The transparency of time.., p.5
The Transparency of Time--A Novel, page 5
The sea had always pulled at him like a magnet: to see the ocean, enjoy its color and scent, its unknowability, gave him a powerful feeling of compassion and peace. A sense of freedom, rather than limits and boundaries. For many years, for too long now, whenever he dreamed—as he did quite frequently—of giving himself over to writing squalid and moving stories like Salinger’s, using words as sharp as knives like Hemingway, the backdrop for the fantasy was always a modest and breezy house facing the sea. Writing in the morning, bathing at the beach in the afternoons, fishing at night, making love to a beautiful woman in the wee hours, breathing in the salt air, intoxicated by the murmur of the ocean. An idyllic and unsurpassable vision. But his personal life and his country’s life, each moving to its own beat (although in painful convergence), had dispelled that fading aspiration, relegating it to that corner of memory where such nagging chimeras pile up—some of them already definitively unrealizable.
Shrouded in that dour mood, Conde walked back up the hill to find his former classmate’s dwelling. Bobby now lived in the heart of one of the city’s most privileged areas and enjoyed the kind of attractive two-story house that was typical of the 1950s. No, fate had not been completely unkind to his old friend. Not with a house like that.
When Bobby opened the door, dressed in shorts and a long shirt that fell like a smock to his thighs, Conde regained his connection to reality and his mission. He immediately noted that the interior of the dwelling was unbalanced: the sparse furniture seemed arranged any which way, not in harmony with the spaces around them, while bright spots were visible on the walls where missing paintings had hung, and light entered unopposed through a window over which the rods of vanished curtains were plainly visible.
Conde took a seat in one of the wrought iron chairs on the open terrace. From his spot he contemplated the tree-lined garden where some very green malanga trees and some delicate ferns of Jurassic proportions reigned over an English lawn that had recently been mowed.
Bobby reappeared with the promised coffee, its aroma already tormenting Conde. When he tasted the brewed delicacy he was immediately certain that the magic beans had to have come from the great beyond: this coffee was from Italy or from Miami, not from one of the Havana stores that sold the infamous brew now dispensed on the island. He savored the beverage and waited for its flavor to settle in his taste buds and his emotional memory before capping off his pleasure by smoking one of his cigarettes, which, fortunately, were still made from good Cuban tobacco. With a drawn-out sigh, his host had sat down facing him and begun to sip his own cup delicately.
“Bobby, you and I have known each other for many years,” Conde opened fire, finally prepared to talk, wanting to clarify their positions. “When we met yesterday, I even felt like we’d been friends, back then, and that I was under some kind of obligation to help you out … But you came looking for me because you needed to hire me to do a job; you didn’t come asking for a favor … So, before we talk about anything else, let’s make it clear that we’re doing business.”
Bobby raised the hand with the coffee cup to cut off the ex-cop’s spiel.
“I know, I know … Yoyi called me and really worked me over … Forgive me, Conde: a hundred a day and two thousand when you find the Madonna. I wasn’t trying to fuck you over … I just can’t help it. You spend time with thieves, you act like a thief. I’m sorry, I’m sorry … Look, I’m going to advance you five hundred dollars today … And if you find it before five days are up, keep the change, okay?”
Conde took a breath. Halfway between relief and shock. Talking about money was always complicated for him. It felt like a sin. But the night before, Yoyi made the situation very clear: Bobby had money, a lot of it even, and Conde was starving to death. Bobby wanted to recover his Virgin and Conde was his best chance. In Yoyi’s words: “good work for good pay.” That was how the global economy worked. Or, anyway, how it was supposed to work.
“Thanks, Bobby … Now, to get started, I need several things. The first is a photo, or several, of Raydel. Do you have any?”
“I have only one on hand … the one in my wallet. He took the rest. The ones I printed out and the ones on the computer … along with the computer and everything else, as you can see.”
“I also need a list of the most important things he took … the paintings that were in the living room, for example. Were they valuable?”
“No, they really weren’t … Almost all of them were engravings … I would sell the valuable ones as soon as I could. I’d already exported a bunch, and then I took everything left that could be sold with me to Miami.”
“Any jewelry or peculiar ornaments?”
Bobby put a hand to his chest and sighed.
“Don’t make me talk about that, I’ll cry … My mother’s engagement ring and … Enough, I’ll make a list for you,” Bobby concluded, in torment.
“Uh-huh … I’d also like the names and numbers of people Raydel could have had any relationship with.”
“As far as I know, he didn’t have any family here … Two or three friends. I know one of them lives around Centro Habana, and I think the other one lives around San Miguel del Padrón, in a neighborhood where lots of people from the eastern part of the island go when they get here. There was another one who lived in El Cerro, or around there … They’re all criminals, like him … They made, or make, a living as con men. I’ll put what I know on the list…”
“Maybe they helped him empty out your house. I don’t think he could have done this on his own.”
“Yes, maybe…”
“I need those details now…” Conde said. Bobby nodded and Conde looked into the yard. The sun made the green of the malangas shine. “Do you have any idea where Raydel could have sold the paintings and the valuable ornaments? Did he know your contacts in the art world?”
Bobby thought for a few moments before replying.
“He knew some … because he lived with me, of course. But I don’t think he’d have gone to see those people, it would have been like a confession … In this business, everyone knows what everyone else has, because that’s how it works. I sell what I have, and if I don’t, I try to sell what the other guy has and charge him a percentage … It’s an unwritten rule. One almost everyone respects because it’s convenient for us all … I asked a couple of people who know everything that moves in this business and they haven’t seen or heard anything … Although, you know what, there’s this one guy, a real rat. He’s capable of buying things from Raydel, and the better dealers wouldn’t necessarily catch wind of it. Sure, he’d buy whatever Raydel wants to sell…”
“Fine. What’s this character’s name?”
“René Águila … a real son of a bitch, a scavenging mulato … I’ll give you his address in a minute.”
“But I assume that among the ‘better’ people you know, Raydel’s a ghost.”
“As if he was swallowed up by the earth.”
“And could he have sold everything to this rat, who’s still sitting on it all, and then taken the money and gotten the hell off the island? If it’s been more than ten days since he ripped you off…”
“I’ve thought of that, but…”
“But what?”
“It wouldn’t have been easy to sell all the things he took. Unless he sold it at a loss … Yeah, you better go see that son of a bitch René Águila…”
“But if what Raydel wanted was to leave with some money … Come on, think about it: he wouldn’t have needed some expert to sell a mattress, a computer, some furniture, your pots and pans. Anyone will buy that stuff if it’s cheap. It’s different with the jewelry and the more valuable stuff, he might have hidden those in order to off-load them when he can. Or maybe he plans on smuggling them out of Cuba to get a better price, like he knows you were often doing…”
“That’s what Eli says—Elizardo, one of my business associates. But Raydel’s like a little animal, he doesn’t use logic. Like all kids these days in this shitty country, all he cares about is showing off his flashy clothes and that huge fake chain around his neck, mixing pills with alcohol and getting high as a kite with his friends to the beat of reggaeton … He makes a living by hustling with that pretty face and that huge cock … Man, I tell you, he’s hung like a horse!” Bobby touched a spot under his left breast and lowered his gaze. “No, I think Raydel is here in Cuba, Conde. I have a feeling.”
Conde was surprised to learn that others also suffered from premonitions, and that they emanated from that same place in the chest as they did for him. But listening to this description of Raydel’s finer traits, he had to chase away the image of Bobby receiving his hired horse’s member per angustum viam.
“That kid really broke my heart.”
Among other things, Conde thought, watching Bobby dry a few tears and shake his head, trying to compose himself. Conde felt bad for him and regretted having started out their meeting that morning so insensitive and businesslike. He remembered the old Bobby so often reviled by his high school classmates; how repressed he’d been, forced to wear a mask. Now, Bobby had sought Conde out as his only hope in recovering a priceless spiritual relic and family heirloom, all without wishing any harm to the villain who had stolen from him and broken his heart. Compassion and solidarity overtook Conde, reducing him from a lofty detective to a mere mortal, just wanting to help his friend in need.
Bobby gave him the list of contacts, which Conde folded and tucked away in his shirt pocket.
“When did you discover that Raydel had cleaned you out?”
“When I returned … I knew something was up because I’d been calling him from Miami, and he wasn’t answering.”
“So, it could have been quite a few more than ten days,” Conde calculated and looked around the bare room again. “And how did you end up living in this house? It’s very pleasant … What about your parents?”
Bobby sighed with that exaggerated affectation that he seemed to like so much.
“My father still lives where he always did. In the Sports Casino, remember?”
“Of course. We used to come over to study physics and chemistry with you … He always insisted on calling you Robertón.”
“And my mother died about ten years ago…”
“I’m sorry.”
“My grandmother Consuelo, my mother’s mother, lived here with her second husband, a Spaniard who’d fled the Spanish Civil War … He was posted here at the beginning of the Revolution—nothing important—although he believed he was quite important. Back then, it was a free-for-all, and in the middle of all that, they gave him this house when the owners left for Miami … I came to live here with my grandmother when I was kicked out of university. After she and her husband died, I inherited the house…”
Conde tried to process all this information.
“And how did that one go, again? You were kicked out of the university for…?” he probed, trailing off.
“You know … it’s another long story … and I don’t like talking about it … It was in ’78, when we were finishing up our third year there … The Process to Deepen Revolutionary Conscience, remember?”
“I remember,” he said encouragingly.
“Anyway, I was accused of being homosexual … and it was true, obviously. I’d slept with a guy…”
“From the university?”
“No, he wasn’t from the university. But they found out … Do you know the worst part?”
“There’s something worse?”
“Well, the worst part is that I’d never even slept with anyone before that. Girl or boy … At twenty-three, I was still a total virgin. Then, a group of us went to a beach house … and it was there that I fell from grace.”
Conde gulped. Sex, a fall from grace. A crime that warrants a punishment. Is that really what they’d come to? He knew the answer, of course, but still, he could not help but be surprised and indignant by the unnecessary suffering caused by prejudice and repression in this so-called land of freedom and socialism.
“Anyway, they already knew everything, so I could not and did not want to defend myself … Losing my v-card to a guy had made me an ideological and social pariah, practically a criminal, an enemy … I was kicked out of the Young Communists and removed from the university … They wanted to fuck up my life. But I resolved not to give them the satisfaction. I vowed to redeem myself … In those days, that’s how I used to think. I lived in a state of constant war, amid camouflage, defenses and offenses, drills … I believed in redemption. Then I left home, ended up here with my grandmother, and still, I was trying to be a man. I mean, ‘a real man’ … In ’81, I was able to go back to the university, to a program specifically for workers. No one asked if I’d been expelled before or anything, so I registered again and finished my degree. That was when I met Estelita, who was so pretty and an absolute angel. We started dating, got married … I swear, Conde, I was happy, even more so once my children were born. I thought I was finally a real man, cured of my weakness … Even though it all went against my nature, against my true self, I knew I couldn’t give up if I wanted to redeem myself. I had to be what I was supposed to be. So, I repressed myself, controlled myself, watched myself, consoled myself by fooling myself. And, like a drug addict who abstains from using, congratulated myself.”
Bobby paused and dried the sweat that had accumulated on his upper lip. Conde waited for him to continue.
“I swear, I’d convinced myself that I’d finally done it,” Bobby said and shook his head, smiling. “Until Israel showed up and I couldn’t go on … Thanks to him, I knew that my feigned happiness was not even close to the real thing. I was just a coward, complacent with his surroundings … But with Israel everything fell into place … Then I really was happy, because I started to be myself all the time, without being on guard. Without fear, Conde … Or with less fear, anyway … My parents were furious, but my grandmother supported me. And Estelita didn’t make a tragedy out of my decision to come out, although you could tell she was sad … Life started to smile down on me, even Yemayá showered me with Her blessings…” Bobby leaned down again to touch the tiles, then kissed his fingertips. “But now, in my old age, I’ve overshot it with that son of a bitch Raydel and here I am, in an empty house, weeping all over the place like an overflowing bathtub.”
Conde swallowed again. He couldn’t possibly have a good response to a speech like that. He felt even pettier now for having begun the day’s conversation by talking about money.
“I’m going to go get your money,” Bobby announced and stood up. He seemed tired. “Do you want me to brew you more coffee?”
“If you’re not going to deduct it from my wages…”
Conde was trying to lighten the mood but Bobby just sighed, seemingly ashamed. Sighing again, he went to the kitchen to fill the moka pot and place it on the burner. From there, he asked, “You know that the day after tomorrow is the feast day of Our Lady of Regla, right?”
Conde thought for a moment. He pictured his faded calendar again.
“Of course, September seventh,” he recalled. When he was a boy, his mother used to go to Mass on September seventh and eighth, to honor the feast days of Our Lady of Regla and of Our Lady of Charity, respectively, two of the most important dates in the Cuban book of saints.
Bobby returned from the kitchen continuing.
“Usually, I invite some friends over to celebrate … I’d buy wine, make food … But with what’s happened…”
Bobby seemed too emotional to finish. He turned and headed upstairs to the second floor, where he must have kept his money. He still keeps money in this house? Conde thought, when he heard what sounded like the doorbell.
From where he was sitting on the terrace, he could see Bobby come down the stairs, nearly at a run, and open the door. Bobby immediately held out his arms to the visitor and kissed him on the cheek.
“Well, look who’s here!” the host exclaimed, making way for the new arrival.
“Stop fucking with me, Bobby, I live the same distance from your house as you live from mine.” His visitor responded in a tone of amicable reproach. “And we just saw each other two days ago.”
“Come in, come in, here’s the friend I told you about on the phone.” Bobby ushered the man to Conde to make the introductions. “Well,” he gestured exaggeratedly, looking from one visitor to the other. “Conde, this is my friend Elizardo Soler … Eli, this is my friend Conde, the one I told you about, who used to be a cop…”
The two men shook hands, though Conde felt that Elizardo Soler held his for a few moments longer than necessary.
“There are some things that one never stops being…” quipped Elizardo.
“That’s true. But not true of everything: Michael Jackson was Black and then he became … white-ish. And as for cops, you’re mistaken. You either are a cop or you’re not,” Conde retorted, not willing to cede.
“I rather think it’s a chronic illness,” Elizardo assured him. “Lifelong…”
“With treatment, it gets better. Much better,” Conde replied, admitting to himself that his opponent had a certain agility for banter.
Bobby asked them to sit down and went back to the kitchen, announcing that the coffee was done brewing. Conde looked at the recently arrived visitor and smiled to alleviate the tension. The other man imitated him.
Conde took that opportunity to confirm: yes, as Elizardo Soler very well knew, he had indeed been a cop once. And that would never change, just as Elizardo Soler had declared—Elizardo Soler, who must have been about fifty years old and exuded an aura of self-assuredness. He knew a lot of gays without feminine mannerisms, but immediately he sensed that Bobby’s friend was just that, a friend. Perhaps there was something else between them, but nothing sexual. Elizardo’s hair was very black and curly, without any gray at all. His casual clothing belied the savviness of someone who knows what to wear and how to wear it, at all times. Quality clothing. He wore brown loafers that piqued Conde’s envy: they practically shouted softness and comfort, sure to make their wearer’s life more pleasant. For shoes likes those, even I’d be willing to steal a Madonna of Regla, he thought to himself.
