Havana Best Friends. Jose Latour

a weakness for the Chocolate Queen.’

      ‘I’m getting outta here.’

      ‘When the LCC sends its report, let me know if it’s good or bad.’

      ‘Good or bad what?’

      ‘The shit, man, the shit. Go see her, go, go.’

      The captain strolled leisurely along Boyeros, his diary under his left arm. The twelve-lane avenue was congested with heavy traffic in both directions, a fact which never ceased to amaze him. In a country where most people made less than twenty-five dollars a month and the cheapest gas cost three dollars a gallon, thousands of ancient, privately owned American gas-guzzlers congest the streets, the majority financed by unmentionable sources. He lifted his gaze to the sky. The cloudy, strangely cool morning made him feel certain it had rained heavily to the south of the city the night before.

      Trujillo covered the nine blocks to the IML in twelve minutes. He sat on a granite bench in the foyer, then lit his second cigarette of the day. The captain felt clean and fresh in the uniform laundered and impeccably ironed by his mother. He had shaved carefully too. Just in case he bumped into Barbara (who had been curious enough to check up on him and find out he was married), and to lessen the impression of untidiness that Elena Miranda must have formed of him the night before, assuming she had registered such details when confronted with the news of her brother’s murder.

      Elena arrived at 8.19 looking sad, exhausted, and frustrated by a ride in a jam-packed bus. Her face was sucked-in, with dark crescents under her eyes. The aftershock, Trujillo realized, then registered approvingly her beige blouse, black mid-calf skirt, black pumps, black purse. At wakes and burials he had seen weeping young women wearing Lycra shorts and boob-tubes. And he recalled a recent TV documentary on the remarkable mausoleums of the Colón Cemetery which had been presented by a curvaceous hostess wearing a see-through white dress and minuscule black underwear. Maybe the producer was trying to resurrect the dead, the captain’s father had wryly commented from his rocking chair.

      ‘Good morning,’ said Trujillo, getting to his feet, extending his hand, and dropping the ‘comrade’. He thought once again how inappropriate formal greetings can be on certain occasions.

      ‘Good morning.’

      ‘This way, please.’

      At the desk they learned that Dr Valverde was off duty. An assistant led them to the cold room and Elena identified Pablo, then retched repeatedly and vomited nothing. Trujillo steered her back to the main entrance, his arm protectively around her shoulders, then made her sit on a bench. He lit up, inhaled, and blew out smoke.

      ‘We are notifying the General Directorate of Prisons, they will inform your father.’

      Elena assented as she dabbed at her lips with a tiny handkerchief.

      ‘If he wants to attend the wake, they’ll probably give him a pass. A guard might accompany him.’

      ‘A guard?’

      ‘I believe it’s standard procedure.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘The body will be sent to the funeral home on 70th and 29B before noon. They’ll make all the funeral arrangements. Did you call your mother?’

      Elena sobbed, then repressed her desire to cry. ‘Yes, I did. Early this morning. She’s coming as soon as she can.’