Kick his guts out, hit him hard, gouge his eyes, he’d ordered Manolo after explaining who Salvador K. was and allotting him the first interview with the painter. And when he saw him, the Count’s expectations were replete with prejudice: the guy was just over forty and weighed some two hundred pounds, had two enormous feet – could he be a size nine? – and flexed a weighttrainer’s arms, just right for tightening a silk sash to strangle a man while ensuring he didn’t fight back.
Seated in the living room to the flat, the policemen rejected his assiduous offers of water, tea and even coffee, keeping to the plan they had agreed. No, not even water.
Salvador K. seemed nervous and was trying to ingratiate himself.
“It’s an investigation, I suppose?”
“No, on the contrary,” said Manuel Palacios, sitting on the edge of his armchair. The Count liked his skeletal friend’s hostile manner. “It’s something much more serious and you know it. Shall we speak here or should we go elsewhere?”
The painter smiled in trepidation. He’s shitting himself, the Count’s experience told him.
“But what about…?”
“Then we’ll talk here. What was your relationship with Alexis Arayan?”
As he didn’t like him, the Count was pleased to see Salvador K.’s last hopes fade and the smile abandon his lips.
“I know him,” he said, trying to fake a degree of offended dignity, “from the Centre for Cultural Heritage. Why?”
“Two reasons. First, because Alexis Arayan was murdered yesterday. Second, because we’ve heard you two were very close.”
The painter tried to stand up, but desisted. It was obvious he had no plan of attack, or perhaps they had really taken him by surprise.
“Was murdered?”
“Last night, in the Havana Woods. Strangled.”
The painter looked into his house, as if fearing some unexpected presence. The Count stood up while Salvador stared and formulated a question, but decided to wait.
“You really want to talk here?” persisted Manolo.
“Yes, of course, why not?… So he was murdered. But where do I come in?”
Manuel Palacios smirked.
“Well, Salvador, this is very delicate, but some people claim your friendship was a touch more than friendship.”
Then he did get up, very offended, his muscular arms tensed.
“What are you implying?”
“What you just heard. Do I need to spell it out? People are saying you and he sustained a homosexual relationship.”
Still on his feet, the painter tried to look disaster in the face: “I will not allow you…”
“That’s fine, don’t allow us, but go into the street and shout it out publicly and see what people say.”
Salvador appeared to contemplate the possibity and reject it. His muscles began to lose momentum and he sank into the lower reaches of his chair.
“They’re jealous. Gossips, slanderers, envious…”
“Of course, you’re right… But the fact is Alexis was killed dressed as a woman,” said Manuel Palacios and, not giving Salvador time, he manoeuvred round a bend in the conversation: “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Yesterday morning at the Centre. I took some paintings to sell. Was he really dressed as a woman?”
“What did you talk about? Try to remember.”
“About the paintings. He wasn’t too keen on them. He was like that, meddling in other people’s business. I expect that’s why someone murdered him.”
“And what can you tell me about the relationship you had with him?”
“That’s pure slander. Just try to get someone to come and say to my face that he saw me…”
“That would be more difficult, you’re right. So you deny it?”
“Of course I do,” he said, and seemed to gain in confidence.
“What’s your blood group, Salvador?”
His confidence evaporated again. The Count looked daggers at Sergeant Palacios. He’d never have asked him that question at that point, but the one buzzing round his head. Manuel Palacios was definitely better.
“I really don’t know,” he said, and he did really seem not to.
“Don’t worry. We can find out in the Policlinic. Which one do you go to?”
“On the corner of Seventeenth and J.”
“And you didn’t see him last night?”
“I told you I didn’t. But what’s my blood group got to do with it?”
“And where were you last night between eight and midnight?”
“Painting in the studio I’ve got on Twenty-First and Eighteenth. Hey, I don’t know anything…”
“Oh… And who saw you there?”
Salvador looked at the floor, as if searching a point of support that continually eluded him. His fear and embarrassment were as prominent as his muscles.
“I don’t know, who might have seen me? I don’t know, I work alone there, but I arrived at around six and worked until around midnight.”
“And nobody saw you. What bad luck!”
“It’s a garage,” he tried to explain. “It’s outside the building and if nobody’s parking nearby…”
“Twenty-First and Eighteenth are very near the Havana Woods, right?”
The man didn’t reply.
“Hey, Salvador,” the Count then intervened. He thought it a good time to move the direction of the dialogue on a little… “What does the K mean?”
“Oh, my surname is Kindelan, that’s why I sign K.”
“Predictable. Something else I’ve been wanting to ask you for some time. I only see reproductions of famous paintings, but no works by you. Don’t you think that strange?”
The painter smiled, at last. He seemed back on firm ground and breathed loudly.
“Have you never heard the anecdote about the friends of Picasso who go to his place to eat and don’t see a single work by him? And one of them asks, intrigued: ‘Maestro, why don’t you have any of your work here?’ And Picasso replies: ‘I can’t afford the luxury. Picassos are too expensive…’ ”
The Count faked a smile, to accompany Salvador’s.
“I get you, I get you, and the other day, did he mention the day of the Transfiguration to you?”
The painter looked down, making it clear he was making an effort to remember. The Count saw that he was deciding what would be the best reply.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t ring a bell. But I do remember he had a Bible on his desk yesterday… And so what?”
“Nothing, police curiosity pure and simple… By the way, Salvador, why do you think Alexis dressed up as a woman last night?”
“How should I know… I told you, it’s just gossip…”
“Of course, there’s no reason why you should know. Well, that’s enough for today,” the Count added, as if tired, and his sergeant was the man most surprised by this denouement. The Count sighed exhaustedly as he stood up, and looked the painter in the eye. “But we’ll be back, Salvador, and get this into your head: try to be straight, for I can see you’ve got a few numbers that might win you the jackpot. Good evening.”
As the painter voiced his final protests, they went into the street and got into their car. Sergeant Manuel Palacios turned the first corner tightly.