Havana Gold by Leonardo Padura Page B

some safe haven to down their twilight, troublesome alcohol, and a pity that they’re
shutting the liquor store because nothing liquid had arrived to attract a queue. The afternoon was getting far too quiet for his liking. Besides, he’d put on his glad rags: pre-washed jeans he’d bought with Josefina’s help and a checked shirt, soft as a caress, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, worn for the first time to honour that special night. And he smelled like a flower: Heno de Pravia, a present from Skinny on his last birthday. He could have kissed himself.
    He finally saw her drive past his place, twenty minutes after they’d agreed, reach the corner and U-turn before stopping on his side of the pavement, with a back wind and prow pointing promisingly towards the dark heart of the city.
    â€œAm I very late?” she asked kissing his cheek warmly.
    â€œNot at all. Three hours and no more is fine for a woman.”
    â€œGot to the bottom of the mystery?” she smiled, starting the engine.
    â€œHey, it’s not a joke. I really am a policeman.”
    â€œYes, I know: a detective like Maigret.”
    â€œAll right, if you must.”
    The small contraption jerked into motion, not quite ready for the off, then sped off down the half-empty street. The Count entrusted his fate to the god who’d blessed the greenback hanging in the window and thought of Manolo.

    â€œSo where are we headed then?”
    She drove with one hand and with the other tidied away the unruly hair that kept falling over her eyes. Could she see the road? She’d made up immaculately and was wearing a loose-fitting dress: its mauve flowers on a green background and its precise cut aroused the Count’s desires; down south, where her knees were parted, and up north low down the back and deep into a swooping neckline. She looked at him before replying and the Count thought he had on his hands a woman who was too much of a woman, one he would fall hopelessly in love with: a feeling in his chest, a judgement that brooked no appeal.
    â€œDo you like Emiliano Salvador?”
    â€œEnough to marry him?”
    â€œAh, so you like a joke too?”
    â€œDearie, I worked as a clowning policeman in the circus and people loved it when I interrogated the elephant.”
    â€œSeriously, if you like jazz, we can go to the Río Club. Emiliano Salvador’s group’s playing. I can always get a table.”
    â€œAnything for jazz,” the Count agreed telling himself it was a good idea to start with instruments that improvised everything in a life some great master had taped so well there was little margin for variation.
    He thought the city seemed quieter, more promising, even cleaner from inside that car although he doubted
his impressions were anything but circumstantial. But so what: he felt happy and relaxed with that chauffeur, sure he wasn’t going to die in any stupid traffic accident; Lissette, Pupy, Caridad Delgado’s decline, Fabricio’s loutishness and Candito’s reproaches meant little as they moved relentlessly towards music in the night and, of this he was more than sure, towards love.
    â€œSo I have to believe you’re a policeman. A real policeman, one who calls the shots and puts you in jail and fines you for bad parking. Tell me who you are and I’ll start believing in you.”
    Â 
    Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a boy who wanted to be a writer. He lived peaceful and happy in a not very tranquil, or even beautiful dwelling, not far from here, and spent his time, like all happy boys, playing baseball in the street, hunting lizards and watching how his grandfather, whom he loved a lot, groomed his fighting cocks. But every day he dreamed of becoming a writer. First he decided to be like Dumas, the father, the real one, and to write something as fabulous as The Count of Monte Cristo , until he fell out forever with the infamous Dumas for writing a sequel