Havana Blue by Leonardo Padura

echoed in the distance, as if around an empty house.
    â€œLet’s talk to the committee,” the lieutenant went on.
    They walked along the pavement, looking for the sign for the local Revolutionary Committee, and finally spotted one on the corner, almost hidden by a jungle of box-hedges and dwarf palms in the garden.
    â€œThat’s the worst of this cold. I’m getting hungrier and hungrier, Count,” Manolo lamented his afflictions and begged his boss to make it short and sweet.
    â€œAnd what do you think I’ve got in my belly? After what I drank last night, today’s fasting and the cigar the Boss gave me, I feel like I’ve got a dead toad in my gut. I feel as if I’m about to throw up.”
    He tapped on the glass in the door, a dog started barking, and now Manolo was on edge.
    â€œI tell you, I’m going back to the car,” he said, reviewing his unique record of bites on duty.
    â€œDon’t be silly, kid, stay still.” The door opened.
    A black and white dog ran out, ignoring his master’s orders. Lion Cub, he called him, fancy calling that funny-coloured mongrel Lion. It was curly tailed and half mulatto, and had ignored Mario Conde and gone straight to sniff Manolo’s shoes and trousers, as if they’d once belonged to him.
    â€œHe’s harmless,” the proud owner of the wellbehaved dog reassured them. “But he’s a good guard dog. How can I help?”
    The Count introduced himself and asked for the head of the committee.
    â€œYours truly, comrade. Would you like to come in?”
    â€œNo, that’s not necessary. We just want to know if
you’ve seen Zoila Amarán today. We’re looking to ask her a few . . .”
    â€œIs there something the matter?”
    â€œNo, just a routine enquiry.”
    â€œWell, my friend, I think you’re up against it. You’ll need a lasso to get a hold on Zoilita, because she hardly shows her face around here,” the committee head observed. “Hey, Lion Cub, come here, leave the comrade alone or he’ll lock you up,” he said with a smile.
    â€œDoes she live by herself?”
    â€œYes and no. Her brother and his wife live in her place, but they are doctors and have just been posted to Pinar del Río, and they visit every two or three months. So she lives by herself and I heard, you know, you find these things out without trying. I think it was today when I was getting bread from the corner store that she’d told someone she was going away and she’s not been sighted for three days.”
    â€œThree days?” asked the Count, smiling at the relief on Manolo’s face when Lion Cub finally lost interest in his shoes and trousers and scampered into the garden.
    â€œYes, three days or so. But, you know, to be frank, and this is a fact: ever since she’s been a kid – and I’ve watched her grow up right here – Zoilita’s been a tearaway, and not even her mother, the late Zoila, could keep track of her. I even thought she’d turn out a tomboy, but no way. OK, she’s not done anything wrong, has she? She might be half-mad, but I can honestly say she’s not a bad girl.”
    The Count listened to the man expressing his opinions while he searched his jacket pocket for a cigarette. His brain wanted to weigh up the fact Zoila hadn’t been back home for precisely three days, although suddenly he was feeling weary of all this, of Zaida and
Maciques defending Rafael, of Zoila and the Spaniard Dapena, who’d also vanished on the first, of Tamara and Rafael, but he replied: “No, don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong. We only wanted to find out a couple of other things: how old is Zoilita and where does she work?”
    The committee head rested his forearm on the doorframe, watched Lion Cub shit copiously and pleasurably in the garden and smiled.
    â€œI don’t remember her exact age; I’d have to look