Havana Fever (8 page)

Conde’s emotional exhaustion got the better of Yoyi’s entrepreneurial energies, and they called it a day at three p.m., after counting out two hundred and eighteen saleable books, some of which could fetch juicy prices, nearly all printed in Cuba, Mexico or Spain between the end of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth.

“Those go back on the shelves,” the Count told Dionisio, pointing to the most valuable volumes. “We’ll take these. Is that all right by you?”

“I don’t have a problem with any of that. What do we do with the ones you say shouldn’t be sold?” he asked, gazing at the mountain of fantastic books the Count was returning to one corner of the empty shelves.

“You decide . . . It would make sense to try to sell them to the National Library. They all have a heritage value. The Library doesn’t pay very much, but . . .”

“But, man, I think . . .” Pigeon couldn’t repress a reaction his partner quickly nipped in the bud.

“It’s not open to debate, Yoyi,” and he added, for Dionisio’s benefit, “I already told you, you must decide. Most of those books are worth $500, others over a thousand and some several thousand.” He watched the sickly pallor spread over Dionisio’s face and, pre-empting a heart attack, added, “If you like, when we finish today, talk to him,” and he pointed at Yoyi. “But I won’t be part of that deal. My only condition is that, if you’re not going to do a deal with the National Library or a museum, do it with Yoyi. He’ll pay you best. I can assure you of that.”

Excited by these figures, Dionisio Ferrero coughed, sweated, reflected, trembled, hesitated and looked at Yoyi, who welcomed his look with an angelic, understanding smile.

“I knew they could be quite valuable, but really never imagined they might fetch those prices. Naturally, if I’d had any inkling, I’d have . . .” Dionisio smiled, happy at the dazzling prospect of a better future. “So how much will you give me for the ones you have separated out?”

“We’ll have to do our sums,” Pigeon interjected hastily. “Can you leave us alone for a few minutes so we can tot up?”

“Yes, of course . . . I’ll go and make some coffee. Some cold water as well?”

When Dionisio went out, the Count looked at his colleague and received the murderous look he anticipated and deserved.

“I’ll kill you one of these days. I swear I will. How the hell can you be such a bastard? And to cap it all you tell him there are books worth over a thousand dollars . . .”

“I erred on the conservative side, Yoyi. What do you reckon for the thirteen volumes of La Sagra? And the first editions of Las Casas and the Inca Garcilaso? Got any idea what they’d pay out in Miami for the
Picturesque Stroll
?
.
. .”

“That’s piss low, man. It’s not as if you live in Miami or there are any buyers around here who’d pay over a thousand dollars for one of those books.”

“That’s your problem.”

“Well, it ought to be yours as well. You realize that with two or three of those little books you could buy a year’s supply of whisky and not that gut-rotting local brew you buy from Blakamán and the Vikingo.”

“If you want to get plastered, anything will do . . . Come on, let’s do our sums . . .”

It took them half an hour to value the books, and that included drinking two coffees. At the Count’s insistence, they agreed a price they deemed satisfactory for all concerned. While Conde sat back on the sofa, Yoyi Pigeon preferred to stand next to the stained-glass windows, like a boxer waiting in the neutral corner for the count to stop or for the go-ahead to resume the fight. The Ferreros flopped down on their armchairs and Conde noticed their pathetic nervous tics, and reflected that hunger and principles, poverty and dignity, scarcity and pride are difficult pairings to reconcile.

“Let’s see then,” he said. “Today we picked out two hundred and eighteen books . . . Some will sell for a very good price, but we’ll have to work hard to get a good price for others. We’re looking at twelve, fifteen dollars, although it won’t be easy, and others might make two or three . . . If we go by the thirty percent rule, my colleague and I have decided to offer you a flat price: three dollars a book.”

Amalia and Dionisio glanced at each other. Were they hoping for more? Had they got too fond of the good life? Yoyi Pigeon sensed they were suspicious and, armed with a calculator, walked over.

“Let’s see then . . . 218 books, at three dollars apiece . . . makes 654 greenbacks . . . Six, five five, rounded up. At twenty-six pesos to the dollar . . .” he paused theatrically, knowing full well it would clear away any doubts, and underscoring the point, he pretended he too was surprised. “Hell! Seventeen thousand pesos! I can tell you, no buyer will give you that much, because selling books has got difficult recently . . . What’s more: what you’ve got in there will sort your problems for the rest of your lives . . .”

Conde knew the undernourished legs, stomachs and brains of Amalia and Dionisio Ferrero must be quaking at the sound of such figures, as his own had quaked that afternoon when he’d imagined himself as the happy owner of ten or twelve thousand pesos, which would pay his bills for half a year if properly eked out . . . They’d only been through a seventh or eighth of the library, too, and his hunch still throbbed, telling him that something extraordinary, something beyond his grasp would happen in that room. Would this deal really leave him a rich man, thanks to the discovery of incunabula whose magnetic pull – in monetary terms – not even he and his moral sense could resist?

“How do you want your money, in pesos or dollars?” Pigeon tried to wrap the deal up. As ever, brother and sister consulted each other visually and the Count spotted a poison in those glances that hadn’t previously shown itself: the poison of ambition.

“Four dollars a book,” spat Dionisio, recovering the verbal power of command he must have deployed in his glory days as a military leader on the battlefield.

Yoyi smiled and looked at the Count, as if to say: “You see? they’re bastards, not poor wretches. Who are you kidding . . .”

“Half in Cuban pesos and half in dollars,” added Dionisio, fully in control of the situation. “It’s a fair offer and no arguments . . .”

“OK,” said Yoyi, not daring to contradict him, but showing he was none too happy. “That makes twenty-two thousand six hundred and seventy pesos. I’ll pay you ten thousand now and the remainder and the dollars tomorrow.”

And he held out a hand to the Count who put in it the wad of three thousand he’d given him the previous day and added the money he’d taken from the bumbag hanging under his stomach. He separated out the two bundles and gave them to Dionisio, tapping the notes against his open hand.

“5,000 per wad. Please count them. I still owe you 1,300 pesos and 436 dollars,” he spelt out to the ex-soldier, whose cockiness had evaporated on sight of the banknotes.

While Dionisio concentrated on counting the money, Amalia didn’t know where to point her watery gaze: it kept sliding over the money her brother was sorting into piles of hundreds and then thousands, on the table in the centre of the room. She couldn’t stop herself, lifted a finger to her mouth and began biting the skin around the nail that was shredded beyond the edge of the finger, as a shadow of painful, cannibalistic satisfaction flitted across her face.

“By the way, Amalia,” the Count had been resisting putting the question but decided to take advantage of her moment of ecstasy, “Have you ever heard of Violeta del Río?”

The Count thought Amalia’s expression of bewilderment and incomprehension genuine enough as she reluctantly abandoned her ragged fingernail.

“I don’t think so . . . Why?”

“What about you, Dionisio?”

Dionisio barely looked up from the money, but did interrupt his counting.

“Never heard of her,” he said, then resumed his tallying.

The Count briefly told them about the cutting he’d found, and then spoke to Amalia.

“Perhaps your mother might remember her?”

“I told you she’s lost it . . .”

“But old people sometimes remember things from the past. Might I at least ask her?”

“No . . . It would make no sense,” Amalia responded as if it upset her to admit as much, and added: “Excuse me, I must go to the bathroom.”

She walked off between the marble columns and Dionisio, his mind closed to everything but counting notes, concentrated even harder on his task.

“Why does that woman interest you so much, Conde?” enquired Yoyi, smiling ironically.

“I haven’t a clue . . .” the Count lied, unable to admit what he’d found out that morning, and added, “Which bookseller knows the most about old records?”

“Pancho Carmona. You remember, he used to sell records.”

“I need too see him today.”

“You know,” Pigeon shook his head, “you’re madder than an old coot, I swear, man.”

“All present and correct,” Dionisio piped up.

“We can take all the books, can’t we?” Conde asked, assuming his honest looks might have waned over the last twenty-four hours.

“Yes,” replied Dionisio, after hesitating for a moment. “That’s not a problem.”

“Let’s get on with it then. I’ll get some boxes. My car’s outside,” announced Yoyi as he left.

Amalia emerged from the inner recesses of the house and sat next to her happy brother.

“So . . .” began Dionisio. “You’ll bring the rest of the money, won’t you?”

“Of course,” the Count reassured him. “Don’t worry. We’ve got to select more books . . . By the way, Dionisio, and do excuse my nosiness: why did you leave that corporation you worked for after you were demobbed from the army?”

Surprised by the question, Dionisio looked at the Count and then at his sister, who’d tipped the bookseller to that particular story.

“Because I saw things I didn’t like. I’m a decent chap. A revolutionary too, and don’t you forget it.”

The early morning and late evenings were the most fruitful hours for the sellers of old books who’d set up shop in the plaza de Armas, in the shade of weeping figs, the statue of the Father of the Fatherland, and austere palaces that were once the seat of a colonial power that believed the island was one of the most precious jewels in its imperial crown. The tourist hordes, either eager or bored by their compulsory immersion in a bath of pre-packed history, usually began or ended their itineraries in the old city in the vicinity of what was once its central square. Although the booksellers always welcomed them as potential, if overly wary customers, experience had shown they could get them to pocket the odd book only with great difficulty and after much persuasive spiel, and then it was usually one that was generally of little historical or bibliographical value. That throng of civil servants, small businessmen, hard-saving pensioners, old militants shorn of their militancy, but determined to see with their own eyes this last outpost of the most real socialism, together with a motley band of night-owls, talked into Cuba, the low cost paradise, by scheming travel agents, and who tended to be addicted to other more primitive passions, that were sensual, climatic, even ideological but never book-loving.

In fact, the sample of books on display in the historic square represented only the more sightly leftovers from the real banquet. Valuable volumes, the ones that would unerringly find their way to auctions where they’d wear a three or four digit ticket, were banned from sale to the public and were never part of these modest offerings. Such delicacies were generally set aside for more or less well-established buyers: a few diplomatic bibliophiles; foreign correspondents and businessmen based in Cuba, with enough dollars to buy paper jewels; a small number of Cubans who’d got rich legally, semi-legally or entirely illegally, intent on investing in safe bets; and a few book lovers who were frequent visitors to the islands and had established preferences in matters of literature, cigars and women. However, the real recipients of the invisible bibliographical rarities were various professional dealers in valuable books, particularly Spaniards, Mexicans and a few Miami and New York based Cubans, who supplied auctions or owners of bookshops that were advertised on the internet. In the early nineties these specialists had detected the rich Havana vein, exposed in the harshest years of the Crisis, and came ready to purchase whatever their desperate Cuban colleagues might generously offer. Then, when they’d made their connections and plumbed the mine’s depths, they changed tactics and brought on each trip a list of exotic goodies already flagged by customers seeking a specific title by a well-known author, and in a particular edition. This underground trade was by far the most productive and most dangerous, and now the Cuban authorities had rumbled that some booksellers had conspired with library employees to take Cuban and universal treasures, bibliographical holdings, including manuscripts that could never be recovered, out of the country. It was almost impossible to eradicate this constant drain because on occasions the provider was a librarian on two hundred and fifty pesos a month who found it difficult to resist an offer of two hundred dollars – representing twenty months of his salary – for extracting a magazine or tome requested by a determined buyer. Such piracy on the sly had forced Cuban libraries to lock their most precious books in remote vaults, but nobody could put a stop to the leak from a tap beyond repair, thanks to which some found a temporary solution to material deprivation.

Pancho Carmona enjoyed a reputation as the provider of the bibliographical jewels most in demand. His business card pompously introduced him as a specialist in rare and valuable books, although his commercial tentacles reached into adjacent areas, including the plastic arts, furniture, Tiffany jewellery and the most eclectic of antiques. Three times a week Pancho provided a range of legal delights in the plaza de Armas, and on the other three days, in the reception room of his own home, on calle Amargura, he’d organize a kind of bookshop only open to trustworthy or highly recommended customers. One month he’d invite them to sit on Louis XVI furniture, another on Second Empire armchairs and the next on comfortable Liberty sofas, always in the shadow of classic Cuban painting or drawing, lit by restored art nouveau lamps and surrounded by Murano or Bohemian glassware, keen to voyage to foreign parts. All his trade colleagues knew that neither place exhibited his most sought-after books, although nobody knew for sure where Carmona, a man whose best contacts came straight to him, as soon they arrived from Madrid, Barcelona, Rome, Miami and New York, kept his secret hoard.