Free Havana Fever by Leonardo Padura

satyrs, fauns, wood folk, pure, limpid, frolicking naiads and napeas, enjoying life between Cuban streams and forests despite the island’s perennial heat waves.
    Conde’s emotional exhaustion got the better of Yoyi’s entrepreneurial energies, and they called it a day at three p.m., after counting out two hundred and eighteen saleable books, some of which could fetch juicy prices, nearly all printed in Cuba, Mexico or Spain between the end of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth.
    “Those go back on the shelves,” the Count told Dionisio, pointing to the most valuable volumes. “We’ll take these. Is that all right by you?”
    “I don’t have a problem with any of that. What do we do with the ones you say shouldn’t be sold?” he asked, gazing at the mountain of fantastic books the Count was returning to one corner of the empty shelves.
    “You decide . . . It would make sense to try to sell them to the National Library. They all have a heritage value. The Library doesn’t pay very much, but . . .”
    “But, man, I think . . .” Pigeon couldn’t repress a reaction his partner quickly nipped in the bud.
    “It’s not open to debate, Yoyi,” and he added, for Dionisio’s benefit, “I already told you, you must decide. Most of those books are worth $500, others over a thousand and some several thousand.” He watched the sickly pallor spread over Dionisio’s face and, pre-empting a heart attack, added, “If you like, when we finish today, talk to him,” and he pointed at Yoyi. “But I won’t be part of that deal. My only condition is that, if you’re not going to do a deal with the National Library or a museum, do it with Yoyi. He’ll pay you best. I can assure you of that.”
    Excited by these figures, Dionisio Ferrero coughed, sweated, reflected, trembled, hesitated and looked at Yoyi, who welcomed his look with an angelic, understanding smile.
    “I knew they could be quite valuable, but really never imagined they might fetch those prices. Naturally, if I’d had any inkling, I’d have . . .” Dionisio smiled, happy at the dazzling prospect of a better future. “So how much will you give me for the ones you have separated out?”
    “We’ll have to do our sums,” Pigeon interjected hastily. “Can you leave us alone for a few minutes so we can tot up?”
    “Yes, of course . . . I’ll go and make some coffee. Some cold water as well?”
    When Dionisio went out, the Count looked at his colleague and received the murderous look he anticipated and deserved.
    “I’ll kill you one of these days. I swear I will. How the hell can you be such a bastard? And to cap it all you tell him there are books worth over a thousand dollars . . .”
    “I erred on the conservative side, Yoyi. What do you reckon for the thirteen volumes of La Sagra? And the first editions of Las Casas and the Inca Garcilaso? Got any idea what they’d pay out in Miami for the Picturesque Stroll ? . . .”
    “That’s piss low, man. It’s not as if you live in Miami or there are any buyers around here who’d pay over a thousand dollars for one of those books.”
    “That’s your problem.”
    “Well, it ought to be yours as well. You realize that with two or three of those little books you could buy a year’s supply of whisky and not that gut-rotting local brew you buy from Blakamán and the Vikingo.”
    “If you want to get plastered, anything will do . . . Come on, let’s do our sums . . .”
    It took them half an hour to value the books, and that included drinking two coffees. At the Count’s insistence, they agreed a price they deemed satisfactory for all concerned. While Conde sat back on the sofa, Yoyi Pigeon preferred to stand next to the stained-glass windows, like a boxer waiting in the neutral corner for the count to stop or for the go-ahead to resume the fight. The Ferreros flopped down on their armchairs and Conde noticed their pathetic nervous tics, and reflected that hunger and