Private House (12 page)

W
EDNESDAY
, M
AY 4, 2005

1

Every morning, the same young man came around with a list, and checked off the room numbers of all the guests in the breakfast room. Mathilde wondered where he was placed in the complex scale of Cuban racial shading; judged by his smile, this black man was as white as snow. “Your friend? The nice blond lady?”

“Yes. Mrs. . . . Stowe.” Mathilde was self-conscious, pronouncing her name.

The young man again consulted his paper. He shook his head. “Not this morning.” He smiled again. “Not yet.”

He moved away. Mathilde sipped her coffee. Her “friend,” the young man had said; and she had accepted this description. Was that why she'd felt self-conscious? Lorraine was hardly her friend, surely. At the same time, she'd been looking forward to seeing her this
morning, had immediately looked around the room to see if she was there; and when she couldn't wait any longer—when she absolutely had to have her coffee—she'd remembered Lorraine's trick and ordered it from the bar, and had then anticipated telling her, she was right, it was much better.

“The nice blond lady.” Again, that wasn't right, although as a description it wasn't entirely wrong. Lorraine had fine, smooth, cornsilk hair, becomingly streaked with grey—but rather like highlights, actually— that she pulled back on her neck in a bun. No: that also was not quite fair. Bun . . . it was slightly more complex, a knot of some kind— it must be quite long—a kind of chignon. Yes, she was a “nice lady.” But the word slighted Lorraine. Perhaps it was a disguise, looking nice, camouflage, a kind of protection—that was it. Lorraine was a woman determined to participate in the world but knew that she did so from a position of relative weakness. Which had to be allowed for. Self-effacement was a tactic, reserve a cultivated habit. Of course Lorraine was an Anglo-Saxon—but Mathilde stopped herself from putting it down to that. Too easy. It was more personal. She was a widow. What was that like? And what had her marriage meant to her?

She ate a slice of pineapple, and then a slice of watermelon as she considered all these questions. And then she got up and made herself more coffee at the urn. She sipped this slowly; she knew she was still hoping that Lorraine might appear. Her formulation, though instinctively she trusted it, raised as many questions as it answered and it would be interesting to test it out. For example, what did
relative weakness
mean? Weakness was probably the wrong word. It wasn't as definite as that—in fact, that was the point, it was a kind of indefiniteness, a tentativeness, an awkwardness. She was reluctant to assert herself for fear, not just of her reception, but of her ultimate ability to carry it off. But wasn't she simply saying that Lorraine was shy? And
wasn't a good deal of all this rumination as applicable to herself ? If so, perhaps calling Lorraine a friend was closer to the mark than she'd assumed. Now she admitted something. If Lorraine
had
appeared Mathilde knew that she would have worked the conversation around to her difficulties yesterday, that really she was hoping for a confidante. And wouldn't that have been an acceptance of their friendship?

But clearly this wasn't going to happen now; she was the last in the breakfast room—the two waiters, and the young woman who did the eggs, were both giving her a meaningful eye—and so she finished her coffee. It was almost nine. She was meeting Bailey at ten. He had a friend with a car that he thought he could borrow, and if not, she'd rent one, and Bailey could give her a tour of the “unknown Havana”: the fact that this idea originated with Adamaris only made it more appealing. But first she wanted a walk, to test that she'd completely recovered from whatever yesterday's problem had been. She got up from the table and left the restaurant—it was the Jardín del Edén in the evening—which led directly into the lobby. But as she headed toward the entrance, she abruptly diverted herself and crossed to the front desk.

“Is Mrs. Stowe in her room?”

“You want to telephone?”

“No—her key . . . is it there?”

It wasn't; so either she'd gone out without dropping it off, or she was in her room. Mathilde rode up in the lift. And now she felt a sense of urgency, and admitted to herself that her diversion had followed an instinct of alarm: a sympathy that was already proving the friendship she'd been speculating on. Something was wrong. She remembered the room number from the previous day, when the young man had ticked it off. An “outside” room. She knocked. Even if nothing was wrong, she would get a chance to see what one looked like. . . .

The door opened. Lorraine was in her pyjamas, and her greeting sounded anxious, surprised, and relieved all at once. “Oh, Mathilde!”

Mathilde stepped into the room. Now she was less sure of herself; she was certain something had happened, but she didn't know how to proceed. “I see,” she said, glancing at Lorraine's pyjamas. “You were out late last night?” In her own ears, this sounded false. She rushed on. “You have a window,” she said. “You're so lucky. On our side, we're all in the dark.” And she crossed over to the window, with its shutter. Lorraine stood behind her, and to one side; but they were together, looking out. Lorraine said, “Every morning, I watch the children going off to school.”

“They're lovely, aren't they? I love the children.”

They turned away from the window together, but into awkwardness. Mathilde, for an instant, felt much the younger, and this was an inhibition. “I should let you recover from your late night. I shouldn't have barged in like this.”

“No, please. It wasn't a late night, not like that. And you don't know how happy I am to see you—I didn't know what to do. Yesterday, I had a terrible day. Sit down—please. Do you want the chair?”

“No, this is fine.” Lorraine's room, like her own, had two beds; she sat on the corner of the one Lorraine had obviously been sleeping in, but it was closer to the chair, near the window, where Lorraine sat down. Mathilde realized now how tall Lorraine was, taller than she was, how long her legs were; as a girl, she might have been athletic and she had done a respectable job keeping her figure. “I like your pyjamas,” she said. They also made her look taller; they were rather tailored, at least for pyjamas, and had no collar, but a piping that went around the neck and down, which was picked up by the seam of the trousers: the pyjamas were champagne, the piping a deeper yellow. “You need them, don't you, with the air conditioning.”

“Yes,” said Lorraine. “I almost didn't bring them.”

Mathilde said, “You were going to see your priest? Yesterday?”

“That was all right. Very good, in fact.”

“He helped, then?”

“Well, not really. No one seems to know where he's got to. Almado, this Cuban man. But at least I felt I'd done what I could. That's what I was deciding—I'd do my best, but there's only so much I
can
do.”

“Of course. So . . . ?”

“It was afterwards. Oh, I feel such a fool!” She leaned back in the chair. “I'm such an idiot!”

“I don't understand.”

“Well, I had lunch in that big hotel in Parque Central, the Inglaterra. As I was coming out, two Cubans picked me up . . . you know the way they do.”

“Yes. ‘Hello. Where are you from?' And so on. Two of them?”

“A man and a woman—except they were younger, really kids. They said they had a friend in Vancouver—”

“They always have that friend! What were you supposed to do? Mail a letter for them—I've had that one—”

“Well, it was the first time for me. And then it changed. They had a baby, and the baby needed milk, which had to be powdered milk because they had no refrigerator—it sounds so crazy!”

“You were supposed to buy some for them?”

“First off, I was supposed to give them the money to buy some—”

“Ah. Of course!”

“And when I hesitated . . . of course I knew it was all wrong, but it's so hard to say so, right to their face—it sounds so cruel. Anyway, they took me to a supermarket—at least that's what they called it— and I bought it.”

“So, they ended up with some powdered milk?”

“No. Because they took it back and exchanged it for cash—I saw them. I
knew
it. But I did it! I was such a fool! I followed them, almost to prove I was a fool! They gave it to the girl at the cash register . . . I could see her taking her commission . . . I suppose you can call it.”

“But you shouldn't be so upset. It's amazing, isn't it—the hustling. They've all learned it.”

“I know . . . it's just, I felt such a fool—”

“To be taken advantage of ?”

“I suppose. I was . . . such a sucker, I guess.”

“‘Sucker'?”

“
Imbécile
.
Gogo
.”

Mathilde laughed. “You do speak French!”

Lorraine smiled. “I only wish I did. My husband was at the Bank for International Settlements and we lived four years in Switzerland. Basel. My
children
speak French . . . even a little German.”

Mathilde restrained herself; she wanted to ask about the children. “Well, in French or English, no one likes it, but it's not important. I met a young woman two days ago, and even though I knew exactly what was happening, I ended up giving her some money. It's almost worth it just for the experience.”

“I know what you mean. But that really wasn't the problem, anyway. Well, maybe it was. I felt so ashamed. I was ashamed of myself, I was ashamed for them—they're so wonderful, most of them, it's so terrible to be reduced to that—I was ashamed that the world was like that. It's hard to explain. I ran. I wanted to run away from everything. I kept running . . . and then I collapsed. I mean, I froze. I went rigid. I couldn't move . . . As a girl, I was always afraid of getting cramps when I was swimming, my mother was a great worrier—”

Mathilde shook her head. “A cramp isn't like that. I've had them. It's very painful. A spasm.”

“You're right, then. This wasn't like that. I was paralyzed. I was terrified. The world was breaking up. The world was coming to an end. I've never been so frightened in all my life and there wasn't anything at all to be afraid of.”

“You panicked.”

“I suppose that's it.”

“You had a panic attack.”

Mathilde's voice was so matter-of-fact that Lorraine said, “Has this ever happened to you?”

“No, but I had a friend in university. It was the same with her—in the street.”

“I was so frightened, you don't know. And now I'm afraid . . . if I go out, it will happen all over again.”

“That was the same, too. That's what it
is
, Lorraine. Going out. Being outside. Open spaces. You know claustrophobia? This is the opposite. Agoraphobia. The fear of open spaces. You know,
agora
, the Greek word for ‘market.' The marketplace.”

Lorraine smiled ruefully. “I
liked
the Agora.”

“Yes!”

“I remember in Athens, trying to imagine it . . . with stalls and people shopping. I certainly wasn't frightened then. But yesterday, I was afraid of everything. It was awful.”

“I will now be annoying, Lorraine. You're afraid of everything because you don't want to see the
one
thing that truly makes you afraid.”

Lorraine almost managed to laugh. “I don't know why, but it surprises me, Mathilde, you, a Freudian! You mean, I'm afraid that I want to make love to my father?”

“Yes. Not
that
, I expect—but yes. And I told you I was going to be annoying!”

“Well, I don't know—but you're cheering me up!”

“I'm glad of that!”

“But what happened to your friend?”

“I'm not sure. I lost touch—she moved to Rouen. They gave her tranquilizers, I know. And some kind of therapy.”

“I think I'm too old for therapy.”

“You don't strike me as old at all! But certainly you've got to eat. And you can't stay in here all day.”

“Maybe if I stay in one room I'll develop claustrophobia. It will be an antidote to the other.”

“Good! You see? You're not losing your sense of humour.”

“It's funny. I remember, sitting there—like an idiot!—I also felt at home. I mean, now I was part of Havana and Havana was part of me.”

“You mustn't be frightened. . . . You can be frightened of being afraid—that's what my friend said, that was the worst of it—”

“Yes, your friend was right. What was her name?”

“Jacqueline. Just remember, too, you're not alone. I'm here, at least.”

Lorraine said, “You don't know how glad I am that you came. You've been wonderful . . . to listen like this.”

“Well, I'm glad I came too. I knew
something
was wrong. And I didn't want . . . not to have come. If you see what I mean. If that's English!”

At this point, they were silent. It was apparent, to both of them, that they'd gone as far as they could for the moment, that it would spoil things to try to go any further. Mathilde said: “I should go. You're all right, though?”

“Yes. Don't worry about me.”

“I'm meeting my Black Panther, you see.”

“Oh well!”

“But I'll call later—all right?”

“Yes. Please.”

They went to the door together. Lorraine worked the rather complicated latch, and held the door open. As Mathilde stepped through, she kissed Lorraine quickly on the cheek. And Lorraine kissed her. “Thank you. Good luck with your interview.”

“You must take it easy.”

Lorraine closed the door and Mathilde was gone.

2

Bailey lived in Centro, among the ruins of Havana's commercial district: poor, dark, narrow streets, derelict stores and restaurants now enticing only ghostly customers from 1955: the mosaic facade of Johnny's Bar was still discernible and a yellow brick set into the sidewalk of Neptuno Street advertised
“Miami
,
”
once the best place for American hamburgers and ice cream. From the cab, Mathilde recognized an intersection from her trip to Dr. Otero's clinic, but Bailey's address was closer to the Malecón; she glimpsed a blue patch of sky at the very end of the street. You could probably see the water, she thought, from the roof of his building, a six-storey apartment block rising between two older black stone structures. She'd been looking forward to seeing where he lived, but didn't immediately get the chance; he was outside, waiting for her, bending over the engine compartment of an ancient Volkswagen as her taxi drew in.