Private House (14 page)

They drove back to the city.

The sun was lower now, and Mathilde, suddenly exhausted, dozed. The elevator in Bailey's building was broken and he lived on the top floor. But this was high enough that his window had a view of the sea, and he certainly had more room than she did in Paris. He made her a
mojito
and then went into the kitchen to deal with the fish. Mathilde sipped her drink. As she looked around, she was vaguely disappointed. The living room was very plain, painted white, and its only feature was the window, with its narrow view of the ocean. He'd told her that he'd learned carpentry in jail, and had worked for a time as “a low-grade cabinetmaker.” So she wasn't surprised at the furniture, which he'd clearly built himself; two chairs and a couch, almost Roman in design—simple, open, with only loose cushions for upholstery: the furniture in a Roman general's camp when he was on the march. On the left wall, as you looked out the window—over the sofa—was a large painting, folk figures moving through a strange landscape, all browns and greys and angles, that was more or less surrealistic; before vanishing into the kitchen, Bailey had said that he knew the artist. Opposite was a collection of framed photographs, and pictures cut out of magazines: boxers. Many were apparently
quite old, in black-and-white. Mostly, they were black men; but some were Cuban or Latino, and a few were white. The pictures showed the naked shoulders of the men, and their gloved fists held up around their chins. One, in the centre, was autographed—a real photo, creased through the centre by a fold, with a signature in blue ballpoint ink; she didn't recognize the name, but the young, handsome black man might have been a singer, like Nat King Cole or one of the Platters . . . since Bailey remembered LPs. The photos were the most personal touch in the room, and Mathilde didn't know what to think. They fitted Bailey, in a way—his lean, fit body. His blackness? But she thought boxing was stupid, ignorant. And as he stepped out of the kitchen—as though not to embarrass him—she knelt down in front of the single low bookshelf, which ran along the wall beneath his pictures. The books weren't very inspiring, either: texts on Spanish, Marx and Engels, also Lenin, in the editions of the Foreign Languages Publishing House; and a few American paperbacks. Bailey said, “I do most of my reading from the library.”

“Who is your favourite writer?”

“Richard Wright—I only found him late. And Tolstoy.”

How could you object? But this was also disappointing: as if, having been asked to name his favourite painting, he'd said the
Mona Lisa
. Mathilde suddenly felt resentful. She knew she was partly feeling this only because she was now more confident: but that in itself was something to resent. It was all so conventional, she thought, a holiday adventure. The difference in their ages now seemed to be working a different way; all afternoon, worrying about what he felt, reading such significance into every clue, she'd been behaving like an adolescent. It was all beneath her. She didn't want to seduce or be seduced. Haven't you gone beyond all that? she asked herself.

He came out of the kitchen again. “Like another drink?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

He smiled. “I have Coke, if you like.”

He had scored a point; she smiled in acknowledgment. But it gave her no pleasure, and she didn't want to give him credit for it. When she accepted another
mojito
, she raised her glass. “To the Revolution!”

Her sarcasm was plain enough. He just tilted his glass an inch, and clearly with a different meaning. “You weren't impressed?”

“I was supposed to be?”

“I was hoping you'd draw your own conclusions. I wanted you to see for yourself.”

“Well, it's a failure, isn't it?”

“I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure
Cuba
is a failure.”

“I mean the regime. Castro. The Revolution.”

“You might want to draw some distinctions there.”

“I wonder if the Cuban people do. Well, I suppose they do. Castro is a hero. But when he's gone? What you see all over Havana are people learning to be capitalists, with their
paladares
and their
casa particulares
. Private enterprise is flourishing. Think of the scams. Did you ever read Balzac?”

Bailey shook his head. “Just heard of him.”

“Well, he once said, ‘Behind every great fortune is a crime.' In Cuba, it's a thousand little crimes.”

“Those people are just trying to survive.”

“That's the point!”

“All right, but what you're really saying is that the revolution never happened. Maybe that's what I was trying to show you. Havana is like a museum. It's the Museum of 1959. It preserves that moment, the cars do, so do all the buildings that are falling apart, even the potholes in the street. The Hotel Nacional. Everything. Castro took power, but that wasn't a revolution.”

“You're only dodging the question. And how can you still believe in revolution? You do, don't you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“After this? Castro's had his chance, he's been in power almost fifty years! The Berlin Wall is down! It's over! You're right—there never was a revolution and there never will be!”

He laughed. “So? You're saying history has no meaning, it's not going anywhere.”

“Tea leaves have a meaning. You read the meaning into them!”

“I guess I'm still a Marxist, I think I
know
its meaning. Anyway, it isn't written on a dollar bill. Like I told you, the future isn't over yet.”

He had said it again. In her mind, Mathilde translated the phrase into French; it would certainly be a subhead in her article. Bailey went back to the kitchen, and their supper. He wouldn't let her help, so she watched, leaning back in the doorway. He had no phone. But he could use one next door, apparently the same arrangement Adamaris had made, and at seven Mathilde called Lorraine; no answer, but she left a message. Then they ate Bailey's meal. It was delicious, though he only had beer to serve it with: “With a fish like this, you need Pouilly-Fuissé,” Mathilde told him, and then she had fun teaching him to pronounce it. Afterwards, she did the dishes—she insisted, she wouldn't even let him dry—which gave her a few minutes in his neat, cramped kitchen: one small sink and a green plastic basin to do the rinsing. He had a small glass of rum waiting when she was finished, a thimbleful. “It's almost as old as you are.” They sipped. It was like liqueur. They were standing in front of his gallery of boxers. “You haven't asked me about these,” said Bailey.

“Did you ever do it? Were you a boxer?”

“Fighter. That's what we used to say. I boxed as a kid. I was never very good, but I wasn't half bad either. And I boxed a little in prison.”
He laughed. “I was a criminal, but I never ended up with a fortune, like your Balzac.”

“Who is this one? That's a real signature, isn't it?”

“Floyd Patterson. And he signed it, all right. He was heavyweight champion of the world. I was on the boxing team in prison. He visited—of course that was long after he lost the title. That”—he pointed with the hand holding his glass—“is all I took with me on the plane. I had to fold it, to get it inside my jacket.”

“So he inspired you? As a Panther?”

Bailey laughed at this. “No, no. Not like that. He was more your N double-A C P kind of fighter. A fine example for the young. He was my hero though, and I never gave up on him. Of course he lost. They all do. Liston beat him. But he was a great champion and a decent man. He inspired me as a boy . . . I'm not sure how. You could get out. Be someone. The usual stuff. That's when I was eight or ten—he beat Archie Moore for the title in '56.”

Now Mathilde was silent. She felt ashamed. She sensed how much she'd missed of him—how wide of the mark her resentment had been. She looked at the photograph of Patterson, which he'd taken with him, fleeing capture, into the gamble of his life, the hijacked plane. Which had taken him to
this
life. Did he cling to the idea of revolution in the same kind of way? But then she felt ashamed again; she had no right to condescend to him. His life had been a history, he had a right to his opinion: she could barely get out a sensible question.

He said, after a moment. “So what are you thinking now?”

“What you said before. ‘The future isn't over yet.'”

“I don't think so.” He put his glass down on the bookcase and then he kissed her. She almost swooned, her breath lost in a trembling convulsion of relief. They went to his bed. Her breasts were so swollen with feeling she thought they'd burst. His hands spread her thighs,
and her sex spilt out, and the first press of his flesh inside gave her the strongest orgasm of her life, so different that now it seemed the only one. He enjoyed her slowly, and rather deliberately, only, when he sensed she was close, he picked up a rapid rhythm that ended with him lodged inside her, quite still, so she could come and hang on tight. He left her. His sex glistened in the dark, she heard him breathing, deep and full but smooth. He said softly, “Roll over for me, baby.” Baby. No one had ever called her that. She rolled over. His hands smoothed down her back, and played a little with her buttocks. Yet he didn't quite come inside her from behind, but rather straddled her, squatting over her, thrusting down from his hips and thighs. She gasped, he went in so deep; yet he moved gently, almost casually, taking what she gave as given, not much to get excited over. Perhaps it was his age, he was sedate, enjoying the gulf between urgency and desire. She turned her head back. She could only see his legs, his foot, the pale skin underneath, his toes thrust out for balance. In the sight of him she saw herself. She was one woman, among all the women. She was just another fuck, but she was his fuck now, and that was all that mattered, and she moaned, calling out his name, and he drew back and stroked down, once, twice, and the third time stayed, swelling up, sealing her up inside. Her eyes went wide, she knew what was happening now, surely this was the grip of fate. And then he finished with one long sigh, trembling at first, then turning easy, as he settled on her with a pressure she had to take up on her arms. He eased up. Lifted up. She twisted her head back again, trying to see, wanting to, and knew, with his right hand, he was stripping the last of his semen out of his penis and into her. She let herself down on the bed. Her legs shook. Her thighs were trembling. Her belly twitched. But then his lips were on her neck, and his hands were soothing her. She lay like that a while and then she fell asleep.

When she woke up, the room was dark. Bailey was in the living room, also dark, looking out the window: the lights of a boat were heading out to sea. Of course he wanted her to stay the night, but she explained about Lorraine. He finally accepted this and drove her back. It was almost midnight. There was no light under the older woman's door, so, after all, she didn't knock. In the dark, she lay naked beneath the sheets. But then she made herself get up and put on pyjamas. She closed her eyes. She was so excited she couldn't imagine that she could sleep; but then she did.

T
HURSDAY
, M
AY 5, 2005

1

Lorraine now discovered that it was hard to be frank with herself, even about the smallest matters. She supposed she had suffered a nervous breakdown, and this was apparently its greatest consequence, even more debilitating than the practical restriction that agoraphobia imposed.

She was completely unsure of herself. She was standing on sand: the very act of securing her footing caused it to slide away. Any resolution, even the simplest, began dissolving the moment she formed it—even such an ordinary project as going to the bank, brought about by the practical necessity of changing some money. It was best not to admit to anything, even something as straightforward as this, for it only gave the terror an excuse to assert itself. Everything had to be worked out behind her own back; she had to keep everything secret from herself.

That morning, when she woke up, she certainly knew what she was going to do—what she had to do, since she had only ten convertible pesos in her purse. But it had to be led up to, and carefully; it was best to pretend that nothing was happening at all. She washed, showered, dressed. Only as she put on her makeup did a hint of her intention emerge, for she applied more than her usual touch of lipstick, and took care to outline her eyebrows. But the possibility that she might be going out was only implied, not stated so directly that it might create an occasion for alarm. When she opened the room safe—in the bottom of the wardrobe, and worked by a key—the possibility was made more likely, but wasn't absolutely necessary; after all, she opened it most mornings just to check its contents. It was reasonable to think only about how very inconvenient it was; she had to get onto her knees and push the hem of her long skirt aside, and she wanted to strike a match, it was so dark. Still, she could see that her passport and return ticket were just as she'd left them; also her wallet of traveller's cheques; also the twelve thousand Canadian dollars she had brought for Almado Valdes.

She took out the wallet of traveller's cheques, and now her intention—and the terror it could bring her—seemed to rest on the very brink of her mind; but she was still able to push it away. There was another possibility, after all. The cheques were also denominated in Canadian dollars, one hundred dollars each, exactly like the bills she had brought for Almado—one hundred and twenty of them had scarcely made a bulge in the zippered pocket of her purse. Could she not exchange two of the cheques for two of the bills? She sat back on her heels, the cheque wallet in her hand. She had already discovered that the hotel would not change the cheques but would be happy to give her convertible pesos for the bills. Temptation—desire—hope: these were so acute she had to squeeze her eyes shut.