Havana Red by Leonardo Padura Page A

Miramar, under the still benevolent sun of that August morning, the Count felt he was entering another world, its face more pleasant and better washed than that of the other city – the same city – they’d just crossed. And now, in front of Faustino Arayán’s house, he brought his idea full circle: quite the contrary, when he thought how the original owners of that preening mansion with its windowpanes still intact had no doubt also tried to delineate a drastic difference between two worlds, the best of which – naturally for them – they had intended to magnify by building that house: oh, those good old bourgeois pretensions to permanence . . . At this moment, perhaps in Miami, Union City or wherever the hell they were, thirty years on, they must still miss the precise beauty of that construction where they’d invested fistfuls of dreams and money, thinking it was eternal. But people usually get it wrong, the Count told himself, penetrating the maze of his mind as it
raced on and thinking that, if he’d lived in a house like that, he’d like to have owned at least three dogs running around the garden. And who’d pick up the shit? he wondered, lifting a foot in his imagination to avoid doggy deposits, and decided to do without his pack of hounds and devote his time – and this was beyond debate – to cherishing the library he’d have on the second floor, overlooking the garden.
    On his journey the Count had also gleaned from the lips of Sergeant Palacios two choice items of disturbing news: Salvador K.’s blood, like the murderer’s, was AB, and nobody in the vicinity of the studio on Twenty-First and Eighteenth had seen him on the night of the crime, although they’d seen him go in more than once with Alexis Arayán. According to the Count’s calculations, those two tickets meant he was sure to win the raffle he’d bought into.
    Manuel Palacios rang the bell and the maid opened the door.
    â€œCome in,” she said, without saying good-day, and pointed them to the armchairs in the sitting room. “I’ll tell Faustino right away.” And she disappeared on ghostly tiptoe.
    The Count and Manolo looked at each other, laughed and prepared to wait. Ten minutes later, Faustino Arayán appeared.
    He was wearing a guayabera that was so white and elegant the Count wouldn’t have dared to wear it for a minute: it was resplendent rather than white, with tenuous tucks, a shiny thread and the maker’s name discreetly but visibly embroidered on the top right-hand pocket. The grey pin-stripe trousers displayed the precise crease of an expert iron, while his dark patent leather moccasins seemed light and comfortable.

    â€œGood-day,” he said, holding out a hand; a strong, solid, pink hand, like its owner, whose only sign of being in his sixties was an almost totally bald pate which distinguished the equally shiny roundness, noted the Count, of his enormous head.
    â€œI’m really sorry to trouble you today, compañero Arayán. We know you had a bad day yesterday, but . . .”
    â€œNot to worry, not to worry . . .”
    â€œLieutenant Mario Conde,” he introduced himself, and pointing to his colleague, he said, “and Sergeant Manuel Palacios.”
    â€œI told you, Lieutenant, not to worry. You’re doing your job, and I have to do mine today, because life goes on . . .”
    â€œThanks,” said the Count and observed the ashtray from Granada, as clean as ever, as if it had never been used.
    â€œJust a moment, I’ll get us a drop of coffee, if you’d like one?” asked Faustino Arayán, and without waiting for a reply, he whispered: “María Antonia.”
    The black woman appeared like a flash, with a tray of three cups of coffee, as if she’d been waiting for the gun from behind a starting line. The damn bitch floats, the Count was convinced, and he was the first to be