Havana Fever by Leonardo Padura Page B

intact?...
    The gleam in Pancho Carmona’s eyes expanded at the mention of each title and he finally blurted out: “Fuck! When do I get a list of what you’ve got?”
    “Nothing Pigeon just referred to is for sale,” interjected the Count. “We’ve got other things to interest you—”
    “Within the week,” retorted Pigeon, ignoring his partner’s murderous looks. “When I say it’s a mine . . .”
    “See if you can find a copy with illustrations intact of The Book of Sugar Mills and the 1832 edition of Heredia’s poetry. I’ve got a buyer who’s desperate for them and he’ll pay the asking price without protesting . . . I’ll seal the deal for ten percent.”
    “What might the Heredia fetch then?” enquired the Count.
    “That edition, the most complete and set by Heredia himself, now fetches upwards of a $1,000 in Cuba. Abroad . . . 3,000 plus. And if it’s signed . . . So, where the hell did you find this library?”
    Pigeon smiled, glanced at the Count and then at Pancho.
    “What’s the look on my face telling you, Panchón?”
    The other smiled as well.
    “I get you. When among sharks . . .”
    “The only problem is that this fellow doesn’t want to get his fingers dirty.” said Yoyi pointing at the Count.
    “And never did want to,” the Count retorted, pouring the icecold beer into his glass.
    “Come on, Pancho, give him a reason to change his mind,” pleaded Pigeon and the bookseller smiled.
    “To change his mind or give himself a heart attack?... How about this then: guess what I flogged the other day?” he lowered his voice. “Both volumes of the 1851 and 1856 first edition of Felipe Poey’s Reminiscences on the Natural History of the Island of Cuba . . . with the ex libris of Julián del Casal.”
    “You’re kidding?” Yoyi reacted in shock. “How much?”
    “Two thousand green ones, I didn’t want any hassle . . .” and he smiled, lifting his coffee to his lips.
    “So where did you fish that out from?” the Count enquired.
    Pancho shook his head at the naivety of the question.
    “Fine . . . fine . . . what goes around comes around.”
    “Anyway you bring your list, I’m sure we can do business.”
    “What do you do with all that cash, Pancho?” Yoyi continued, intrigued, and unable to hide his admiration.
    “That’s not for public consumption, my boy. But I dream: I dream I will have a real bookshop one day, with lots of books, lots of light, a café at the back, I see myself sitting there, like a pasha, with my coffee, my cigarette, recommending books . . . While I’m waiting for that dream to come true, I’ll sell from my front room and that wooden stand you see over there.”
    “I want to be like you when I’m older, Panchón, I swear I do,” Pigeon declared and the Count knew this they weren’t empty words.
    “OK, that’s enough bullshit,” the Count interjected. “Pancho, can you tell me anything about a single called Be gone from me . I think it’s a 78 . . .”
    “It’s a 45, by one Violeta del Río. The Gema company recorded it in 1958 or at the beginning of 1959, I think. Be gone from me on one side, by the Expósito brothers, and on the other You’ll remember me , by Frank Domínguez. I used to have a copy and it took a while to get rid of it.”
    As he listened to the description of a record that finally assumed some kind of physical reality, the Count felt unexpectedly jubilant, as if Pancho Carmona had breathed vital life into his strange quest for knowledge.
    “Did you ever listen to it?” he asked.
    “No, I never felt like listening . . .”
    “Who did you sell it to?”
    “I don’t remember right now . . .”
    “Of course you remember, think for a moment.”
    “Lento, another coffee,” Yoyi anticipated. “And it’s for Pancho. And two more lagers . . .”
    Pancho lit up another cigarette.
    “What about the singer? What was she like?” Conde asked anxiously, lifting his smoke to his lips.
    “Not the faintest fucking idea.