In Havana

2001, September. 12:18 h.

Ivan Walsh is cleaning a brush when the phone rings.

He does not recognize the number.

He lets it ring twice.

—Yes?

—Ivan Walsh?

The voice sounds familiar, though it takes him a few seconds to place it.

—It depends.

The man laughs.

Then Ivan Walsh remembers.

—Senel.

—Damn, you still recognize my voice.

—I recognize the laugh.

Ivan Walsh leaves the brush in the jar.

Bernardo is at the other end of the studio, sitting on the floor. He has a book open on his legs, but Ivan Walsh knows he is listening.

—Where are you? —Senel asks.

—In Havana.

—That’s an advantage already.

—For whom?

—For me.

Ivan Walsh smiles.

Senel needs him to go to San Antonio de los Baños the following day. A Spanish professor has canceled at the last minute and there are six end-of-course projects that someone must read before they go into production.

—I paint —Ivan Walsh says.

—You talk too.

—That is precisely the problem.

—Juan Diego says you’re good at reading stories.

Ivan Walsh stops smiling.

—Juan Diego?

Bernardo raises his head.

Ivan Walsh walks toward the window.

—Yes. The Mexican.

—I know who he is.

—Tomorrow, then. Ten in the morning.

—I haven’t said yes.

—You haven’t said no either.

Senel hangs up.

Ivan Walsh keeps the phone to his ear for a few seconds.

Bernardo closes the book.

—What’s going on?

—Nothing.

—He said Juan Diego.

Ivan Walsh turns around.

—Do you know him?

Bernardo takes his time.

Too much time.

—By sight.

—That doesn’t mean anything.

—Exactly that.

Ivan Walsh leaves the phone on the table.

Outside someone is selling avocados. The voice rises from the street, repeated, almost musical. Ivan Walsh waits for it to move away.

—Where have you seen him?

—Around.

—Bernardo.

—At don Isidro’s house.

Now Ivan Walsh understands less.

—When?

—Some time ago.

—How long ago?

Bernardo opens the book again.

—I don’t know.

Ivan Walsh wants to go on asking questions.

He does not.

Over the past few weeks he begins to understand that protecting someone can look too much like interrogating them.

He returns to the easel.

The painting remains the same.

A face half done.

Two eyes that do not exist yet.