Havana Black (16 page)

Gómez de la Peña shook his head, still in denial. It was still incredible apparently – Friguens had said so – the disastrous fakery of a painting he used to unfurl as his victory standard over the way he'd been punished for his failed economic management, when the door finally opened and, as the Count had been hoping, Manolo's fingers signalled a V for victory.

“Faker than a nurse's virginity . . .”

Gerardo Gómez de la Peña heard the sentence and slumped further into his chair, before saying: “I'm glad they killed him. For being such a bastard.”

“Well, now tell me something new about Miguel Forcade,” requested the Count, eager to digest more novel or revealing information.

 

 

Colonel Alberto Molina remained tight-lipped as he listened to the whole story as recounted by Lieutenant Mario Conde: the long haul after a fake
Autumn
Landscape
that existed because another real one existed whose whereabouts were still unknown, and that might be – one or the other, or perhaps both – the cause of Miguel Forcade's death. Standing up, smoking his second cigarette since the Count had put in an appearance, the new boss at Headquarters scrutinized the certificates of authenticity and the proof of sale of that Matisse, signed by Miguel Forcade and Gerardo Gómez de la Peña.

“And I suppose these García Abreus took the picture out of Cuba?”

“Apparently. But when Forcade found out this one was a fake, he realized he had a good deal on his hands and thought on his feet.”

“He was a real devil,” he added finally, returning to his seat. “I'm not surprised by the way he was killed.”

“There are various kinds of demons,” commented the lieutenant and thought of Major Rangel: “The country's mad,” the Boss would have said as if there were still something that could shock him.

“And do you think Gómez is the murderer?”

The Count yet again weighed up the possibilities in the light of his prejudices and decided not to take any risks.

“We can't be sure, though I would be delighted if he were, because I don't like his sort. But he says he never knew it was a fake and he doesn't seem to be lying. And that leaves him without any apparent motive. At any rate I'll let him spend another night sleeping inside, in the same cell as the rapists, the black guy and the little white one. That usually helps, I can tell you . . .”

The Colonel stood up again. He was clearly fazed by the riddles cast in his direction by a story of serial lies and deception, sustained over almost thirty years.

“I don't know what to say . . . this is all new to me. What is undeniable is that you've upturned a cartload of shit . . . But if it wasn't Gómez, who the fuck did it?”

“You know, I've got Fermín Bodes in reserve, Miguel's brother-in-law. I am convinced he knew why the dead man came to Cuba, and if he knows why he may also know why they killed him. And quite likely may even have killed him himself. But I've got no way to bring him in. He's another livewire and he's got guts.”

“And Miguel's wife?”

“She's really tasty . . . And she also knows things she's not letting on and lets on about things she's not been asked. She's the one I really can't get my head round . . . Besides, I don't believe she's a natural blonde . . . But what I'm more and more certain of is that Forcade's murderer knew what he had come here for, and that was why he killed him. Though the castration business is a spanner in the works. What do you reckon?”

The Colonel put his cigarette out and looked at his subordinate.

“I don't know why I let myself get dragged into this madness, when I was so quiet and peaceful in my office . . .”

“Now you can see how difficult this is to solve in three days. But I'll promise you something . . . What's the time now?”

“Ten past five, why?”

“Because tomorrow at this exact same time I will answer your question: I'll tell you who murdered Miguel Forcade . . . I hope you'll have my release papers ready by then. All right?”

“All right . . . to the good health of us both,” and he half turned, not even remembering to give his military salute.

Mario Conde would only sing boleros in two precise states of mind: when he foresaw he might fall in love or when he was already madly and desperately in love – which was the only way he ever fell in love. Although his fortune in love had not been particularly favourable for nurturing his gift with boleros, several of those lyrics, made from words that could sing equally of love or disappointment, of hatred or the purest of passions, had lodged in his mind during vehement spates of amorous frenzy, during which he'd sung them, even outside the shower. And he preferred one in particular to any other bolero on the face of this earth and on his tongue:

The feeling of febrile possession expressed by that song communicated, more than any other poem, more than many other words he sought and feverishly rehearsed, his longing for permanence: he always wanted his women to carry the trace of his love eternally, like a pleasurable taste on the lips. Unfortunately, it was usually soon forgotten, while the Count suffered and abandoned his boleros until another bacterial process of chronic, fatal infatuation began.

That afternoon, treacherously, the policeman felt a desire to sing a bolero, even though he knew any possibility of falling in love was remote. Miriam could never have been the woman to provoke the sensation of helplessness that love inspired in him, though he wouldn't have hesitated a second before bedding her anywhere the blonde showed the slightest sign of
letting him or wanting it. He liked her thighs, liked her guile and latent fears, but above all he liked her eyes, the eyes of a predatory animal conjured up by another old bolero – “. . . that's why on beaches/they say there are sirens/with grey eyes/deep as the ocean” – in a situation where, if he remembered it clearly, line by line, note by note, he, the Count, could never have sung it: because he was not and would not be in love with Miguel Forcade's widow, fluttering her eyelashes as she spoke, in apparent disenchantment: “I never imagined Miguel could have done such things. Did he really sell a fake picture?” she asked, fanning herself with her hand, as if the intense heat had caught her by surprise.

Two Tiffany lamps lit the room, making Miriam's grey eyes glint even more. At her side, on the sofa, her inseparable companion Adrian Riverón also listened to the litany of falsehoods listed by the Count, because Miriam insisted he should stay there: Adrian was like a brother to her and she trusted him entirely.

“So you knew nothing of the fake picture either?”

“No, I told you. Nor did I know Miguel wanted to come back to Cuba to get something.”

“This is wonderful: nobody knows anything, but
somebody
must have had a reason to kill Miguel, don't you think?”

She nodded and Adrian Riverón started to speak, after coughing twice to clear his throat.

“If you'll allow me, Lieutenant . . . As I think I said to you this afternoon: why don't you take your investigations elsewhere and let Miriam be? You've already seen what Miguel was capable of, haven't you? She had to bury Miguel today, who was her husband, after all. Don't you think she's already told you as much as she can?”

The Count smiled. Miriam's eternal suitor had ridden
forth, shield aloft, to save his maiden's honour. Another naïve soul?

“No, I don't think she's told me everything she could and I don't believe the half of what she has said . . . But I'd like you to realize I'm not harassing her: I only want her to help me find out who killed the man she buried today, and who was her husband, after all. Does that reassure you?”

“Must I sit here listening to myself being called a liar?” protested Miriam, her eyes and lashes begging her friend to come and rescue her.

Adrian shook his head and coughed, as if accepting the inevitable.

“Look, for her sake, would you like me to tell you some things that might help?”

The Count thought for a moment. He'd have preferred a better focused image of Adrian Riverón in order to anticipate his likely hunting ground but resigned himself to listening to him.

“Of course,” he acquiesced, looked for a cigarette for himself, and offering Adrian another.

“Thanks, but I don't smoke, remember?” he said with an exaggerated gesture of refusal the Count could not fathom: how come he had such a tar and nicotine cough then? Without more ado he lit his cigarette and concentrated on what Adrian Riverón had to say for himself.

“Look, I know – or rather knew – Miguel Forcade, even before he married Miriam, because I had the misfortune to work with him. And I told her once: only once, but I did tell her: he was not a good man. He was an unscrupulous social climber and when he saw the ladder was rocking he stayed in Spain, for a reason I can't explain, though it can't have been an honest one. You've seen a fellow who sold fake paintings
that weren't even his . . . Miguel Forcade left lots of accounts pending in Cuba apart from that one, and that was why he was afraid to go into the street, now he was powerless here. You follow me?”

“I follow you and I'm grateful for your help, because you're telling me I'm right: I must look everywhere, because any of the people he harmed could be the murderer. And if Miriam wanted to, as she said she did yesterday, it would be best for her to help me a bit more now.”

She hadn't taken her eyes off Adrian while he stripped Miguel Forcade in public, exposing what seemed to be his real flesh, and now she looked at the policeman, who saw a new glint in her eye. Was she going to cry again? But she didn't, she only let rip her full fury: “You two are as bad as each other. Feeding on a dead man. All of this disgusts me . . . When can I leave Cuba, Lieutenant?”

The Count transferred his gaze from Miriam's eyes to the floor.

“Give me just two days more.”

“But only two. I've finished here. I want out and I don't think I'll ever tread this soil again . . . Poor Miguel.”

 

 

“One night, some six or seven years ago, Miguel confessed that leaving Cuba was the biggest mistake he ever made. I remember it was the end of December and unbearably cold in Miami, especially for a man who always started to wear an overcoat at the first sign of a north wind. On such a night he'd never have gone out, but the owner of the firm he worked for had organized a party in his new house in Coral Gables, and he'd invited a group of his employees, including
Miguel. It was like a New Year's Eve party the owner gave his closest workers because business had gone so well and, according to Miguel, so we would all die of envy at the sight of the house he'd bought a few months earlier, about which he boasted endlessly.

“You know, dying of envy was a very real possibility: the house was in the most exclusive part of the neighbourhood, in a spot you could only reach along a street where there was a sentry-box and private security guard you had to show the printed, embossed invitation to in order to be let in. Then the side road went through a wood, where there were several houses, including Mr Montiel's, which was one of those mansions that, if you haven't seen one, you can't imagine even in your dreams: according to Miguel the house had cost going on for two million dollars and the decorator had been paid more than a hundred thousand for following the new owner's every whim. When I went inside and saw that wonder, full of mirrors, lights, marble and carpets, I thought it was the best spent money in the whole world, especially if you have several million to spend and can permit yourself the luxury of a life-size Saint Barbara, complete with sword, crown and horse surrounded by baskets of dark red roses and ruddy apples . . . The party was in the patio, by the swimming-pool, and although Miguel downed several whiskies and we sat under an awning, as near as we could to the barbecues where the meat was roasting, he kept shivering and I said to him: ‘You know, we can go if you like,' but he told me no way, we should last at least until midnight, so as not to insult that Cuban magnate who was his boss and who'd made his millions by stamping on whatever heads tried to push in front of him. That was why he smiled at Montiel and congratulated him when the guy came over to ask us
what we thought of his hovel, and, beaming, Miguel told him his house was fabulous and Montiel replied: ‘Well, you know, Miguel, not half as pretty as your wife,' and he burst out laughing and slapped Miguel on the back. Still smiling, Miguel watched as Montiel walked off to joke with other employees and there and then he began to shake more violently and after drinking another glass of whisky he told me: ‘The biggest mistake I ever made was to leave Cuba,' and I thought he meant because he was cold, but later I realized it was envy.

“We lived in a rented house in South West district that would have satisfied the wildest aspirations of anyone here: it was fine for us, we had a patio with a lawn and barbecue, air-conditioning and a Florida-room, a sun-room that looked over a garden with flowers and trees. We both had a car and at the weekends we'd go to Tampa, Naples, Sarasota, St Petersburg or Key West and could afford the luxury of a Friday night dinner in a restaurant on Calle Ocho or in Coconut Grove or Bayside. But all that was only the first step up a slope that could rise much higher to where Mr Montiel had climbed, with his house in Coral Gables worth more than two million. Besides, Miguel knew time was against such an ascent: he was pushing fifty and, as he said, he had yet to meet a person who'd made it through honest toil . . . Consequently, Montiel's house was like the epitome of everything we would never have, unless a miracle occurred. But what most upset Miguel was his employee status: here in Cuba he'd always operated at a high level and could feel the real power his hands wielded. Now, though he had a house and a car and money in the bank, Miguel had no power and that was the most difficult part for a man like him to accept. You understand?