by Anthony Hyde
Lorraine was twenty yards away—he’d gone past her—treading water, in a patch of the emerald sea, set in gold.
“Where were you going?” she called.
His arms were lead. His shoulders throbbed.
“That was quite a swim. The last hundred metres must have been some kind of record.”
She sounded perfectly normal. Meanwhile, he was going to sink, he was sure of it. He rolled over on his back, stuck his arms out, floated. His chest heaved beneath his chin. Above his head the sky was wonderfully dark and close, almost as dark as he was. He closed his eyes. He listened to the pounding of his heart.
“Are you all right?” The water swirled, she was moving toward him. A ripple passed under him, gently. She drifted by, near. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean you to come . . . that’s why I called Adamaris.”
He wanted to sound like himself. He tried, gasping, “Lorraine . . .” That was all he could manage.
“I didn’t want to disturb you two. Not today.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t want us to come? Mathilde was terrified.”
“I’m sorry. She called you, didn’t she? Adamaris?”
“You’re all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. I’m a far better swimmer than you are.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“But then what in hell are you doing? Mathilde was afraid you were going to drown yourself.”
“Don’t be silly. I went for a swim. I only wanted a towel. In all the guidebooks, it says the Cubans don’t like nudity. You know, there are no nude beaches. I wasn’t sure it would be dark by the time I came back in. You understand, I’m naked?”
“Lorraine, you were listening to Yemaya.”
“Bailey, you read Karl Marx and hijacked a plane: I listened to Yemaya and went for a swim. Of course I wasn’t going to kill myself.”
“That’s what she told you? To swim out here?”
She didn’t want to tell him. She’d made a fool of herself again, she’d made a fool of herself from the beginning . . . But then she stopped herself. No, she hadn’t. This time, she really had done something she wanted. And she’d certainly tried to keep it private, all her own business; but apparently if she couldn’t mind her own business, sometimes other people couldn’t mind theirs. Which was fair enough . . . and Bailey’s swim had earned him something. “You know who Yemaya is? Well, she’s the god of the sea. Or goddess, I’m not sure. Don’t laugh! I was listening to her. Or you can say I was just thinking, if you like.” She rolled over, floating on her back, talking up to the sky. It was easier this way, she was making it up, but it was also true. “When I was a little girl, and went into the water—if I began swimming out—my mother would always shout at me to come back. She was frightened. I could hear it in her voice. I’m not sure why, because I was always a very good swimmer. But I suppose somewhere I began to be afraid. I hated it, though. And I never knew if I was afraid or if I was only hearing my mother in my mind. I’d swim out, and I could hear her—so I had to swim out farther. Even if I did go out too far, and I thought I should come back, I was never sure. And in fact as soon as I did turn back, I would be afraid.” She rolled over again, treading water. It was dark now; they were as far below the horizon as you could be. And so even though the water stretched out for miles, everything felt very close, almost cozy, like a swimming pool. Now she’d started, she felt better, talking . . . “That’s what I couldn’t understand about these attacks, whatever they were. I kept wondering what I was afraid of, because there wasn’t anything to fear. But that’s the point. I was afraid, period. And that’s how I learned. Anyway, Bailey, whether you believe it or not, Yemaya told me to swim out, and just keep swimming, and she’d make sure that I’d only hear my own voice, that I could trust it—she’d block out my mother somehow—some godly power—and so when I turned back it would be all on my own. So that’s what I did. It was wonderful. I could swim as far as I wanted—as I wanted, you see—and when I was ready to turn back, that was fine, I’d just find what I was looking for. That’s the other thing she said. When I turned back, I’d find what I truly believed in.”
“Lorraine, you’re crazy.” He laughed, he’d got his breath back that much. “You got to learn to stay out of the sun.”
“Didn’t I say you’d laugh?”
“I thought you were religious. I thought you were, whatever it is—”
“Anglican, you mean? Well, if a leap of faith can take you to Jesus Christ and the Trinity, I guess it can take you to Yemaya. That’s how they go—from our saints to their gods. In a way, they’re right, there’s no difference. I’m not sure any more about the natural superiority of monotheism. What’s wrong with having more gods?”
“Okay. So now you believe in Santeria—Yemaya?”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She sank down, keeping her mouth closed but letting the water cool her lips. “I don’t know that I believe in anything now except . . .” Her eyes were looking off as she spoke.
“What?”
“Look.”
He turned in the water, following her gaze. What he saw was surely a mirage, or perhaps its reverse, for this vision rose out of the shimmering sea, gold above its purple, the city, trapped by the sun’s last rays, Habana, fragile as a scene painted on silk, clinging to its slip of sand as the night closed in. Seen from the surface of the sea, the very skin of the earth, it was improbably beautiful, and courageous beyond measure—hanging there, hanging on—thrown up by history but now outside it, an ancient ruin where humans dwelled, worshipping old gods and renewing life. Bailey felt his breath catch in his throat. Could he really have wanted to leave it behind? It would be gone soon enough, anyway, replaced by some version of Miami so vile Americans would call it Paradise. But then he laughed. You couldn’t live there, that was for sure, but she was right, he might as well believe in it, that’s all it was good for. “You’re crazy,” he said again. Lorraine didn’t reply. She was considering the problem before them. She could see Mathilde, on shore, waving a light. They weren’t that far out. There was no current and the water was warm. As long as you could swim, as long as you could float . . . After a moment, Bailey saw what she was thinking. “Can you make it back?” he asked.
Now she laughed. “Of course. But I’m a little worried about you. Don’t get too far away and shout if you get into trouble.”
With this, she put her face in the water and began to swim.
5
Only a few people were standing near the front of the church—Iglesia y Convento de la Merced—and for a moment Lorraine was afraid it was closed; but she passed inside and felt herself swallowed up by the strange light that illumined the place, the flicker of candles reflected from the faces of the white saints who had become black gods.
She stood at the back, and looked along the nave, toward Our Lady: dressed in purest white and crowned by Her golden halo, She rose serenely above Her altar. She was so high up, She seemed already in Ascension, and the marble stairs, lifting on either side in sweeping curves, seemed to climb to Heaven.
Lorraine made the sign of the cross, and then strolled down the left aisle. She was tired, her shoulders ached, and yet she’d enjoyed the walk: it was good to stretch her legs. Her bag, wrapped around her wrist, swung at her side—the weight of paper money! But this was why she’d come to Cuba. She wasn’t going to take it back with her. Oh, she sympathized with Jesus—just get rid of it as quickly as you can!
Murray. Almado. Hugo. What had happened to them and between them? The trouble was, so much had happened to her as well. She thought again of the dumper. Had she seen something real, or had it merely been an illusion, her own Shroud of Turin— which she’d never believed before? But she’d believed in Yemaya. As good as. As Murray had once told her, the real test of faith wasn’t skepticism, but a miracle—I hate the damn things—that’s when you truly had to keep your nerve; you didn’t believe because of more but in spite of
. Yes, if she left the money, and Almado found it, she would be giving it to a murderer. On the other hand . . . she couldn’t quite be sure. Bailey had killed, he was a murderer by certain lights, and he was certain the other way. They’d talked about it, resting, as they’d swum in. Crimes don’t happen that way. Two guys get drunk and steal a car, or goad each other into sticking up a liquor store. If anything had happened, he concluded, it was just a deal. Almado would get the money and buy Hugo’s passport and his ticket. Hugo would wait a few days and report them stolen. Yes, that could be true, it made a lot of sense. But then—it was the conclusion of Adamaris—it might be exactly the other way around, and Almado who was the victim, killed solely for the cash, and they’d dined that night with Hugo in disguise . . . with someone, in any case, who hadn’t known that the only ice cream Murray ever touched was chocolate. How ingenious, if that was true. But the explanation was probably simpler still; she’d never met Almado, it had been Hugo all the time, playing all the roles. “I come to Cuba a lot,” he’d said that first day. Had he learned to scam—or had he taught them? In any case, all these possibilities, terrible and less so, certainly meant she didn’t have an easy conscience. But so what? She rarely did.
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