by Anthony Hyde
“He said, call you at the hotel.”
“Did he tell you why?”
But his eyes flickered away; he had seen Mathilde and so Lorraine added “I hope you don’t mind. I brought a friend of mine. She wanted to see the church.”
He looked toward Mathilde for a moment, and Lorraine couldn’t see his expression. Then he stood up. He reached, and pushed one of the chairs from the row behind him toward Mathilde, and then pushed one in Lorraine’s direction. As he did this, Lorraine was reminded of Enrique, for a gold cross on a chain swung against his chest, and a gold signet ring flashed on his finger. He had a gold earring in his left ear but it didn’t make him look effeminate—on the contrary, very hard. His hardness, though, was different from the hardness of Enrique; it was not polished, but rough. He was, or had been, a boy who lived on the street. Mathilde sat in one chair, and set her bag on another beside it, and Lorraine sat down too.
Lorraine, because she’d noticed it, said, “That ring you’re wearing . . . it’s like Hugo’s.”
He looked at his hand. “That? He gave it to me.”
She tried to smile. “It’s nice that you’re friends.” Almado looked at her out of the darkness of his eyes, his face making no sign or expression: and she thought that was a talent, to hold your face so still. But it was disturbing, as if he was waiting to leap out, from inside himself. “How did he find you?” Again, it looked as though he didn’t understand, or hadn’t heard. “Hugo,” she repeated. “How did he find you?”
“In a club.” Now, for the first time, really, he smiled, a lift of lips; and she thought this, rather like the ring on Hugo’s finger, had the effect of making him look slightly older, less boyish; it came from a different dimension of his experience. “He said it was easy. We look almost the same.”
“You do.” And they did, especially if you combed his hair and imagined it dyed properly. Yes, they were the same. Hugo was ordinary, Almado was rough. But it was the same regular beautiful face underneath. It was difficult, since he was sitting down, to say how tall he was; but not too tall. And he was slim, too, as Hugo was. “I’m very grateful to him. Perhaps we can all get together. We could have dinner.” He looked at her, again without much expression. She wondered if he understood: she realized that only when he actually replied was she sure that he’d understood what she’d said. There was a gap between her expression and his comprehension, and again the word she thought of was feral. And now, at least in her own mind, Lorraine placed him, but in a surprising way, for her mind circled back to Coppelia. Almado was also anachronistic: he was a “juvenile delinquent,” a “JD” from 1958, like so much else in this town. And everyone had been so frightened, back then, of JDs. The tough boys, the rough boys. She had feared them, certainly. Hugo was Fabian or Dion—Almado was . . . Sal Mineo? Who had been knifed to death in a parking lot, she seemed to remember. That’s what happened to boys who looked like this, they died . . . or they killed. And you were afraid of them, even if you weren’t exactly sure what frightened you. So again she tried to smile and said, “Will you tell him?”
“If you like.”
She said, “He gave you that ring?”
“Yes.”
“You make friends easily . . . ? Friends like Murray?”
“Yes.”
“He wanted to bring you to Canada.” Almado looked at her, and though his expression hardly changed, she took this as skeptical. “He did. It wasn’t his fault if he couldn’t.”
Almado said, “People say things . . . to get what they want.”
“He wanted to help you. He wasn’t just saying things.”
“He was a nice man.”
“He was nice to you, I think.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Lorraine knew how priggish she must sound. And she realized she was in over her head. Murray had certainly wanted Almado’s body, and would have said things to get it. He had never pretended that “man love” was spiritual or pure, and Murray, contesting Don’s choice of Robert Graves, had championed Cavafy—“The only real rival to Eliot in the twentieth century”—and Cavafy’s loves had all been male prostitutes, so far as she could see. Had Murray bought Almado with a promise to get him out of the country? Even if Murray had loved Almado, how else could Almado have taken it, except as a bargain? He had nothing, like those people out on the street, so everything had to be for something else. She had no business making judgments. Whatever she thought of Almado, all she had to do was fulfill Murray’s instructions, and she’d better get on with it.
And that’s what she was going to do, except Mathilde began sneezing, and then started to cough. It was dusty in the church, as everywhere else, and candle smoke eddied through the dim light. Overcome, Mathilde stood up and moved away from where they were sitting, but kept coughing and Lorraine reached over to Mathilde’s bag and found her bottle of water and brought it over to her.
Mathilde gulped some down, and gasped. “I don’t know what happened to me.”
“It’s the smoke. My eyes are smarting.”
Mathilde said, “He’s a tough one, your Almado.”
“I know.”
Still, when she went back, Lorraine fully intended to explain about the money and make arrangements for getting it to him. But because she was standing up, and because of his rearrangement of the chairs, she now saw that a backpack was pushed under the chair next to his, jammed against the end of the pew. It was black; but even in the dim light of the church, the Canadian flag—the red maple leaf against a white ground—stood out plainly. And she knew where she’d seen it before: on the pack of the girl going into Coppelia, the day she’d been talking with Hugo . . . his girlfriend. And now she looked again at the gold ring on his finger, and she said, “Perhaps this isn’t the best place to talk, it’s so dark and dusty.” She was trying not to give her suspicions away, but to her own ears that was all she seemed to be doing. “We have business to discuss, you know. It’s important.”
“Business?”
“Will you see Hugo?” But she didn’t give him a chance to answer, taking the note he’d left at the hotel from her bag and scribbling the Raquel’s phone number on the back of it. “I think I gave him this, but just in case. Ask him to call me. We’ll all have dinner and work everything out.”
She handed him the paper. He now understood what was happening, that she was leaving. “If you don’t want to stay here—”
“This was wonderful. We had to meet, didn’t we? Now we have. You speak to Hugo and we’ll all get together.”
Mathilde, over her coughing fit, had grasped that something had happened, and that they were going. They walked back, toward the entrance. A black woman with nappy grey hair was on her knees before Santa Barbara, as haughty as a queen or Shango, the black god she represented. As they passed, Lorraine made the sign of the cross. She looked back quickly then, but if Almado was there, he was now lost in the gloom. Then they came blinking into the sun.
“What’s wrong?” asked Mathilde.
“I’m not sure. But something is.”
“You didn’t like him?”
“Did you?”
“How can you say?”
Lorraine said, “I think he stole that ring. And the backpack.”
“The backpack?”
“It was under his chair—the next one, I mean. It belongs to Hugo’s girlfriend. I think so, anyway.”
“You met her?”
“Not exactly—”
They had already walked a block or so, but now it was Lorraine who took the lead, Mathilde hurrying to keep up. Mathilde didn’t know what to think. She hadn’t liked Almado. He had frightened her, although she knew this was partly the result of seeing him in that church; on the street, she would have passed him by without noticing. But Lorraine was clearly upset, and after they’d gone on a little more, just to divert her, she took her arm and pointed. “Isn’t that a charming little boy? In the cast?”
“Yes,” said Lorraine. “I saw him before.�
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“You said you have a son, and a daughter.” Lorraine merely nodded and Mathilde went on, “I’m never sure. Do I want to have children? I can never answer.”
“You have plenty of time.” And then she said, “I don’t know why I care, but I do.” And Mathilde understood she was speaking of Almado, and what had happened in the church.
“You shouldn’t get upset. Is it really so important?”
“I don’t know. But that man’s a thief.”
“Be fair now, you’re not sure. And even if he is, what difference does it make? They have to be thieves, in a way. And what can you do about it?”
“I know, I know. But it makes me feel—” Now Mathilde could see that something was happening to her, her face was stricken, her eyes abruptly vacant in a terrible way. Lorraine managed to say, “I’m afraid it’s happening again.”
“But we’re almost there.”
“I’m sorry.” Lorraine’s voice was desperate.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
“I want to run.”
“It’s all right, I’m right here.”
“I want to run,” she said again.
She tried to run. But her legs had gone stiff and she stumbled, almost fell. Mathilde took her arm. “Listen. It’s all right. There’s nothing to fear.”
“I know that—”
“Stop then. Here. Lean against me.” Lorraine stopped. Mathilde saw that Lorraine had closed her eyes but she seemed to be listening as Mathilde spoke to her, with a sudden insistence. “Let me tell you something. You’re walking like a duck, with your feet turned out. You know why? My grandmother told me. I never liked her. She is the reason I am named Mathilde. But she said I walked like that because I was afraid to let my ass wiggle, and a real woman’s ass always wiggles. That’s what you have to do, marcher en se déhanchant. Walk with your toes pointing forward, like a model.”
Lorraine was mystified. But what Mathilde had said was so bizarre— yet she was so fierce about it—that she did as she was told. She began walking with her toes pointing ahead. Her hips did wiggle, or at least they moved, and it was true, tension passed out of her body. They reached the Raquel. It was even hotter now, though the sun burned behind sultry, darkening clouds. “Maybe it will rain,” said Mathilde. And then: “You see, it’s all right.”
3
“But it’s a cake shop,” said Mathilde. “Une pâtisserie.”
Bailey was behind her. “Down here it is. But go up the stairs.” He pointed over her shoulder. “There.”
You just stepped into the building; the whole front was open. The room was dark once you were out of the sun. On the left, a huge glass display case was filled with Cuban pastries and cakes, sugary, increasingly elaborate, often coloured confections. Cubans and tourists were clustered around it, pointing and choosing. But a bare cement staircase ran up the right wall, rather narrow, encumbered with sitting children, and lacking a handrail, so Mathilde found herself stepping quite carefully. She emerged in front of a counter, with a kitchen behind. Bailey put his hands on her hips, turning her. “This way.” The room she now entered was at the front, over the street. It was an interior that she now thought of as typically Cuban. It was very dark; only a single light bulb, screwed into a socket on the wall, provided illumination. But the shutters of the one large window were thrown open and this made a blinding square of light. Mathilde’s eyes took a moment to adjust. Large fans turned slowly on the ceiling. The wood tables were big and crudely made, and only two were occupied: at the back, a tourist couple talked quietly; and at the front, near the margin of the window’s brightness, a lone man, bent over, was writing on a sheet of paper.
A young black man, with cheerful, plump cheeks, took their order for beer—Mathilde had now given in, it was useless ordering anything else.
Bailey said, “The man over there is Roger Sebastian. He’s the official poet of the Santo Domingo. He’ll come over in a moment. Give him one peso. Just don’t talk to him about the Beatles, that’s all. They’re his passion and we’d never get rid of him. You know Castro banned them?”
“You’re not serious?” Mathilde laughed, and cast a discreet glance in the poet’s direction; and then he came over. He was a pleasant, gentle man, who made them feel welcome. Mathilde bought one poem, written out, very neatly, in longhand. She read it aloud.
Lady of silence
when you rain on clean pitchers
the gulls inspire the light of your eyes,
they don’t know
the high dreams shared
and a man is hoping when you sing
to the freedom of love.
“That is very nice,” said Mathilde. “I have a Canadian friend. If you permit me, I will give it as a gift to her.”
Roger Sebastian was pleased. “But then you should have one for yourself.” And he gave her another one: he seemed to have an abundant supply. Mathilde wasn’t sure if she should offer to pay for this second opus, and all at once it seemed all too complicated: if she didn’t offer she would look ungenerous, and if she did he would have to decide whether to accept or not. She might be exposing him to temptation; giving in and taking the money might leave him feeling ashamed. On the other hand—they had nothing. So she did offer. He declined. But he did say, “You see that I write in ballpoint ink? Blue. But I prefer black. A good ballpoint with black ink—if only I could afford it!”
A hint? But then it might be unworthy of her to think so. After he’d gone, Mathilde said, quite spontaneously, “They are so civilized.” And then she added, “I love Havana.”
Bailey smiled. “So you’re feeling okay?”
Mathilde patted his arm. “About that, yes. But don’t flatter yourself. That’s not my only reason.” Still, she picked up his hand, turned it over, and kissed the softness at the base of his thumb. “I’m only worried about Lorraine,” she said.
“I’m a Marxist, not a Freudian.”
“So? I’m neither one—though she said I was a Freudian. And she’s a Christian.”
Bailey smiled. “If she’s a Christian, take her to a priest. I think there are still some around.”
Mathilde made a face. “What she needs is a doctor. Some tranquilizers, at least.”
“Pills are difficult. Drugs are one place where the American embargo works.”
“The Americans!”
Bailey said, “Well, you’re right. They win, I lose. No revolution. The Americans will turn this place into a sweatshop, with a whore-house on the side.”
Mathilde held up her hand. “No politics . . . for the moment.” For now her train of thought, which included Adamaris and Dr. Otero, wasn’t one she necessarily wanted to share with Bailey; it was a point, in fact, she had not shared. She sipped her beer, then looked at him. “I want to go back to the hotel. I have to phone someone.” Then she added, “I wish I had a cell phone.”
“Get one, then.”
“You can?”
“You can. Tourists can. Foreigners.”
“But now you mention it, I’ve seen Cubans with them.”
“It’s another scam. You get one. You get a contract, and they give you a phone. When you leave, you give it to a Cuban, or sell it. They go into the office every month and pay the bill. A lot of Cubacel’s customers are more or less criminal.”
“And you call yourself a Marxist! I want one, though. Can you show me?”
They finished their beer and left the Santo Domingo. Mathilde followed Bailey; for a few blocks she knew where she was, then she gave up. But he took her to an office of Cubacel, the Cuban cellular phone company, and there she filled in forms, paid, and was rewarded with a Nokia phone. “The battery is charged, señora, but it will be twenty minutes or so before it is active.”
“So who are you calling?” Bailey asked.
“I met a woman, a Cuban. She told me about her doctor—it seems they are friends. Maybe she can get some pills, since she knows her. Why not?” When Bailey looked doubtful, she sa
id. “It’s only a question of money.” She passed the phone to Bailey, and the bit of paper on which Adamaris had reluctantly written her number. “You have to talk. It’s the way you do it, the neighbour next door. She only speaks Spanish. The woman I want is called Adamaris. Tell her to meet me at the hotel. And give her this number—this phone.”
Bailey looked a little tentative, holding the phone to his ear, and the idea of talking to himself in public obviously made him feel a little strange; but he carried it off.
“She wasn’t there. I gave the woman your message.”
Mathilde took Bailey’s hand. “I should go back to the hotel. You don’t mind too much?”
“You’re worried about this lady, aren’t you?”
“I like her. This morning, she frightened me almost as much as herself.”
He slipped his hand around her waist. “Don’t worry about me. At my age, you need to rest between your pleasures.”
He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She had already sensed that he was rather modest in public. He walked her part of the way back, and when they parted he only kissed her quickly again. But this made her feel good, in a way. It seemed to imply that their intimacy was now a normal fact of his life. She wandered along to the Plaza de Armas, and sat on a bench, holding her phone in her hand. The plaza was full of trees, and shady, but the heat had grown even more oppressive, the sky low and dark. Suddenly, rain came down. Her bench was under a tree: the spattering on the leaves was deafening. Everyone was running, bags and purses covering their heads, or with their shirts pulled up around their necks. Mathilde, quite dry, thought it was worth a picture. She pushed her cell phone into her bag, and felt about for her digital camera. It wasn’t there. She searched again. No. She dumped the bag out on the bench—
The phone was ringing.
“Hello? This is Adamaris. Is this a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. You are very clear. Is it a Motorola or Nokia?”
“What?”
“Is it a Motorola or Nokia? I think myself—”
The rain was coming down, and now dripping though her tree. She pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it.