The Neruda Case by Roberto Ampuero Read Free Book Online Page B

with a fifty-year-old woman? How would her flesh feel and her mouth taste? An illustrious domino player at the Bar Inglés had once told him that though young women’s firm flesh might seem more exciting at first glance, older and more experienced women outpaced them by far in the pleasure they could provide in bed. The devil knows more from being old than from being the devil, the domino player had affirmed, winking as he recommended that Cayetano seduce a fifty-year-oldwoman in Victoria Plaza. It was easier to seduce them on spring and summer mornings, because the heat, the blue sky, and the birdsong were on your side, he had said, eyeing his dominoes. One day, he’d go to Victoria Plaza to confirm the theory, Cayetano told himself, but not now, when he was attracted to young women with smooth faces, taut bellies, and firm calves. So the poet with the monotonous nasal voice, the thick body, and the melancholy gaze, whom he could almost consider a friend, had actually been a kind of gigolo in his youth? Had he conned a mature woman so that she’d open doors for him to the salons of European intellectuals, editors, and politicians? And had he then left her for a singer who was thirty years younger?
    He sampled the gyro and nodded approvingly at Hadad, who waited behind the bar for his verdict, hands on his hips and an intimidating look on his face. If he wanted to work for the poet, it was imperative to know him intimately, he thought. If he was to travel to Mexico on his orders, he should at least know with whom he was dealing. The fact that Neruda had received the Nobel Prize implied only that he was a phenomenal writer but not, necessarily, a good person. What would it be like to love a woman twenty years your senior? he asked himself again. Could there be desire between two people so distant in age? And what had become of Delia del Carril? According to Laura, she lived in the capital, old, poor, and alone, her family fortune squandered; she spent her time painting energetic, indomitable horses, and was still in love with Neruda.
    At that moment he saw the man in question coming down Collado Way with his chauffeur. He walked slowly, slouched. Cayetano polished off his gyro in a hurry, finished his coffee, put a crumpled bill on the table, and left Alí Babá, releasing a small but satisfied burp.

8
    P lease, have a seat!” The poet had settled into his favorite armchair, which he had named La Nube, and was examining the pearly surface of a large conch with a magnifying glass while his chauffeur, Sergio, arranged hawthorn logs under the copper hood of the fireplace. “When do you go?”
    “If you write a check for this amount to the money exchange office, I can leave next week,” Cayetano replied, handing him a bill.
    The poet gave the document a cursory glance and let it fall on the top of the newspaper
El Siglo
, which lay on the floor beside La Nube. He waited for his chauffeur to leave the room, then said, “Better yet, you tell me how much you need and I’ll write you a check for the whole thing. I’m no good with numbers. Matilde is off in Isla Negra. I just got back from the doctor, and I’m exhausted. But I trust you won’t let me down with your business in Mexico, my friend.”
    “I’ll find your doctor, Don Pablo, you’ll see. Don’t worry.” His first steps as an investigator had made him feel a bit more sure of himself.
    “I trust you. You’re a bright young guy, you’ve lived in three countries, and nobody will be surprised that you’re looking for afellow Cuban.” He sighed and looked out at the cloudy Valparaíso sky. “I’m lucky to have met you.”
    Cayetano felt honored by the remark. And, confident in his new role, he proceeded with his questioning. “What’s the story behind that shell?”
    It was a good question. It drew a light smile out of Don Pablo.
    “I bought it a half-century ago in Rangoon, Burma, where I held my first diplomatic post, thanks to some friends with