by Anthony Hyde
“So . . . ah, there.”
Mathilde made no reply, but Adamaris squeezed her arm in a gesture of sympathy and understanding that managed, all the same, to be an affront; and was all the more insulting precisely because the understanding embraced this, too. “I will help you. It will be better, to have someone who can speak Spanish.”
Mathilde was pleased when the hotel manager’s English—there was no point trying his French—was up to the task; as he explained, she kept her eyes on him and ignored Adamaris entirely.
“In Cuba, for tourists is a special medical service.” He had a brochure, Assistur. “Each area has a clinic. For us, here.” He tapped his finger on one of the simple maps they gave out when people registered. “Prado. You have been there?”
“Yes.”
“Here is the number. You have your passport? You should have it—not just our card. Ring the bell and you will go in. But you must understand, for your treatment, you must pay.”
She went to her room, for the passport. In the elevator, she resolved to send Adamaris on her way, but in her room the pain sharpened, and by the time she came down, she’d changed her mind.
“He called a taxi. Sit here. I will wait at the front.”
The high, dark lobby, with its art deco columns and glass, was furnished with innumerable couches; Mathilde sank into one of them while Adamaris waited at the bottom of the stairs, in the light of the entrance. Taxis couldn’t come to the door: in this section of the Old Town, the streets were blocked, given over to walkers—and were so rough, in any case, that even Cuban drivers found them daunting. But a few minutes later she saw Adamaris talking to a man, and she got up quickly and walked down the steps. The car was only a few steps away; but Mathilde allowed herself to lean against Adamaris, though only for a moment, and Adamaris took her gently by the shoulder, helping her into the back.
Adamaris said, “You don’t have to go to this clinic, if you don’t want. I have a doctor.”
“Why would that be better?”
“She is a woman. Doctora. At this clinic, it might be a man.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will pay, wherever you go. But at this clinic the government gets the money, why should the doctor care? He will say take this, take that, and go back to France.”
Mathilde hesitated now. She closed her eyes. What Adamaris said seemed not impossible; by this evening, she might well be on a plane. And that would be the end of her story . . . and she would not see Bailey again. “Where is your doctor?”
“Not far, in a taxi. She will see you quickly, I will tell her, and you will give her money. Twenty pesos. I will pay her. She is very good. You can trust her.”
“All right.”
Adamaris spoke to the driver; was it possible they argued—that he had already been given the clinic on Prado as the address? But then the car was jerking forward and she leaned back into the seat, her eyes closed, the sun and the shadow flickering over her eyelids, the sound of the engine surrounding her: and as they rounded a corner, she was pressed into Adamaris. And now Adamaris murmured something in Spanish, and slipped her arm around her shoulder, holding Mathilde to her with a slight tension. She thought of her mother’s voice, her mother’s touch; and the pain and the sympathy merged, ran together, formed a viscous surface of feeling and memory, which closed around her, like a custard or an aspic, though she could breathe, as embryos breathe. She felt the woman’s hand touch her forehead, and from far away, her voice came, “You don’t have a fever, I think. You will be all right, yes?” And then the cab was pulling up, and her eyes winced at the glare of the sun as she opened them. She opened her bag. “No,” said Adamaris, “that is all right, I will pay.”
“No. Please—” She took money out, and gave it to her.
“That is enough.”
“You said twenty pesos.”
“All right.”
They walked. The cab had stopped a block or two away. “You see, he writes down the address. This is better.”
And she felt better, walking; or at least she did for a moment. Adamaris was there, to lean on. Now her smell was familiar, the particular tilt of her body, its weight; the form of her being—all this was familiar. With the slightest pressure, she was turning her, up to the large glass door of a modern building. They stepped in. A woman, with a baby on her lap, sat in a chair. A man, sitting beside her, leaned forward and was very still, like a fisherman. Adamaris went up to the desk and spoke to the nurse, a woman in a coloured smock. She listened, then nodded; and then walked through a door, leaving it open. She returned a moment later. “Wait,” said Adamaris. And then Adamaris went through the door as well. A moment passed. The pain had ebbed. Mathilde moved toward the desk, so that she could see past the door, in the direction Adamaris had gone. It was a short hall. Partway down, a door stood open—it opened inward, into a room. On the back of the door was a plastic holder for files or forms, a kind of tray but attached to the door: plastic, clear—scratched, but still smooth enough to take up a reflection, a milky image of Adamaris and another woman, in a doctor’s white gown. Adamaris had her little bag open, she passed the doctor a bill . . . and then, with her right hand, took the doctor at the back of the neck and drew her face closer, pressing a kiss on her mouth. The baby cried then, a howl. The two women looked around. And, Mathilde assumed, reflected in the same way, they were now looking at her.
6
Mostly, people ignored her; they might give her a glance, sometimes a quick smile, but then they were gone. But eventually someone always paused and looked at her, frowning, wondering what she was doing there. Even worse, some spoke, Spanish and quick, presumably asking if she was in trouble or needed help; then the confusion of language would compound her shame and she’d feel a fool twice over, stammering like an idiot, smiling inanely, standing up and brushing herself off in a futile attempt to justify her words, “I’m all right, really I’m all right.” But this, at least would move her on. You can always count on embarrassment, she thought. Twice she was propelled onward for a full block or so, the shame of it all literally pushing her from behind since she would feel that the hem of her skirt had flipped up or that the seat, after so much sitting, was stuck to her bottom, so she raced ahead, trying to find the right moment to reach back and pluck at herself. But then she’d be overcome again, her pretence revealed, if only to herself; and so the panic would rush in—the blare and the glare, the strange faces and incomprehensible signs, and the broken ground grabbing at her feet. She’d sink down, heart pounding, into a doorway or lean back, gasping, against a wall, her stiff, shocked legs no longer able to support her.
She had no idea what was happening. Once, recovering a little, she tried to laugh it off—This is ridiculous—and scolded herself— Lorraine, get a grip!—but it was no good: after two steps the world was breaking up all around her, a jumble and jangle of static and fragments, a kaleidoscope of fear.
She wasn’t lost. It had nothing to do with that at all. She knew exactly where she was and how to get back to the hotel. Besides, she had a map. Several times, she took it out, studying it as a way of covering up her predicament. And when people offered to help, she’d smile and offer a “Gracias, gracias,” as she folded it up and slipped it back into her bag, pretending that she’d found her way. But she’d never lost it, really; she even knew that she didn’t have very far to go—the next street was Habana, then Cuba and finally San Ignacio, which she only had to follow to Armagura, and she was home. Home! Five blocks and it seemed a million miles! She could almost laugh, it was so silly. I’ll sit here forever, I’ll die of starvation . . . no, that’s three weeks, thirst will get me in three days, isn’t that right?
She was thinking this, almost comfortably settled in the doorway of an abandoned, boarded-up ruin when a group of schoolboys gathered in the dusty street. One gave her a glance, but a smile disarmed him, and they happily ignored her. They all wore the same uniform; blue short pants, white shirts, kerchiefs. Did this mean they were older
or younger than the other kids, in red? Great satchels of books were lashed to their backs, but now they slipped out of these halters and set down their burdens. Squatting—careful not to touch their bums on the ground—they formed up in a circle . . . and began playing marbles.
Lorraine recognized this at once, although, as a girl, she’d played hopscotch. They even had the little bags boys carried marbles in. And then she tried to remember what the difference was between marbles and alleys. And what were aggies? She puzzled at these questions, even as she found herself puzzling at the exact nature of the game they were playing. It was hard to see. Their circle was crowded, there was much jostling and shouting, a certain amount of disputing, and even occasionally the sharp deployment of elbows. Lorraine stood up, to get a better view. And then she edged around the circle, to a little gap. But she was no clearer on the game. For one thing, at the centre of the circle was a manhole cover. It seemed to be the target, what they were aiming at, and she stepped a little closer: ALLANTAR ILLADO was printed across it, and there was an H in the very centre, presumably for Habana.
A boy shot.
His marble, or alley—and she remembered now that boys sometimes had their favourite shooters—skidded onto the metal plate, but was apparently a bad shot for the boy threw back his head dramatically and groaned with disgust. Another shot was taken, this time producing happier shouts.
She began watching more closely. Now she saw that the manhole cover was divided by raised ridges into rings, the rings themselves then broken into sections, something like a dartboard. She counted carefully, discreetly pointing with her finger to keep track. Sixteen sections in the outer ring, eight in the inner: and then the bull’s-eye with its H. The boys kept shooting as she watched. One marble rolled into the centre, but then out again—groans, lamentations. But finally one rolled in and stayed, and with a whoop its owner rushed forward, scooping up all the other marbles. That was the end. The boys took up their satchels, and with practised, dexterous movements, shrugged them across their shoulders and onto their backs. They ran off. . . .
Lorraine, pleased with herself for having worked it all out, followed; and had gone half a block before she realized what had happened. Tears filled her eyes. She was all right. All right! All right! She was perfectly all right, and now she only had—
But she stopped herself. She mustn’t think like that. She’d only bring it all on again. She was on San Ignacio now, on the section that stank so awfully, putrid and fecal, where the road was all churned-up mud from the water that spilled from the big red tank. Up ahead now, the houses were braced with timbers to keep them from collapsing into the street. And then she was at the little market, wretched tables of fruit and chunks of meat, covered with flies. And at last she reached the corner, Armagura, fresh paved with fancy bricks like any mall in any other urban zone.
She wiped her eyes. One of the guards, the proteccíon, stood on the steps of the hotel, hands held smartly behind his back.
Lorraine put a smile on her face. In a nightmare, don’t you brazen things out? She walked into the lobby, sank down on a couch. She closed her eyes; it took all her strength, but she was refusing to cry.
7
“Is in your abdomen, but not your stomach?”
“Yes.”
“Show.”
Mathilde touched herself; and then, in some gestural equivalent to the pidgin English they were speaking, pressed one finger directly, at right angles, against her torso, in the region beneath her navel. Doctora Otero’s face assumed an expression of concentration, likely struggling more with language than medical understanding. She had a wide face, rather Italian to Mathilde; and this was also true of her thick, dark, curly hair. She wasn’t tall, but Mathilde knew that if she thought of her as “stocky” she’d only be expressing a prejudice based on the little scene she’d observed with Adamaris, an attempt to find something mannish about her. In fact, in the presentation of herself—in particular the way she pressed her hands deep into the pockets of her gown so that the whole garment was strained along her body—she was entirely feminine. At the same time, she was ever so slightly commanding, an effect reinforced by the crudeness of her English, in which even the interrogative had an imperative tone.
“Is worse or better, in your periods?”
Mathilde shook her head. “I felt no pain when I had my period.”
“Please, when was this?”
“I finished just a few days before I left Paris.”
“Longer, shorter? More . . . bloods?”
“It was perfectly normal.” She shook her head. “No different.”
“And in the time after . . . spots? dripping?”
It seemed best to reinforce the linguistic with the physical: she shook her head firmly. “Nothing. Nothing like that.”
“Can you think, then, if you are pregnant?”
“No. I’m not pregnant.”
“Please, you have test?”
“No, but I’m not.”
“You sure? The most important question, if you are pregnant. You can be pregnant . . . outside of the uterus. In the tubes. Ectópico we say. Very dangerous.” She smiled. “Very. You understand?”
“Yes. But I’m sure I’m not pregnant. The last time, the man used a . . . preservatif—”
“Yes, preservativo—”
“And I have an IUD. That’s what—”
“Insertivo—do you feel your strings?”
“The last time I didn’t. At the end of my period—”
“Yes, you feel—”
“But I didn’t. You understand? Maybe the strings were there. I forgot to check. Verify? I was coming here, and I simply forgot.”
Doctora Otero smiled. “So, all right. Anyway, I must examine.” Now she gestured with her hands. “Your clothes, yes? The bottoms. There is your towel.” She pointed to the end of the examining table. “I be back in two minutes.”
Mathilde was wearing loose cotton trousers; she slipped out of them and took off her panties, and fastened the towel around her. The doctora returned with a thermometer . . . digital, a little to Mathilde’s surprise, since the towel was cloth. But she didn’t have a fever; there was no sign of infection.
The examining table was prepared, again with a cloth sheet rather than paper, but otherwise quite normally. Mathilde lay down.
“Is the same all over the world, yes?” said the doctor as she set the stirrups in place.
Dr. Otero began to examine her. Now, certainly, the scene with Adamaris came into her mind. She felt a fleeting moment of self-consciousness; but didn’t you always? Still, she resented it. What a fraud! A female doctor, doctora, who probably had more sexual interest in her than poor Dr. Chouinard. But then, she told herself, this didn’t have anything to do with sex at all: this was all about twenty pesos, on which Adamaris would no doubt take a commission. In any event, there was nothing about the doctora’s performance that was even slightly irregular: it was exactly what she expected. Standing between her legs, Dr. Otero slipped her gloved fingers into her vagina and firmly—but gently— palpated her abdomen. And then, drawing up a stool . . .
Mathilde looked up at the ceiling. After a time, the doctor began dilating her cervix, never pleasant. She closed her eyes. Images, like slides projected on her mind, now leapt in front of her. She saw the fountain and the quinces girls, the white girl, the blue girl, and the red. She saw Adamaris and her enormous, implacable black eyes. And then she was seeing Bailey, his black skin, and his thumb curved up beneath the table in the Café O’Reilly, and as she contemplated the pressure of that digit, the tension running up his arm, she saw that all these images led here, that they were the terms of a logic, which, even if she didn’t fully understand, had only this end. Bailey. She was startled, but she had no doubt at all. Bailey. And she didn’t hesitate. She simply said, very firmly, “Take it out.”
Dr. Otero looked up and smiled. “Is almost over,” she said.
“Take it out. I don’t mean that. Take it o
ut . . . the insertivo.”
“Is probably all right. I have found the string.”
“I don’t care. Take it out.” Dr. Otero hesitated, and Mathilde insisted: “Dr. Otero, take it out please.” And then she looked away, to make an end. She could sense the doctor’s deliberation, which ended as the stool rolled her over to the counter. She took an instrument from a metal tray, then rolled back to her position.
“Is a little uncomfortable. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“One of the strings was pulled up in your cervix, but I found. To take out is not necessary—I don’t think so.”
She was going to take it out: Mathilde closed her eyes, relaxing against the pain. She sensed, rather than saw, the doctor’s movements: reaching . . . then withdrawing forcibly . . . She felt one quick spasm.
“So, is out . . .” Mathilde let out her breath. “Maybe you are right. One arm is wrong. I don’t know if is possible—but we are going to see . . .”
Now Mathilde managed to look at her directly. “Thank you.”
“Good. One moment—” She again pushed back on the stool, then stood up and stepped out the door.
Mathilde’s legs were trembling. She took a deep breath. It was over— but she wasn’t quite ready to get up. Dr. Otero returned, carrying a white gauze . . . Mathilde realized it was a sanitary napkin. She had two in her hand. Mathilde hadn’t used one since her first menstruation. “For your undergarments. You might bleed . . . only a little.”
“Not a period?”
“Oh, no. You are regular . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“The same. No difference. Here . . . sit on the edge. For a minute.”
Mathilde was too weak to sit up directly; she had to push up on one elbow. Dr. Otero handed her one of the napkins and Mathilde pressed it between her legs.
The doctor said, “You understand? No protection now.” She made a sharp cutting motion with her hand. “Nothing. Most women, two periods before a conception”—she held up two fingers, then reduced this to one—“but sometimes one, sometimes at once.” The last finger came down. “Is possible tonight.”