“And did you really believe all that time that the painting was genuine?”
The man breathed sonorously, expelling all the hot air accumulated in his lungs.
“What do you think? That I was going to say I had a real Matisse when I knew it was fake?”
“The will of men, like the hurricane’s, is unfathomable… Who can say…? Because one would like to know whether you have a Swiss bank account, engorged by a real Matisse…”
“But don’t you understand that son of a bitch deceived me like an idiot? I can’t believe it even now…”
“Nor can I. Because even now I still believe the real Matisse existed or exists, and the painting was the reason why Miguel Forcade dared to return to Cuba. And I also think they could have killed and castrated him for that real Matisse, which is worth five million and not the three and a half you estimated, or am I wrong?”
“I don’t know what you are getting at.”
“That perhaps you both hid the real work twenty-eight years ago…”
“Don’t be naïve…”
The Count smiled but pointed an index finger at his man: “If there’s anyone naïve here, it’s you. And that may be your sole salvation: that you could have been such a fucking fool you thought you’d bought a Matisse worth a million for little more than five hundred pesos and the assignment of a house in Vedado, though at the end of day, the house wasn’t yours either, was it, and could be given to Miguel or to Jacinto, if Jacinto could repay in kind… But if you’re not naïve and an idiot whom Miguel Forcade fooled over all these years, you may be a criminal on various charges, including perhaps homicide. Which label do you prefer, naïve or idiot…? I highly recommend one or the other, because all other paths now point to prison.”
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 Rangeclass="underline" “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:
More than a thousand years, many more, will pass,
I don’t know if love enjoys eternity
But here or there your mouth will carry
A taste of me…
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.