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more.”
    â€œLess, Manolo, less. The truth is I always liked that story: in catechism classes I always imagined God in his cloud, illuminating everything, like a spotlight . . .”
    â€œHey there, Conde, and what if Alexis disguised himself day in day out?” asked the forensic, smiling triumphantly at his question and prompting the Count to think of other reasons for his aversion.
    â€œThen end of mystery,” the Count admitted. “But it would be a pity, wouldn’t it? The transfiguration of Alexis Arayán . . . sounded good. Well, on with your story.”
    He saw them halt under the flamboyant tree. A glimmering moonbeam sweetly pierced the foliage, lending a silvery hue to the big man and fake woman, a
couple on whom the breeze rained down a shower of red petals. Perhaps they kissed, perchance they caressed, and Alexis kneeled, like a penitent, surely intending to satisfy his companion’s urgent need with his nearest available orifice: the grass patches on his knees betrayed such genuflection. Then he plunged into the finale of the tragedy: at some moment the red silk sash went from Alexis’s waist to his neck and the big man mercilessly terminated the breathing of the woman who wasn’t, until her heavily made-up eyes bulged out of their sockets and every sphincter opened its floodgates, dislocation by strangulation.
    â€œAnd this is what I can’t square, Conde. The big guy killed him from in front, judging by the footprints, right? But it appears the transvestite didn’t struggle, didn’t scratch, didn’t try to wriggle . . .”
    â€œSo there was no fight?”
    â€œIf there was, it was a battle of words. The dead man’s nails don’t carry any traces of anything, although I’ll provide a conclusive report later . . . But now comes the second mystery: the murderer began dragging the corpse that way, look at the grass, do you see? As if to throw him in the river . . . But barely moved him two yards. Why didn’t he throw him in the river if that was what first came to mind?”
    The Count observed the grass where the forensic was pointing and the canvas which now covered Alexis Arayán’s body and hid the patch of red cloth that had so alarmed the early morning jogger, who’d departed his daily route only to discover a corpse already crawling with ants which had rushed to the magnificent banquet.
    â€œBut the strangest of all is yet to come: after killing the transvestite, the big man pulled her knickers down and inspected her anus with his fingers . . . I know because he wiped himself clean on the gown afterwards. What
do you make of that, lads? Well, that’s as far as I can take my little tale. When they do the autopsy and finish the other tests in the laboratory, perhaps we’ll have more to go on. Now I’ll be off, downtown, as there’s been another little murder in Old Havana . . .”
    â€œGood luck to you, Flower of the Dead,” replied the Count, turning his back on him.
    He looked at the dirty river in the waters of which he’d once swum. In other waters, in fact, he thought, like Heraclitus: not as dirty, at least not up by La Chorrera bridge, where he and his friends used to catch biajacas , if not Chinese carp, when someone decided those red, exotic fish could grow and multiply in the island’s rivers and reservoirs.
    â€œAll right, Manolo, try your hand at the questions Flower of the Dead left us. Why should anyone let himself be strangled and not fight back? Why didn’t the murderer throw him into the water? And why the hell did he decide to inspect his anus?”
    Sergeant Manuel Palacios folded two very rickety arms over an emaciated chest. In every case he was assigned to with the Count it was always the same: he had to be the first to get it wrong.
    â€œI don’t know, Conde,” he said finally.
    The Count looked at him, surprised by his wariness.
    â€œBut how come