Havana Black by Leonardo Padura Page A

happened, Conde, did they throw you out?”
    â€œNo . . . Yes . . . Listen, I think we’d better wait outside.”
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    â€œHey, Candito, what the fuck are you doing as an Adventist, you, a half-Catholic who take your problems to an African high priest?” asked the Count, when they were finally able to rearrange the furniture in the small room to make space for Skinny Carlos’s wheelchair.
    The smell of the coffee Cuqui was preparing wafted their way from the kitchen, and, still marked by the evidence of faith he’d just observed, the Count’s mind was now filled with the image of a rampant Candito clad in white castigating the evil one before a legion of the faithful.
    â€œDon’t fuck around, Conde, don’t start interfering in people’s lives,” interrupted Carlos, and turned to Candito: “Hey, Red, so now you can’t have a little drink, smoke or swear, or . . .” and lowering his voice to a whisper, “or have a fling with a bit of skirt that offers itself?”

    Candito shook his head: there was no hope for these guys.
    â€œIt’s not like you think. I’ve not been baptized yet. I don’t think I’m ready. I just go to the church every now and then and sit there.”
    â€œSinging and clapping?” asked the Count incredulously.
    â€œYes, and listening to people speak of love, peace, goodness, cleanliness of spirit, hopes of salvation, quiet and forgiveness . . . Hearing things people don’t say elsewhere, spoken by people who believe in what they say. It’s better than selling beer or buying stolen leather to make shoes, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, it’s true. You’re doing right,” affirmed Andrés.
    â€œWhat? And will you take the same righteous path?” the Count demanded, and immediately regretted his sarcastic tone.
    â€œWhat the fuck is eating you, Conde? I said Red was doing right. That’s all. Isn’t it, Candito?”
    Their host smiled. The Count searched him for visible physical changes and thought Red’s smile seemed different: perhaps more peaceful, more accepting: strengthened and able to withstand jibes. A smile expressing a hope in belief.
    â€œIt makes sense for the Count to get like this, Andrés. Well, you know him better than I do . . . I once told him to watch out, because he was turning cynical, you remember, Conde?”
    â€œSorry, Red, it isn’t what Andrés is thinking, but the fact is even after I’ve seen you in action I can’t imagine you’re really into that,” replied the Count, trying to salvage something.
    â€œAnd why can’t you imagine me into that? Isn’t it better than being a petty criminal for the rest of my life worrying every day in case the policeman knocking on
my door isn’t you? Or downing a bottle of rum morning and night to forget how fucked I am, which is what you do? Isn’t it better to pray and sing a bit, Conde, and think someone somewhere only wants you to have faith and be good? You know, Mario, I’m sick of all the shit out there . . .”
    â€œYou said ‘shit’, Candito,” quipped Skinny, and Candito smiled. His inner peace is already becoming evident, thought the Count.
    â€œYes, of the shit everywhere. You know what my life’s been like. But I think you can change if you make it in time, although I’ve got to forget a lot of the things I’ve been for a long time. And besides, I don’t feel empty anymore, like I used to, and I’m learning you can’t live a life of emptiness. You get me?”
    â€œI get you, Candito,” replied Andrés. “I know what it’s like to feel empty . . .”
    As if he’d not heard the doctor, the Count looked Candito in the eye and took out a cigarette. He made a gesture to ascertain whether he could light up and the other nodded. The Count thought his friend had said something that could