Havana Blue by Leonardo Padura Page A

on the register . . .”
    â€œNo need, more or less,” said Manolo, coming back to life.
    â€œAbout twenty-three, I’d guess,” he said. “As you get older, a twenty-year-old seems much the same as a thirty-year-old, you know? And as for your other question: well she works at home, makes arty-crafty objects from seeds and shells and earns good money and only works when she has to. You can imagine, around New Year she rakes it in. You can’t find anything to buy then, you know?”
    â€œVery good, comrade, many thanks,” said the Count, stemming the flow of words that threatened to drown them. “We’ll just ask you for one favour. When she comes, call us on this number and leave a message for Lieutenant Conde or Sergeant Palacios. Is that OK?”
    â€œOn the contrary, comrades, it’s a real pleasure. We are here to serve you, naturally. But, I must say, Lieutenant, it’s strange you won’t come in for a sitdown and a cup of freshly made coffee? I thought when two policemen visited a Revolutionary Committee that always had to happen.”
    â€œSo did I, but not to worry. There are also police who are scared of dogs,” said the Count as he shook the man’s hand.

    â€œThat was nice of you,” griped Manolo as they walked to their car. He was wearing his jacket open to the cold air. “You’re very witty today. As if not facing up to dogs were a sin.”
    â€œThat must be why they bite you. Look what a sweat you’re in, kid.”
    â€œYes, it’s all very well to go on about adrenaline, smell and your fucking mother, but the fact is they always go for me.”
    They got into the car; Manolo took a deep breath and put both hands on the wheel.
    â€œWell, we now have some idea about who Zoilita is. The plot thickens.”
    â€œThe plot thickens, but it makes no odds. Look, let’s divide up now. I’ll go to collect the guest list for the deputy minister’s party and you put two people on task to find out about Zaida and Zoilita. Particularly Zoilita. I want to know where she’s got to and what she’s got to do with all this.”
    â€œWhy don’t we switch tasks? I’ll collect the list, go on.”
    â€œHey, Manolo, you can play with the chain but leave the monkey in peace. No more griping,” he said and looked into the street. He was fascinated by the steady flow of white lines the car was devouring, and only then did he notice it had stopped raining. But the pain from his hungry misused stomach now met the pressure from the urine filling his bladder. “What else are you thinking of doing?”
    Manolo kept staring at the road ahead.
    â€œI’m talking to you, Manolo,” insisted the Count.
    â€œWell, I reckon there are too many bloody coincidences, and Zoilita’s much too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? And I reckon you should talk to Maciques. That man knows more than he’s letting on.”

    â€œWe’ll see him at the enterprise on Monday.”
    â€œI’d see him before then.”
    â€œTomorrow if there’s time, OK?”
    â€œHey, let’s have some music, I’m going to piss myself.”
    â€œYou can piss yourself, but I can’t put any music on.”
    â€œWhat’s a matter, man, you still shaking because of that mongrel?”
    â€œNo, it’s your fault we can’t listen to music. They stole our aerial from in front of Zoilita’s place.”
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    His favourite song had always been “Strawberry Fields”. He’d discovered it one unexpected day in 1967 or 1968 in his cousin Juan Antonio’s house; it was horribly hot, but Juan Antonio and three of his friends were older, in eighth grade, and they’d squeezed into his cousin’s bedroom, he recalled, as if they were going to pray to the prophet: they were sitting on the floor around an ancient RCA Victor gramophone, it even had