Read Havana Fever for Free Online Page A

who’s crazy about Jehova and all that jazz . . . Fuck, they’re like a bunch of men from Mars, I swear. I look at them and wonder what the fuck they stuffed in their heads to make them like that . . .”
    Conde took a swig and lit up. He took one of the books and started sandpapering gently along the top edge, to remove any traces of damp or specks of dust.
    “They made us believe we were all equal and that the world would be a better place. That it was already better . . .”
    “They fooled you, I swear. Everywhere you go some people are less equal than others and the world is going to the dogs. Right here, if you don’t have any green’uns you’re out of the running, and there are people getting rich, and not exactly on the straight and narrow . . .”
    Conde nodded, his eyes wandering dreamily in between the trees in the yard.
    “It was nice while it lasted.”
    “That’s why you’re all so fucked now: too long spent dreaming. What the hell was the point of it all?”
    Conde smiled, put the sandpapered book to one side and selected another. He recalled that Yoyi was an avid reader of the sports pages of the dailies, which always went on about winners and losers, the only valid division, he reckoned, for the Earth’s inhabitants.
    “So you think we wasted our time and there’s no way out?”
    “You wasted your time and half your lives, but there is a way out, Conde: the one you take on behalf of yourself, the people around you, your family and friends. And this isn’t pure selfishness: with this business of mine, not stepping out of my house, sleeping at midday with air-conditioning, and stealing from no one, I earn more money than if I worked for a whole month as an engineer, getting up at six and struggling onto the bus (if the damned bus actually came), eating the slops on offer in the works canteen and putting up with a boss set on clearing up at the expense of everyone else, hoping he’ll get a job that will take him abroad . . . and to score points he makes everyone’s life a misery harping on about coming top of the league, voluntary work and production targets. The name of the game is clear enough, man.”
    “You may be right,” allowed the Count, who was perfectly aware of the reality sketched by Pigeon, and blew along the top of the book, signalling he’d cleaned it up.
    “The thing is you were a policeman so you believe what’s legal is right. But if people didn’t do business on the sly and wheel and deal, how would they survive? That’s why even God and his next-door neighbour thieve here . . . And some, as you know, are dab hands at it.”
    “Yoyi, I left the police more than ten years ago, but I’ve always known how people lived . . . It’s more likely I’m going soft inside because I’m getting old,” Conde picked up the first edition of The Slave Trader and put it to one side; he needed to attend to the stitching on the spine. He reached for the next one on the pile, one of the censuses, and started sandpapering gently.
    “Well, factor that in . . . you are knocking on,” agreed Pigeon with a smile. “And old age slows you down. OK, I’m going to have a bath, I’m going out on the town tonight with a hot date. Hey, you want me to come with you tomorrow to give that place a look over?”
    Conde put the book on the table and gulped down his rum. He thought his answer through.
    “All right. There are a lot of books and the two of us can size it up much quicker . . . But get this straight: I found this library, and if you come, I’m the one in charge, get it? I don’t want you doubledealing these poor people . . .”
    “Ah, these poor people, is it?” Pigeon stripped off his T-shirt and the Count stared at the thick gold links of the chain, with an enormous medallion of Santa Bárbara, resting on the young lad’s prominent pecs. “Wasn’t the guy a big deal in the army and then in a corporation? Did they tell you why they booted him out and put him on the shit-heap?