Conde had always thought he liked that barrio: the Casino Deportivo had been built in the fifties for a bourgeoisie that couldn’t afford mansions with swimming pools, but was ready to pay for the luxury of a bedroom for each child, a nice entrance and a garage for the car they would surely have. The passage of time and the dispersal of most of the original inhabitants hadn’t overly changed the area’s appearance. Because it’s a development and not a barrio, the Count corrected himself, as the car proceeded along Seventh Avenue while he looked for the intersection with Acosta, noting how quietly darkness fell there, without abrupt changes or strong winds, as if the contingencies and disruptions visited on the city were banned in that pasteurized reserve almost wholly inhabited by the new leaders of the new epoch. Houses were still painted and gardens tidy while Ladas, Moskovichs and newly acquired Polish Fiats, with their protectively tinted glass, filled the car porches. Few people walked the streets, and those who did walked with the peace of mind that absence of danger brings: there are no thieves, and the young women are all beautiful, almost vestal, like their houses and gardens; nobody owns mongrels and the drains don’t spew shit and other offensive waste. It was here that Conde had been to some of the best parties of his time at Pre-Uni: there was always a combo, the Gnomes, the Kents, the Highlights and they always danced rock and roll, never ballroom or anything Latin, and the parties didn’t end in bottle fights, as in his down-st-hell, trouble-making barrio. Yes, this was a place to live the good life, he told himself, when he saw the two-storey house – which was also beautiful, freshly painted with a well-trimmed little garden – where Caridad Delgado lived.
Lissette’s mother’s hair was blonde, almost strawberry, although traces of colour endured close to the skulclass="underline" a dark brown she perhaps considered too vulgar. The Count wanted to touch it: he’d read that, when Marilyn Monroe died, after so many years of relentless bleaching to create the perfect, immortal blonde, her hair was a sheaf of sun-dried straw. Nevertheless, Caridad Delgado’s still had a bright resistant sheen. Unlike her face: despite the advice she showered on other women, and followed fanatically herself, she couldn’t hide the fact she was fifty; the skin on her cheeks had begun to furrow around her eyes and the folds shelving down the nape of her neck formed an unsightly bundle of flab. But she must have been beautiful once, although she was much smaller than she seemed on television. To prove to the world and herself that she retained some of her old glory and that “beauty and happiness are possible” she wore no bra under a jersey – through which her plump nipples poked threateningly, as big as baby’s dummies.
Manolo and the Count entered the living room and, as usual, the lieutenant began his inventory of goods.
“Please sit down for a moment, I’ll get you your coffee, it must have percolated by now.”
A sound system with two gleaming speakers and a gyrating tower to store cassettes and CDs; a colour television and Sony video-player; fan-lamps on each ceiling; two drawings signed by Servando Cabrera where you saw two torsos and rumps in combat (in one, triumphant penetration proceeded honourably face to face, while in the other it was reached per angostam viam); the wicker furniture, rustic chic, wasn’t the common stock that came to the shops from distant Vietnam. The tout ensemble was most pleasant: ferns hanging from the ceiling, different styles of tile and a mini-bar on wheels – where a pained and envious Count spotted a bottle of Johnny Walker (Black Label) that was full to the hilt and a litre flagon of Flor de Caña (vintage) that seemed so huge as to be overflowing. Living like that anyone can be beautiful and even happy, he muttered, as Caridad came back into view with a tray and three rattling cups.
“I shouldn’t drink coffee, I’m really stressed, but it’s a vice I can’t resist.”
She gave the men their cups and sat down in one of the wicker armchairs. She tasted her coffee, with an aplomb that included raising her little finger to show off a shiny platinum ring mounted with black coral. She took several sips and whispered: “The trouble is I had to write my Sunday article today. Regular columns are like that, they enslave one so; one has to write, whether one wants to or not.”
“Absolutely,” replied the Count.
“All right, how can I help,” she countered, putting her cup down.
Manolo also leaned forward, put his cup back on the tray and stayed anchored to the edge of his chair, as if intending to get up at any moment.
“How long had Lissette been living by herself?” he started, and although Conde couldn’t see his face from where he sat, he knew his eyes, staring into Caridad’s, were starting to come together, as if pulled behind his nasal septum by a hidden magnet. It was the strangest case of intermittent squint-eyes Conde had ever encountered.
“From the moment she graduated from Pre-Uni. She always was very independent, I mean, she studied with a grant for years, and the flat was empty after her father married and moved to Miramar. Then, when she started university, she decided she wanted to go off to Santos Suárez.”
“Was she worried about living by herself?”
“I just told you…”
“Sergeant.”
“… that she was very independent, sergeant, knew how to look after herself, and do I really have to go into all that now?”
“No, I’m sorry. Did she have a boyfriend?”
Caridad Delgado paused for a moment’s thought and at the same time made herself more comfortable opposite Manolo.
“I think she did, but I can’t tell you anything for sure on that front. She led her own independent life… I’m not sure, not long ago, she mentioned an older man.”
“An older man?”
“I think that’s what she said.”
“But didn’t she have a boyfriend who rode a motorbike?”
“Yes, that was Pupy. But they broke up sometime ago. Lissette told me she’d rowed with him but never explained why. She never explained anything much to me. She’d always been like that.”
“What else do you know about Pupy?”
“I’m not sure. I think he prefers bikes to women. You know what I mean. He kept on his bike the whole damned day long.”
“Where does he live? What does he do?”
“He lives in the building next to the Los Angeles cinema. The Settlers Bank building. I don’t know which floor,” she said, thinking before she continued. “I don’t think he had a proper job. He lived on repairing bikes and that kind of thing.”
“What kind of relationship did you two enjoy?”
Caridad looked imploringly at Conde. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sat back to listen. So sorry, my dear.
“Well, sergeant, not very close, you might say.” She paused to contemplate the copper-coloured freckles dotting her hands. She knew she was on treacherous terrain and had to watch her every step. “I’ve always shouldered a lot of responsibilities at work as did my husband, and Lissette’s father was hardly ever home even when we lived together and she was a student on a scholarship… I mean, we were never a very united family, although I always kept an eye on her, I bought her things, I brought her presents when I travelled, tried to please her. Relating to one’s children is a very taxing business.”
“Rather like one’s weekly magazine column,” interjected Conde. “Did Lissette talk to you about her problems?”