Havana Black Read Free Page A

accord, for they both knew that was right: the bastard sang like God, and started to show it when the Count pressed play and
Foggerty, with the Credence Clearwater Revival, launched into his unique version of “Proud Mary” . . . How often had he lived that scene?
    Sitting on the floor, a tot of rum by his side and a lighted cigarette in the ashtray, the Count yielded to pressure from his friends and told them of the latest developments at Headquarters and his irrevocable decision to leave the force.
    â€œI really couldn’t care less what happens to those sons of a bitches . . . Every day there are more of them. Battalions of sons of bitches . . .” “Regiments . . . armies,” was the opinion of Andrés, who extended the quantitative, logistical power base of invaders, more resistant and fertile than roaches.
    â€œYou’re crazy, Conde,” concluded Carlos.
    â€œAnd if you leave the police, what will you do?” came the question from Rabbit, a viscerally historical individual, always in need of reasons, causes and consequences for the slightest incident.
    â€œThat’s the least of my worries. I want out—”
    â€œHey, wild man,” interrupted Carlos, putting his glass of rum between his legs. “Do whatever you want, whatever, it’ll be fine by me, because that’s what friends are for, you know? But if you’re going, enjoy, don’t hide in a cloud of alcohol. Stand bang in the middle of Headquarters and shout: ‘I’m going because I fucking well want to’, but don’t slip out the back, as if you owed something, because you don’t owe anybody anything, do you?”
    â€œWell, I’m happy for your sake, Conde,” commented Andrés, looking at the hands he devoted three times a week to cutting open abdomens and sickly voice boxes, with a view to repairing what could be and excising and ditching what was worn out and useless. “I’m glad one of us is prepared to call a day on this
load of shit and sit it out and wait for whatever shows up.”
    â€œA hurricane,” whispered the Count, taking another gulp, but his friend carried on, as if he hadn’t heard him.
    â€œBecause you know we are a generation that obeyed orders and that is our sin and our crime. First, our fathers gave us orders, to be good students and citizens. We were ordered around at school, also to make us be good, and then we were ordered to work where they wanted us to work. But nobody ever thought to ask us what we wanted: we were ordered to study in the school they thought best, to pursue the degree it was our duty to get, to work at the job it was our duty to do, and the orders kept coming, nobody ever asked us fucking once in our damned lives if that was what we wanted. Everything was pre-planned, wasn’t it? From playschool to the spot in the cemetery assigned for us, everything decided for us, and they didn’t even ask what disease we wanted to die of. That’s why we are a pile of shit, because we don’t dream, we just exist to carry out our orders . . .”
    â€œHey now, Andrés, don’t exaggerate,” said Skinny Carlos, trying to salvage a crumb of comfort, as he poured himself more rum.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘don’t exaggerate’? Weren’t you ordered to the war in Angola? Wasn’t your life fucked up and you stuck in that shitty chair because you were a good little boy who always said yes? Did you ever dream of saying you wouldn’t go? They told us that historically we had to obey and you didn’t even think to refuse, Carlos, because they always taught us to say yes, yes, yes . . . And as for this fellow – ” he pointed at Rabbit, who had performed the miracle of hiding his teeth and for once seemed really serious at the threat
of the imminent lethal salvo – “apart from playing with history and changing women every six months, what has he done with his