Private House (20 page)

Finally she said, a little lamely, “The beach at Playa, you mean?”

That morning, Mathilde had pleased the young woman in the white cap by having an egg. Now she put down her fork. “Yes. It's not very far. Wouldn't it be nice to get out of the city?”

“I think I would just be in the way.”

“Of course not.” She laughed. “I knew you were going to say that. Listen, I want you to meet him and tell me what you think.”

Now it seemed impossible to decline. Lorraine didn't so much tell a lie as invent one. “Well, I was planning on the art gallery—this morning.”

“Why not? We can pick you up there.”

“You're sure, Mathilde?”

“Yes. Of course. You should wait outside . . . twelve-thirty? We'll have all afternoon.”

In her room, getting ready, Lorraine felt mildly guilty, and she hurried, because she didn't want to run into Mathilde on the way out.

She didn't. She hurried up to the Plaza de San Francisco. A dozen taxis were stationed on the far side, in front of the old customs house, and she had one drive her up to the National Gallery. It would take time, but she felt she had to. Mathilde would naturally ask her what she'd seen, and she'd want to say something halfway intelligent. She hurried inside and paid. She found the building somewhat confusing; up in an elevator, and then progress by a series of ramps. She managed to get lost several times, and though the place was virtually empty— there were certainly more guards than visitors—it took longer than she'd expected to find what she was looking for, the Wilfredo Lam, which was obviously what you
had
to see.

She made herself take mental notes as she looked at them.
El Tercer Mundo
: a large canvas, monochromatic, strange figures, like praying mantises, but with feet, stepping through darkness. Or
Hurracán
: also very big, a greyish, dark space filled with elongated, tubular creatures.
Another hinted at Chagall.
La Silla
was a lovely still life. But her favourite, she decided—it was best to have a favourite—was
Contrapunto
, diamonds and arrowheads playing off each other in a wonderful collision of shapes. That was enough. She hurried out.

It was already ten-thirty. On the street, she took her map from her bag and found her bearings. Consulado wasn't far, but it was still a walk: and the street ran almost from the Malecón—but not quite— all the way to the Capitol over in Parque Central. She consulted her anxiety, a little wryly—Am I just nervous or is it a breakdown day? Yesterday had been wonderful, all the way to the Convent and back without anything happening; but there was no use pretending: her panic had been lurking, waiting to pounce. And she still wasn't sure which twitch of her psyche set off the fatal bound. Still—she now had the pills. And a bottle of water to take one with; so she ought to be all right. Besides, there was no time to waste. She started up Colon, and across the Prado; Consulado ran parallel to it, was in fact the very next street, one block inside Centro, the downtown of abandoned stores and offices all jammed in with small apartment buildings and a few grimy houses. At the corner, she had a choice; turning right would take her toward the Malecón, left towards Parque Central—on a hunch, she went that way. She knew what she was looking for, however, the sticker with a triangle that marked a legal
casa particular
. What she hadn't bargained for was the number of them—Consulado was clearly a hotel row in the making. One of these even had a lighted sign over the sidewalk,
HOSPEDAJE
—
LODGING
—
PRIVACIDAD
. It was an apartment building. She walked across the narrow street to the opposite sidewalk and looked up, counting the floors. All the windows had balconies, flagged with laundry as usual, and antennae protruded here and there. She smiled: there was a palm tree on the roof—from her angle, it seemed to be growing out of it. Four floors
altogether. . . . She went in and discovered once again that Hugo had been right: most Cubans speak a little English but very few speak a lot. However, she was able to establish fairly certainly that he wasn't living there. Nor was he in the next four places she checked. Now she was worried about the time, and was wondering if she dared go back to the gallery, and beg off when Mathilde came, and then come back here and keep trying. But that would mean telling a lie right to her face and she didn't know if her conscience could stand it. At the same time, she told herself she mustn't rush, she mustn't get anxious, that was the surest way of . . . but she didn't want to think about it. As it happened, she didn't have to. At five minutes to twelve, two
casas
later, she found where Hugo was staying.

This was in an old, dark, stone house of three storeys, squashed between two taller cement structures that dated from the fifties—they stole the sun. The landlady was a short, plump woman in a full skirt and a ruffled blouse, with gold hoops in her ears, so she looked like a Cuban gypsy. She had a small mole over her upper lip. She apparently lived on the ground floor, in the first apartment, but a wall had been built to form a hall and make the staircase private.

“Mr. Hugo? He is not here.”

“But you know him? He is staying here?”

“Number three,” she said. “At the top.”

Lorraine felt a wonderful rush of relief. “He isn't in?”

The landlady shook her head.

“Could I leave him a message?”

She smiled, and cocked her head expectantly. “Is possible, yes.”

“I would like to write it down. Could I do that?”

“Yes, is possible.”

She pulled her Filofax out of her purse, and then made herself write slowly and clearly.
Hugo, I would like to talk to you. I
must
talk to you. Please call me at the hotel. I will be there at 9 p.m. Or come if you prefer and ask at the front desk. I
must
see you. Also, I told Almado to invite you to dinner at La Guarida, it's in all the guidebooks, on Saturday at 7.30. I don't know whether he has told you this, but I want you, please, to come. But I also want to see you first. This is
urgent
. Lorraine Stowe.
She folded the page over and began to hand it to the woman, but then stopped herself.

“Could I leave this in his room?”

She shook her head. “Locked.”

“No, I wouldn't go inside. Could I slip it under the door?”

Lorraine made a sliding motion with the note and the woman pursed her lips, and brought her hands together in front of her, twisting her fingers together. Then she released her hands and nodded. “Okay. Yes? Up. Three.” She held up three fingers.

Lorraine nodded, and hesitated an instant, wondering if the woman intended coming with her; apparently not. She set off, up the stairs. It was very dark; each landing had a light bulb but none of them were on, and the gloom hung in the air like dust. The doors all had brass numbers, which she noted were carefully polished. She reached the top: number 3. She listened, still wondering if the landlady would be following, then knocked lightly. She put her ear to the door, but she could hear nothing except the sound of her breathing. Was anyone inside? She bent down, almost to one knee. No light came from under the door, only, against the tips of her fingers, a wispy draft. She flicked the note through the gap, and then stood up, and now she knocked firmly, feeling almost reckless, and at once stepped back, awaiting whatever apparition might emerge. But none did. And all at once, the emotion she'd been feeling evaporated and she was only staring at a blank, closed door. She slumped inside. She realized how much she'd wanted him to come. She made herself wait
a moment longer. No. Turning, she started down the stairs, treading on the balls of her feet now, as if she didn't want anyone to hear her, or know that she'd come. And it seemed to be this stealth that summoned, on the second landing, the creak of an opening door.

She was already by—had turned, in fact, to take the next step down. She froze. She looked back. She was frightened in the dark. “Hello?”

“He's not there.” The voice was soft, and English—British. The door opened a little more, but not completely, and she could now see a round-shouldered man with a bland, white face. She turned around, and stepped back onto the landing. Closer to, he was one of those pale, soft men; his skin was all over rough, with old scars from acne or chickenpox. He had very fine, reddish hair. He realized he'd frightened her. “Sorry,” he said. “I just heard your step.”

“It's so dark,” she said, apologetically: she wasn't afraid now, hearing his accent.

He nodded. He looked up the stairs. “No one up there.”

“You don't know where he is?” The man shook his head, and she asked: “But you've seen him? Hugo?”

He shrugged. “Once or twice, just passing. Didn't know his name.”

“Did he have any visitors?”

He grinned suddenly: his teeth were quite white, but large, long, rabbit-like. “No lady friends!”

Absurdly, she felt slightly abashed, having apparently been put into this category, and she felt, at the tip of her tongue, a remark about how
very
dark it was on the landing; but she didn't bother. And then, from inside the room, a man's voice called, “What is it, Phil?”

The man turned, letting go of the edge of the door as he did so; it swung open a little more and now Lorraine could see in. A light was on, a big yellow patch. A young man was standing in it, naked to the
waist, holding a bottle of beer by the neck. He was wearing jeans. They were the kind with metal buttons in the fly, and the top two or three were undone; a line of fine black hair curled neatly up to his navel but his chest was hairless. Turning, Phil caught hold of the edge of the door, and straightened his arm, so the door closed and the young man disappeared. Phil said, back into the room, “Jack, do you know anything about that fellow upstairs?” Lorraine heard a step, and then a hand took the door, above Phil's hand, and it moved open; the young man, Jack, was standing there right behind Phil, and Phil turned back to face Lorraine. Jack looked at Lorraine and said, “You mean Hugo?”

“Yes—”

Phil said, “You know his name?”

“We chatted a couple of times.” Jack brought the bottle to his mouth, and tilted the neck very slightly; he sipped. Then, looking over Phil, he said to Lorraine, “He's left, I think. Gone.”

“But he can't have gone.” Lorraine said this very quickly, without thinking; she was shocked to hear the desperate note in her voice.

Jack shrugged. “I don't know about that. He had a bag. I asked him where he was going and he laughed. ‘I'm like Alice going down the rabbit hole,' he said.”

Phil smiled. “He was probably just going out.”

His smile, with his rabbity teeth, came together with what Jack had said and made Lorraine dizzy. She tried to smile but couldn't, quite.

Jack said, “I don't know that anyone's been up there but him.”

Phil said, “Yesterday, I don't think I heard anyone up there at all.”

Now Lorraine felt a stab of desperation, quite different from her panic but as sharp; it took all her strength to keep her voice calm. “I left a message, but if you see him . . . could you just say that Lorraine called? Mrs. Stowe.”

Jack, sipping from the bottle again, nodded. Phil said, “I doubt if we will, but if I do . . .”

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” said Jack.

She turned away, and continued down the stairs, quicker now, hurrying past the landlady into the sun.

2

“Only on the principle of age before beauty,” said Lorraine, finally agreeing to get into the front of the Volkswagen.

Bailey said, “I'm not so sure about that, Lorraine. I think we're holding our end up.”

At once, because of their age, Lorraine and Bailey made a connection, and they played with it.

Mathilde, perhaps, was a little sensitive. “You're being silly. And I don't mind. We're not going far.”

Lorraine settled herself, and laughed. “You don't know how this takes me back! How old is it?”

Bailey nodded toward the back seat, and Mathilde. “Older than she is.”

“You know they're making them again? In a way.”

“I've seen pictures. But I bet it's just not the same.”

It was a pleasant drive. Once they got going, it was too noisy to talk, but that was all right. Lorraine sat back and relaxed. She liked Bailey. Mathilde, leaning forward, rested her forearms along the backs of the front seats and rested her chin on her hands, looking between them. Lorraine turned and gave her a quick smile, trying to say, You've done very well! And then Bailey, taking his right hand off the wheel, reached back and stroked Mathilde's hair, just a touch.
Lorraine wondered if this was for her benefit, a declaration of their intimacy; but she decided it wasn't, for it seemed such an obvious, settled fact that there was no need to underline it. Finally they glimpsed the ocean. It sparkled blue and green under the white, hot sun. Bailey explained about the different beaches at Playas del Este— where Habaneros go for a swim—but it was too noisy in the car and Lorraine didn't pay much attention. “It's a perfect day for the beach,” was the best she could do in response. Bailey parked, and they walked through a glade of pines—that was a surprise—toward the water. There were changing huts. Alone with Mathilde, Lorraine said, “I like him. And he's very handsome. A very fine man.”

Mathilde was pleased. As they came out, she said, “It's interesting, hearing you talk. It takes him back to the time before he came here, and he usually doesn't like to talk about that.”

“Did he really hijack a plane?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“It's incredible, when you think about it.”

“I read the newspapers before I came. They tried to arrest him, about some old robbery. He was in the Panthers by then, they were only trying to get him for that. He shot a policeman. He was wounded—the policeman—and he died in a hospital.”