Private House (10 page)

“When you go from Cuba?”

“Next week. Next Monday.”

“You have a good time, Mrs. Lorraine, a good holiday.”

“Sí, sí,”
said Maria.

She walked a little away from them, and then turned round; they were standing as she'd left them. They smiled and waved, and she waved back. She walked on. She told herself, Don't look back, as though she was walking along some dark and frightening road. She told herself, Remember what happened to Lot's wife. But once she was in the middle of the square, surrounded by the thronging crowds of people, she at last turned around. Tomayo and Maria were gone. She stood quite still. She knew. But what difference did it make? Rather: why did it make a difference? Because, apparently, it did; for with no conscious thought or plan, she now walked quickly across the square. Her heart was beating wildly. She came up to the point where they'd crossed before, and looked up, toward the
supermercado
, where Tomayo and Maria were turning in. She was running now. She
was out of breath. She stared through the glass window, past the guard, and there they were, holding up the two packets, for the
poquito
, while the girl behind the cash counted pesos into Tomayo's outstretched hand: holding up one bill at the end for herself. And then they turned, Maria and Tomayo, and looked toward her. Lorraine was overcome with shame. Revulsion filled her—she was at the edge of throwing up the Inglaterra's lunch. But whether this was because of what she'd seen, or that they'd seen her, she didn't know. She had to get away. She ran. She ran toward the place where she'd crossed before. She stopped there. But now the eyes staring out at the world were not her own, the sights they were seeing were not her world. It was as though she had no face. And the street was too busy. She couldn't get across. She walked down it. She ran a few steps, then slowed her pace. Yet she was walking quickly now. She walked as quickly as she could. She didn't know where she was, but she didn't have to. All these streets ran into the labyrinth of the ancient city, Habana Vieja. O'Reilly. Obispo. Obrapia. One was as good as another; whichever one she took, that was where she ran. But the street was jammed with people, talking, walking, pushing, looking. She tried to get by. More lay ahead. And the road was so rough, so broken, so cracked, so cut across, so holed, that now she couldn't run, she could barely walk, and all the horror that her steps had fled now caught her, seized her by the legs, wrapped round her thighs, crushed her buttocks and her back—she was rigid now. She staggered. She looked around. She wanted to cry out, I need help. Her voice was still. Voices, faces, pressed upon her. Signs:
No Arrojar Basura . . . Un Mundo Mejor Es Posible . . . La Cita Es Con La Patria . . . Giron Triunfo del Pueblo
—they seemed to be everywhere. She stumbled into a cross street. She was gasping. She was so afraid. And now she couldn't run, she couldn't move. She was paralyzed: like the rabbit bitten by the stoat. She started to tremble. She thought, Lot's wife turned to salt. Oddly, then, she wanted to laugh, and she almost did laugh. Oh Lorraine, oh Lorraine, she thought, do something! She sank down in a doorway. She turned her face away, behind her hand—I'm so ashamed, I'm so ashamed of myself. Her face was burning and she spoke aloud: “Oh God, I hate you!” She had meant herself, but now she bit her lip; for the first time in her life she hoped that God had not heard her voice.

5

Mathilde was in too much difficulty to worry whether this meeting was an accident or, as seemed more likely, Adamaris had known she was in the Ambos Mundos and had waited outside; and her pain was too obvious to deny.

“Something is the matter?”

“Yes. I need a doctor. I don't have time to talk, Adamaris. I'm going back to the hotel.”

“Please, take my arm.”

“I'm all right.”

“But I am coming with you to the hotel.”

And a moment later, she stumbled in the dusty, broken street and Adamaris took her arm, anyway. The pressure of her hand, the impress of her long, elegant fingers, was gentle and entirely unobjectionable; and just because of this, all the more irritating.

“Turn here.”

“I know where I'm going.”

“Of course. Yes. You are in pain—where? You ate something?” Mathilde shook her head. “You are dizzy?”

“No.”

“So . . . ah,
there
.”

Mathilde made no reply, but Adamaris squeezed her arm in a gesture of sympathy and understanding that managed, all the same, to be an affront; and was all the more insulting precisely because the understanding embraced this, too. “I will help you. It will be better, to have someone who can speak Spanish.”

Mathilde was pleased when the hotel manager's English—there was no point trying his French—was up to the task; as he explained, she kept her eyes on him and ignored Adamaris entirely.

“In Cuba, for tourists is a special medical service.” He had a brochure,
Assistur
. “Each area has a clinic. For us, here.” He tapped his finger on one of the simple maps they gave out when people registered. “Prado. You have been there?”

“Yes.”

“Here is the number. You have your passport? You should have it—not just our card. Ring the bell and you will go in. But you must understand, for your treatment, you must pay.”

She went to her room, for the passport. In the elevator, she resolved to send Adamaris on her way, but in her room the pain sharpened, and by the time she came down, she'd changed her mind.

“He called a taxi. Sit here. I will wait at the front.”

The high, dark lobby, with its art deco columns and glass, was furnished with innumerable couches; Mathilde sank into one of them while Adamaris waited at the bottom of the stairs, in the light of the entrance. Taxis couldn't come to the door: in this section of the Old Town, the streets were blocked, given over to walkers—and were so rough, in any case, that even Cuban drivers found them daunting. But a few minutes later she saw Adamaris talking to a man, and she got up quickly and walked down the steps. The car was only a few steps away; but Mathilde allowed herself to lean against Adamaris,
though only for a moment, and Adamaris took her gently by the shoulder, helping her into the back.

Adamaris said, “You don't have to go to this clinic, if you don't want. I have a doctor.”

“Why would that be better?”

“She is a woman.
Doctora
. At this clinic, it might be a man.”

“I don't care.”

“You will pay, wherever you go. But at this clinic the government gets the money, why should the doctor care? He will say take this, take that, and go back to France.”

Mathilde hesitated now. She closed her eyes. What Adamaris said seemed not impossible; by this evening, she might well be on a plane. And that would be the end of her story . . . and she would not see Bailey again. “Where is your doctor?”

“Not far, in a taxi. She will see you quickly, I will tell her, and you will give her money. Twenty pesos. I will pay her. She is very good. You can trust her.”

“All right.”

Adamaris spoke to the driver; was it possible they argued—that he had already been given the clinic on Prado as the address? But then the car was jerking forward and she leaned back into the seat, her eyes closed, the sun and the shadow flickering over her eyelids, the sound of the engine surrounding her: and as they rounded a corner, she was pressed into Adamaris. And now Adamaris murmured something in Spanish, and slipped her arm around her shoulder, holding Mathilde to her with a slight tension. She thought of her mother's voice, her mother's touch; and the pain and the sympathy merged, ran together, formed a viscous surface of feeling and memory, which closed around her, like a custard or an aspic, though she could breathe, as embryos breathe. She felt the woman's hand touch her forehead, and from far
away, her voice came, “You don't have a fever, I think. You will be all right, yes?” And then the cab was pulling up, and her eyes winced at the glare of the sun as she opened them. She opened her bag. “No,” said Adamaris, “that is all right, I will pay.”

“No. Please—” She took money out, and gave it to her.

“That is enough.”

“You said twenty pesos.”

“All right.”

They walked. The cab had stopped a block or two away. “You see, he writes down the address. This is better.”

And she felt better, walking; or at least she did for a moment. Adamaris was there, to lean on. Now her smell was familiar, the particular tilt of her body, its weight; the form of her being—all this was familiar. With the slightest pressure, she was turning her, up to the large glass door of a modern building. They stepped in. A woman, with a baby on her lap, sat in a chair. A man, sitting beside her, leaned forward and was very still, like a fisherman. Adamaris went up to the desk and spoke to the nurse, a woman in a coloured smock. She listened, then nodded; and then walked through a door, leaving it open. She returned a moment later. “Wait,” said Adamaris. And then Adamaris went through the door as well. A moment passed. The pain had ebbed. Mathilde moved toward the desk, so that she could see past the door, in the direction Adamaris had gone. It was a short hall. Partway down, a door stood open—it opened inward, into a room. On the back of the door was a plastic holder for files or forms, a kind of tray but attached to the door: plastic, clear—scratched, but still smooth enough to take up a reflection, a milky image of Adamaris and another woman, in a doctor's white gown. Adamaris had her little bag open, she passed the doctor a bill . . . and then, with her right hand, took the doctor at the back of the neck and drew her face
closer, pressing a kiss on her mouth. The baby cried then, a howl. The two women looked around. And, Mathilde assumed, reflected in the same way, they were now looking at her.

6

Mostly, people ignored her; they might give her a glance, sometimes a quick smile, but then they were gone. But eventually someone always paused and looked at her, frowning, wondering what she was doing there. Even worse, some spoke, Spanish and quick, presumably asking if she was in trouble or needed help; then the confusion of language would compound her shame and she'd feel a fool twice over, stammering like an idiot, smiling inanely, standing up and brushing herself off in a futile attempt to justify her words, “I'm all right, really I'm all right.” But this, at least would move her on. You can always count on embarrassment, she thought. Twice she was propelled onward for a full block or so, the shame of it all literally pushing her from behind since she would feel that the hem of her skirt had flipped up or that the seat, after so much sitting, was stuck to her bottom, so she raced ahead, trying to find the right moment to reach back and pluck at herself. But then she'd be overcome again, her pretence revealed, if only to herself; and so the panic would rush in—the blare and the glare, the strange faces and incomprehensible signs, and the broken ground grabbing at her feet. She'd sink down, heart pounding, into a doorway or lean back, gasping, against a wall, her stiff, shocked legs no longer able to support her.

She had no idea what was happening. Once, recovering a little, she tried to laugh it off—This is ridiculous—and scolded herself— Lorraine, get a grip!—but it was no good: after two steps the world was breaking up all around her, a jumble and jangle of static and fragments, a kaleidoscope of fear.

She wasn't lost. It had nothing to do with that at all. She knew exactly where she was and how to get back to the hotel. Besides, she had a map. Several times, she took it out, studying it as a way of covering up her predicament. And when people offered to help, she'd smile and offer a
“Gracias, gracias,”
as she folded it up and slipped it back into her bag, pretending that she'd found her way. But she'd never lost it, really; she even knew that she didn't have very far to go—the next street was Habana, then Cuba and finally San Ignacio, which she only had to follow to Armagura, and she was home. Home! Five blocks and it seemed a million miles! She could almost laugh, it was so silly. I'll sit here forever, I'll die of starvation . . . no, that's three weeks, thirst will get me in three days, isn't that right?

She was thinking this, almost comfortably settled in the doorway of an abandoned, boarded-up ruin when a group of schoolboys gathered in the dusty street. One gave her a glance, but a smile disarmed him, and they happily ignored her. They all wore the same uniform; blue short pants, white shirts, kerchiefs. Did this mean they were older or younger than the other kids, in red? Great satchels of books were lashed to their backs, but now they slipped out of these halters and set down their burdens. Squatting—careful not to touch their bums on the ground—they formed up in a circle . . . and began playing marbles.

Lorraine recognized this at once, although, as a girl, she'd played hopscotch. They even had the little bags boys carried marbles in. And then she tried to remember what the difference was between marbles and alleys. And what were aggies? She puzzled at these questions, even as she found herself puzzling at the exact nature of the game they were playing. It was hard to see. Their circle was crowded, there was much jostling and shouting, a certain amount of disputing, and even occasionally the sharp deployment of elbows. Lorraine stood up, to get
a better view. And then she edged around the circle, to a little gap. But she was no clearer on the game. For one thing, at the centre of the circle was a manhole cover. It seemed to be the target, what they were aiming at, and she stepped a little closer:
ALLANTAR ILLADO
was printed across it, and there was an
H
in the very centre, presumably for Habana.

A boy shot.

His marble, or alley—and she remembered now that boys sometimes had their favourite shooters—skidded onto the metal plate, but was apparently a bad shot for the boy threw back his head dramatically and groaned with disgust. Another shot was taken, this time producing happier shouts.