneasily anticipated possible recriminations: ‘You don’t think it’s enough?’
“No,” Dionisio immediately replied. ‘No… not at all. I mean, it’s very fair.’
Conde smiled with relief.
“It’s not very much, but it’s fair. That price includes my earnings, and the bookseller’s, after he’s paid the space he rents and taxes… You get about thirty per cent of any final price tag. That’s how we work out the earnings from books that sell easily, a three-way split.”
“So little?” Amalia couldn’t repress that complaint.
“It’s not so little if you’re convinced I’m not going to swindle you. I’m a decent fellow and, if we don’t fall out, I will buy lots of books from you at a good price.” He smiled, assuming he’d dealt with that quibble, and, before brother and sister could do their sums differently, he handed over the agreed amount.
When he walked out into the street, he was hit in the face by the afternoon humidity the sun had whipped up: a short-lived shower that had stood in for the anticipated storm had merely increased the mugginess of the air. The Count immediately noticed the contrast in temperature: the Ferreros’ house, once the property of the filthy-rich Montes de Ocas, could cope with a Havana summer and for a moment he felt tempted to go back and take a second look at the cool mansion, but an intuition warned him against looking back. If he had, he’d most certainly have been astonished to see a Ferrero running out of the house to the nearest market, trying to arrive before five o’clock when they closed the meat, vegetable and grocery stalls that might spare them for once the obligatory diet of rice and black beans they shared with several million compatriots. But as he walked off in search of a road where he might flag down a passing mini-cab, Mario Conde noted that, although some symptoms had slackened off, his hunch was still alive and kicking, clinging to the skin of his left nipple like a bloodthirsty leech.
Yoyi Pigeon, who’d been civically registered and Catholically baptized with the resonant name of Jorge Reutilio
