Havana Black by Leonardo Padura Page B

convince him and he now envied that possibility of change and fulfilment Red had glimpsed by way of his religious faith. Were all those in the church better than he was? The certainty that that might be so alarmed Mario Conde’s incredulous spirit even more.
    â€œAnd how do you feel the change, Red?”
    â€œYou don’t feel it, Conde. You search it out. The first step is to want it. For example, to want to change, or love one’s neighbour, or want to live free of anger and bitterness.”
    â€œAnd forgive everyone?” asked the Count, out of interest.
    â€œYes, forgive. Nobody must stand in judgement . . .”

    â€œWell, I am fucked. Well and truly. Do you want people to forget everything? No, my brother, there are things one can’t forgive, and you know that’s so . . .”
    â€œYou can, Conde, you can.”
    â€œIn which case I’m happy for your sake. If only I could change and want to believe and even love all my neighbours, including the two million bastards I know only too well. The truth is sometimes I don’t even believe in myself. I’m not in the running. I don’t want to forgive: not fucking likely. The fact is I don’t want – ”
    â€œI’m not going to say you should go to the church, because I respect you as a friend and I don’t like to tell anyone what he must or must not do in this kind of thing. Not even my wife . . . But if only you could.”
    â€œForget it, there’s no cure for my state, but if you feel good then I’m pleased, because I’m not the cynic you sometimes think, and I love you more than you can imagine . . . But tell me just one thing: can people of your religion go to a friend’s birthday party?”
    Candito nodded again and smiled on. If the grace of God has really touched him, it seems to have done so at nerve points that generate laughter, thought the heretical, anatomical Count.
    â€œOf course they can. And if he’s a real close friend, I can even have a couple of drinks. You know I’ll never be a fanatic. What I want to change are other things that are in here,” and he touched his head, now a greyflecked red, “because I can’t change some things that are out there . . .”
    â€œGreat, the day after tomorrow, at Skinny’s place. It’s my birthday and this guy says you only get to be thirty-six once.”
    â€œOf course I’ll be there. And don’t worry. I know what I have to bring, right, Conde?”

    â€œMay God keep you this wise, Red . . . But I also came because I wanted to ask you something, to sound you out, because you might be able to help me in the bit of bother I’m investigating now. Listen, a fellow comes from Miami to see his family. He comes with his wife, who is twenty years younger than he is. The fellow was a high rider in the seventies and then defected in Spain, but they let him back in, to see if he’d come looking for something, even though he appeared to be clean. But one day the fellow throws his tail and disappears, immediately after he’d seen a horrible individual who had once been his boss . . . And he turns up two days later on Goat Beach, half eaten by fish. A blow with a bat to the head killed him, but as well as that, and here’s what I want you to mull over, they cut off his cock and balls with a knife . . . Does it sound to you like jealousy or something else? Do you think it could be the abakúas , or something similar?”
    Red Candito shifted in his armchair, trying to protect the area of his genitals with his legs. His smile had gone and he seemed like the Candito of old, the owner of that feline mistrust with which he now looked at his friends and replied: “It wasn’t jealousy, and you know the abakúas don’t do that, Conde . . . It’s something else, something really fucked . . .”
    â€œI quite agree.”
    â€œIt reeks of revenge.”
    â€œBut a