Free Havana Black by Leonardo Padura

should I personally feel ashamed, a retired old man who likes to look at that painting? From what I gather, Lieutenant, you don’t know this neighbourhood very well; there are houses just as comfortable as mine, with other equally beautiful paintings and heaps of beautiful African wood and ivory sculptures, acquired by more or less similar means, where Nicaraguan furniture is all the rage, where they call their
servants ‘comrade’ and breed exotic dogs that enjoy a better diet than sixty per cent of the world’s population and eighty-five per cent of the nation’s . . . No, of course I’m not ashamed. Because life is as the old conga ditty says: if you hit the jackpot, go for it . . . And too bad for the fellow who doesn’t, but that fellow got well and truly fucked, didn’t he?”
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    Night cloaked the city in two minutes, but the dark sky was still empty, completely indifferent to the flurry of clouds on its predestined path towards the island. His mouth lined by the sour aftertaste left by interviews with characters of that ilk, the Count asked Manolo to drive back to Headquarters so he could fulfil one of the agreements he made: to give the first of his daily reports to Colonel Molina.
    â€œWhat are you going to say, Conde?”
    â€œThat I’m beginning to be grateful to him for giving me this case. Because I’m sure I’ll break one of these bastards’ legs.”
    â€œI hope it’s this fellow’s. Calling me naïve . . .”
    â€œBut he really got under your skin.”
    Manolo forced a smile and asked his boss for a cigarette. He sustained his habit of smoking a little without ever making prior investments.
    â€œAnd do you think he’s connected to Forcade’s death?”
    â€œI don’t know, I’m not convinced. What do you think?”
    â€œI’d rather not say as yet, because if Forcade did come to reclaim the painting or anything else of value he might have given Gómez de la Peña, this guy would be capable of anything, wouldn’t he? But what we really need to find out is who the relative was Forcade
had to see in order to resolve important business. I mean, if it’s true what de la Peña says and that relative exists . . .”
    Mario Conde lit his own cigarette as the sergeant turned into the parking lot at Headquarters.
    â€œPerhaps Miriam knows . . .” he said.
    Manolo’s violent braking spoke for itself. “Conde, Conde, you want to burn in that fire?”
    â€œWhat fire are you on about, Manolo? I need to speak to her, right now . . .”
    â€œI know you only too well,” he muttered, parking the car in its space. “You couldn’t keep your eyes off that blonde.”
    â€œWell, she was worth some attention, wasn’t she?”
    Mario Conde wasn’t surprised by the news that Colonel Molina had left at five p.m. The new boss was too much of a novice to know there were no fixed hours and that Major Rangel would be at Headquarters every day, including Sundays and the First of May. But perhaps if they’d have given him the chance, he might have been a good spy . . .
    Back in his cubicle, the Count wrote his report, in which he told the Colonel he’d started the investigation, that he’d called in at Headquarters at half past six and that he’d try to carry out another interview that night. He took a breath, picked up the telephone and dialled the number of Miguel Forcade’s old house.
    â€œIs that you, Miriam?”
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    To go up or go down: that had always been the question. Because going down and up, going up and down the Rampa was the Count and his friends’ first experience beyond their barrio. Catching the bus in the barrio and going on the long journey to Vedado, with
the single purpose of going up and down, or down and up that luminous slope that was born – or died – in the sea, signalled the end of childhood