Havana Fever E-Book

Leonardo Padura

• Herausgeber: Bitter Lemon Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Mario Conde Investigates
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Seitenzahl: 538

Beschreibung

Scorching novel from a star of Cuban fiction. The return of Mario Conde.

Das E-Book Havana Fever wird angeboten von Bitter Lemon Press und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

HAVANA, SUMMER 2003

The A side: Be gone from me

The B side: You’ll remember me

A Comment and Thanks

Copyright Page

Leonardo Padura was born in Havana in 1955 and lives in Cuba. He has published a number of novels, short-story collections and literary essays. International fame came with the Havana Quartet, all featuring Inspector Mario Conde. The Quartet has won a number of literary prizes including the Spanish Premio Hammett. Havana Fever also features Mario Conde, now retired from the police force but drawn into a new investigation. The novel has sold widely in Spain, France, Italy and Germany.

Once more and quite rightly: for Lucía, with love and ...

HAVANA, SUMMER 2003

There is only one vital time to wake up: and that is now.

Buddha

The future is God’s, but the past belongs to history. God can’t have any more influence on history, but man can still write and transfigure it.

Just Dion

The A side: Be gone from me

. . .In your life I’ll be the best from the mists of yesterday when you’ve forgotten me, like the best poem’s always the one we can’t remember.

Virgilio y Homero Expósito, Be gone from me

The symptoms hit him suddenly, like a voracious wave sweeping a child off a quiet shore and dragging him into the depths of the sea: a lethal double blow to the stomach, numbness that turned his legs to jelly, a cold sweat on his palms and, above all, the searing pain, under his left nipple, which accompanied every single hunch he’d ever had.

As soon as the doors to the library slid open, the smell of old paper and hallowed places floating in that mind-blowing room overwhelmed him. In his far-off years as a police detective, Mario Conde had learnt to recognize the physical signs of his situationsaving hunches: he must have been wondering if he’d ever experienced such a powerful flood of sensations.

Initially he was all set to be ruthlessly logical, and tried to persuade himself that it was pure chance he’d come across that shadowy, decaying mansion in El Vedado: an unusual stroke of good fortune for once had deigned to come his way. But a few days later, when corpses old and new stirred in their graves, the Count began to think that no margin for coincidence existed, that it had all been dramatically prepared, like a stage set up for a performance that only his disruptive entrance could trigger.

Ever since he’d left his job as a criminal investigator, more than thirteen years ago, and devoted himself body and soul – at least as much as his battered body and increasingly enfeebled soul allowed – to the dicey business of buying and selling books, the Count had developed an almost canine ability to track down prey that would guarantee, sometimes in surprisingly generous quantities, his supply of food and alcohol. Whether for good or for evil – he couldn’t decide which – his departure from the police and forced entry into the world of commerce had coincided with the official declaration that Crisis had hit the island – a galloping Crisis that would soon dwarf all previous versions. The perennial, interminable periods of austerity the Count and his contemporaries had faced for decades now started to seem, in the course of inevitable comparisons and tricks of memory, like days of plenty or nameless mini-crises, with no right to awe-inspiring personification by capital letter.

As if the result of a malevolent wave of a wand, the shortage of everything imaginable quickly became a permanent state, attacking the most disparate of human needs. The value and nature of every object or service was artfully transmuted by insecurity into something different from what it used to be: be it a match or an aspirin, a pair of shoes or an avocado, sex, hopes or dreams. Meanwhile church confessionals and consultancies of voodoo priests, spiritualists, fortune-tellers, mediums and babalaos were crowded with new adepts, panting after a breath of spiritual consolation.

The shortages were so acute they even hit the venerable world of books. Within a year publishing went into freefall, and cobwebs covered the shelves in gloomy bookshops where sales assistants had stolen the last light bulbs with any life, that were next-to useless anyway, in those days of endless blackouts. Hundreds of private libraries ceased to be a source of enlightenment and bibliophilic pride, or a cornucopia of memories of possibly happy times, and swapped the scent of wisdom for the vulgar, acrid stench of a few life-saving banknotes. Priceless libraries created over generations and libraries knocked together by upstarts; libraries specializing in the most profound, unusual themes and libraries made from birthday presents and wedding anniversaries – were all cruelly sacrificed by their owners on the pagan altar of financial necessity suddenly felt by the inhabitants of a country where the shadow of death by starvation threatened almost every home.

That desperate act of offering a few, genuinely or would-be valuable volumes, or putting on sale boxes, yards, shelves, even entire collections assembled over one or more lifetimes, raised conflicting hopes in the dreams of buyers and sellers. The former always claimed they were offering bibliographical jewels and were eager to hear figures that might assuage the guilt the majority suffered when they off-loaded their closest travelling companions on the voyage through life. The latter revived a mercantile spirit they’d thought banned from their island, and tried to make a purchase they could later transform into a killing by arguing that the volumes in question had scant value or commercial potential.

In his early days in this new profession, Mario Conde had tried to turn a deaf ear to the stories behind the libraries that fell into his hands. His years as a detective had forced him to live surrounded by sordid files, but this hadn’t made him immune to the sorrows of the soul and, when he got his way and left the police force, he discovered painfully that the dark side of life still pursued him. Every library for sale was a romantic novel with an unhappy ending, the drama of which didn’t depend on the quantity or quality of books being sacrificed, but on the paths along which the volumes had reached that particular house and the terrible logic now sending them to be slaughtered in the marketplace. Nevertheless, the Count quickly learnt that listening was an essential part of the business, because the majority of owners felt the need to discuss the reasons behind their decisions, sometimes dolling them up, sometimes stripping them bare, as if that act of confession at least salvaged a shred of their dignity.

Once the scars had healed, Conde began to see the romantic side of his role as a listener – he liked to describe himself as such – and started to weigh up the literary potential in those stories, often taking them on board as material for his ever deferred aesthetic endeavours. As he sharpened his insights, so he felt able to distinguish when a narrator was genuine or a pathetic liar, spinning a yarn in order to be better reconciled with his conscience, or merely to showcase his merchandise.

The more he penetrated the mysteries of his trade, the more Mario Conde realized he preferred the exercise of buying to the subsequent selling of the tomes he acquired. The act of selling books in a doorway, on a park bench, on the bend of a promising pavement, fanned smouldering remains of ravaged pride but above all provoked frustration at having to get rid of an item he’d often have preferred to retain. Consequently, although his earnings plunged, he adopted the strategy of working only as a trawler, replenishing the stocks of other street-sellers. From then on, when prospecting for mines of books, like all his colleagues in the city, the Count employed three complimentary, occasionally conflicting techniques: firstly, the most traditional: visiting someone who’d asked him to pay a call, as a result of his well-established reputation as a fair buyer; then, the embarrassing, almost medieval procedure of hawking – “I buy old books”, “I’m the man to take those old books off your hands”; or the most in-your-face, knocking optimistically on doors and asking whoever opened up if they were interested in selling a few well-worn books. The second of those commercial approaches was the most productive in outlying, perpetually impoverished districts that were generally quite unfruitful – though there was the occasional surprise – and where the art of buying and selling the impossible had for years been the survival system for hundreds of thousands of people. On the other hand, the “truffle” method of sniffing out houses was necessary in once aristocratic districts like El Vedado, Miramar and Kohly, and in parts of Santos Suárez, El Casino Deportivo and El Cerro, where people, in the teeth of the poverty spreading across the nation, struggled to preserve increasingly obsolete ways of life.

What was extraordinary was that he’d not chosen that shadowy mansion in El Vedado, with its neo-classical pretensions and debilitated structure, as a result of any odour and much less as a result of his shouting in the street. In fact, Mario Conde was almost convinced he was suffering from a progressive loss of smell, and had already spent three hours on that sultry Cuban September afternoon banging on doors and getting no for an answer, on several occasions because a colleague had passed that way before him. Sweating like a pig, fed up, and fearful of the storm heralded by the rapid accumulation of black clouds on the nearby coast, Conde was preparing to sign off for the day, totting up his losses in the time-wasted column when, for no particular reason, he opted to go down a street parallel to the avenue where he’d thought he’d be able track down a minicab. Had the tree-lined pavement appealed, did he think it was a shortcut or was he simply, quite unawares, responding to a call from fate? When he turned the corner, the decrepit mansion came into view, shuttered, barred and swathed in an air of profound abandonment. His immediate reaction was that someone must have already beaten him to it, because that style of edifice was usually profitable: past grandeurs might include a library of leather-bound volumes; present penury would include hunger and despair, and that formula tended to be a winner for a buyer of second-hand goods. However, despite his bad run over recent weeks, the Count yielded to the almost irrational impulse driving him to open the wrought-iron gate, cross the subsistence plot of banana trees, rickety clumps of maize and rapacious sweet potato lianas and climb the five steps that led to the cool porch. Barely pausing to think, he lifted the greenish bronze knocker on the indestructible black mahogany door, that hadn’t seen a coat of varnish since the discovery of penicillin.

“Hello,” he greeted the person opening the door, and smiled politely, as etiquette dictated.

The woman, whom Mario Conde tried to place on a scale descending from seventy to sixty, didn’t deign to reply and eyed him severely, imagining her “visitor” was quite the opposite: a salesman. She wore a grey housecoat blotched with prehistoric grease stains and her hair was discoloured and flaked with dandruff. Furrowed by pale veins, her skin was almost transparent and her eyes seemed appallingly desolate.

“I’m sorry to bother you . . . I buy and sell second-hand books,” he went on, avoiding the word “old”, “and was wondering if you might know someone . . .”

This was the golden rule: you madam are never so down and out that you need to sell your library, or your father’s – once a doctor with a famous consultancy and a university chair – or your grandfather’s, who was perhaps even a government senator if not a veteran from the wars of independence. But you might know of someone?...

As if deadened to emotion, the woman showed no sign of surprise at the mission of the man on her doorstep. She stared at him impassively for a few lengthy, expectant moments, and Mario Conde felt himself on a knife-edge: his training told him a huge decision was being reached by the parched brain of that translucent woman, in desperate need of fats and proteins.

“Well,” she began, “the fact is I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t know if in the end . . . My brother and I had been thinking . . . Did Dionisio tell you to come?”

Conde glimpsed a ray of hope and tried to relate to the question, but felt he’d been left dangling in the air. Had he perhaps hit his target?

“No . . . who is Dionisio?”

“My brother,” the enfeebled woman went on. “We have a library. A very valuable one . . . Do come in . . . Sit down. Wait a moment . . .” and the Count thought he detected a determination in her voice that could see off life’s hardest knocks.

She vanished into the mansion, through a kind of portico erected on two Tuscan columns of shiny, green-striated black marble, and the Count regretted the poor state of his knowledge of the now scattered Creole aristocracy, an ignorance that meant he didn’t know, couldn’t even imagine, who’d originally owned that marmoreal edifice, and whether the present occupants were descendants or mere beneficiaries of a post-revolutionary stampede to safety. That reception room, with its damp patches, missing plaster and cracked walls, looked no better than the outside of the house, but retained an air of solemn elegance and vibrant memories of the huge wealth that had once slept between those now bereft walls. Flanked by dangerously crumbling cornices and faded coloured friezes, the high ceilings must have been the work of master craftsmen, as were the two large windows that preserved remarkably intact romantic stained-glass scenes of chivalry, no doubt designed in Europe and destined to attenuate and colour the strong light from a tropical summer. In eclectic rather than famous styles, and shabby rather than broken, the still sturdy furniture also exuded an odour of decrepitude, while the black-and-white marble tiled floors, patterned like an out-sized chessboard, gleamed cheerfully and looked freshly cleaned. On one side of the reception room, two very high doors mounted with square bevelled mirrors, set in dark wood marquetry, reflected the desolation between flowery quicksilver blotches. It was then that the Count grasped what was behind the oddness he’d experienced on entering the room: there wasn’t a single adornment or painting, a single visual prop to break the grim void on walls, tables, shelves or ceilings. He assumed that the noble bone china dinner services, repoussé silver, chandeliers, cut-glass and canvases with dark or elaborate still lives that once brought harmony to that scene, had been sent packing in advance of the books, to address food shortages – a fate that the library, already flagged as a very valuable asset, might similarly meet, if he were in luck.

The moment mentioned by the woman turned into a wait of several minutes which the Count spent smoking, knocking the ash out of the window, through which he saw the first drops of an evening shower. When his hostess returned, an older, more ancientlooking man followed in her wake, in urgent need of a shave and, like his companion, of three square meals a day.

“My brother,” she announced.

“Dionisio Ferrero,” responded the man in a voice that was younger than his body, as he held out a calloused hand with grimy fingernails.

“Mario Conde. I . . .”

“My sister has already explained,” he said in the curt tone of a man used to giving orders, rounding off his remarks with an order rather than a request: “Come this way.”

Dionisio Ferrero walked towards the doors with bevelled mirrors and the Count noted that his own appearance, framed in the reflection between the dark stains, was no better than the skeletal Ferreros’. The exhaustion in his face after successive rum-sodden, sleepless nights, and his squalid skinniness gave the impression that his clothes had outgrown his body. Dionisio pushed the doors with unexpected vigour and Conde lost sight of himself and his physiological musings at the same time as he felt a violent searing pain in his chest, because there before his eyes stood a splendid array of glass-doored, wooden bookcases, where hundreds, thousands of dark volumes rested and ascended to the lofty ceiling, the gold letters of their identities still glinting, neither subdued by the island’s insidious damp nor exhausted by the passage of time.

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 Miró 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 Serafín Montes de Oca”. Next to Miró’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 Niños Huérfanos in 1890, and the pleasantly muscular, soft leather covers of the five volumes of José 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 explaining why we’re selling now?”

“Isn’t it the same one, with a beginning and an end?”

“When the Montes de Ocas left Cuba, Mummy and I stayed on in this house, one of the most elegant in El Vedado . . . as you can still see, after all this time. Mr Alcides Montes de Oca, who had initially supported the Revolution, realized that things were going to change more than he’d bargained for and in September 1969, when they started taking over US companies, he headed north with just his two children, as his wife had died four or five years earlier, in 1956, and he hadn’t remarried. Although business hadn’t gone well under Batista, Mr Alcides still had lots and lots of money; his own, and what he’d inherited from his deceased wife, Alba Margarita, who was a Méndez-Figueredo, the family that owned two sugar mills in Las Villas among countless other things . . . And it was then he suggested to Mummy and me that we could go with him, if we wished. Just imagine, Mummy was his right arm in all his business affairs and on top of that had been like a sister to him as well. She’d even been born in this household; that is, in the house the Montes de Ocas owned in El Cerro before they built this one, because Mummy was born in 1912 and this house was finished in 1922, after the war, which was when the Montes de Ocas were at their wealthiest. That was why they could afford to ship marble from Italy and Belgium, tiles from Coimbra, wood from Honduras, steel from Chicago, curtains from England, glass from Venice and interior designers from Paris . . . At the time my grandparents were gardener and laundry woman to the Montes de Oca family, and as Mummy had been born in the house she was brought up almost as a member of the family, as I said, like a sister to Mr Alcides, and that’s how Mummy was able to study and even get her finishing certificate. But when she was about to enter Teacher Training College she made up her mind to stop studying and asked Mrs Ana, the wife of Don Tomás and Mr Alcides’ mother, if they’d let her work in the house as housekeeper or administrator, because she fancied being here, surrounded by beautiful, pristine, expensive things rather than life as a school teacher in a state school struggling with snotty-nosed children for a hundred pesos a month. That was when Mummy was nineteen or twenty, and by that time the Montes de Ocas weren’t as rich, because they lost a lot of money in the 1929 Depression and because Don Serafín, who’d fought in the War of Independence, and his son Don Tomás, a renowned lawyer, refused to play along with Machado, who was a dictator by then. Machado and his people made their lives impossible, and ruined lots of their business operations, just as Batista did with Mr Alcides, although before Batista’s coup d’état Mr Alcides had made a fortune in deals he made during the Great War, so it didn’t matter so much if he didn’t get a share in that degenerate’s big handouts . . . Ah, but I’m losing my thread as usual . . . Well, the truth is that Mummy helped Mr Alcides an awful lot. She dealt with all his papers, accounts, income tax declarations, was his private secretary, and when his wife, Mrs Alba Margarita, died, Mummy also took responsibility for their children. Consequently, when Mr Alcides decided to leave, he suggested to Mummy that we should go with him, but she wanted time to think it over. She wasn’t immediately sure if we should go or stay, because Dionisio, who’d joined the clandestine movement to overthrow Batista when very young, and was a hundred per cent behind the Revolution, had gone to educate the illiterate in the hills of Oriente, and Mummy didn’t want to abandon him. How old were you, Dionisio? Twenty-four? But by the same token Mummy didn’t want to be separated from Jorgito and Anita, Mr Alcides’ children; she’d practically brought them up and she knew that Mr Alcides would really need her when he started up other businesses in the US. It was a tremendous dilemma. Mr Alcides told her to take her time and that when she’d made her mind up, the doors to his house, whatever it was like and wherever it was, would always be open to us, and we could join him whenever we wanted. If we stayed in Cuba, we could live here and he only asked one favour: to look after the house, particularly the library and the two Sèvres porcelain vases his grandmother, Doña Marina Azcárate, had bought in Paris, as he couldn’t take them, although he was always one who thought the Revolution would be short-lived and when it collapsed he’d be able to return to his possessions and business here. And if it didn’t and we didn’t leave, he asked the same favours of us, until he, his son Jorgito or daughter Anita could fetch the books and vases and they would be reunited with the family. Naturally, Mummy promised that if he stayed in Miami, Mr Alcides could be sure that when he returned everything would be in place, that was her pledge, and it was a sacred commitment as far as she was concerned...

“I’ve never been able to find out what Mummy’s real intentions were, if she’d already decided to stay or was only marking time to see what happened to Dionisio here or to Mr Alcides when he established himself over there. I asked her two or three times and she always gave me the same answer: her mind was a fog, she wanted more time, and it was a very big decision . . . But a woman like her must have known, however thick the fog in her head. The crunch came seven months later, in March 1961, when Mr Alcides, driving while utterly drunk, had an accident and killed himself. The news reached us a week later. When Mummy – who was already quite depressed – put the phone down, she locked herself in her room for a week, didn’t come out or let anyone go in, and when she did finally open the door to me, I found a different woman: she wasn’t the Mummy we knew, and we saw how her grief and feelings of guilt at not leaving with Mr Alcides had unbalanced her mind.

“I think it was then that I understood exactly what the Montes de Ocas meant to her, apart from her working for Don Alcides and feeling so important at the side of that powerful man who no longer existed. After all those years she couldn’t imagine Don Alcides wasn’t on this island to give her orders and ask her advice . . . Poor Mummy had organized her whole life around that man and had lost out totally. She shut herself up in her room and turned into a fossil, because if she’d once thought of leaving with Mr Alcides, and of helping him with his children and business, that now made no sense, because Jorgito and Anita were living with their Aunt Eva, who’d also left Cuba, and Mr Alcides had taken his promise that we would be welcome in his house to the grave . . . While she closeted herself in her room, and brooded over her sorrow and confusion, Dionisio and I tried to start out in life. Just imagine, I was twenty-one and had begun working in a bank. I became a member of the Women’s Federation, then a militia woman. Dionisio joined the army when he returned from the literacy campaign, was soon promoted to sergeant, and we both began to live, well, differently, on our own account, for ourselves, not thinking about the Montes de Ocas or depending on them, as our family had for almost a century, as my mother had ever since she could remember . . . Although Dionisio may not agree, this was self-delusion, because the ghosts of the Montes de Ocas were still alive in this house: my mother’s sickening isolation finally turned into madness; the china, library, Sèvres vases, furniture, lots of decorations and two or three of the paintings Mr Alcides decided not to take, stayed in place here, waiting for a Mr Alcides, who’d now never return, and then for his children, who never came or took the slightest interest in what they’d abandoned. I entered into correspondence for several years with Miss Eva, who’d gone to live in New Jersey, if I remember rightly, to a town or city called Rutherford, and kept in contact, though it was only one or two letters a year. But Miss Eva moved house around 1968, a couple of my letters were returned to sender stamped ‘addressee unknown’, and we had no news of them for years. I began to fear the worst. I wrote to other people who lived over there, hoping they might perhaps know where the Montes de Ocas were, but we had no news of them for ten years, until a friend of the family visited Cuba and we finally found out that they’d gone to live in San Francisco and that Miss Eva had died of cancer three or four years earlier. But the children were still alive and, out of respect for Mummy’s pledge, I waited and waited in case they expressed an interest in the vases and books, and decided to keep them just so. The oldest books almost all belonged to Don Serafín, Mr Tomás’s father, who also bought a lot, because he was a very educated man, a solicitor and law professor at the. Like his father, he used to buy every book that appealed to him, never worrying about the price, and he’d only ever give his friends and grandchildren books as birthday presents. The Sèvres vases had belonged to the family since the nineteenth century, when the Azcárates and Montes de Ocas of old had been exiled in France, whilst they waited for the war against Spain to resume. Those books and vases, like the house itself, were the real history of the family, and as Mummy felt she was a Montes de Oca, because they’d always treated her as such, it all had a sentimental value for her and we had to respect her pledge . . . although the fact is nothing remained of the Montes de Ocas, nobody remembered them, and that library and those vases were their only connection with the past and this country . . . But the years went by and the books and vases lingered on. As I earned a good wage and Dionisio always gave me money for Mummy, we were comfortably off and I never thought of selling anything, because we never went short. But things took a real turn for the worse in 1990 and 1991. To cap it all Dionisio had a heart attack, was demobbed from the army and then separated from his wife. Although the year he was demobbed Dionisio started to work on the same wage for a company that supplied the army, what we both earned soon went nowhere, because there was no food and you had to be as wealthy as the Montes de Ocas to buy any food that did appear. To make matters worse, Dionisio left that company and started eating lunch and dinner at home. I’m not ashamed to say this, because you must certainly have experienced something similar: it got so bad that some nights my brother and I went to bed on a glass of sugared water, and an infusion of orange or mint leaves, because we gave the little real food we had to Mummy, and sometimes there wasn’t even enough for her . . . 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 Sèvres 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 The Slave-trader, by Lino Novás Calvo; and, after putting to one side several books printed in the nineteenth century whose value he needed to check out, he bagged several historical monographs published in Havana, Madrid and Barcelona in the twenties and thirties, that didn’t have tremendous bibliographical value, but were coveted by the non-Cuban buyers who flitted from one second-hand bookseller’s stall to another. He was about to shut his bag and tot up the total, when he saw before his eyes a book that practically screamed at him: it was an intact, sturdy, healthy, well-nourished copy of My Pleasure? with the secondary title of An indispensable . . . culinary guide, printed by Úcar y García in 1956, and illustrated by the great cartoonist, Conrado Massaguer. Ever since that remote afternoon when the Count had seen that book for the first time in the hands of a nouveau riche owner of several of those private restaurants that sprang up in the first days of dire shortages, as a compulsive buyer of gastronomic literature, he’d tried to track it down, thrilled by its wonderful recipes for Creole and international cuisine, compiled to satisfy the most aristocratic kitchens in an era when aristocratic kitchens still existed in Cuba. However, the Count’s persistent search wasn’t driven by bibliophilic or even commercial goals, but the grandiose, self-interested idea that he might present that wonder to old Josefina, the only person the Count knew with a magical ability to conjure up miracles – even in times of Crisis – and convert those dream dishes into edible realities.

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 Casamayor Riquelmes, was twenty-eight years old, slightly swollen-chested – hence his pigeonnish nickname – and had an irrepressible propensity for verbal wit. He was moreover a man who thought on his feet and was quick and efficient at complex calculations, as endorsed by the academic diploma in civil engineering, framed in a soberly elegant, wrought bronze frame, that hung on the wall of his living room in Víbora Park. He was patiently waiting, said the engineering laureate, for toilet paper to go into short supply so he could adapt the crackling piece of university parchment to such use, given it had brought him little success and no economic advantage. Although the Count was twenty years his senior, he recognized, with a touch of envy, that Yoyi possessed a cynicism and practical knowledge of life he had never and clearly would never possess, even though those qualities were increasingly necessary for survival in the jungle of Creole life in the third millennium.

Ever since the Count had become one of Pigeon’s suppliers three or four years ago, his earnings from buying and selling second-hand books had rocketed most pleasingly. Out of his many business ventures – the purchase of jewels and antiques, works of art, two cars now ready for hire and the ownership of twenty-five per cent of the shares in a small, entirely illegal building firm – Yoyi’s only official connection with the authorities was his licence to set up a stall for the sale of books in the plaza de Armas, which was in fact supervised by a maternal uncle he visited a couple of times a week in order to supply new goods and control the commercial well-being of the business that served him as a front. The Count had finally concluded that the young man’s innate ability to trade, sell at a good price and cajole potential customers – who, according to his principles, you always tried to rip off – must be the result of a genetic legacy from his general-store-owning Spanish grandfather to whom he also owed the name of Reutilio, for the boy had grown up in a country where scarcity and shortages had banished the art of making a good sale several decades ago. People sold and bought from necessity; while some sold what they could, others bought what their bottomless pockets allowed, with no stock exchange complications and, in particular, without the stress that choice entailed: take it or leave it, it’s this or nothing, hurry up or it will be gone, buy what’s there although right now you don’t need it . . . But not Yoyi Pigeon. He was a consummate artist, able to place luxury items at unbelievable prices, and the Count bet that even if he realized his dream of leaving the island – to go anywhere, Madagascar included – he’d end up a successful entrepreneur.

When they met, Conde felt he was reluctantly rejecting the youth because of his appearance, his love of the jewels he displayed on his hands and neck and his relentless cultivation of his own body. Nevertheless, the relationship between the two, born of purely commercial motives, had successfully surmounted the iron barrier of the Count’s prejudices and started to turn into friendship, perhaps because their complementary qualities balanced out any apparent shortcomings. The young man’s pitilessly mercantile vision and the Count’s outdated romanticism, the former’s rash impetuosity and the latter’s scrupulous calm, Pigeon’s occasionally unthinking outspokenness and the Count’s guile forged by years in the police gave them a strange equilibrium.

Their friendship had been definitively cemented one afternoon three years ago when the Count called in at his partner’s house on the pretext that he had to tell him he’d be bringing a load of books the day after, although what he really wanted was a cup of the excellent coffee the lad’s mother used to make. But that afternoon, Conde’s presence had saved him – at the very least – from a scam that was proceeding undetected by Pigeon’s beady eyes.

Conde had arrived at Yoyi’s just as the latter, dazzled by a job-lot of jewels offered at an unbelievably reasonable price by two characters who’d come recommended by a jeweller, was about to fetch from his bedroom the 2,200 dollars they’d agreed as an overall amount. When he arrived, Conde had greeted Yoyi and the jewelsellers and discreetly made for the lobby, driven by a hunch that not everything was as it should be. He’d squeezed his memory hard and prised out an image of one of the would-be sellers, implicated years ago in a case of violent robbery. He immediately concluded the deal was fraudulent: either the jewels came from a robbery that had yet to be rumbled or, more dangerously, were simply a ploy to strip Yoyi of his money. Conde had no time to intervene and abort that operation, so he made his way along the passage down the side of the house to the backyard where he picked up a piece of iron piping which he flourished like a baseball bat. He retraced his steps and by the time he’d reached the living room, the scene had reached climax point: one of the sellers was threatening Yoyi with a huge knife, and demanding the money, while the other collected up the jewels. Almost without thinking Conde brought the pipe down on the rib cage of the armed man, who dropped his knife and fell to his knees in front of Yoyi, who kicked him in the jaw and sent him flying on his back. Seeing all this happening, the other thief grabbed the jewels as best he could and ran between Yoyi and Conde to get to the street before the ex-policeman struck again with his makeshift weapon. Feeling his body shaking after he’d acted so violently, Conde handed the iron pipe to Yoyi, kicked the knife away, and flopped down on the sofa, beseeching the young man: “Don’t hit him again. Let him be. Don’t complicate life . . .”

But this afternoon, as on other lucky ones, Yoyi smiled contentedly when he saw his partner approaching with a bag of books. After asking his mother to prepare the indispensable cups of coffee, Yoyi followed the Count onto the terrace, where several pots of ferns and malangas fought for space, favoured as they were by the protective shade of the fruit trees growing in the next-door yard. The Count emptied his bag on the table and told Pigeon that this little consignment was only a very light hors d’oeuvre compared to the banquet of books he’d just discovered. The young lad listened to him as impatiently as ever, caressing the jutting keel of his sternum.

“I swear, my partner’s a silly bastard,” he finally commented. “How the hell could you tell those famished creatures there are books you can’t sell? What got into you, Conde?”

“I felt sorry for them. They’re starving to death . . . And because you know I won’t do that kind of . . .”

“Yes, you only have to take one look at you . . . Look at your shirt, man, it’s about to fall apart. You could make money hand over fist but of course you have to bleat on about books you can’t sell . . .”

“That’s my problem,” Conde tried to cut that conversation dead.

“Of course,” agreed Pigeon, shaking his left hand, where two gold bracelets entwined. “What’s the game-plan?”

“I agreed I’d call back at their place with more money and make an inventory of what they’ve got and take off another batch. So you pay me for this lot and advance me some money to buy more.”

Asking no questions, with a business confidence he reserved solely for the Count, the lad put a hand in his pocket and took out a sheaf of notes that made the other turn pale. He used his impressively nimble fingers to count the bits of paper at a speed the Count’s addition skills couldn’t match.

‘Here’s a thousand, that’s yours, and three thousand more to start the negotiations. Fair dues.”

“If I flash all this at them all, it’ll frighten them to death.” He recalled Dionisio Ferrero’s greedy eyes and his translucent sister’s worm-eaten fingers grasping the money he’d given them. “Remember the two censuses will fetch a really good price.”

‘When I’ve sold them to Giovanni, I’ll settle with you. That Italian bastard’s got a thing about censuses. I’ll take twenty-five greenbacks off him for each . . . And they’re as good as new. You see what things are like? Just a couple of censuses bring in thirteen hundred pesos, because I’ve got the right customer lined up. Get me? If you really bring me good books, I’ll make you rich, man, I swear . . .”

Pigeon smiled and waved contentedly at Conde. He went into the kitchen and returned with two cups of steaming coffee and a bottle of vintage rum, along with two small cut-glass tumblers, separated by a sheet of very fine sandpaper.

“Start cleaning the books,” he instructed the Count giving him the sandpaper.

While savouring his coffee and watching with relish as Pigeon poured out the rum, Conde cut the sandpaper in half to make his job easier and pulled the heap of books towards him.

“What about that one?” asked Pigeon, pointing his glass of rum at the volume half hidden under his bag.

“It’s a present for Skinny’s mother. It’s a cookbook I’ve been after for a while.”

The youth swigged his rum and smiled again.

“A cookbook? To cook what? Hey, man, you and your friends are incredible: Skinny, Rabbit, black Candito who’s crazy about Jehova and all that jazz . . . Fuck, they’re like a bunch of men from Mars, I swear. I look at them and wonder what the fuck they stuffed in their heads to make them like that . . .”

Conde took a swig and lit up. He took one of the books and started sandpapering gently along the top edge, to remove any traces of damp or specks of dust.

“They made us believe we were all equal and that the world would be a better place. That it was already better . . .”

“They fooled you, I swear. Everywhere you go some people are less equal than others and the world is going to the dogs. Right here, if you don’t have any green’uns you’re out of the running, and there are people getting rich, and not exactly on the straight and narrow . . .”

Conde nodded, his eyes wandering dreamily in between the trees in the yard.

“It was nice while it lasted.”

“That’s why you’re all so fucked now: too long spent dreaming. What the hell was the point of it all?”

Conde smiled, put the sandpapered book to one side and selected another. He recalled that Yoyi was an avid reader of the sports pages of the dailies, which always went on about winners and losers, the only valid division, he reckoned, for the Earth’s inhabitants.

“So you think we wasted our time and there’s no way out?”

“You wasted your time and half your lives, but there is a way out, Conde: the one you take on behalf of yourself, the people around you, your family and friends. And this isn’t pure selfishness: with this business of mine, not stepping out of my house, sleeping at midday with air-conditioning, and stealing from no one, I earn more money than if I worked for a whole month as an engineer, getting up at six and struggling onto the bus (if the damned bus actually came), eating the slops on offer in the works canteen and putting up with a boss set on clearing up at the expense of everyone else, hoping he’ll get a job that will take him abroad . . . and to score points he makes everyone’s life a misery harping on about coming top of the league, voluntary work and production targets. The name of the game is clear enough, man.”

“You may be right,” allowed the Count, who was perfectly aware of the reality sketched by Pigeon, and blew along the top of the book, signalling he’d cleaned it up.

“The thing is you were a policeman so you believe what’s legal is right. But if people didn’t do business on the sly and wheel and deal, how would they survive? That’s why even God and his next-door neighbour thieve here . . . And some, as you know, are dab hands at it.”

“Yoyi, I left the police more than ten years ago, but I’ve always known how people lived . . . It’s more likely I’m going soft inside because I’m getting old,” Conde picked up the first edition of The Slave Trader and put it to one side; he needed to attend to the stitching on the spine. He reached for the next one on the pile, one of the censuses, and started sandpapering gently.

“Well, factor that in . . . you are knocking on,” agreed Pigeon with a smile. “And old age slows you down. OK, I’m going to have