Havana Black Page 3

  In his ten years working as a policeman Mario Conde had internalized a few basic lessons to guarantee his survival: first of all came the concept of loyalty. Only by preserving the group spirit, by protecting the other members of the police tribe to which he himself belonged, could he guarantee that the others would provide him with similar protection and that their unity was really genuine. Even when he never felt like a real policeman, and preferred to operate without a pistol or uniform and even hated the idea of employing violence, when he dreamed he would soon jettison all that to embark on a normal life – now what the fuck was normality? he would also wonder, imagining a log cabin with a tiled roof facing the sea, where he would live and write – the Count always practised that code, perhaps to excess, as Major Rangel also did, only to end up betrayed by those bastards he’d stubbornly defended, even to the point of putting his own neck on the block when sentences were meted out. Consequently at that moment Mario Conde’s police and street ethics walked a dramatic tightrope: either he kept to his decision to leave Headquarters because they’d removed Major Rangel, or he took on that rancid-smelling case he’d already started to like the sound of and would thus earn the freedom awaiting him when it was solved and demonstrate into the bargain why the Boss had singled him out from all his detectives. As he listened to the alternatives offered by his new sweet-smelling, smartly uniformed chief, the Count lit another cigar and looked at the white folder on his lap, which contained the known facts about the life of defector Miguel Forcade Mier and the part of his death that had been revealed. He looked out of the big office window and noted that the sky was still blue and quiet, oblivious to the existence of Felix, and decided to negotiate a way out: “Colonel, as we are forging a deal between gentlemen, before I respond I want to ask you a question or two, and make one demand.”

  The well-shaven and better-dressed man who was now his boss, smiled.

  “You are mistaken, Lieutenant, it’s no gentleman’s deal, because I’m now your boss. But I’ll go along with you . . . What’s your first question?”

  “Why had a man like Miguel Forcade been let back in the country? From what you tell me he was a pretty high ranker and defected when he was coming back from an official mission? As far as I know, it’s not usual for someone like that to attempt a comeback and even less to get permission to return to Cuba. I know of people who’ve been refused entry for much less . . . When this man left, did he take with him documents, money, something to incriminate him legally?”

  It was now Colonel Molina who lit up one of his cigarettes, before responding. “No, he was incredibly clean. But the fact is they let him back in to keep an eye on him and see what he wanted to do. He sorted his re-entry through the International Red Cross, as his father is sick. And it was decided it was best to let him come back in.”

  “I more or less expected an answer like that, so I will now ask my second question. Did he throw off his minder?”

  “Yes, regrettably from our point of view and his, he slipped the tail that had been put on him. Are you equally happy with that answer?”

  The Count nodded, and raised his hand like a suspicious pupil.

  “But now I want to ask a third question: did anyone ever find out or suspect why Forcade stayed in Madrid? Because this kind of man isn’t the type to defect for the usual reasons, I assume?”

  “There were several suspicions, as there always are in such cases. For example, at the end of ’78 they discovered a case of fraud in Planning and the Economy, but they could never prove he was involved. People also thought he might have taken something when he worked in Expropriated Property, but he was never known to sell anything valuable. There was also a suspicion he had information to give, though nothing was ever proved and Forcade never made any public declarations . . . I told you already: he seemed clean and that’s why he dared to return. Now I want to hear your request and I’ll tell you if I can agree to it.”

  The Count looked the Colonel in the eye and placed the folder on his desk, before answering: “I don’t think it’s anything too difficult to grant me: I just want to speak to Major Rangel before I give you my reply. And if I accept, I want him to help me if need be . . .”

  Colonel Molina put his cigar out gently, extinguishing the embers against the walls of the metal ashtray, and scrutinized Mario Conde.

  “You’re an admirable man, Lieutenant . . . The fact is I thought such loyalties were a thing of the past. Of course, speak to your friend the Major, consult him to your heart’s content and tell him from me that I regret what has happened and apologize for not going to tell him so personally, but that might be awkward, particularly for me. As things stand now . . . Well, I’ll expect you back in two hours, Lieutenant,” and he stood to attention, giving a precise, fluid military salute.

  Surprised by his martial gesture, the Count stood up and moved his hand across his forehead, in an attempted salute that was more like a farewell or, perhaps, merely a flick to see off the buzzing fly of doubt.

  Ana Luisa looked surprised when she opened the door and found herself face to face with Lieutenant Mario Conde.

  “Now what are you doing here, my boy?”

  The Count looked at her, pleased by the initial effect provoked by his visit, then he tried a familiar gambit: “I came to see if one of your daughters will marry me. Either would do nicely and I quite like the father-in-law who comes in tow.”

  The woman finally smiled, as she let him in and patted him on the shoulder.

  “With that face, I don’t think either will fall for you.”

  “I must look terrible: you’re the third person to say that today,” said the Count resignedly. “Where’s your husband then?”

  “Go through. He’s in the library. I’ll bring your tea in a moment.”

  “Hey, Ana Luisa, has anyone been to see him?”

  The woman glanced at him and he saw affecting pools of sadness in her eyes.

  “No, Conde, not one of those who were his friends has dropped by. Well, you know what it’s like: if you fall by the wayside . . . Just as well you . . .” she stammered before rushing into the kitchen.

  The Count walked across the dining room, stopped in front of the sliding door to the library and rapped twice with his knuckle.

  “Push it, Mario, come in,” spoke a voice from beyond the closed doors.

  He pushed one of the doors and found Major Rangel behind his desk: the situation was like a slightly altered replay of their encounters at Headquarters, but on this occasion the Count wondered how the Boss could have known it was him: the doors were wooden and not opaque glass like at the office and his dialogue with Ana Luisa had been too distant to reach the Major’s almost sixty-year-old ears.

  “Just tell me one thing, Boss. How do you know when it’s me? Do I smell or something . . .? You know I’m not a man to use cologne.”

  “Forget the bloody cologne: I saw you arrive from this window,” and he pointed to the shutters that looked over the garden. “Did Ana Luisa say she’d bring a coffee?”

  “No, she mentioned tea.”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” shouted the Major as if he were in pain. “Do you know what that woman has decided, Mario? That she must keep telling me to lead a healthier life, that I smoke a lot, drink a lot of coffee . . . And now she makes tea: and makes it from all sorts, orange leaves, lemongrass, crushed aniseed, whatever, because she reckons real tea constipates and stresses . . . As if I was ever stressed.”

  “And what about your cigars?”

  Rangel smiled expansively: a twitch of the upper lip, which didn’t even reveal the glint of a tooth.

  “Of course, of course. Help yourself,” and he opened the small mahogany humidor on his desktop. “You know what these are? They’re a truly wonderful set of Cohibas Lanceros. I can tell you they’re the best cigars in the whole world. Go on, choose one. Take a good look, what sheen, what colour, what works of art . . . Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  The Count studied the cigars, arrayed i
n strict formation in the humidor, shiny and straight-backed like healthy animals, their necks ringed, and thought how the Major’s premature retirement must be driving him mad: he never reckoned he would see the day when he’d give away a cigar of such distinction. When it came to cigars, the Boss was an eccentric connoisseur and incredibly tight-fisted.

  “If you say so.” He nodded and took one of the Lanceros, the first in the set, while the Major eyed the rest and opted for one in the middle, after weighing up two or three other possibilities.

  “Now be careful how you prime it,” Rangel warned when he saw him bite the end of the cigar. “That decides everything: if you don’t prime it properly, you will certainly ruin the cigar . . . Tell me, how do you prefer to do it? With scissors or the guillotine?”

  “I don’t know, I always use my teeth, you know.”

  “Fine, but wet it first so you don’t break the outer layer. Look, like this,” and he continued his lesson, moistening the cigar and twisting it between his lips, finally tweaking it like a nipple, with the delicacy of an experienced lover. “You see?”

  Ana Luisa brought in a sweet infusion of unknown provenance, and after drinking it, the two men lit their havanas, the blue clouds from which perfumed the atmosphere in the library. Only then did the Count decide to speak up: “How you feeling, Boss?”

  “Can’t you see? Fucked, and on boiled water, as if I had diarrhoea. But don’t worry . . . I won’t die from what happened. These are the risks that go with the job.”

  “What damned risks? It’s a load of crap,” blurted the Count, almost choking on the smoke from his cigar. “You’re the best head of criminal investigation the country has . . .”

  “You think so, Mario? And how do you explain the fact that several of my detectives were criminals and used their positions to further their own ends?”

  “There was no reason why you should have known . . .”

  “Yes, I ought, Mario, that much is obvious . . . But I never thought so many could do so much. And don’t start telling me about human nature or skeletons in the . . . The fact is I burned my fingers on their behalf and look,” he held out his arms, “I got singed.”

  “And why did you trust someone like me?” the Count queried, hoping to hear Major Rangel bestow rare praise.

  “Because I must be mad,” replied the Boss, smiling once more: he now shifted only his upper lip from the edge of the cigar. “Hey, Mario, in all these years you never once damned well told me why you joined the police. Will you tell me now?”

  The Count nodded, relieved to find the Rangel he’d always known and not the defeated, crestfallen man he had imagined. He still seemed young for his age, in that tight pullover emphasising the pectorals of a practised swimmer and squash player. Not even rejection or fear of those who were once his friends and colleagues seemed overly to affect the true grit of a man born to be a policeman.

  “Not right now. But I can tell you now it is down to you whether I remain a policeman or not.”

  “What are you on about, Mario Conde?”

  “It’s quite simple: when I heard they were kicking you out, I handed in my resignation, and now they’ll accept it if I solve just one more case. And it’s a really tasty case. But I’ll only take it on if you tell me to . . .”

  The Boss stood up and walked over to the shutters. He looked out at the quiet street, shimmering under the midday sun, and looked at the garden, in need of some attention, and drew gently on his Cohiba Lancero.

  “Mario, do me a favour,” his voice started off quite amiably but suddenly switched tone with that facility the Count had always envied, “stop talking nonsense and tell me what this tasty case is all about. Remember I was also a policeman until only three days ago. Why is it so tasty? Come on. I’m all ears.”

  A single, well-aimed brutal blow had been enough to put an end to the life of Miguel Forcade Mier: like a ball angrily repelled by a powerful hitter, his brain burst inside his skull, putting an end to the ideas, memories and emotions of the man who in a moment made the transition from life to death. But then the second part of that savage sacrifice was performed: his penis and testicles were excised at the root by a clumsy, furious hand, which scored the flesh, pulled at it, sawed at it, till the entire masculinity of a man who’d returned from the beyond was severed. His body was finally thrown into that turbid sea, a possible offering to certain lethal gods, at a spot where water black with shit, urine, vomit and menstruation issued forth from the city to which Miguel Forcade had returned quite unsuspecting he would never leave it again.

  The Count and Major Rangel exchanged looks of disgust: the infinite cruelty of that murder smacked of enraged sacrifice, livid revenge perhaps years in the planning and finally executed when oblivion had apparently buried for ever the unpredictable source of a hatred unleashed now like an October cyclone on the tropics.

  And they thought: Miguel Forcade Mier must have died from some ancient crime; perhaps from his time as a repossessor of expropriated goods, when so much wealth abandoned by the Cuban bourgeoisie running for cover with such a hue and cry was confiscated in the name of the people and its government, who should now own everything. Furniture, jewels, works of art, coins ancient and modern, accumulated over more than two centuries by a dialectically defeated social class, had now to pass through the hands of the Official Expropriator charged with the mission of assigning them a more just destiny. Would he always do that? Logic began to suggest not: the bewildering temptations offered by those historically doomed fortunes might have corrupted the vanguard ideology of the man who almost thirty years later, the sign of a traitor cut into his forehead, would die castrated. One could imagine that a part of those recycled riches, minimal no doubt but very valuable (say a Degas that never reappeared, a Greek amphora lost to an oblivious Mediterranean, a Roman bust lost to memory, or collection of Byzantine coins never again exchanged by merchant owners of every temple there ever was?), passed through his hands with the promise of a revolutionary redistribution that never happened and that he perhaps finally paid for in that death of blood, wood and iron . . . But, why was it necessary to castrate him?