Havana Blue (17 page)

“Listen to that,” he said to Manolo with a smile. “Just what you want to hear after you've downed a couple: ‘To the river I'll go to throw your love in the river/ watch it fall into the void/float off on the stream . . .' Almost what you call beautiful!”

“If you say so,” nodded the sergeant, looking back at his glass.

“Hey, Manolo, are you or are you not squint-eyed?”

Manolo smiled, keeping his eyes on his glass, his left eye in free float.

“One day on, one day off,” the sergeant replied and downed his drink. He looked at his colleague and pointed to his empty jar. “And what would
you
like to do right now?”

The Count also downed his drink and hesitated a moment before answering:

“Spend time with your big hi-fi, stretched out on the floor listening to ‘Strawberry Fields' ten times on the trot.”

 

 

I never took to that outfit. It made you look like a hoodlum – a jailbird – protested Alexis the Yankee,
and it was true: the purple socks, cap, wording and sleeves on a chicken-yellow khaki background, the trousers that were far too wide and which we couldn't narrow as people normally did because Antonio the Fly, our teacher-cum-manager, made it plain that when the championship was over we would have to return everything, in the same or a better state than when we got it, what a fucking joke, as if anyone would want to hang on to outfits that earned us a great nickname: “The Víbora Violets”. The championship involved six high schools and, as usual, we got a bad deal. After Water-Pre we got shat on from all sides, from the camps for rural labour to our baseball outfits, we always got the worst, because they dug deep and discovered first that we topped the exam league tables as a result of fraud and second that we won the cane-cutting competition because someone at the central store gave us cane cut by other schools, and then they discovered a whole string of other things.

Andrés, our usual first baseman, refused to have anything to do with the game after he injured himself and couldn't play for the National Youth Team. They let me take first base, despite being only the eighth batter in the line-up, in front of Arsenio the Moor, who was condemned to be last as he was a fuck-up dressed as a player – or jailbird – in one of those uniforms.

When we came out to warm up it was already dark and they'd switched on the lights, and the Habana High School team ran onto the field, enormous blacks about to slay us alive as they already had other teams, but we were cocksure and shouted at the pre-game huddle, we're going to beat the skinny liquorice sticks, fuck 'em, said Skinny, and even the Moor and I thought we would. The worst bit was our gear, because the stadium had had a fresh lick of paint, the floodlighting
was great and half of the terraces were full of people from Havana and the other from Víbora, and there was a fantastic din, and we wore this disguise that belonged to the days when one played baseball in a bowler hat and gaiters.

And our team had Skinny, Isidrito the Joker – our pitcher for the day – and Pello and me – dubbed Foul, because all I ever hit were foul balls – and almost everyone from our class went to the games, starting with Tamara, who was in charge of the Achievement Committee because participation in activities counted and The Inter-School Games were an activity, and people always preferred a baseball game to the other kind – a museum visit or yawning through a performance of the school choir, for example. And the class invented a chorus they shouted whenever we played: “Violet team, Violet team/go for the brass”, but the opposition went one better and sang: “Violet team, Violet team/the donkey's prick up your ass”, so the cure was worse than the illness. Anyway, I was thrilled to be in the team, playing under the lights and feeling you could see things from a different angle: because sure it's not the same watching the players from the terraces as wearing the gear and watching the people on the terraces. It's something else.

“Balls, gentlemen, balls is what you need to win at this game,” Skinny shouted from the bench when the game was about to start, but it was never just a game for him when it was baseball, and the veins on his neck bulged, he was so skinny. “And we're more than well-endowed, right?”

And we had to say yes or he might have a fit, and as we were the home club and came out first, the Havana fans started to boo and the Víbora mob cheered, and then I looked towards the terraces and truly saw things
differently. I saw Tamara wave a purple handkerchief, and I stopped wanting to play when I spotted the former Student Federation president, next to Tamara, like a police dog. Rafael Morín laughed his usual sparkling, self-satisfied laugh, like the day he told us “I'm Rafael Morín”, looking down at us in his flash check shirt, and us below in gear that made us look like jailbirds.

But even so it was the best game I ever played. That day Isidrito had downed two quarts of undiluted milk, which he said was good for pitching straight and the fact was he was throwing really hard and farting like a lord . . . And the Joker starting striking out the Havana darkies, and almost nobody got on their base, and if they did, it didn't matter, because they weren't scoring. And we were the same, or worse, because Yayo Butter, Havana's pitcher, was red-hot and struck out seven of us in a row, and the crowd on the terrace went quieter and quieter; the game became really serious, was keeping its big outburst for the last innings, right?

We were zero-zero in the eighth inning, when it was Skinny's turn to bat, for he was fifth up, and he hit a drive past the shortstop and he got to second. All hell was let loose: people started shouting “Violeta, Violeta”, and Skinny went “Balls, we've got balls” till the umpire had a go at him for swearing. And it was all down to that bitch destiny, because Isidrito, who was sixth up and never blew it, made a pig's ear out of it, was the first out, and Paulino the Bull's Testicle, who was seventh, rolled it into Yayo's hands who leisurely stroked it over his balls before throwing it to first base, and Paulino was the second out. Then it was my turn to hit.

I was shitting myself, legs shaking, hands sweating and everybody went dead silent, and even Skinny, who knew me well, didn't shout at me and I think he
reckoned the innings was done for. Then I picked myself up, spat into my hands and rubbed them with earth and remembered I should lift the bat right back, raise my elbow, grip tight when I started my swing, a deep, deep silence, and Yayo Butter pitched it straight, a mean fucking fastball, and I said here we go, lifted my bat back, raised my elbow, gripped tight, shut my eyes and swung. And it was Sodom and Gomorrah: fuck! It was one hell of a hit right down the middle of the field, real hard, like I'd never hit before, and it was like seeing the ball flying in slow motion, flying till it hit the fence right under the scoreboard, and I started to run hell for leather, and it went so far I could go to third, almost enough for a homerun, they screamed, Skinny scored, then ran to third base and scooped me up in his arms, Isidrito who hadn't spoken to me from the day we'd had that fight, kissed me he was so excited, and the whole team came to hug me, and I deserved it, right? I was over the moon, the fans were going crazy, and I looked to the terraces to see things differently and felt I would die: Tamara and Rafael had left . . .

In the ninth innings the La Habana lot scored twice and beat us two-one. But it was the best game of my life.

 

 

Before he knocked on the door, he glanced at his watch: ten past four. If she'd been having a siesta, she'd be up by now. Perhaps she was watching the Sunday matinee film, he thought, then thought he didn't exactly know why he'd come or else he knew only too well and didn't want to give it another thought. Lam's sham figures rested under the shadow of a ceiba-tree, possibly quite deliberately planted next to the concrete jungle, and the well-pruned hedges and lush hibiscus
created the atmosphere of a colourful artificial wood he really liked. In fact, as he had reminded Manolo, it wasn't a house for policemen, and the pain of nostalgia the place provoked was so intense, his temples and chest felt ready to burst. He was pleased he'd had a couple with Manolo; when and after he'd pressed the bell, he felt calm and relaxed.

The ring of the bell echoed round the huge house, and while waiting he lit a cigarette and adjusted the regulation pistol in his belt, the weight of which he'd never accepted, and finally she opened the door and greeted him with a smile: “Well, if it isn't the Prince of the City. I watched that film last night and pitied the policeman. Recently all the police I've seen have looked sad. Though that guy doesn't look much like you.” And she stepped back to let him in.

“Lately I don't feel much like myself,” he retorted as she shut the door, and they headed for the television room. “Do you want to see the rest of the film?”

“No, I saw it three months ago. Rafael brought the video, but as I was bored . . .” She settled down in a plush armchair that matched his. “I felt drowsy. I slept very badly last night.”

The curtains were closed, and the room got little of the cold light from outside. He searched for an ashtray and finally spotted a metal one, of the lidded variety to hide the ash and cigarette ends. It was annoyingly clean and shiny, and he moved the lid two or three times before enquiring:

“Who cleans this place, Tamara?”

“A lady who's a friend of Mummy's. She comes twice a week, why?”

“Nothing really, I just pollute ashtrays.”

She smiled almost sadly.

“Nothing new there, right, Mario?”

“So here we are again, Tamara,” he lied, not feeling the slightest remorse, and wondered how much of the truth his old comrade knew.

“That's what I'd imagined. My mother-in-law called this morning and told me you'd been round to see her. The poor woman was in tears.”

“It's to be expected. And then I spoke to Fernández-Lorea, who confirmed what an excellent fellow your husband is. And with García, from the union at the enterprise, and he insisted on singing Rafael's praises like everyone else. I was quite won over.”

“That's good then,” she replied, and her almond eyes shone even more brightly. But he knew she wouldn't start crying. “You're always prospecting for mud.”

“Can I tell you something? I don't swallow all this. I know Rafael, and I'm sorry but I saw him do two or three things I never liked.”

“What kind of things?” she asked and started tangling with her wayward lock.

“No, nothing serious, don't worry, but enough to make you wary.”

“And what did Alberto tell you?”

He contemplated the
Flora
by Portocarrero ladying it on one of the walls. Read on one side “For you, Valdemira, from your friend René” and decided that he liked the blues the maestro used when painting Flora's hair, that looked colder yet more alive and noted that, like all Floras, she also viewed the world through trustingly tender eyes.

“Nothing new of note. We're trying to find Zoilita, who's still not put in an appearance. And tomorrow we'll start at the enterprise to see if anything turns up there.”

And she crossed her legs and studied him as if he were suddenly a very alien being she was seeing for the
first time. But he could only look at her legs and dress, nothing more than a very long white pullover revealing almost all the front of her thighs.

“Why did you leave that day at the baseball game?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, taken aback.

“Oh, nothing. I want to find your husband and find out why he went missing . . . And I want to know how you're feeling.”

She made an effort to tame her impertinent lock and rested her head on the back of her chair.

“Quite at a loss. I've been thinking a lot,” she said before standing up. He watched her walk towards the library, and the mere sight of her brought to mind his masturbatory frigging of the previous night and he was almost ashamed he liked that woman, when she returned with two glasses and a bottle of Ballantine's. She pulled a coffee table over and poured out two big chestnut-coloured shots, and the unmistakeably oak smell hit the Count.

“What are you scared of, Tamara?”

“Scared of?” she asked looking back at him. “Nothing. What about you, Mario?”

He felt the whisky's dry heat on his tongue and thought he should take his jacket off.

“I'm scared of everything, every little thing. That maybe Rafael's dead or maybe he's not and that he'll turn up and everything will get back to normal. That the years are passing me by, putting an end to any likelihood I'll ever fulfil my dreams. That Skinny will die and I'll be left alone and will feel even guiltier. That tobacco will be the death of me. That I don't do my job properly. That I'll be really lonely, incredibly lonely . . . That I might fall in love with you, Rafael's wife, you who live in such a clean perfect world and whom I've wanted all my life,” he said and looked at
Flora
, so pristine and remote, and felt now he'd started he couldn't stop.

 

 

The precise day his life changed, Mario Conde was wondering how destinies are forged. A few days before he had read Thornton Wilder's novel
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
and thought how he too could have been one of the seven individuals that destiny led to converge on the old bridge of the Vice-Regency of Peru at that precise moment, among millions of precise moments when its weary supports decided wearily to give way. The seven fell into the abyss, and he was obsessed by the image of seven individuals flying above the condors, and the strictly police investigation through which another individual sought out reasons for the impossible convergence of those men and women who'd never before coincided anywhere on earth and had now gathered to die on the bridge of San Luis Rey. He'd gone to the Psychology Faculty offices to tell them he was leaving the university and wasn't yet thinking about Destiny, when the deputy dean saw him and asked if he was resolved to abandon his studies, and he said he was, that he had no choice. She asked him to wait a moment and went out, and he waited fifteen minutes and a man came and introduced himself as Captain Rafael Acosta, who started off asking him what's your problem, my lad, and he thought what have I done to warrant an interrogation? It's down to money, comrade; I need work right now. So why don't you make an effort? the captain asked and he was even more at a loss. I need to work, he repeated, and I really don't like the degree course, and they started talking and he started to be less afraid when Captain Acosta suggested he entered the Academy, because he'd come
out an officer and would get a wage from month one. I'm not a party member, he'd said. Doesn't matter, we know who you are. I've never been a leader, he'd said, I'm very laid back, and I love the Beatles, he thought, and again it didn't matter. He'd never thought of becoming a policeman or anything of the sort, what on earth use will I be? You'll find out later, persisted Captain Rafael Acosta, the important thing was to join, afterwards he could even study at university in the evenings, this degree or whichever you want to, and you'll have time to think about it, and didn't give it another thought: he said yes. Was that Destiny? he'd wondered ever since because he'd never imagined becoming a policeman, let alone a good policeman, as he'd been told he was, you need common sense, lots of common sense, a colleague explained, and they never assigned him to the Re-education Section, as he'd requested when he finished at the Academy, but to the General Information Department, classifying cases,
modus operandi
, different types of criminals, until he shut himself up in the computer room with an old file, read and reread papers and data, racked his brains till his head ached and forged a striking metaphor by joining two disconnected distant leads that had been rattling around loose in a murder case that had been under investigation for four years. Was that Destiny? he wondered now and remembered with pleasure his first stint in Criminal Investigations, when he didn't have to bother about uniform and could wear jeans and even grew a beard and moustache after working the Boss round, and felt he was foraying into the world to right wrongs and was full of optimism. Those days of euphoria now seemed distant and had soon given way to routine, for that is what being a policeman is, they'd enlighten him, common sense plus routine, as he'd
later tell new recruits, repeating Jorrín's patter, knowing how to make a start every day, even though you didn't want to start again and again. If it hadn't been for Destiny, he'd never have discovered the case waiting to be solved by him alone, because he wouldn't have said yes to Captain Acosta; because his father wouldn't have died before he'd finished his degree; because they'd have given him literature and not psychology when he finished at high school; because he wouldn't have enjoyed those books by Hemingway when he caught chickenpox late when he should have got it years earlier with all the other kids on the block; because he'd liked to have been a pilot, and they wouldn't have expelled him from military school for launching a verbal and physical attack on a colleague who'd mercilessly mocked his desire to fly, and so on
ad nauseam
, because perhaps he'd never have been born or, Great Granddad Teodoro, the first of the Condes, wouldn't have thieved or ever have landed up in Cuba. That was why he was a policeman and Destiny had placed him in Rafael Morín's life and in yours, Tamara, a life so remote from yours, it was difficult to think they'd once thought they were equals. But life changes, like everything else, and he was no longer crazy and irresponsible, only as neurotic as ever, incurable, sad, lonely and sentimental, without wife or children perhaps forever, knowing his best friend might die, that nothing could be done for him, and carrying that pistol that weighed on his belt and which he'd only once fired away from the practiceground, in fact, almost sure he'd miss his target, because he couldn't shoot anyone, yet he did shoot and was on target. But he could remember how on that precise day that changed his life he'd asked himself what is this thing called Destiny and got a single
response: say yes or say no. If you can . . . I did have a choice, Tamara.