Private House (33 page)

Mathilde, frustrated, blurted, “Oh, what is she doing!”

She looked toward the water; standing up—almost losing her balance—she could see Lorraine, not so easily from here because they were lower down, but it was plain she was still swimming out; and too far to shout. She looked back to the wall. Adamaris had disappeared, but from here you couldn't see the sidewalk or the road, only the wall and the curved standards of the lamps. They weren't lit yet, though the light was fading fast. Bailey said nothing; he was taking off his clothes. As she understood what he was doing, she said, “You can't do this!”

He was in his shorts, boxers, which were white and seemed loose on his lean, hard hips. “We have to get her,” he said.

“You're not that good a swimmer!” In a crouch, he picked his way over the rocks, down toward the water—Mathilde began to follow. “Bailey, I'm a better swimmer than you are, you know that—”

He was shaking his head, looking out to sea. “Stay here and keep your eye on us. It'll be dark soon. Don't lose us whatever you do.”

“Bailey—”

But he'd already dived, a shallow dive but quite neat, better than he usually did; and he thought well enough of it to stay under the
water, breasting along, then surfaced smoothly, falling into his crawl. She was right, he wasn't a great swimmer, he'd only learned after he'd come here, and yet he loved it, the pleasure of the smooth over-rushing water on his back, the weight of it holding him up as he reached—remembering to keep his elbow high—and stroked back toward his hip, finding the rhythm of it, marking it with his little kick, letting it work into his body and his body work into the water, never straining, always keeping your breathing easy, so you almost put yourself to sleep. After a certain point, his shorts slipped over his hips, but he didn't want to stop to take them off, so he dove again, letting the water tug them over his thighs and his legs, until only one ankle still held them, and he only had to straighten his foot, and then he was free. Now the water streamed over him and he felt the full length of himself, his shape given him by the sea, from which he emerged, only now becoming aware of the larger scene he was swimming in. Looking first right and then left, he sought for landmarks, and then he rolled over for three strokes on his back, finding the shore, Mathilde so much smaller at the water's edge, shading her eyes to keep him in sight. And rolling back, he changed to the breaststroke, the last stroke he had learned, trying to catch a glimpse of Lorraine. She was still far ahead, and enough to his left to make him alter course, but when he had done that, he slowed, back in the breaststroke, to keep her in view. She was swimming strongly, purposefully, as if—supposing she wanted to drown herself—she thought there was only one particular spot where you could properly do it. It was puzzling. He slipped back into his crawl. What was she doing? What was she thinking and feeling? But now, as he stroked along, it was his own feelings that filled him, and what he felt was release, freedom. It was a feeling he often felt in the water, it was the pleasure swimming gave him. You were in your own world, free of that other one. But what he felt now was more intense, a fierce exhilaration. He had cast off his cares, there was no longer
what if ?
only
now
. What was out there? Florida—Africa. Where could the Gulf Stream take him? If he could only keep swimming, he would finally reach freedom, he'd be free not only of his past and the island, but from the absurdity they represented, the imposition of meaning upon the world. Was this what Lorraine had discovered? Was she swimming so strongly toward the same goal? His strength was now renewed with each stroke, he could swim for miles on this purple sea, in this golden light, for miles, forever. All around him was the great world, the sea rippling with the colours of the greater universe beyond, and the sky drawing down, full of gentleness, and peace, and over there lay the line of the horizon, golden with glory, beckoning, and he felt a call,
hurry up, hurry up!
He wanted to shout with joy. Yes, it was his world, they couldn't take that away from him, this light, this sky, this darkness, like the night settling on the African plain he had come from, he and everyone else, if they only had the strength to admit it. But to hell with them. He was going home. All he had to do was keep swimming, and he'd get there,
soon, soon
.

“Bailey? Bailey! Where are you going?” The voice calling him was mildly out of breath, and so all the more shrilly feminine—perhaps despite itself, for now it dropped a tone. “I'm over here.
This
way.”

Bailey stopped—and was all at once exhausted. He began gasping for breath. A hot flush passed over his skin; and then he felt cold. And all he could hear was a roaring in his ears and the lapping of the water below.

Lorraine was twenty yards away—he'd gone past her—treading water, in a patch of the emerald sea, set in gold.

“Where were you going?” she called.

His arms were lead. His shoulders throbbed.

“That was quite a swim. The last hundred metres must have been some kind of record.”

She sounded perfectly normal. Meanwhile, he was going to sink, he was sure of it. He rolled over on his back, stuck his arms out, floated. His chest heaved beneath his chin. Above his head the sky was wonderfully dark and close, almost as dark as he was. He closed his eyes. He listened to the pounding of his heart.

“Are you all right?” The water swirled, she was moving toward him. A ripple passed under him, gently. She drifted by, near. “Are you okay? I didn't mean
you
to come . . . that's why I called Adamaris.”

He wanted to sound like himself. He tried, gasping, “Lorraine . . .” That was all he could manage.

“I didn't want to disturb you two. Not today.”

“What do you mean, you didn't want us to come? Mathilde was terrified.”

“I'm sorry. She called you, didn't she? Adamaris?”

“You're all right?”

“Of course I'm all right. I'm a far better swimmer than you are.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“But then what in hell are you doing? Mathilde was afraid you were going to drown yourself.”

“Don't be silly. I went for a swim. I only wanted a towel. In all the guidebooks, it says the Cubans don't like nudity. You know, there are no nude beaches. I wasn't sure it would be dark by the time I came back in. You understand, I'm naked?”

“Lorraine, you were listening to Yemaya.”

“Bailey, you read Karl Marx and hijacked a plane: I listened to Yemaya and went for a swim. Of course I wasn't going to kill myself.”

“That's what she told you? To swim out here?”

She didn't want to tell him. She'd made a fool of herself again, she'd made a fool of herself from the beginning . . . But then she stopped herself. No, she hadn't. This time, she really had done something she wanted. And she'd certainly tried to keep it private, all her own business; but apparently if she couldn't mind her own business, sometimes other people couldn't mind theirs. Which was fair enough . . . and Bailey's swim had earned him something. “You know who Yemaya is? Well, she's the god of the sea. Or goddess, I'm not sure. Don't laugh! I was listening to her. Or you can say I was just thinking, if you like.” She rolled over, floating on her back, talking up to the sky. It was easier this way, she was making it up, but it was also true. “When I was a little girl, and went into the water—if I began swimming out—my mother would always shout at me to come back. She was frightened. I could hear it in her voice. I'm not sure why, because I was always a very good swimmer. But I suppose somewhere I began to be afraid. I hated it, though. And I never knew if I was afraid or if I was only hearing my mother in my mind. I'd swim out, and I could hear her—so I had to swim out farther. Even if I did go out too far, and I thought I should come back, I was never sure. And in fact as soon as I did turn back, I
would
be afraid.” She rolled over again, treading water. It was dark now; they were as far below the horizon as you could be. And so even though the water stretched out for miles, everything felt very close, almost cozy, like a swimming pool. Now she'd started, she felt better, talking . . . “That's what I couldn't understand about these attacks, whatever they were. I kept wondering what I was afraid of, because there wasn't anything to fear. But that's the point. I was afraid, period. And that's how I learned. Anyway, Bailey, whether you believe it or not, Yemaya told me to swim out, and just keep swimming, and she'd make sure that I'd only hear my own voice, that I could trust it—she'd block out my mother somehow—some godly power—and so when I turned back it would be all on my own. So that's what I did. It was wonderful. I could swim as far as I wanted—as
I
wanted, you see—and when I was ready to turn back, that was fine, I'd just find what I was looking for. That's the other thing she said. When I turned back, I'd find what I truly believed in.”

“Lorraine, you're crazy.” He laughed, he'd got his breath back that much. “You got to learn to stay out of the sun.”

“Didn't I say you'd laugh?”

“I thought you were religious. I thought you were, whatever it is—”

“Anglican, you mean? Well, if a leap of faith can take you to Jesus Christ and the Trinity, I guess it can take you to Yemaya. That's how
they
go—from our saints to their gods. In a way, they're right, there's no difference. I'm not sure any more about the natural superiority of monotheism. What's wrong with having more gods?”

“Okay. So now you believe in Santeria—Yemaya?”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” She sank down, keeping her mouth closed but letting the water cool her lips. “I don't know that I believe in anything now except . . .” Her eyes were looking off as she spoke.

“What?”

“Look.”

He turned in the water, following her gaze. What he saw was surely a mirage, or perhaps its reverse, for this vision rose out of the shimmering sea, gold above its purple, the city, trapped by the sun's last rays, Habana, fragile as a scene painted on silk, clinging to its slip of sand as the night closed in. Seen from the surface of the sea, the very skin of the earth, it was improbably beautiful, and courageous beyond measure—hanging there, hanging on—thrown up by history but now outside it, an ancient ruin where humans dwelled, worshipping old gods and renewing life. Bailey felt his breath catch in his throat.
Could he really have wanted to leave it behind? It would be gone soon enough, anyway, replaced by some version of Miami so vile Americans would call it Paradise. But then he laughed. You couldn't live there, that was for sure, but she was right, he might as well believe in it, that's all it was good for. “You're crazy,” he said again. Lorraine didn't reply. She was considering the problem before them. She could see Mathilde, on shore, waving a light. They weren't
that
far out. There was no current and the water was warm. As long as you could swim, as long as you could
float . . .
After a moment, Bailey saw what she was thinking. “Can you make it back?” he asked.

Now she laughed. “Of course. But I'm a little worried about you. Don't get too far away and
shout
if you get into trouble.”

With this, she put her face in the water and began to swim.

5

Only a few people were standing near the front of the church—Iglesia y Convento de la Merced—and for a moment Lorraine was afraid it was closed; but she passed inside and felt herself swallowed up by the strange light that illumined the place, the flicker of candles reflected from the faces of the white saints who had become black gods.

She stood at the back, and looked along the nave, toward Our Lady: dressed in purest white and crowned by Her golden halo, She rose serenely above Her altar. She was so high up, She seemed already in Ascension, and the marble stairs, lifting on either side in sweeping curves, seemed to climb to Heaven.

Lorraine made the sign of the cross, and then strolled down the left aisle. She was tired, her shoulders ached, and yet she'd enjoyed the walk: it was good to stretch her legs. Her bag, wrapped around her wrist, swung at her side—the weight of paper money! But this
was why she'd come to Cuba. She wasn't going to take it back with her. Oh, she sympathized with Jesus—just get rid of it as quickly as you can!

Murray. Almado. Hugo. What had happened to them and between them? The trouble was, so much had happened to her as well. She thought again of the dumper. Had she seen something real, or had it merely been an illusion, her own Shroud of Turin— which she'd never believed before? But she'd believed in Yemaya. As good as. As Murray had once told her, the real test of faith wasn't skepticism, but a miracle—
I hate the damn things
—that's when you truly had to keep your nerve; you didn't believe
because of
more but
in spite of
. Yes, if she left the money, and Almado found it, she would be giving it to a murderer. On the other hand . . . she couldn't quite be sure. Bailey
had
killed, he was a murderer by certain lights, and
he
was certain the other way. They'd talked about it, resting, as they'd swum in. Crimes don't happen that way. Two guys get drunk and steal a car, or goad each other into sticking up a liquor store. If anything had happened, he concluded, it was just a deal. Almado would get the money and buy Hugo's passport and his ticket. Hugo would wait a few days and report them stolen. Yes, that could be true, it made a lot of sense. But then—it was the conclusion of Adamaris—it might be exactly the other way around, and Almado who was the victim, killed solely for the cash, and they'd dined that night with Hugo in disguise . . . with someone, in any case, who hadn't known that the only ice cream Murray ever touched was chocolate. How ingenious, if that was true. But the explanation was probably simpler still; she'd never met Almado, it had been Hugo all the time, playing all the roles. “I come to Cuba a lot,” he'd said that first day. Had he learned to scam—or had he taught them? In any case, all these possibilities, terrible and less so,
certainly meant she didn't have an easy conscience. But so what? She rarely did.