Private House (34 page)

She walked around the church, seeking the perfect spot, but decided on the prayer rail—a hundred candles burning to Santa Barbara—that was just inside the entrance. No one was looking. The money was in a paper bag; she slipped it, pushed it, in behind. It was a goodly sum, no doubt; though she'd kept something for Father Rodriguez—Murray wouldn't mind—which she'd drop off tomorrow before going to the airport; and she must remember, too, that she'd promised to rent a cell phone for that amazing Cuban girl. But all that was tomorrow. How incredible it seemed. She would be getting on a plane. She'd been here forever, that's what it felt like, and so a whole lifetime would be left behind her. She thought of St. Paul and Timothy; she'd been the worst kind of widow—surely—a tattler, wandering from home to home, probably waxing wanton too, but she was leaving that behind as well. Murray and Don would get along without her; she no longer felt married to that past. Then, looking up at Santa Barbara's face—implacable, blind, all-seeing, lively in the light, as still as all eternity—she wondered if she was leaving behind her God, along with so much else. No matter. In this place, there were gods aplenty, and everyone could find something to believe in; besides, Don had been perfectly correct, you could pray anywhere. So, relieved of her obnoxious burden, she knelt. She prayed for her husband, for the repose of Murray's soul, for Mathilde and all her hopes, and for all those who after her would pray in this lovely church. She asked nothing for herself. Her own voice, which she found so easily in the dark, was reward enough.

She left a little later, heading down Cuba Street. The money, gone, was good riddance; she felt so much lighter. She was not afraid. Her plan, as she went over it in her mind, seemed good enough. She'd
leave a message for Almado at the hotel desk: a note explaining where the money was. If the bag was still there, Almado, whoever he was, could have it; otherwise . . . She was content with that. Justice? But that was only one more thing that money tried to buy, so worthless. Truth? Apparently, rather hard to find, but not the property of a dollar bill.
Money.
She wanted nothing more to do with it.

But halfway home, she wondered. What would happen? Would Almado, in one form or another, find the loot and buy his freedom, however terrible; or would some stranger, someone quite unknown, have a lucky day? But this wasn't a question you needed a
babalawo
to divine, not if you
don't
believe in chance, which no one in Habana Vieja can, because they know the gods have their hands in everything. Up ahead, light spilled down from a window, music came from some darker, inner room. Lorraine stopped there, and felt in the bottom of her bag. Cuba has a three-peso bill, but also a two-peso coin,
convertible
of course; and her fingers found one. Remembering those kids playing alleys around the manhole cover, she thought, Call it in the air! Heads he'd find it, tails . . .

Hitching up her skirt, she squatted, peering in the light.

Messages from the gods always contain an element of ambiguity— “Almado” would find his treasure, sure enough. But that was Che Guevara's face, stern and youthful, glinting in Havana's ancient dust. She scooped up the shiny coin, stood up straight. Of course, all that was long gone, but you never know, she thought, Bailey might be right. The future isn't over yet.

Ottawa—Lac des Isles—Havana

July 11–December 8, 2005