Free Havana Blue by Leonardo Padura Page B

maybe I’m being really silly.”
    â€œGet to the point, woman,” he begged and looked back at Maruchi: you’re all the same, his sigh suggested.
    â€œNothing really, kid, the book was open at the letter Z.”
    â€œHey, you’re not going to tell me that Rafael is Zorro and that’s why he’s disappeared?”
    She stayed silent for a moment.
    â€œYou can’t hold back, can you?”
    He smiled and replied: “Sometimes I can . . . Come on then, what’s Z got to offer?”

    â€œJust that there are two names: Zaida and Zoila, each with a number.”
    â€œAnd who might they be?” he asked, clearly interested.
    â€œZaida is Rafael’s secretary. I don’t know about the other one.”
    â€œAre you jealous?”
    â€œWhat do you think? I reckon I’m a little on the old side for reactions of that kind.”
    â€œYou’re never too old . . . Did he usually leave that book there?”
    â€œNo, that’s why I called. He always had it in his case, and his case is in its usual place, by the bookcase at the back.”
    â€œGo on, give me the two numbers,” he said, and his eyes requested Maruchi note them down. “Zaida, 327304, that’s El Vedado. And Zoila 223171, that’s Playa. Uh-huh,” he said, reading Maruchi’s jottings. “So you’ve no idea who this Zoila might be?”
    â€œNo, I really don’t.”
    â€œHow’s the list going?”
    â€œGoing. That’s why I was in the library . . . You know, Mario, I’m more worried now.”
    â€œOK, Tamara, let me investigate these numbers, and I’ll call by. All right?”
    â€œAll right, Mario, I’ll be expecting you.”
    â€œUh-huh. See you.”
    He took the sheet of paper the secretary pointed his way and studied it for a moment. Zaida and Zoila sounded like a melancholy Mexican duo of ranchera singers. He should have asked Tamara about the relationship between Rafael and Zaida but hadn’t dared. He jotted down the names and numbers on his notepad and smiled and asked Maruchi: “Hey, baby, do me a favour and give the people downstairs a call
and tell them to look out the addresses for these numbers.”
    â€œAnything for you,” replied the young woman, bowing to the inevitable.
    â€œI so love willing women. When I get paid I’ll buy you . . . And the chief?”
    â€œGo in, he’s waiting for you, as he usually is . . .” she told him and pressed the black intercom button.
    He tapped the door with his knuckles before going in. Major Antonio Rangel sat behind his desk, officiating at a cigar-lighting ceremony. He was subtly angling the flame from his lighter, turning the cigar, and each movement of his fingers created a tranquil puff of blue smoke that floated before his eyes, embracing him in a compact scented cloud. Smoking was a transcendent part of his life, and people familiar with his fetish for a good Havana never interrupted him in the act of lighting a cigar. Whenever possible, they would give him well known brands as presents on the requisite day: a birthday or wedding anniversary, Father’s Day or New Year’s Day, the birth of a grandson or graduation of a son; and Major Rangel was gathering together a proud collector’s cache from which he could select different brands for particular times of day, buttresses to shore up his state of mind and sizes according to the time at his disposal for a smoke. Only when he’d finished lighting his cigar and contemplated with professional satisfaction the perfect crown glowing at the end of his smoke, would he straighten in his chair and address his latest visitor.
    â€œYou wanted to see me. Didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, I didn’t have much choice in the matter, did I? Take a seat.”

    â€œWhen you’re as stressed as I am and feel you can’t think straight, the best thing is to light a cigar, not