“Beautiful furniture,” conceded the Count.
“I made them, almost fifty years ago. And I keep them like this,” he said, really proudly. “The secret is to clean the dust off with water and alcohol, and not to use the solutions they sell these days to bring out the shine.”
“It’s good to make things like this, isn’t it? That are beautiful and lasting.”
“What?” the old man whimpered, who’d forgotten to re-orientate his hearing aids.
“They are very beautiful,” said the Count raising his voice several decibels.
“And they’re not the best I made, by a long way. Do you remember the Gómez Menas, the millionaires? I made them a library and dining room of genuine African ebony. That was what you called wood: hard, but elegant to fashion. God knows where that landed up when they all left.”
“Someone’s got them, don’t you worry.”
“No, I don’t worry. For hell’s sake, at my age I’m immunized against practically everything and rarely worry. Pissing properly is my biggest concern in life, can you credit that?”
The Count smiled and, seeing an ashtray on the coffee table, ventured to take out a cigarette.
“You’re a Canary islander, aren’t you?”
The old man’s smile bared teeth ravaged by history.
“From La Palma, the Pretty Isle. Why do you ask?”
“My Granddad was from there and you’re like him.”
“Then we’re almost fellow countrymen. Come on, what can I do for you?”
“Look, the day it happened upstairs,” said the Count, who thought it inappropriate to mention the word death here, where it seemed nigh, “there was a party or something similar. Music and booze. Did you see anyone go upstairs?”
“No, I just heard the din.”
“Was anyone here with you?”
“My wife, who’s just gone out on a few errands, but the poor dear is deafer than me and heard nothing… When she removes her gadget… And my children don’t live here anymore. They’ve lived in Madrid for the past twenty years.”
“But you’ve seen some of the people who visit Lissette, haven’t you?”
“Yes, a few. But there were lots, you know? Particularly young lads. Not very many women, you know?” “Lads in school uniform?”
The Old Man smiled, as did the Count, because he saw in his half smile the cheekiness his Granddad Rufino adopted when talking to women who told him they were divorced. That kind of smile had the Count believing for many a year that divorcées were whores.
“Yes, a goodly number.”
“And could you identify any if you had to?”
The old man hesitated. And finally shook his head.
“I don’t think so: when you’re twenty everybody looks alike… And the same goes at eighty. But let me tell you something, my compatriot, something I decided not to tell the others, but as I like you…” He paused to swallow and held out a hand of strong fingers whose joints were like badly tied knots. “That girl was a bad piece of work, and that’s from me, a man who’s seen two wars in his lifetime. It’s not surprising she had this bother. Once they were jumping up and down in one of their parties as if they’d gone mad, and I thought the ceiling would crash down on us. I don’t like interfering in other’s people’s lives, ask around, if you like… because I won’t let anyone interfere in mine. But that day I had no choice but to go up and tell them to stop jumping so much. And do you know what she said: she said I should be ashamed to protest… that I should clear off with my lousy children, because I was the father of lousy kids who’d left the island and more besides, and that she’d do what she wanted in her house. Obviously she was drunk, and she could say that because she was a woman, because if a man had said that to me I’d have been the one who’d have killed her… OK, I’ve done it, now, right? And if I’m going to be in pain when I’m pissing, prison or Central Park, it’s all the same. She was bad, my compatriot, and people like that can make any man flip. That’s all I have to… Look, I’m a shitty old man who can hardly even speak and even the food I eat hurts me, and I’m living on borrowed time. But I’m glad it happened to her, and say as much quite without remorse and without expecting God’s forgiveness, because I’ve known that dickhead’s not existed for quite some time. What do you reckon?”
“Conde, Conde, Conde,” Manolo jumped up and down as happy as a birthday boy, when the lieutenant came out of the building. “I think we’ve got it,” he said, pointing at his closed fist.
“What happened, then?” asked Conde trying not to seem too enthused. In truth, the conversation with the old carpenter had depressed him: it must be terrible to live thinking about the pain from your next pee. But he liked the mixture of love and hate still bubbling up in that lunatic on the edge of the grave.
“Look, Conde, if what I found on the Pre-Uni lists checks out, then we’re all done here.”
“But what did you find, pal?”
“Listen to this. I made a list one by one of the names of Lissette’s pupils, beginning with this year’s lot, and then went on to the previous lot, who are now in their last year. I came across José Luis, who got ninety-seven in chemistry, and ninety-two in everything else. I reckon he’s a top student, don’t you? You know, I was getting fed up of listing names and marks and it left me cold until I reached the last name on the last list from last year. You do know that the lists are alphabetical, don’t you?”
The Count wiped his hand over his face. Do I hang or behead him? he pondered.
“Get to the point, guy.”
“Hell, Conde, keep your hair on, the best about all this is the suspense. It was just what I found. You write down name after name and finally, when there’s only one pupil left, you get to the name that can get us to the bottom of this pile of shit.”
“Lázaro San Juan Valdés.”
The sergeant’s surprise was spectacular: he raised his arms as if a dog had bitten him, dropping all the papers, like a crestfallen child.
“Hell, Conde, you knew all along?”
“A little bird whispered in my ear when I left Pre-Uni,” smiled the Count, showing him the sheet of paper that bore three names: Lázaro San Juan Valdés, Luis Gustavo Rodríguez and Yuri Samper Oliva. “Yes, San Juan, as in Orlando San Juan, alias Lando the Russian. Hey, Manolo, how many San Juans are there in Havana?”
“Fuck his mother’s cunt, Conde, it’s got to be him,” replied Manolo, as he ran after the list of names the wind was blowing away.
“Off we go to headquarters, then. And put your foot down if you want, because you’ve got leave today,” he said, although he had to withdraw his authorization six blocks on.
“Hey, Conde, I’m really hungry.”
“And do I live on air?”
“Don’t force me to go upstairs now,” begged Manolo when they walked into headquarters.
“Go on then, get something to eat and tell them to keep something back for me even if it’s only bread. I’m going up.”
Sergeant Manuel Palacios went down the passage to the canteen, as his chief pressed the lift button. The figures, on the board, showed it was on its way down but Conde kept his finger on the button until the doors opened and then pressed for the fourth floor. In the corridor he decided to make a pit stop in the lavatory. He’d not urinated since he’d got up, almost six hours ago, and he anxiously watched a spurt of dark, fetid pee hit the bowl and raise reddish foam. My kidneys are fucked, he thought, as he hurriedly shook himself. That must be why I’m losing weight, and he remembered the old carpenter and his wee worries.
He returned to the corridor and pushed on the door to the Drugs Department. The main room was empty and the Count was afraid Captain Cicerón was out on the street, but he rapped the glass in his office door.