“That’s a lie as well,” said the lieutenant before looking out to the sea. “You can’t even do that, although it’s good to try. But you suffer when it doesn’t work. Thanks for the light.” He waved a hand towards the group and patted Manolo on the back. As they walked away from the coast, the Count thought for a second that he felt cold. Mysteries of the sea and life always left him cold.
He too lived in an old rambling house in La Víbora, with a high roof and large windows behind grilles that started at ground level and disappeared into the higher regions. Through the open door you could see a long, dark, cool passageway, ideal for the middle of the day, that led to a tree-filled yard. The Count had to step inside to reach the door knocker which he rapped a couple of times. He went back to the porch and waited. A girl around ten years old, tense like a ballerina interrupted mid-dance, emerged from the first room to inspect the visitor.
“Is José Luis in?” asked the lieutenant and the girl, without saying a word, turned round and pirouetted back inside. Three minutes passed, and the Count was about to give the knocker another rap, when he saw the fragile figure of José Luis approaching down the corridor. The Count primed a welcoming smile.
“How are you, José Luis? Do you remember me, from the lavatory at Pre-Uni?”
The youth wiped his hand across his naked chest where too many ribs stood out. Perhaps he was hesitating before deciding to admit he remembered.
“Yes, of course. How can I help?”
The Count took out a packet of cigarettes and offered the youth one.
“I need to talk to you. It’s a long time since I had any friends in that place and I think you could probably help me.”
“Help in what way?”
He’s as suspicious as a cat. He’s the kind who knows what he wants or at least what he doesn’t want, thought Conde.
“You’re a lot like my best friend at Pre-Uni. We called him Skinny Carlos, I think he was even skinnier than you are. But he’s not skinny anymore.”
José Luis stepped out and into the porch.
“What is it you want to know?”
“Can we talk here?” asked the Count, pointing to the low wall separating the porch from the garden.
José nodded and the policeman was the first to sit down.
“I’ll be frank and I want you be frank with me as well,” the Count suggested, deliberately not looking at him to avoid any response at this stage. “I’ve spoken to several people about Lissette, your teacher. You and some people spoke very well of her; others said she was on the wild side. I don’t know if you know how she was killed: they strangled her when she was drunk after beating her and having sex with her. Someone also smoked marijuana that night at her place.”
Only then did he look the youth in the eye. The Count felt he’d made an impact.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“What you and your friends thought about Lissette.”
The youth smiled. He threw his half-smoked cigarette in the direction of the garden and returned to his rib count.
“What we thought? Is that what you’re after? Look, pal, I’m seventeen, but I wasn’t born yesterday. You want me to tell you what I think and put myself in the shit? That’s a fool’s game, if you’ll forgive the expression. I’ve got a year and a bit left at Pre-Uni and I want to end on a high, you know? That’s why I repeat that she was a good teacher and that she helped us a lot.”
“You’re pushing your luck, José Luis. Just remember one thing: I’m a policeman and I don’t like people spending all day prevaricating with me. I think I like you, but don’t get the wrong side of me because I can be real hard. Why did you answer me that day in the lavatories?”
The boy swung a leg nervously. Like the Skinny of old.
“Because you asked. And I told you what anyone could have said.”
“Are you afraid?” asked the Count looking him in the eye.
“Common sense. I told you I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t complicate life for me.”
“All of a sudden nobody wants complications. Why don’t you dare?”
“What’s in it for me if I dare?”
The Count shook his head. If he was a cynic, as Candito had said, then what was this kid?
“I really had high hopes you’d help me. Perhaps because you’re like my friend Skinny from when I was at Pre-Uni. Why are you acting like this?”
The youth looked serious and now shook his leg more quickly, stroking himself again around his sternum that divided his chest like a keel.
“Because it’s the only way to act. I’ll tell you something. When I was in sixth grade my school was inspected. A dad had said that our teacher hit us and they were investigating to see if it was true. They wanted someone apart from that dad and his boy to say it was true. Because it was true: that teacher was the worst bastard you can imagine. He belted us for pleasure. He used to walk in between the rows of desks and if he saw you with one foot on the desk in front, for example, he’d kick you in the leg with those boots of his… And, of course, nobody said anything. Everybody was scared. But I did: I said he abused us and kicked us, slapped us round the head, pulled our ears when we didn’t know something and thwacked more than one face with his register. He did it to me. Naturally, the teacher got the boot, justice was done, and another new teacher came. A really nice guy. He didn’t hit or hurt us… At the end of the year two people in the class didn’t pass: the boy who first kicked up a fuss and myself. What do you reckon?”
The Count remembered himself in Pre-Uni: so what would he have done? Would he speak to that unknown policeman he had no reason to trust, beyond the simple notion that he wanted justice to be done? And what if that was how justice was done? He took out his packet of cigarettes again and gave one to skinny José Luis.
“Don’t worry, son. Look, here’s my number, at home, and if anything comes to mind, give me a ring. This is more serious than a slap round the head or an ear-pull. Remember that… Otherwise, I think you’re right to be scared. But the fear’s of your making. I hope you pass without any problems,” he said and held the lit match out to José Luis’s cigarette, but didn’t light his: his mouth tasted unmistakeably of shit.
“Hey, Jose, I need your help.”
As usual, the front door was open to the wind, the light and visitors, and Josefina was spending Saturday afternoon in front of the television screen. Her taste in television – like her son’s in music – covered a range that included every possibility: whatever films they showed, even Soviet war films and martial arts films from Hong Kong; then soaps, soaps galore, whether Brazilian, Mexican, or Cuban, and whatever the theme, romance, slavery, working-class struggle or high society drama. Then, music, the news, adventures and puppets. To clock up more television she even swallowed Nitza Villapol’s cookery programmes, for the pleasure of finding fault when she spotted missing ingredients or pointless extras in some of the expert’s recipes. She was now watching the week’s repeats of Brazilian soap and that’s why the Count dared interrupt her. The woman listened to the cry for help from the Count who’d sat next to her, and concluded: “Just what my father used to say: when a white man looks for a black you bet it’s to fuck him up. So what’s wrong, my love?”
The Count smiled and wondered whether he’d made the right decision.
“I’ve a real problem, Jose…”
“The new girlfriend?”
“Hey, dear, you hit bulls-eye.”
“But you lot shout it to the heavens…”
“Well, she’s says she’s always lived round the corner, at number 75. But I’ve never seen her and Skinny’s never heard of her. Give me a hand. Find out who she is, where she’s from, anything you can.”