Free Havana Red by Leonardo Padura Page A

world, though it was grey, could never be the way Miki – never again to be called Baby Face – coloured it. Then the Count sensed that the whole business was softening him, that he was getting softer by the day, and also that Alberto Marqués’s queerness was beginning to worry him less and a furtive rebel solidarity was beginning to draw him to the dramatist, and he even began to regret any evidence
that might implicate him in the assassination and take him, all his queerness, frustration and dignity, not to mention that ugly face, to a prison where his buttocks would become a flowerpot, and the service plied by buggers, though not surprising, would be free, that was for sure . . . At last he had reached the sea.
    Â 
    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.
    â€œIt’s an investigation, I suppose?”
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œBut what about . . .?”
    â€œThen we’ll talk here. What was your relationship with Alexis Arayán?”
    As he didn’t like him, the Count was pleased to see
Salvador K.’s last hopes fade and the smile abandon his lips.
    â€œI know him,” he said, trying to fake a degree of offended dignity, “from the Centre for Cultural Heritage. Why?”
    â€œTwo reasons. First, because Alexis Arayán 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.
    â€œWas murdered?”
    â€œLast 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.
    â€œYou really want to talk here?” persisted Manolo.
    â€œYes, of course, why not? . . . So he was murdered. But where do I come in?”
    Manuel Palacios smirked.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œWhat are you implying?”
    â€œWhat 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 . . .”
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œThey’re jealous. Gossips, slanderers, envious . . .”
    â€œOf 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