Havana Red (13 page)

That last sentence from the Marquess made the policeman feel an urgent need for a dose of nicotine. He touched his packet of cigarettes and observed yet again how clean the place was, and decided to fight off the anxiety of abstinence: he wanted to visit the depths of that open wound Alberto Marqués had decided to expose to him. Could it all have happened in the same country where they both lived?

“How did you find out?”

The Marquess smiled and sighed again, exhausted.

“First, from the two who overcame their own fears and stood out against the penultimate vote. Then, within a few months, one after another, the twenty-four who'd stayed till the end . . . Even ten years after, I heard it all again from one of the people on stage who asked me to forgive him for what he'd done. But I didn't, because he'd been so vile, I couldn't . . . Of course, I've just learned that the one who made the closing speech is now the guy most in favour of
perestroika
and a proponent of the social necessity of
glasnost
. What do you make of that change of mask?”

The Count looked him in the eye and again felt he was in the theatre, among the accused, full of fear and guilt, and wondered if he'd have voted against the Marquess. And he told himself that now it was very easy to think he wouldn't have and stand on his dignity. But on that day of all days?

“If you believed in God, you could forgive, couldn't you?”

“That's probably why I don't want to believe, Mr Policeman.”

The Count sensed that he couldn't resist his need to light up a second more. It annoyed him to do so in a place so clean and tidy, and the last occupant would certainly have been upset, but he couldn't resist and decided to use his own hand as an ashtray.

“But even you say things changed later, that they invited you to go and work back in the theatre, didn't you?”

The Marquess tidied the three awkward wisps on his skull. He wasn't smiling now.

“Yes, it's true, but the first thing to happen was that several people who'd been expelled from groups
decided to mount a legal challenge against what they'd suffered and, so strange and just is justice in my country, they won their case in the High Court Chamber for Constitutional Guarantees and were restored to their groups, paid a wage, but it was a long time before they worked again, because obviously a director must be able to choose freely whom he wants to work with, you must agree? I didn't pursue that line, I didn't want a trial, then, later or now. Because it wasn't a legal problem: it was a judgement of history, and I didn't accept the pay-off either. I preferred to be a librarian than enjoy a stipend that could buy my right to take decisions. So, when asked to go back, I refused, because they couldn't force me. Something which couldn't be mended had been broken. If I went back, it would be for reasons of vanity or revenge, rather than from the need to make statements, which always muddies the waters of art. Ten years are a lot of years and I got used to the silence, almost learned to enjoy it, with people whispering about me, and pointing at me from afar. Besides, nobody could guarantee that what happened in '71 might not happen again, you know? . . . I wouldn't have had the strength to suffer a second sentence after returning to the stage and the limelight.”

Mario Conde thought he'd listened to an otiose declaration. He'd have preferred to preserve the image of pride and courage Miki had created or the one of provocative, amoral petulance that emerged from the bulky reports he'd been given two days earlier on a man who had to be condemned for being a rebel. He even preferred the sense of hostile, sarcastic irony he'd taken from his first meeting with the Alberto Marqués now confessing to his real motive: fear.

“And wouldn't it be better to forget all this?”

The old dramatist smiled and looked up at the ceiling, as if he expected something to fall on him from heaven.

“You know, it's very easy to say that, because memory loss is one of this country's psychological qualities. It's a self-defence mechanism employed by many people . . . Everybody forgets everything and they always say you can start afresh, this very minute: the past has been exorcized. If memory doesn't exist, there's no blame, and if there's no blame, no need to forgive, you see the logic? And I understand, of course I understand, because this island's historical mission is always to be starting afresh, to make a new beginning every thirty or forty years, and oblivion is usually the ointment for all the wounds which are still open . . . And it isn't that I must forgive or want to blame anyone: no, the fact is I don't want to forget. I don't want to. Time passes, people pass on, histories change, and I think too many things, both good and bad, have been forgotten. But my things are mine and no way do I want to forget them. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” the Count replied and went into the yard to ditch the cigarette butt and the ash accumulated on his hand. He also wanted to quit that shadowy detour in the conversation and return to his hunch. “Do you know where Alexis put his Bible?”

The Marquess looked at him with a bored shrug, as if the policeman's persistence seemed sick, if not lunatic.

“No. Did you take a good look at his bookshelves?”

“It's not there, that's why I asked.”

“Well, search me if you like,” he suggested, and raised his arms and brought the Count to the edge of the abyss: his dressing gown almost reached knee level while the buttons were struggling to come undone . . .

“No, no need for that. I think it's time for me to
go. I've still got work to do,” the Count responded hurriedly, and, seeing the Marquess still in the position of a prisoner waiting to be frisked, he couldn't restrain his laughter. “But I'd like to talk to you again.”

“Whenever, my prince,” the Marquess replied, and only then did he lower his arms.

“One last question, and forgive me if I'm being indiscreet . . . What were your feelings towards Alexis Arayán?”

The Marquess looked towards the empty room.

“Pity. Yes. He was too fragile to live in this cruel world. I also loved him.”

“And why do you think he dressed in Electra Garrigó's costume?”

The Marquess seemed to ponder a moment, and the Count hoped to hear something that might clear up that whole business at a single stroke.

“Because it was a very pretty dress, and Alexis was queer. Do you need any other reason?”

“But he wasn't a transvestite . . .”

The Marquess smiled, as if he'd given up.

“Ay, you've understood nothing.”

“That's my lot recently: I never understand anything.”

“Look, don't think I'm interfering, because I know who I can interfere with . . . But as I see the subject interests you so . . . Why not accompany me to a party tonight where you might see some transvestites and other most fascinating people? . . .”

 

High on nostalgia, the Count surveyed the unchanging landscape spread before him from his office window: crests of trees, a church belfry, the top floors of several
tower-blocks, and the eternal, challenging promise of the sea, always in the background, always beyond reach, like the damned presence of water everywhere which the Marquess's poet friend talked about so much. He appreciated the bucolic, solicitous landscape framed by the window, now diffused with the flat, harsh August light, because it allowed him to think and, above all, remember, and wasn't he just one hell of a rememberer. And he recalled how much he'd wanted to devote himself to literature and be a real writer, in the ever more distant days of school and the first years of his unfinished university degree. He felt that Alberto Marqués, possessed by certain Mephistophelian powers, had stirred that occasional ambition, which he used to think he'd definitively left behind but which, at the slightest provocation, returned to obsess him like a recurring virus he'd never really been cured of. Mario Conde felt that that premature pang, which had stung him, perhaps only worked as a wily move on the part of his consciousness to unload in someone else's port a guilt that was only his: he'd never seriously applied himself, perhaps because the only real truth was that he was unable to write anything (that was both squalid and moving). He'd always thought he'd wanted to write stories about ordinary people, without grand passions or terrific adventures, small lives that pass through the world without leaving a single trace on the earth's face but who carry on their backs the fantastic burden of living from day to day. When he thought of his literary preferences, and read Salinger, Hemingway's stories, a few nineteenth-century novels, and books by Sartre and Camus, he still thought yes, it was possible, it might be possible. Was it an exhibitionist urge? he wondered, when he didn't know whether he should regret an
impulse to sincerity that had made him confess to the dramatist his eternally deferred artistic instincts, so inappropriate in someone professionally dedicated to repression and not creation, to sordid truths, not sublime fantasies . . . Smiles and sniggers, the only response he got from the Marquess, who'd carried on sniffing the non-existent scent from a bougainvillea, now riled him like a poor joke. Nevertheless, the stories that man kept teasing him with went beyond the limits of any prejudice, and he could no longer see him simply as that shitty queer he'd gone to meet barely twenty-four hours earlier. I'll be fucked, he told himself, as he heard the door opening to allow the awaited figure of Sergeant Manuel Palacios to become a tangible reality.

“Why did you take so long, man?”

Sergeant Palacios flopped down in his chair and the Count was afraid it would come apart. Who the hell ever accepted him in the force? It must have been the same lunatic who recruited me.

“Let me get my breath. The lift's broken down again.”

The Count glanced back at his landscape with sea, and bid farewell, until they next met.

“Well, what happened?”

“Nothing, Conde, I had to wait for Alexis's boss. And I think I was right to because the waters are muddying.”

Sergeant Palacios took a deep breath before he spoke.

“Alexis was no longer with Salvador K. His boss at the Centre, one Alejandro Fleites, who also looks like one great queer, says Alexis and Salvador had cooled off recently and that he twice saw Alexis with a mulatto who works at the Film Institute, a guy called Rigofredo López. You can imagine the kind of hulk . . . And he says someone told him, you know what they're like,
that Rigofredo and Salvador K. had a row in Alexis's office. Fleites's conclusion: jealousy. Then I went to the Film Institute and discovered Rigofredo's been in Venezuela for the last ten days . . . What do you make of this can of worms?”

The Count sat back in his chair and only then asked:

“So what did he tell you about Alexis?”

“Little that's new . . . That he was a hard worker, that he got on with painters very well, that he was very cultured and that he couldn't imagine him dressed in red in the Havana Woods. Also that he was very shy and screwed up . . .”

“What about the Bible?”

“The Bible? Hell, yes, the Bible . . .” He paused for a long time as if his thoughts were elsewhere and then said, “Here it is,” and searched in the briefcase he'd put on the floor.

“Give it me, give it me,” demanded the Count, looking for the Gospels on the contents page.

St Matthew started on page 971 and, according to Father Mendoza, the Transfiguration episode was in chapter 17. He skimmed the tops of the pages till he reached chapter 16 and then 19, in a fatal leap which caught him by surprise like a cry for help. He then looked among the pages and discovered what was missing: the sheet with pages 989 and 990, where chapters 17 and 18 of Matthew ought to be.

“I knew it, for fuck's sake, Alexis was thinking about the Transfiguration . . . Look at this, the page where it happens isn't there. Let me see if it's missing in the others.”

The Count slowly embarked on his quest for the verses in Mark and Luke, discovering that both had all their pages, and he found the story of the Transfiguration in Mark, chapter 9: “And his raiment became
shining, exceeding white as snow; so as no fuller on earth can white them.” And also in Luke 9: “And as he prayed, the fashion of his countenance was altered, and his raiment was white and glistering.”

“Where was the Bible, Manolo?”

“In Alexis's desk. In the unlocked bottom drawer.”

“And people knew it was there?”

“Well, his boss says he didn't know . . . You didn't tell me . . .”

“Not to worry. The problem is someone tore out the missing page. And look at this: he did it very carefully, you don't notice the tear, do you? It was probably Alexis himself . . . Can you imagine what this means?”

“That there was something written there.”

“Something that annoyed or endangered someone, and that someone tore the page out. Or, if not, it meant something special for this boy and that's why he decided to take it out himself. And if that was the case, it clarifies a lot for us, Manolo: the bastard was mad and transfigured himself in order to enter his own Calvary. I'll bet my buttocks on it.”

“Hey, I'd bet something else if I were you. I think certain influences aren't good for you . . . But remember Salvador knew the Bible was there.”

“You think it was him?”

“I don't know, but I'd bring him in and tighten his ‘K' into a ‘Q' .”

“I'm not so sure, Manolo . . . If it was him, why would he mention the Bible? No, I don't think Salvador is so stupid as to appear guilty of something so serious and be that guilty person into the bargain. What do you reckon? . . . Now I've got to talk to the Boss. Wait here.”