Private House (23 page)

“I suppose that's what I've been thinking about. But you know what is interesting? It's as if I'm leaving forever, as though I can never come back.”

“Well, I sure can't visit you.”

“You are absolutely sure of that, Bailey?”

“Uh-huh.” He smiled. “I'm black and I can't really speak Spanish, but in one way I'm one hundred percent Cuban. I would kill to get a passport that would let me out of this place . . . even if I did come back.”

“You couldn't get papers of any kind? You wouldn't have to get to France. How far is Martinique?”

“Too far. Also, too long ago. The Algerians wouldn't take me, the Libyans wouldn't. They got no interest in ‘liberation' any more. No one does, it's all water under the bridge. Like me. I might have stood a chance with the Taliban but I couldn't have taken
them
.” He shook his head. “This is my here and now and forever.”

Mathilde was quiet. Then she said, “It will break Adamaris's heart, but I am going to leave you the cell phone. We should be able to talk. And I'll send you money—”

But Bailey was already shaking his head. “I get by. That's okay. I don't want your money—”

“So what
do
you want?” But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt . . . cheap . . . that was the English word.
Facile
. That was better. Hadn't the Anglo-Saxons stolen that one? She said, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. You must let me take it back.”

He smiled. “I'm not going to worry about it.”

“I worry about one thing, the Americans. Castro dies, they move in. What happens to you?”

“It won't quite work like that. But you're right, it's a problem. I'm working on it—”

“I can help.
If
I can help—”

“Okay.”

His drink came. He drank it slowly, twirling the glass with every sip, relishing it. He relished her the same way, she thought; not exactly love but . . . She closed her eyes. Can I dream? Can I dream of a different world?

Bailey put down his glass on the Habaguanex coaster with its little scene of Havana long ago. “Come,” Mathilde said, “I want to go to the Plaza de Armas and look at the bookstalls.”

“But they're all in Spanish, and most of them are terrible. All you'd ever find in French would be speeches by Che.”

“I don't care.” She took his arm and began leading him out. She didn't explain that all she wanted now was to do something normal with him, something any other couple might do. And as she passed through the door into the blinding afternoon sun, she remembered something Adamaris had said,
I want to do my job without interference and have an ordinary life . . . that's all.
She was, in her own way, a perceptive woman: in Cuba that was clearly a great deal to ask.

2

“I want you to agree in advance,” said Lorraine. “This is my party.”

“‘Your party'?” Mathilde missed the word; she was tired. But then she understood. “But that's not fair, Lorraine. We should divide it. I will pay for Bailey and Adamaris. You will pay for Hugo and Almado.”

Their taxi was lurching and jolting down Neptuno Street, away from Prado; Mathilde had one hand on the back of the front seat, bracing herself, and Lorraine turned her head, looking out the window. The sun was down and dusk was settling over the city. The ruined old buildings merged with it, as though twilight was their natural element. Lorraine's own feelings matched this well enough, and she thought, You are pathetic, and a fallacy. Hugo wasn't coming, she was certain of it; and beyond this certainty a pit of dark doubt opened up, full of cruelty and horror.

Yet she wasn't ready to bring her anxieties into the open, and just as she was about to point out that if Hugo didn't come, Mathilde would be paying more than her share, she cut herself off. “Are you sure? I expect it will be fairly expensive. And I could charge it up to Murray's estate. I think it would serve him right.”

“But Murray can't be blamed for Adamaris. She is
totally
my fault.”

“I don't think she's that bad. But all right, let's split it. Down the middle. That would be simplest.”

“Good,” said Mathilde, stretching her arm out again as the car bumped and dropped like a plane in turbulence. Lorraine looked away. I'm such a fool, she thought. She wanted to scream blue murder
and had ended up being polite, worrying about the bill. Frustration twisted inside her. She thought, What would happen if I blurted it out? What would happen if I just came out and said it? Yet she knew she wouldn't.

Mathilde said, “You'd never expect to find a great restaurant here.”

“Well, it's a
paladar
. I think it has to be in a private home.”

The driver turned around. “Is apartment. Is old building. You see.”

Now they turned a corner, heading toward the Malecón. This street was empty and there were no lights; at the very end of a dark, narrowing vista a wedge of paler sky still hung above the sea. “I wouldn't like to come here on my own,” said Mathilde.

But they weren't on their own; Bailey had stepped out of the shadows, and was waiting at the curb as the cab drew in. Their driver had been right. La Guarida was in a flat-roofed, three-storey building, with elaborate balconies, its blackened stone facade withdrawing into the darkness. Lorraine paid him. “What about Hugo?” she asked Bailey right away.

“We just got here.”

She looked down the dark street, wondering which direction he'd come from—if he came: and she didn't even notice Adamaris emerge from the doorway, and stroll over to join them. She held a cigarette in her upturned hand and watched Lorraine. Then she said, “Why don't we go up? We can get our table and you—”

“That's all right,” said Mathilde. “We can all wait.”

But Lorraine was shaking her head. “No, no. She's right. I'll wait here. You go up. All of you.” Adamaris turned a smile of triumph toward Mathilde.

Bailey said, “Well, I'm going to wait here with you.”

“All right. But you—you go on,” said Lorraine. She looked at Mathilde as she said this, then glanced thankfully at Adamaris: for
this was what she'd wanted, a chance to speak with Hugo alone, to find out the truth. And there was, after all, a ray of hope; it was still possible that her fears existed only in her mind, like the fears that provoked her absurd attacks. Almado, who had been Murray's lover,
her
Murray's lover, could be completely innocent, and a reunion with jokes and good fellowship might still be possible. Perhaps Bailey had sensed this. He stood quietly beside her and he felt her tension, the rise of her body on the ball of one foot, as a coco-taxi, way down the street, chugged into view, then zigzagged toward them, like a scene from an old war movie, a German motorcycle dodging through mines. In a purplish swirl of exhaust, the scooter pulled in. And it was so dark that there was a moment of indecision; Lorraine wasn't sure if it was Hugo and she strained to see—for he hadn't got the address quite right, he was three buildings down—but it was Almado and her whole body slumped. Yes, it was Almado. His hair was darker and slicked back with brilliantine and there was something about his face—he must have used makeup, eyebrow liner—that made him look more like Hugo than Hugo looked like him. He seemed neater than he had in the church. He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt, and dark pants; he smelled, as he came closer, of cologne. He nodded—a kind of bow—to Lorraine. “Good evening,” he said, and then he smiled at Bailey. “Hello.”

This was perfectly friendly, and emphasized Lorraine's rather different tone as she rushed past introductions. “Where is Hugo?”

“He said he would walk. You know, his place is not too far.” And then Almado looked about, as if expecting to find Hugo in the shadows. “It's not so late,” Almado said. “I am not too late?”

“No,” said Lorraine, “of course not. It's perfectly all right.” She looked at Bailey. “But you two go up.” And only then did she say,
“Bailey, this is Almado,” though she immediately passed on to “He'll only be a moment, I'm sure. You both go up and I'll wait here.”

Almado shrugged. “Why don't we wait together. It's a lovely night, don't you think?” And he put his hands behind his back, like a soldier, taking up his post.

Lorraine smiled then—a smile that was an acknowledgment of defeat, but also a declaration of enmity, which Bailey caught. He didn't quite understand, and tried to ease the moment. “We might as well go up, Lorraine. He'll find his way when he comes.”

What could she do? What accusation could she bring that wouldn't sound hysterical? She had no choice but to follow Bailey through the immense doorway—the door, swung half open, reached the full height of the first storey, like the door of a citadel. Beyond this was gloom and glory: a single dangling light bulb revealed the ruins of splendour and memories of grandeur lost: a vast, cavernous hall of stone and marble. At the far end, a great staircase rose, in a sweeping curve, to disappear in the dark above. One side of this grand ascent was guarded by a stone newel post surmounted by a Grecian maiden, her chipped and scratched countenance demurely turned away; while the other was held by a small Cuban boy—he was camped on the third step up— who flashed them a dazzling smile and held out his hand. “A peso to take my picture.” Bailey said something in Spanish to shoo him away, but Lorraine reached for her bag and gave him a coin. We can both be innocents among the ruins, she thought. They climbed the stairs in silence—this haunted desolation imposed restraint, even as it revelled in excess. On a landing, a series of statements, signed
Fidel
, had been etched into the wall—in red. Blood?
Por Eso Decimo !Patria O Muerte! . . . Sin Patria no queremos la vida. . . . Sin dignidad no queremos
la vida. . . . Sin justicia no queremos la vida. . . .
Had Hugo known dignity? justice? Had he died without them?

They went on. The place was an apartment building; dark halls conducted the eye past dim doors, and at the far end of one a woman, in a shabby nightdress, leaned on a mop in a pail: and when they reached their destination, they were required to knock—officially, of course, they were entering a private home. Initially, this impression was almost confirmed; the young woman who met them was very quiet and modest, and they stepped into a small hall that seemed quite ordinary. But with a rather shy smile and a somewhat tentatively inviting hand—she was anticipating the shock that awaited them—she directed them around a corner into a small, candle-lit room as bizarre as a mummy's tomb. Lorraine stopped dead, and looked about, stunned. It was not a tomb: it was a room filled with icons. Images—significance—were everywhere, pell-mell, crazy-quilt, softly shining from the dark. There were five or six tables. Plus an armchair, plus a bookcase. And standing among them were two large statues, almost life-size. Christ, with His bleeding hands, blessed them, and farther back St. John echoed this gesture. A clock ticked. And on the walls, like a dream of Old Russia, or a hermit's cell, Christ hosted the Last Supper and suffered His Agony while His Mother Ascended, over and over: in square frames and triangular frames and round frames martyrs and saints fought, face to face, for every inch of the golden walls of the room. And that was only one angle, the key shot, of this remarkable vision. For above the clock, Rosita Fornés, the great Cuban actress and pioneer of the facelift, sneered down, and there was Marilyn, too. A film projector was mounted on a cabinet; beyond it, a rose blossomed from a ceramic elephant's trunk: across the way, a white mask grinned down upon them. Not a tomb, Lorraine thought; it was a film set or an altar; and appropriately enough, in either case, its effect was partly attained by lighting.
Candles burned on the tables, sconces glowed against the walls. All these varnished pictures, cabinets, polished chairs, china statuettes of saints, the painted surfaces of the Christ and his Apostle, picked up this light and sent it back and forth, paradoxically creating the darkest mixing of the pious and the pagan. Mathilde and Adamaris were sitting at a table just inside the room, Adamaris with a distinct look of satisfaction on her face. Mathilde said, “Welcome to Cuba.”

Bailey chuckled. “That's not bad. More or less, this is what they worship.
All
of it.”

And Lorraine said to herself that Fidel, down on the landing, was perfectly in keeping. She sat down—she was facing a wall where Christ walked on the water and a simple horseshoe warned the evil eye away—and discovered that Almado was next to her. Why not? Boy, girl, boy, girl. . . . She managed to say politely, “Hugo did say that he was coming?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

She didn't know how to respond and now Adamaris was saying, “You have seen
Strawberry and Chocolate
?”

“This is a film,” said Mathilde.

“I saw it,” Bailey said. “I remember now—it was here, wasn't it? Where the gay guy lived?”

Adamaris looked at Lorraine. “In this film, a homosexual man was falling in love with a young student, very loyal to the Party. This is where he lived, these sculptures are just the same. Of course, in the end, he had to leave Cuba.”

“Why strawberry and chocolate?”

“Well, strawberry . . . ice cream . . . that is gay. Chocolate is for . . .”

Adamaris was frowning and Mathilde supplied “Straight.”

“I'm afraid,” said Lorraine, “that I'm plain vanilla.”

“I got no choice,” said Bailey. “I'm chocolate.” He looked at Almado, with no particular significance—simply, perhaps, that he was the other male. “What about you?”

Before he could reply, Adamaris, looking at Almado, said something to him in Spanish and he laughed. “No, no. Only English with our visitors.”