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Authors: Leonardo Padura

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BOOK: Havana Red
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While he waited, José Antonio Morales's eyes followed the extravagant flight of that pigeon. He observed how the bird
soared dizzily, then tucked in its wings and performed strange pirouettes, as if discovering for the first time the vertiginous sensation of plunging into the void. It soared again, then disappeared behind the building, to return to the patch of sky visible from the corner of the yard where José Antonio awaited the accounts inspector. He thought how in his twenty-eight years as a bus driver he'd never seen pigeons while waiting for the results of the day's takings and he felt more strongly than ever he would kill that woman.
José Antonio had till that day behaved like a balanced, responsible person, who'd never thought of killing anyone, at least coldly, with premeditation. Sometimes when he was driving his bus and suffered careless knocks from other drivers, he'd felt so under attack he even imagined he was carrying a sawn-off shotgun, seen in some Sicilian film, and that from his bus window he'd executed the dastardly violator of his rights on the road. But even those summary judgements of imagination had become less frequent over the years, as José Antonio got used to tolerating insouciant drivers whose existence now seemed as commonplace as ants in the sugar or roses on a rose bush. Or could it be he was growing old?
That was why he was surprised by this sudden command from his consciousness: he would kill that woman, and nothing in the world would stop him. The imperative appeared so clear-cut José Antonio feared it was all a snare set by love at first sight. It couldn't be anything else, he told himself, as he signed the card for his daily takings and calculated he'd collected 47 pesos 35 cents, which meant 947 people had passed by the bus cashbox, not counting the firm's employees who'd shown their pass and the inevitable bastards who always performed acts of magic to avoid paying or put in tokens rather than coins. In round figures: a thousand people, and only the face of that woman, someone in her early thirties, pleasant enough, a little on the thin side perhaps, dressed carefully though inelegantly, wearing next to no make-up, had
imprinted itself on his memory and, into the bargain, with an order that again seemed irrevocable: namely, to kill her.
 
When he got home, José Antonio rehearsed a routine which complemented his routine on the bus: he went down the side passage, towards the terrace, left his seat cushion on a chair and washed his hands, soaping himself up to his elbows, as meticulously as a surgeon. He thought it the only way to get rid of the dangerous dirt from the buses, where everybody gets on, the sick and infirm, the dirty and healthy, the infected and the newly born smelling of eau-de-cologne. He picked up his cushion, whistled as he went through the back door, and met his wife, as always at this time of day, between laundry sink and kitchen. He kissed her on the cheek, was kissed by her, asked whether Tonito had come back from school and greeted the smell of fried onion and garlic, while she asked him how it had gone and he said all right. They ate, talked about the usual – the money that was never enough, the bad state of public transport, the unrelenting heat, the possibility she might go back to work in the factory – then he slept his two hours of siesta. He got up, put on his rubber sandals, drank the coffee his wife had just prepared and sat on the terrace to read the newspaper, and thought about that damned woman once again and tried to forget he would definitely kill her.
 
The following morning the woman didn't appear. José Antonio Morales remembered he'd picked her up on his third round (left garage: 8.16 a.m.) at the stop on San Leonardo and 10 de Octubre (8.29 a.m.). However, he wasn't relieved or too worried by her absence, for he knew he wouldn't forget her and was determined to kill her. The woman didn't show for another six days, until Tuesday – the same day he'd seen her the week before – she appeared, inelegant, without make-up,
carrying a folder brimming with books and papers which José Antonio hadn't seen on their previous encounter, and she threw her coin in the box, didn't even glance at the driver who'd decided he was going to kill her. He looked at her, as he looked at all his passengers, shut the door and drove off, entering the huge, rather dirty thoroughfare of 10 de Octubre, previously dubbed Jesús del Monte.
That night, as he was watching the television news, José Antonio told himself that the idea he'd met her before, which was why he wanted to kill her, made no sense. In fact, until last Tuesday he'd never seen her, and perhaps he'd have lived his whole life without seeing her if, three weeks earlier, in the last settlement of routes for the second half of the year, he hadn't taken the unexpected decision – for him, his wife, and the rest of the bus drivers – to change his route 4 for route 68, which began two minutes before his usual shift, and finished three minutes later, at 1.27 p.m. The decision was as spontaneous as it was irrevocable, and José Antonio then sought out explanations: he would earn thirty-two cents a day more, perhaps he was bored by the roads on route 4, the people who travelled on the 68 were slightly different, the minutes spent crossing the Apollo building estate were very pleasant . . . Perhaps on the day of decisions it had been very hot in the meeting-room and he'd felt very uncomfortable with his dirty hands. Or could it be he was growing old? Yes, he was now forty-seven and when he'd begun as a bus driver, just out of military service, he'd been barely nineteen, and all that time he'd been driving on route 4: ever since, every day five drives round Havana for eleven months in succession, driving through the same streets, at the same times, with the same stops and even picking up the same people who came to be his friends over the months and years, and he went to weddings, hospitalizations, some birthday parties and even several burials of his usual passengers, and he'd never thought of killing any of them. Nothing had interfered with the predictable
routine and much less with what was logical for such a period: at twenty-one he'd got married, had a son whom he'd given his name, his own mother died peacefully, in her sleep, just after her sixty-second birthday, and they never called on him to fight in Angola, despite the fact that one day in 1975 he'd been summoned and, because of his military aptitudes, been told he belonged to the artillery reserve for unit 2154 and been asked if he was ready to fight as an internationalist soldier wherever the Revolution sent him, and he'd said he was. That night José Antonio slept peacefully, after making love with his wife, in the position they always adopted: she mounted him, put his penis in and her vagina rode the length of his member, José Antonio's spine, mistreated by years of driving, resting flat on the mattress. The remainder of the week he also slept peacefully, although on Monday night he thought he felt a certain anxiety over the encounter he expected to have the following morning. But he shut his eyes and in four minutes fell, like the extravagant pigeon, into a dizzy sleep.
 
When you work for twenty-eight years as a bus driver you master, almost unthinkingly, all the tricks necessary to survive in the job: the lies you can tell the inspector when he catches you running several minutes ahead of time; the way to respond to irritable passengers, knowing when you can take the offensive or when you need to apologize or even pretend you didn't hear the insult, how to ask for a coffee at some point on the route without having to join the queue: or begin a relationship with someone, according to your own sex, age and interests.
José Antonio saw her under the sign for the stop, carrying her folder, next to three other passengers. He stopped the bus ten yards before reaching the group and forced them to walk towards him. She was the last to get in and, when she went to put her money in, no doubt annoyed by him braking before the
stop, he said: “I think we're going to have to change buses.” If he'd said something concrete like: “The brakes are in a bad state,” or, “There was a pothole,” or something like that, the conversation would have taken off, if she'd been a very talkative person. But the riddle he'd set was unassailable. She stopped next to him, supported herself on a vertical bar and asked: “Why?” As he explained that the front right wheel brakes weren't working properly, he asked her for her folder so he could place it on the bus rack and finally discovered she was an English teacher in an elementary secondary school in Luyanó and that day she started her classes on the second shift at 8.55, and the bus left her there at 8. 42, giving her just enough time to arrive and get to her classroom, and if he switched buses . . .
The rest of September and the whole of October, she got on his bus on a Tuesday; he asked her for her folder, and they chatted thirteen minutes, which enabled him to find out she was Isabel María Fajardo, thirty-three years old, divorced, childless, and had been a teacher for some time, and considered herself a boring individual. What's more, she gave him her address, and the third Tuesday in October invited him to drop by some day for a coffee. I'm always there after six, she said.
 
Although he'd thought of going to a psychiatrist, José Antonio discarded the idea straight away: he wasn't in the least mad, and his decision to kill Isabel María wasn't even a sentence he'd personally adopted, but a mandate he'd received. The only problem was that he thought himself a complete atheist, with no expectations of a life beyond. What most worried him, nevertheless, was grasping why it had to be Isabel María and nobody else. Really, if it was necessary to kill someone, he could perhaps choose someone better, a person he hated or disliked, or someone infirm who'd even be
grateful for his act of mercy or, better still, someone harmful to society whom society would be overjoyed to see executed by a voluntary, anonymous avenger. He knew several undesirables of that kind. So why her? After seven Tuesdays and approximately ninety-one minutes of conversation that woman hadn't managed to arouse any special feeling in him: hatred, love, desire, repulsion, anything to justify the need (the mandate?) to kill her. Like him, she was one of those millions of anodyne beings peopling the earth, who lived in the country, right now, spent their days honourably, without excessive euphoria or ill-feeling, not in major dispute with society or the times, without well-defined political ideas or ambitious individual projects. She worked, ate, slept, suffered slightly from loneliness but wasn't visibly tormented and, as she'd already confessed, loved spending hours listening to classical or popular music. Why? Perhaps that was it, he thought: because she represented nothing . . . But did he know that before meeting her?
What was even stranger, he told himself when he thought how he must kill her, is that he was in no hurry to do so, nor did he have a clear plan, and he was almost on the point of persuading himself it wouldn't be a murder premeditated or with malice aforethought, but a fatal accident while he drove his bus. But then he realized that wasn't right: he would kill her, with his own hands, some day, perhaps soon.
 
José Antonio was a good reader of the newspaper: every day he'd read for more than an hour, and dwell on each piece of news or comment, so he wouldn't forget: so many things happened in the world every day, his memory recall barely lasted twenty-four hours before it gave way to fresh news and events. That Thursday afternoon he read a very interesting item on Aids and the scant immediate hopes of finding an antidote, despite the efforts of thousands of scientists throughout
the world. He thought: if God existed, this would be a divine punishment. But if he doesn't exist, why do such things happen in the world? He wasn't usually so thoughtful, and concluded that wherever the plague came from, it was a punishment against love. He liked the idea so much that, while taking a shower, he mentioned it to his wife and later told her, “I'm going to take a spin Aunt Angelina's way,” knowing full well he was going to drink the coffee Isabel María had offered him on the last two Tuesdays.
He knocked on the door and waited, thinking about how he felt: I'm not nervous, not anxious, I don't know whether I shall kill her today, he'd just told himself when she opened up. She was still thin, unmade-up, yet more dressed up than usual; her hair was damp, just washed, and she didn't seem too surprised to be inviting him in. She wore a dressing gown that was quite modest, and melancholy music was coming from some part of the house, the kind José Antonio could never have identified, and she'd later inform him: “It's Mozart's Requiem.” They went to the kitchen, because he said he'd come to drink the coffee she'd promised. She prepared the coffee pot, and they sat at the table. It was a clean, well-lit place, where José Antonio felt at ease, as if he'd been there before. As he savoured his coffee, he knew that he didn't know what would happen in the minutes to follow. Would he try to make love to her? Would he leave when he'd drunk his coffee? Would he even tell her he was going to kill her? Then he looked her in the eye: Isabel María also looked at him, an adult woman's look, ready for anything, and he heard her say: “Did you come so you could go to bed with me?” And he said: “Yes.”
Isabel María was naked under the dressing gown and, when they dropped on the bed, she climbed on top of him, put his penis in, and her vagina started to ride the length of his member, as if she knew that position allowed José Antonio's spine, mistreated by years of driving, to rest flat on the mattress. It was a good session, well synchronized, satisfying for both.
Then she said: “From the first time I saw you, two weeks before we started talking, I knew we would make love. I don't know where the idea came from, or why. But I knew you were going to talk to me and that one day you'd come here for a coffee . . . It was all very strange because when I looked at you I didn't see too much I liked and besides, I thought I was still in love with Fabián, the headmaster. But it was like a very strong presentiment, like an imperative, a mandate, what do I know,” she said, and kissed him on the lips, the nipples, his paunchy belly and purple-headed member. “And now you're here. What most worried me,” she continued, “was why it had to be you . . .” “I experienced something similar,” he confessed, and felt the need to drink more coffee. “I'll go get some more coffee,” he said.
BOOK: Havana Red
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