Havana Blue Read Free Page A

The major raised his eyebrows, uttered a laconic “agreed, agreed, yes, this afternoon” and hung up.
    He then anxiously examined the battered end of his Davidoff. He had hurt the cigar; cigars are jealous, he used to say, and the taste would certainly no longer be the same. Smoking and looking younger were his two favourite occupations, and he devoted himself to both like a conscientious craftsman. He would proudly announce he was fifty-eight years old, while his face smiled an unwrinkled smile, and he stroked his fakir’s stomach, wore his belt tight, the grey in his sideburns seemingly a youthful caprice, and spent his free late afternoons between swimming pool and squash court, where he also took his cigars for company. And the Count felt deeply envious: he knew that at sixty – if I ever made it – he’d be disagreeably old and arthritic; hence he envied the major’s exuberance, he didn’t even cough on his cigars and into the bargain knew all the tricks to being a good chief who could switch from the very pleasant to the very demanding just like that. The voice is mirror to the soul, the Count always thought when decoding the shades of tone and gravity with which the major layered his conversations. But he now had a damaged Davidoff on his hands and an account to settle with a subordinate, and he switched to one of his worst varieties of tone of voice.

    â€œI don’t want to discuss what happened this morning, but I won’t stand for it again. Before I met you I didn’t have high blood pressure, and you’re not going to see me off with a heart attack. That’s not why I swim so many lengths and sweat like a pig on the squash court. I’m your superior and you’re a policeman, write that on your bedroom wall so you don’t forget it even when you’re asleep. And the next time I’ll kick your balls in, right? And look at the time, five past ten, what more need I say?”
    The Count looked down. A couple of good jokes came to mind, but he knew this wasn’t the moment. In fact, it never was with the Boss, but even so he chanced his luck too often.
    â€œYou said your son-in-law gave you that Davidoff as a present, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes, a box of twenty-five on New Year’s Eve. But don’t change the subject, I know you only too well,” and he scrutinized yet again his cigar’s smoky demise, as if he understood nothing. “I’ve ruined this fellow . . . Well, I just spoke to the minister for industry. He’s very worried about this business. I felt he was really shaken. He says Rafael Morín held an important post in one of the management divisions in his ministry and that he worked with lots of foreign businessmen, and he wants to avoid any possible scandal.” He paused to suck on his cigar. “This is all we have for the moment,” he added as he pushed the file towards his subordinate.
    The Count picked up the file but didn’t open it. He sensed it could be a replica of Pandora’s dreadful box and preferred not to be the one to release the demons from the past.
    â€œWhy did you decide on me in particular for this case?” he then asked.

    The Boss sucked on his cigar again. He seemed optimistic his cigar would make a surprise recovery: a pale, even healthy ash was forming, and he puffed gently, just enough so each drag didn’t fan the flame or sear the cigar’s sensitive entrails.
    â€œI’m not going to say, as I did some time ago, because you’re the best or because you’re fucking lucky and things always turn right for you. Don’t imagine that for one minute, never again, OK? How’d do you feel if I say I chose you because I just felt like it or because I prefer having you around here and not at your place dreaming of novels you’ll never write or because this is a shit case anyone could solve? Select the option you prefer and put a tick by