Private House (17 page)

“What's wrong?” asked Mathilde.

“I'm not sure. But something is.”

“You didn't like him?”

“Did you?”

“How can you say?”

Lorraine said, “I think he stole that ring. And the backpack.”

“The backpack?”

“It was under his chair—the next one, I mean. It belongs to Hugo's girlfriend. I think so, anyway.”

“You met her?”

“Not exactly—”

They had already walked a block or so, but now it was Lorraine who took the lead, Mathilde hurrying to keep up. Mathilde didn't know what to think. She hadn't liked Almado. He had frightened her, although she knew this was partly the result of seeing him in that church; on the street, she would have passed him by without noticing. But Lorraine was clearly upset, and after they'd gone on a little more, just to divert her, she took her arm and pointed. “Isn't that a charming little boy? In the cast?”

“Yes,” said Lorraine. “I saw him before.”

“You said you have a son, and a daughter.” Lorraine merely nodded and Mathilde went on, “I'm never sure. Do I want to have children? I can never answer.”

“You have plenty of time.” And then she said, “I don't know why I care, but I do.” And Mathilde understood she was speaking of Almado, and what had happened in the church.

“You shouldn't get upset. Is it really so important?”

“I don't know. But that man's a thief.”

“Be fair now, you're not sure. And even if he is, what difference does it make? They have to be thieves, in a way. And what can you do about it?”

“I know, I know. But it makes me feel—” Now Mathilde could see that something was happening to her, her face was stricken, her eyes abruptly vacant in a terrible way. Lorraine managed to say, “I'm afraid it's happening again.”

“But we're almost there.”

“I'm sorry.” Lorraine's voice was desperate.

“There's nothing to be frightened of.”

“I want to run.”

“It's all right, I'm right here.”

“I want to run,” she said again.

She tried to run. But her legs had gone stiff and she stumbled, almost fell. Mathilde took her arm. “Listen. It's all right. There's nothing to fear.”

“I know that—”

“Stop then. Here. Lean against me.” Lorraine stopped. Mathilde saw that Lorraine had closed her eyes but she seemed to be listening as Mathilde spoke to her, with a sudden insistence. “Let me tell you something. You're walking like a duck, with your feet turned out. You know why? My grandmother told me. I never liked her. She is the reason I am named Mathilde. But she said I walked like that because I was afraid to let my ass wiggle, and a real woman's ass always wiggles. That's what you have to do,
marcher en se déhanchant
. Walk with your toes pointing forward, like a model.”

Lorraine was mystified. But what Mathilde had said was so bizarre— yet she was so fierce about it—that she did as she was told. She began walking with her toes pointing ahead. Her hips did wiggle, or at least they moved, and it was true, tension passed out of her body. They
reached the Raquel. It was even hotter now, though the sun burned behind sultry, darkening clouds. “Maybe it will rain,” said Mathilde. And then: “You see, it's all right.”

3

“But it's a cake shop,” said Mathilde.
“Une pâtisserie.”

Bailey was behind her. “Down here it is. But go up the stairs.” He pointed over her shoulder. “There.”

You just stepped into the building; the whole front was open. The room was dark once you were out of the sun. On the left, a huge glass display case was filled with Cuban pastries and cakes, sugary, increasingly elaborate, often coloured confections. Cubans and tourists were clustered around it, pointing and choosing. But a bare cement staircase ran up the right wall, rather narrow, encumbered with sitting children, and lacking a handrail, so Mathilde found herself stepping quite carefully. She emerged in front of a counter, with a kitchen behind. Bailey put his hands on her hips, turning her. “This way.” The room she now entered was at the front, over the street. It was an interior that she now thought of as typically Cuban. It was very dark; only a single light bulb, screwed into a socket on the wall, provided illumination. But the shutters of the one large window were thrown open and this made a blinding square of light. Mathilde's eyes took a moment to adjust. Large fans turned slowly on the ceiling. The wood tables were big and crudely made, and only two were occupied: at the back, a tourist couple talked quietly; and at the front, near the margin of the window's brightness, a lone man, bent over, was writing on a sheet of paper.

A young black man, with cheerful, plump cheeks, took their order for beer—Mathilde had now given in, it was useless ordering anything else.

Bailey said, “The man over there is Roger Sebastian. He's the official poet of the Santo Domingo. He'll come over in a moment. Give him one peso. Just don't talk to him about the Beatles, that's all. They're his passion and we'd never get rid of him. You know Castro banned them?”

“You're not serious?” Mathilde laughed, and cast a discreet glance in the poet's direction; and then he came over. He was a pleasant, gentle man, who made them feel welcome. Mathilde bought one poem, written out, very neatly, in longhand. She read it aloud.

Lady of silence

when you rain on clean pitchers

the gulls inspire the light of your eyes,

they don't know

the high dreams shared

and a man is hoping when you sing

to the freedom of love.

“That is very nice,” said Mathilde. “I have a Canadian friend. If you permit me, I will give it as a gift to her.”

Roger Sebastian was pleased. “But then you should have one for yourself.” And he gave her another one: he seemed to have an abundant supply. Mathilde wasn't sure if she should offer to pay for this second opus, and all at once it seemed all too complicated: if she didn't offer she would look ungenerous, and if she did he would have to decide whether to accept or not. She might be exposing him to temptation; giving in and taking the money might leave him feeling ashamed. On the other hand—they had
nothing
. So she did offer. He declined. But he did say, “You see that I write in ballpoint ink? Blue. But I prefer black. A good ballpoint with black ink—if only I could afford it!”

A hint? But then it might be unworthy of her to think so. After he'd gone, Mathilde said, quite spontaneously, “They are so civilized.” And then she added, “I love Havana.”

Bailey smiled. “So you're feeling okay?”

Mathilde patted his arm. “About that, yes. But don't flatter yourself. That's not my only reason.” Still, she picked up his hand, turned it over, and kissed the softness at the base of his thumb. “I'm only worried about Lorraine,” she said.

“I'm a Marxist, not a Freudian.”

“So? I'm neither one—though she said I was a Freudian. And she's a Christian.”

Bailey smiled. “If she's a Christian, take her to a priest. I think there are still some around.”

Mathilde made a face. “What she needs is a doctor. Some tranquilizers, at least.”

“Pills are difficult. Drugs are one place where the American embargo works.”

“The Americans!”

Bailey said, “Well, you're right. They win, I lose. No revolution. The Americans will turn this place into a sweatshop, with a whore-house on the side.”

Mathilde held up her hand. “No politics . . . for the moment.” For now her train of thought, which included Adamaris and Dr. Otero, wasn't one she necessarily wanted to share with Bailey; it was a point, in fact, she had
not
shared. She sipped her beer, then looked at him. “I want to go back to the hotel. I have to phone someone.” Then she added, “I wish I had a cell phone.”

“Get one, then.”

“You can?”

“
You
can. Tourists can. Foreigners.”

“But now you mention it, I've seen Cubans with them.”

“It's another scam. You get one. You get a contract, and they give you a phone. When you leave, you give it to a Cuban, or sell it. They go into the office every month and pay the bill. A lot of Cubacel's customers are more or less criminal.”

“And you call yourself a Marxist! I want one, though. Can you show me?”

They finished their beer and left the Santo Domingo. Mathilde followed Bailey; for a few blocks she knew where she was, then she gave up. But he took her to an office of Cubacel, the Cuban cellular phone company, and there she filled in forms, paid, and was rewarded with a Nokia phone. “The battery is charged,
señora
, but it will be twenty minutes or so before it is active.”

“So who are you calling?” Bailey asked.

“I met a woman, a Cuban. She told me about her doctor—it seems they are friends. Maybe she can get some pills, since she knows her. Why not?” When Bailey looked doubtful, she said. “It's only a question of money.” She passed the phone to Bailey, and the bit of paper on which Adamaris had reluctantly written her number. “You have to talk. It's the way you do it, the neighbour next door. She only speaks Spanish. The woman I want is called Adamaris. Tell her to meet me at the hotel. And give her this number—this phone.”

Bailey looked a little tentative, holding the phone to his ear, and the idea of talking to himself in public obviously made him feel a little strange; but he carried it off.

“She wasn't there. I gave the woman your message.”

Mathilde took Bailey's hand. “I should go back to the hotel. You don't mind too much?”

“You're worried about this lady, aren't you?”

“I like her. This morning, she frightened me almost as much as herself.”

He slipped his hand around her waist. “Don't worry about me. At my age, you need to rest between your pleasures.”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She had already sensed that he was rather modest in public. He walked her part of the way back, and when they parted he only kissed her quickly again. But this made her feel good, in a way. It seemed to imply that their intimacy was now a normal fact of his life. She wandered along to the Plaza de Armas, and sat on a bench, holding her phone in her hand. The plaza was full of trees, and shady, but the heat had grown even more oppressive, the sky low and dark. Suddenly, rain came down. Her bench was under a tree: the spattering on the leaves was deafening. Everyone was running, bags and purses covering their heads, or with their shirts pulled up around their necks. Mathilde, quite dry, thought it was worth a picture. She pushed her cell phone into her bag, and felt about for her digital camera. It wasn't there. She searched again. No. She dumped the bag out on the bench—

The phone was ringing.

“Hello? This is Adamaris. Is this a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. You are very clear. Is it a Motorola or Nokia?”

“What?”

“Is it a Motorola or Nokia? I think myself—”

The rain was coming down, and now dripping though her tree. She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it.

“Nokia.”

“That is the best, I think. You are so lucky—”

“Listen, Adamaris, I need something from your doctor friend. Dr. Otero.”

“This is often difficult.”

“I don't care. It's not for me, but for a friend of mine. Tranquilizers. Valium. Or Librium. Something of that kind.”

“I do not know if this is possible.”

“Find out. Make it possible.” The tree, as it were, suddenly opened up. In a second she was drenched. “Meet me at the hotel this afternoon. You have this number.”

“I cannot promise—”

“This afternoon.”

She cut the connection off, hunching her neck against the downpour. Everything in her bag was spilled across the bench. She felt inside the bag one last time. It was gone. She looked up, remembering. He stole it. Almado. In the church . . . when she'd begun to sneeze and cough and got up. She'd left her purse on the chair. Lorraine was right. A thief. . . . Furious, she stuffed everything back in her bag, and began running along with everyone else.

4

Lorraine sat up when the telephone rang; the guidebook she'd been reading as she fell asleep slipped down her breast and she caught it in her left hand and rolled over, reaching for the handset with her right. It was cordless. She was half asleep. She said “Hello” before she remembered that you had to press Talk.

“Hello?” she said again.

“Is that Mrs. Stowe? This is Hugo, Mrs. Stowe. Do you remember?”

She hadn't recognized his voice. “Yes, of course. How are you?”

“Good. And how are you?”

“Very well, thank you. I was asleep. I'm afraid I'm a little fuzzy.”

“I can call you back later if it would be more convenient.”

“No, that's fine. Almado came. You found him. I want to thank you.”

“You're welcome, Mrs. Stowe. It wasn't hard. It was . . . like looking at an old passport photo of myself.”

“He gave you my message?”

“Yes.”

“I thought his English would be better. I wasn't always sure he understood.”

“Really? We spoke Spanish.”

“Oh, yes . . . I was forgetting that. Anyway, I wanted us all to meet. I thought we could have dinner. I was reading in my guidebook, there is a famous
paladar
, La Guarida. Could you come?”

“That is very nice of you. Not tonight—”

“No.”

“Or tomorrow. I could come on Saturday.”

“All right. Good. I'll make a reservation. Seven-thirty?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“You'll tell Almado?”

“Yes . . . Look, Mrs. Stowe, he said . . . well . . . he was wondering about the money.”