Private House

by Anthony Hyde

  “You understand, it was very difficult?”

  They were in the bar of the Raquel, alone except for a bored waiter and the barman, who had swivelled the large television so that they could watch Spanish CNN: Mathilde could just see a car burning in Baghdad. She raised her eyebrows at Adamaris. “You had to call her, that wasn’t difficult. And then you dropped in to see her?”

  She frowned seriously. “That is not what I meant. They were not easy for her to find.” She put the straw back in her mouth, and took another sip and swallowed. Then she said, “She had to consult a colleague.” Who would have demanded payment. “Difficulty,” in any case, was the justification for the price, high enough.

  “But she managed,” said Mathilde. “It was only a question of money.”

  “Everything is difficult, because of Chavez.”

  Mathilde had seen him speaking in the Plaza de la Revolución, a chunky figure in a Garibaldi-red shirt. “But he is on your side.”

  Adamaris held her head quite level. “He is on the side of Fidel Castro.” Her look softened, as she relented. “He sends us oil, we send him doctors.”

  “Everything must be paid for, even between revolutionaries.”

  Mathilde placed her bag on the table, causing Adamaris to pass an eye over it. She would insist on discretion, so Mathilde had already folded one of the hotel maps over the little wad of bills. She took this out, and then placed her new cell phone on top of it, holding it down. Adamaris’s eyes, impossibly large, widened even further. “That is very nice.” She placed her hands in her lap, clearly a gesture of self-restraint.

  Mathilde couldn’t resist teasing her. “Longchamps,” she said. “I have luggage to match.”

  Adamaris frowned in confusion—and then she understood, and even understood she was being teased. “That is nice too, but I meant the phone . . . as I think you know.”

  “You like it?”

  “You know, you could have brought one from Europe?”

  “But I didn’t think. I was too rushed. I’m never good at remembering that sort of thing.”

  “You have one, in Paris?”

  “Of course. Not exactly like this. But they are all the same standard.”

  “So you will take it back?”

  Mathilde smiled. “I don’t know. I might leave it here.”

  Adamaris removed a package of cigarettes from her tiny leather purse, and extracted one. A smile played over her lips, but of a special kind; a knowing smile, but one that insisted she wouldn’t lose her dignity playing the game. Going back to the purse, she took out a plastic bottle of pills, the usual kind. She set it on the table. Her eyes glanced down at the phone, then up at Mathilde and she lit the cigarette. “I would naturally be prepared to pay for the phone, but you understand that now I must have money.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting anything.”

  Mathilde took the pills and slipped them into the bag.

  “I may look?”

  “Of course.”

  Her long fingers enclosed the phone in a delicate grasp, her thumb flicked it open, then lingered, caressing, like a lover or a connoisseur or an acolyte.

  “It is a nice one.” She set it down, simultaneously, with her other hand, sliding the folded map toward her purse. As if to dispel any misapprehension this clandestine approach might have caused, she added, “There is a prescription. Everything is in order.”

  Mathilde said, “I told you. They are not for me.”

  “I know. For a friend. But it is easier this way.”

  There was a hint in her tone that Mathilde wished to correct. “It is for a friend. She suffered a panic attack.”

  “Attack?” She frowned.

  “Not like that. She was frightened, suddenly. A psychological condition. These will calm her.”

  Mathilde could see her filing this information away; it might be worth something. “I see,” she finally said. “In any case . . . you are well?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am glad.” She smiled; it was clear—it had been clear all along—that she wanted to re-establish their relations on a more personal level, and that the entire transaction had interrupted this. Now her efforts were interrupted again. A voice called. Mathilde turned in her chair and saw Lorraine, just coming in from the street.

  Mathilde said, “You are all wet!”

  Lorraine passed her hand through her hair. “Only a little,” she said, coming over. “I think I liked it. I was in that Convent, the Santa Clara. Did you know we passed it this morning?”

  “It is very beautiful,” said Adamaris, “and so peaceful, don’t you find?”

  There was no way of avoiding introductions, but Mathilde tried to move Adamaris along—“I know you are busy”—but Lorraine refused to co-operate:

  “Do stay, just for a moment. The trouble with Cuba is you meet so few Cubans!”

  It was clear she wanted to be friendly, and Mathilde decided this was a celebration: her excursion to the Convent had been without incident. Lorraine sat down, and ordered a daiquiri when the waiter came over. Mathilde said, “It sounds as if you enjoyed yourself.”

  “I wanted to think. I was making up my mind . . . I wanted to ask you, are you free on Saturday night, for dinner?”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “With your friend of course. Bailey? Hugo called, you see, before I went out, and I invited him. I was looking through my guidebook. A place called La Guarida.”

  “It is very famous,” said Adamaris. “It is a paladar—”

  “I know,” said Lorraine. “A restaurant in a private house—”

  “That is how they started, and it must be true, legally. But La Guarida is very special. Everyone famous has eaten there. President Carter. Oprah.”

  “So it’s good, then?”

  “Very good,” she said, nodding, and exhaling a last, perfectly shaped column of smoke as she reached toward the ashtray to extinguish her cigarette. “Of course Cubans can not afford to eat in such places. One meal . . . the salary of a doctor for a month.” As she said this, she glanced at Mathilde, perhaps significantly. But Mathilde didn’t give ground, nodding quite directly at Adamaris’s purse, which was lying on the table:

  “At least Dr. Otero can afford it. Perhaps she will offer to take you.”

  There was a suggestion, in Adamaris’s tone, of a low blow. “I can only tell you, if she offered, I would not refuse.”

  It would have been difficult to call this a hint, and it didn’t occur to Mathilde, until too late, that Lorraine would seize the opportunity. “Why don’t you come? It would be fun. You understand—I will be looking after the bill.” She looked at Mathilde. “Almado will be there. I’m sure he’d enjoy seeing another Cuban face.”

  “But I couldn’t—” began Adamaris.

  “Of course you could. Please. I insist. Unless you are busy?”

  “You are very kind.”

  “Seven-thirty?” said Lorraine.

  “Would you like me to make the reservation? They will speak English, but all the same . . .”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  All these exchanges had been directed toward Lorraine. Only now did Adamaris turn her eyes back to Mathilde, but rather than triumphant her expression was shy, even modest, seductive. And then she gathered up her things and extended her hand to Lorraine. “It has been a pleasure meeting you.”

  When she’d gone, Lorraine said, “I hope you weren’t annoyed . . . that I asked her?”

  “Not really. But she’s always scheming. I almost feel it my duty to oppose her. Look, though . . . I was able to get these from her—she has a friend who is a doctor. They are tranquilizers. I thought, even if you don’t take any you can have them with you, they might give you confidence.”

  Lorraine was about to protest, leaning forward, but then she stopped herself. “You are very, very kind.”

  “They’re perfectly safe. Valium.”

  “Thank you. Is this what they gave your friend—who went to Rouen
?”

  “Yes. Or something like it.”

  “Well . . . Listen, they must have cost you something—you must let me give you the money.” She picked up the bottle. “You’re right, though. Perhaps I won’t take any, but I’ll feel better, having them.”

  “Don’t worry about the money—you can give it to me later. But tell me what has happened. Hugo called—the man who found Almado?”

  “Yes. Or I think so.”

  “Someone else found him?”

  “No. Hugo found him all right. That’s not what I meant. I’m not sure it was Hugo I was talking to.” She looked seriously at Mathilde. “Something is happening, I’m not sure what. I think—I’m sure— Almado is a thief.”

  “I won’t argue with you. I think he stole my camera . . . in the church.”

  “No.”

  “You remember? I began to sneeze and cough and I got up—you brought me some water. I left my bag on the chair. I’m sure he took it then.”

  “Oh dear. This is really all my fault.”

  “That he stole? Don’t be silly.”

  Mathilde looked almost stern and Lorraine smiled. “I should have thought of it, there. I noticed right away. He was wearing Hugo’s ring. I wondered—how had he got it? He is a thief.”

  “But you spoke to Hugo. Did you ask him?”

  “He explained it all. But I told you, I’m not sure it was him on the phone. It could have been. I didn’t recognize his voice . . . but then we only talked that one time. I just don’t know. But there were things he said, expressions, he didn’t use at all . . . ‘I get a lot of that . . .’ that sort of thing. I said something like, ‘It seems he needs some,’ and I can almost hear Hugo, in Coppelia, saying, ‘Not much.’ But he didn’t on the phone, never. It was only ‘Yes.’”

  “But it doesn’t make sense, Lorraine. You think you were talking to Almado?”

  She nodded. “And it does make sense. What does Hugo have that Almado would want more than anything?”

  “His money. Of course.”

  “Yes, but besides—”

  “But you were going to give the money to Almado, never to Hugo . . .”

  “You don’t understand because you haven’t met both of them, seen both of them. Almado and Hugo could almost be twins. What Almado wants is Hugo’s passport, his plane ticket. All he’d need then is a little dye for his hair and he could get out. He could simply fly to Canada.”

  Mathilde hesitated now, considering. Finally she said, “That is very serious.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are saying, you think Almado has stolen Hugo’s passport—”

  “Or he plans to—”

  “It would be taking a big risk.”

  “Not as big a risk as an open boat in the Gulf Stream.”

  “Well, you are right about that.” And now she thought of Bailey. “That’s what they want—to get out.”

  “And that’s why I arranged this dinner, you see. I want them both together. And that’s why I don’t mind that girl being there. It might be important, to compare notes with someone who really speaks Spanish.”

  “Of course,” said Mathilde, “you are right, if Almado is putting something over on Hugo, Hugo won’t be there. But don’t be disappointed if he is . . . the same coin, two sides. You know? How do you say it in English—pile ou face ?”

  Lorraine smiled. “Heads or tails.”

  But then Lorraine’s face went quite still. She was realizing that there was another possibility altogether.

  FRIDAY, MAY 6, 2005

  1

  Lorraine was reluctant to impose on Mathilde any more than she already had; she’d been trouble enough, she felt. And it was obvious that something had happened with Bailey, something important, and she didn’t want to intrude. She was grateful to Mathilde, but would have been drawn to her anyway. Lorraine could see in Mathilde possibilities in life she had declined and opportunities that had never been open to her, so that her feelings about her were a mixture of nostalgia and curiosity, if only and what if. She would never have dared to have an affair with a man like Bailey, but would she have wanted to? She approved, certainly. Mathilde was obviously happy. And Lorraine felt an undeniable curiosity about what was going on between them. But the net effect was to underline how different she and Mathilde were. And there was another aspect to this, for Bailey and Mathilde also raised the whole question of relationships, and men, so far as she was concerned herself; all the more so because Bailey, she gathered, was rather older than Mathilde, more her own age. There was nothing pressing about it, but she could feel the issue before her in a way it hadn’t been before; and it was a private issue, of course. So that was another reason not to impose, even to pull back a little . . . all of which became important at breakfast when Mathilde said, “Listen, I have more work to do with Bailey this morning, but I thought we would go to the beach in the afternoon—he has a friend’s car. Why don’t you come? You shouldn’t spend all this time in Cuba without going swimming.”

  Lorraine hesitated. She had already made her own plans, and had decided, definitely, not to tell Mathilde, although Mathilde was partly responsible; until she’d mentioned it, Lorraine hadn’t thought through one aspect of what had happened yesterday—namely, if it hadn’t been Hugo on the phone, and if Almado really had stolen his passport, or was planning to, then Hugo wouldn’t be coming to her dinner because Almado simply wouldn’t tell him about it. That would prove something, of course. But what she had to do—what now seemed urgently necessary—was to see Hugo in person. Lying in bed last night, she’d worked this all out, remembering that Hugo had mentioned he was in a casa particular, a private house, on Consulado Street. She would go there, see him, or leave him a note. And somewhere in the back of her mind was the superstitious thought that just by going, she’d find that all her suspicions were false, merely another expression of her own foolishness, that Hugo would open the door and laugh and say, “But you already told me on the phone, don’t you remember?”

  Finally she said, a little lamely, “The beach at Playa, you mean?”

  That morning, Mathilde had pleased the young woman in the white cap by having an egg. Now she put down her fork. “Yes. It’s not very far. Wouldn’t it be nice to get out of the city?”

  “I think I would just be in the way.”

  “Of course not.” She laughed. “I knew you were going to say that. Listen, I want you to meet him and tell me what you think.”

  Now it seemed impossible to decline. Lorraine didn’t so much tell a lie as invent one. “Well, I was planning on the art gallery—this morning.”

  “Why not? We can pick you up there.”

  “You’re sure, Mathilde?”

  “Yes. Of course. You should wait outside . . . twelve-thirty? We’ll have all afternoon.”

  In her room, getting ready, Lorraine felt mildly guilty, and she hurried, because she didn’t want to run into Mathilde on the way out.

  She didn’t. She hurried up to the Plaza de San Francisco. A dozen taxis were stationed on the far side, in front of the old customs house, and she had one drive her up to the National Gallery. It would take time, but she felt she had to. Mathilde would naturally ask her what she’d seen, and she’d want to say something halfway intelligent. She hurried inside and paid. She found the building somewhat confusing; up in an elevator, and then progress by a series of ramps. She managed to get lost several times, and though the place was virtually empty— there were certainly more guards than visitors—it took longer than she’d expected to find what she was looking for, the Wilfredo Lam, which was obviously what you had to see.

  She made herself take mental notes as she looked at them. El Tercer Mundo: a large canvas, monochromatic, strange figures, like praying mantises, but with feet, stepping through darkness. Or Hurracán: also very big, a greyish, dark space filled with elongated, tubular creatures. Another hinted at Chagall. La Silla was a lovely still life. But her favourite, she decided—it was best to have a favourite�
��was Contrapunto, diamonds and arrowheads playing off each other in a wonderful collision of shapes. That was enough. She hurried out.

  It was already ten-thirty. On the street, she took her map from her bag and found her bearings. Consulado wasn’t far, but it was still a walk: and the street ran almost from the Malecón—but not quite— all the way to the Capitol over in Parque Central. She consulted her anxiety, a little wryly—Am I just nervous or is it a breakdown day? Yesterday had been wonderful, all the way to the Convent and back without anything happening; but there was no use pretending: her panic had been lurking, waiting to pounce. And she still wasn’t sure which twitch of her psyche set off the fatal bound. Still—she now had the pills. And a bottle of water to take one with; so she ought to be all right. Besides, there was no time to waste. She started up Colon, and across the Prado; Consulado ran parallel to it, was in fact the very next street, one block inside Centro, the downtown of abandoned stores and offices all jammed in with small apartment buildings and a few grimy houses. At the corner, she had a choice; turning right would take her toward the Malecón, left towards Parque Central—on a hunch, she went that way. She knew what she was looking for, however, the sticker with a triangle that marked a legal casa particular. What she hadn’t bargained for was the number of them—Consulado was clearly a hotel row in the making. One of these even had a lighted sign over the sidewalk, HOSPEDAJE—LODGING—PRIVACIDAD. It was an apartment building. She walked across the narrow street to the opposite sidewalk and looked up, counting the floors. All the windows had balconies, flagged with laundry as usual, and antennae protruded here and there. She smiled: there was a palm tree on the roof—from her angle, it seemed to be growing out of it. Four floors altogether. . . . She went in and discovered once again that Hugo had been right: most Cubans speak a little English but very few speak a lot. However, she was able to establish fairly certainly that he wasn’t living there. Nor was he in the next four places she checked. Now she was worried about the time, and was wondering if she dared go back to the gallery, and beg off when Mathilde came, and then come back here and keep trying. But that would mean telling a lie right to her face and she didn’t know if her conscience could stand it. At the same time, she told herself she mustn’t rush, she mustn’t get anxious, that was the surest way of . . . but she didn’t want to think about it. As it happened, she didn’t have to. At five minutes to twelve, two casas later, she found where Hugo was staying.