At the end of the afternoon, after queuing for petrol and discovering that Karina’s mum had attached an Easter palm leaf to the rear-view mirror, after chattering about punctured cars, Lenten heat and winds, and drinking coffee at the Count’s, they agreed she would call him as soon as she got back from Matanzas: she could return Franny and Zooey, it’s the best Salinger ever wrote, the Count had remarked, unable to contain his enthusiasm, handing her a book he’d never lent anyone ever since he’d stolen it from the university library. That way, they could meet up and chat a bit more. OK?

The Count’s eyes had remained glued to her and, although he recognized quite candidly that the girl wasn’t as beautiful as in his first impressions (her mouth was too big, her eye-lashes fluttered rather sadly and she was rather deficient in the backside department, he concluded critically) he was nonetheless impressed by her constant cheerfulness and unexpected ability, in the middle of the street, after lunch and under a murderous sun, to raise a virile extremity that had neither legs nor wings.

Karina accepted a second cup of coffee and it was now time for the revelation that would finally drive the Count mad.

“My father turned me into a coffee addict,” she said looking at him. “He drank coffee all day, whatever he could get.”

“And what else did he teach you?”

She smiled and swayed her head, as if chasing off ideas and memories.

“He taught me everything he knew, even how to play the saxophone.”

“The saxophone?” he almost shouted, incredulously. “You can play the saxophone?”

“Well, I’m not a musician or anything like. But I do blow that horn, as jazz musicians say. He loved jazz and played with lots of people, with Frank Emilio, with Cachao, with Felipe Dulzaides, the old guard…”