Havana Black Read Free

myself.”
    The Count observed his best and oldest friend, transformed into an amorphous mass, overflowing the sides of his armchair, where he vented his anger like an animal destined for sacrifice. Nothing now remained of the lean figure skinny Carlos once was, because a mean bullet had mangled his destiny, had left him an invalid for ever. But there also, intact and invincible, was all the goodness of a man who increasingly persuaded the Count of the injustices of this world. Why did it have to happen to a guy like Carlos? Why did someone like him have to fight in a dark and distant war and ruin the best of his life? God cannot exist if such things occur, he thought, and the policeman’s
distressed soul felt moved, almost to the point of splitting in two, when Skinny said: “You only had to ring.”
    â€œUh-huh, I should have rung. To tell you I resigned from the police.”
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    â€œJust as well, my son, you had me really worried,” sighed Josefina, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “But look at your face. And that smell. How much rum did you drink? And you’re so thin it’s scary . . .”
    â€œAnd guess what we found out,” interrupted Carlos, his fingers pointing up the Count’s visibly reduced virility, and he laughed again.
    â€œConde, Conde,” interjected Rabbit anxiously, “you who are at least half a writer, please: elucidate a problem of meaning I have, tell me, what is the difference between pity and pithy?”
    The Count looked at his interrogator, who could barely hide his outlandish teeth behind his upper lip. As usual he couldn’t decide whether the grimace hid a smile or just his buckteeth.
    â€œNo idea . . . the aitch, ain’t it?”
    â€œNo, the size,” replied Rabbit, releasing his dentures to laugh long and sonorously, and inviting the others to join in the joke.
    â€œDon’t take any notice of him, Condesito,” said Josefina, coming to the rescue and holding his hands. “Look, as I imagined these three who claim to be your friends would bring you here, and as I also imagined you would be hungry, and because anyone can see you are hungry, I started to think hard, now what can I cook these lads? And, you know, I couldn’t think of anything special. The fact is it’s really difficult to get things . . . And there and then a light went on and I chose the easy option: rice and chicken. What do you reckon?”

    â€œHow many chickens, Jose?” enquired the Count.
    â€œThree and a half.”
    â€œAnd did you add peppers?”
    â€œYes, for decoration. And cooked it in beer.”
    â€œSo three and a half chickens . . . Do you think that’ll do for us?” The Count went on with his questions, as he pushed Skinny’s chair towards the dining room, with a skill acquired from years of practice.
    The final judgement from those round the table was unanimous: the rice could do with green peas, although it tasted good, they added, after ingesting three big plates of rice transfigured by chicken gravy and juices.
    They shut themselves up in Skinny’s room for their after-supper rum and chat, while Josefina dozed in front of the television.
    â€œPut something on the deck, Mario,” insisted Skinny, and the Count smiled.
    â€œThe same as usual?” he asked, purely for rhetorical pleasure, and got a smile and a nod from his friend.
    â€œYou bet . . .”
    â€œNow then, what do you fancy?” asked one.
    â€œThe Beatles?” responded the other.
    â€œChicago?”
    â€œFormula V?”
    â€œLos Pasos?”
    â€œCredence?”
    â€œRight on, Credence,” they both chorused perfectly as in a routine rehearsed a thousand times, over countless, knowing years. “But don’t tell me Tom Foggerty sings like a black. I’ve told you often enough before that he sings like God, haven’t I?” And the two nodded, revealing a deeply rooted