Havana Red by Leonardo Padura Page A

it was near the school where he was enrolled. And the fact is he knew who I was and obviously admired me. The poor kid, he didn’t dare speak to me, because he’d heard so many things about me . . . but you’ll be familiar with all that, I guess? Until one day he dared, and confessed he’d read two of my works and that he’d been present at a rehearsal of Electra Garrigó , and it had been the deepest emotional experience of his life . . . The poor child adored me,
and no artist can resist the adoration of a young apprentice. So, we became friends.”
    â€œJust one last question for now,” said the Count, looking at his watch. That last story seemed the most extraordinary of all he’d heard and read, and he tried to imagine what a man so acclaimed and loved by the critics could have felt in the anonymous silence of a municipal library, where his expectations were reduced to the theft of the odd desirable book. No, it wasn’t so easy. “Did Alexis have problems with anyone?”
    Alberto Marqués didn’t smile or blink this time. He merely shifted the very long fingers which he’d draped over the end of the chair arm.
    â€œI’m not sure if he had what people call problems. He was a sensitive soul, to put it one way. He craved peace and affection and at home they treated him like a leper, were ashamed of him, and that turned him into someone obsessed, who saw ghosts on every street corner. Besides, he knew he’d never become an artist, which had been his lifelong dream, but he courageously recognized his lack of talent, something not everyone’s capable of doing, right?”
    The Count thought: right. And wondered: could that be a dart aimed at me? No, no way, he doesn’t know me and I am really talented. A real fucking talent.
    â€œThe people at the Centre for Cultural Heritage loved him, especially the artists, because he always defended them against the filthy sniffing bureaucrats leeching on talent. And I think he really enjoyed a fairly stable relationship with a painter, one Salvador K., whom I don’t know personally. Will that do for now? Do you want to go to the bathroom again?” And now he did manage a smile.
    The Count stood up: he’d met an awesome verbal adversary, he thought, and stretched out a hand to
receive the emaciated, poorly articulated bones of the famous Alberto Marqués. It was a frog’s hand.
    â€œI don’t want to go to the bathroom, but I’m not done. Besides, you owe me the end of the transvestite story.”
    â€œTrue, my prince,” said the Marquess, unable to restrain himself, and added: “Forgive me, but I’ve got a real thing about titles of nobility, you know? Well whenever you fancy, Sir Policeman Count, but wait a minute: to force you to come back I’m going to lend you the book Muscles wrote on transvestites. It’s dedicated to me, you know? . . . You’ll see what madness human beings are capable of.” And he smiled, rising up to a string of uncontrollable grunts and blinks.
    The Count looked at the book’s front cover: a butterfly was emerging from a chrysalis with a grotesquely divided human face: a woman’s eyes and a man’s mouth, female hair and male chin. It was entitled The Face and the Mask ; and was quite uncryptically dedicated to “The last active member of the Cuban nobility”. He felt an urge to return home and start reading this book, which might perhaps supply a few keys to what had happened or, at least, teach him something about the dark world of homosexuality. In his mystic dissertation the Marquess had mentioned three possible attitudes among the changelings: metamorphosis as a way to overcome the model, camouflage as a form of disappearance, and disguise as a means of intimidation. Which could have pushed Alexis Arayán into dressing up like Electra Garrigó the very night of the day of the Transfiguration? He was