by Anthony Hyde
Whether you like it not. Apparently, as perspective, this was all she could hope for; but she admitted to herself that she felt a lot better. For one thing, she’d needed something to eat. Now she used the toilet, splashed water on the back of her neck, and came back to her table feeling refreshed. The black woman with the baby had gone; the two young men were getting ready to leave. She couldn’t stay here forever. What was she going to do? She pushed the empty bowl away. She had no other address for Almado: no phone number. Murray had given her no idea where Almado worked, if he worked. She had only one other clue, and now she wondered whether Murray had provided it just because he’d guessed that Almado might be harder to track down than he’d let on. But he had taken the young man, his young man, to church—he was apparently quite happy to go—and they’d befriended a priest, one Father Rodriguez. That was typical of Murray: he wouldn’t just go to church, he’d get to know people, although she knew that this had been part of his plan to bring Almado to Canada, a way of giving him respectability; Father Rodriguez had agreed to be some sort of referee. So she could appeal to him. She had to, she thought—yes, she told herself firmly, you do. And if he couldn’t help . . . she could try Enrique again, she would try Enrique again—that, too, was obligatory; after that she could say she’d done her best and go home with a clear conscience.
She took a breath. This sounded like a plan, or as close to one as she was going to get. Gathering her things, she paid, leaving a two-peso tip for the waitress—convertible pesos, that is—since she’d been kind about not speaking Spanish. Then, to get her bearings, she walked to the back of her pod, and looked out the window; from here, she could see La Rampa through the trees. It was a busy street, four lanes and full of cars. She’d find a cab. She definitely didn’t want to walk any more. She kept looking out for a moment. There were more people down there, she thought, than in here. Paths led through the trees to gazebos set out with tables and white wrought iron chairs. It all looked very nice but she was glad she’d come in here, she decided; this was the real Coppelia. Then, to her astonishment, she saw Almado Valdes. Her eyes were just passing over the scene below, but they jerked back. It couldn’t be. But it was. No. She stared. It wasn’t, but it was certainly someone who looked very like him. . . . He was sitting in one of the gazebos. She pressed right up to the window. Of course she was looking from a high angle, but it really did look like him. She shaded her eyes with her hand. She could see him quite clearly, and after a moment she asked herself, Why couldn’t it be Almado? She knew what he looked like, because Murray had kept a photograph on the bureau in his bedroom. It was in a wicker frame. Murray was in it, too, standing with his weight thrown to one side, very relaxed, an expression of his face and body that you rarely saw at home. Almado’s arm was thrown across his shoulders. . . . But as she kept looking down she realized that Almado, in the photo, had blond hair—that was it—whereas the young man down there was dark. Still, it did look like him—something about him just fitted. And then she remembered Murray saying that Almado was always dyeing his hair, and that he liked to cut it in all the latest styles. . . . She closed her eyes, to get the photograph into her mind, then opened them again. It was a good picture. The sea was behind them and the sun was bright, but they weren’t squinting. Almado’s left arm was thrown around Murray’s shoulders, his right hanging down at his side, his sunglasses dangling loosely in his hand—and down there, whoever it was, he was tilted back in his chair, with his arm back and his sunglasses were dangling down in just the same way. It was him. All at once, she was sure of it.
But this conviction, rather than galvanizing her, had almost the opposite effect; for a moment she stood perfectly still at the window, looking down, her eyes losing focus. Then she thought, Don’t be silly, and hitched her bag up and hurried out of her pod and down the ramp. She didn’t want to be flustered; she made herself slow down. But outside she discovered that the grounds were surprisingly parklike, as overgrown as everything else in Vedado and it took her a moment to find the right path, so she felt a sudden panic: what if he’d gone? But he hadn’t—relief, even joy, rushed through her. There he was, whoever he was, still in his chair, and still tilted back; relaxed in the shade. And, close to—despite the hair—he was somehow more convincingly Almado than he’d been from the window. And she remembered something Don had said one day at the cottage: “The world doesn’t need movie stars. You can see the most beautiful women riding around on the bus.” Murray had laughed, agreeing, “You’re right, the most attractive man I ever saw was a young fellow in Radio Shack.” Was this his young fellow? Attractive: that was the word Murray always used. This young man was certainly good-looking. Not too tall, but slim. In his twenties. His light blue shirt and his tan cotton trousers were wonderfully loose on his body. His dark hair was combed smoothly back, with one soft wave, from his smooth, tanned forehead. His eyes were soft, wide-set, his mouth neatly chiselled. Was he “vulnerable” looking? But she was never sure what that meant. And it was too poetic. The truth was, he was perfectly ordinary. Prosaic. Yes, a movie star or a young man driving for Federal Express. He was ordinarily beautiful, that’s what Murray would have fallen in love with. . . . She hesitated now; the young man seemed lost in thought, and it seemed rude to interrupt.
In fact, his thoughts were closer to her speculations than she might have guessed, as if he too had been caught up in Coppelia’s anachronism. A waiter, hurrying by, five bolas of ice cream balanced along his arm, had made him remember, or at least try to remember, the name of the drugstore in old-time Hollywood where young men and women would sit, eating chocolate sundaes and banana splits, while they waited to be discovered. Not Schrafft’s, he’d decided, but something like it. He’d been casting about, trying to find the answer, but it wouldn’t come. His failure irritated him; sharply, like a reprimand, he told himself, Forget it, the trick is to discover yourself. But the instant this formulation came into his mind, he was so pleased with it that all traces of annoyance were erased. The trick is to discover yourself. Neat: he liked that. He nodded to himself—so that Lorraine, watching, was all the more intrigued, puzzled, yes, but drawn in . . . he was in a world of his own, but a world you wanted to share. Was that it? And his satisfaction was apparently so complete that he seemed to sink back into it, literally, rocking back farther in his chair and extending his legs, stretching with pleasure, his arm swinging ever so slightly, his sunglasses now almost touching the ground. Then, adding to his contentment, he suddenly remembered—Schwab’s, that was the name of the drugstore, Schwab’s, of course. Lana Turner? Monty Clift? With the slightest of smiles, he looked around him at all these people, most of them young; no one was going to discover them. But he was conscious of how his freshness and the newness of his clothes—everything about him—set him apart. He was quite different. And then he remembered how, as the waiter was seating him, the man had been surprised at his perfect, fluent Spanish. That set him apart in yet another way. They can’t place me, he thought. He liked that, too . . . But it was precisely then that he became conscious of a lady, in a wide, floppy straw hat, who seemed to be looking at him, even studying him, as if she wanted to guess his thoughts. He stared at her. For an instant, discovered, her expression hovered on the brink of embarrassment. But then a smile flashed across her eager face and she stepped quickly toward him:
“Almado?”
The young man had noticed her, Lorraine was sure, but it was as if he didn’t hear her for a second.
“Almado Valdes?” she repeated. And then she rushed on, “I know you won’t mind my speaking English because Murray said yours was perfect.”
He smiled politely. “You’re right. I speak English. But my name isn’t Almado anything.” And, with a little thump, he returned his chair to the level.
“I’m sorry. You look so much like someone . . . I’m looking for.” She had paused because she’d been going to say “like someone I know” and of course she didn’t—she didn’t know Almado at all; but the d
isappointment in her voice, which even surprised herself, must have struck the young man, for he cocked his head and sat back.
“My name’s Hugo.” He smiled. “I don’t like it much, but I’m named after my father’s best friend.” And he added, but in a friendly way, “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Murray.”
His voice was soft. She realized he was Canadian, like herself. She felt embarrassed, really because of his friendliness . . . it seemed, all the more, to put her in the wrong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He wasn’t Almado. Of course he wasn’t. “I’m sorry. I feel rather foolish—”
“No, of course not. No problem, really.” His eyes had narrowed very slightly, as if he was puzzling something out. “You’re looking for . . . a Cuban?”
As if this was a startling fact.
“Yes.”
“Young . . . I mean, my age?”
“Yes.”
As if he might, somehow, know this person, anyway.
And then she added, “You do look like him. Or at least like his photograph.”
He smiled. “Is he good-looking?” And then he laughed. “Don’t answer that. Actually, I get that a lot. My mother was Italian. Down here, people see it as Cuban all the time.” He turned a chair toward her. “Here. Sit down. Please.”
She sat down. She looked at him. It was uncanny. He obviously wasn’t Almado Valdes; but the resemblance, the closer she got, was even stronger. He was that boy with his arm around Murray. Was it his manner? But she’d never met Almado. Was it how she’d imagined him? But she hadn’t, really; she would have considered it indiscreet. But even if she hadn’t imagined Almado—it now occurred to her—she had pictured him, literally, by recalling that photograph. And perhaps her conviction about the resemblance had been partially created by the larger imaginings Coppelia had provoked, because she now realized that Hugo’s looks, and by extension Almado’s, were precisely drawn from that period, the banality of their beauty shared with any number of “heartthrobs,” Troy Donahue or Ricky Nelson, or—taking into account the relevant ethnicity—Dion or Fabian. Or did he even hark back to something earlier, something that might well have been in Murray’s mind and heart? And then she noticed that Hugo wore a gold signet ring on his right hand, which, again, was absolutely perfect. It made him look older. Did Almado wear such a ring, too? She didn’t know. It didn’t make any difference. Somehow, he was Almado. But he wasn’t. And just to insist to herself that he couldn’t be, she said, “You do look like him, but I was pretty sure you weren’t because Almado is blond.”
He passed a hand gently over his hair, not quite touching it. “Well, I don’t dye it,” he said. And then, again, he cocked his head to one side. He was certainly sizing her up—Lorraine knew that. But it was all tongue-in-cheek, for he made a little joke. “I’d say you don’t, either.” Lorraine smiled and then, quickly, she took off her hat, as if to prove it; she had long, blond hair, streaked with grey, now roughly piled up on her head. Hugo held up his hand and smiled again. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Was he flirting with her? “Where are you from?”
“Canada.”
“Sure. I’m from Toronto.”
Really, she’d guessed this, too, but she said, “Heavenly days!”
“‘Heavenly days’?” He laughed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone say that.”
“Your mother did, I expect.”
He looked at her, and smiled slowly. “Not my mother, actually.” He spoke slowly, too, as if he was having fun with her—or, at least, having fun. Then: “You still haven’t told me where you’re from.”
“Ottawa.”
“Oh, nice. The Nation’s Capital. And this Cuban guy, Almado . . . I look like him?”
Lorraine nodded. “I saw you, from up there.” She glanced toward the building.
Hugo said, “I thought it was so nice today, I’d come out here.”
“So you come here all the time?”
“I come to Cuba a lot, but this time I’ve only been a couple of days.”
“This is my first time.”
“It’s great, isn’t it? Though the Cubans say Coppelia used to be better—but then they say that about almost everything. Almado— he’s a Cuban? A friend?”
“Well, a friend of a friend.” She hesitated. “It’s all very complicated.”
“I see.”
“Too complicated . . . if you know what I mean.”
“Well, I’d like to meet him, if he’s so much like me.”
She felt, then, that her discretion was a little churlish and she added, “It’s nothing, really. I’m the executor of a will. A friend of mine—a man named Murray Stevenson. He left Almado some money.”
Again, with the same gesture, Hugo passed his hand over his hair, as if he might pat it; but he didn’t. Then he said, “Executrix.”
Lorraine smiled. But then she frowned. It suddenly occurred to her that he might be establishing his awareness of her femininity preparatory to making an advance along those lines: and then, thinking this, she realized that she’d been assuming that Hugo was gay just because Almado was. It seemed almost impossible to get it out of her mind, Hugo was so like Almado. It seemed absurd, but maybe Hugo was trying to pick her up, despite the difference in their ages. Had he thought, perhaps, that she and Almado might be lovers? But it was absurd. Still, she nodded and smiled. “All right. If you say so.”
But he was going on. “So Almado—if I get this—you don’t know where he is? So you’re looking for him?”
“Well, I had an address, on Calle K—”
“Right behind here.”
“You know it?”
“Sure.”
“Well, he wasn’t there. I asked—it was a mess . . . rather funny, in a way. But I don’t speak any Spanish.” She shrugged. “It’s not a lot of money, at least by our standards. But these people don’t have anything.”
“Not much.”
“So I’d like to get it to him—”
“Of course.” He sat back; they’d been alone, but now a waiter was coming up. Hugo looked at her. “Would you like something?” When she shook her head, he said, “I’m waiting for someone, I won’t till they come.” And then he spoke quickly in Spanish to the waiter, who nodded and went off.
Lorraine said, “I must say, you speak Spanish very well.”
Hugo shrugged, as if this was hardly an accomplishment. “My father was an engineer, and I spent years as a kid in Mexico . . . you’re sure Almado isn’t Mexican? You see, that’s what I’m really like, Mexican.”
“I’m afraid Almado is definitely Cuban.”
“Well, I was just going to say, if you like . . . Why don’t you let me ask at this place for you? If you don’t speak Spanish—”
“But I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Why not? What you find is that a lot of Cubans speak a little English, but not very much. They don’t really understand. It’s hard to do anything or explain anything if you don’t speak the language.”
What he’d said about Cubans speaking a little English, but not much, was perfectly true, thought Lorraine. “All the same—”
“I’d like to. Really. I can’t right this minute—I’m waiting for someone. But I could tomorrow. What’s the address?”
Lorraine hesitated. “What would you do?”
“Go there. Whatever you want. Give him a message . . . leave a message.”
She thought a second. “I’d just want him to get in touch.”
“Call you. Sure. You say it’s on Calle K—”
What harm could it do? He took an old receipt from the breast pocket of his shirt, and, leaning forward slightly, found a ballpoint pen in the hip pocket of his pants. He clicked it, and wrote down the address, and then said, “Okay. If I find him, how do I get in touch with you—or where do I tell him to go?”
“Here,” she said. She handed him the printed card the Hotel Raquel had given her; it gave all the hotel details, and her name a
nd room number. “They said to carry that instead of your passport. It’s safer.”
Hugo plucked at a cord around his neck, which she hadn’t seen before. It ran under his shirt. He smiled. “I always wear this. These people will kill for a passport. Of course you have a safe in your room, don’t you? I’m in a casa particular, in Centro. Consulado. They say you can leave stuff with them but I don’t trust them—after all, it’s just a room in somebody’s house.”
He wrote everything down and then handed back the card. She wondered if she’d done the right thing. She had, in any case, done something. He was probably just being polite, and wouldn’t visit Calle K; but if he did, it now occurred to her, he would meet Enrique. “There’s something I ought to tell you,” she said. “I don’t know if it makes any difference, but Almado is gay. So was . . . my friend.”
Hugo rocked back in his chair, sitting as she’d first seen him. “Oh,” he said.
“Murray met Almado here, you see. On a holiday. They became friends. It was that sort of thing—”
“Sure.”
“Well, Murray ended up sponsoring him, with immigration, trying to get him into the country. There’s a way you can. But it takes a long time. And then Murray had a heart attack. It wasn’t AIDS. I know people sometimes lie about it, but that’s all it was, a heart attack. He never really got better, so he couldn’t go through with it. He wrote Almado and explained but he still wanted to help him. So he left him the money.”
“So Murray was older?”
“Yes.”
Hugo shrugged. “I can never figure out gays. It would be like looking into a mirror and seeing a different face looking out at you. But it’s okay. It doesn’t bother me.”
She was surprised, somehow, by this turn of phrase, “looking into a mirror and seeing a different face”; it was not so ordinary. Perhaps he was remembering it, quoting. She was relieved however; and partly on Murray’s behalf. She looked at Hugo again. It was still uncanny—he looked so . . . whatever Almado looked like. Maybe it was his eyes, which certainly could have been Cuban, or Mexican, that was true, for they were dark brown, almost black. She smiled. “You’ve been very kind. I really should leave you. Your friend will be coming.”