Private House (11 page)

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 out . . . 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.”

“I don't think so.” But at once, seeing the incomprehension on the
doctora
's face, she added, “I understand. No protection.” And she imitated the doctor's cutting gesture.

Dr. Otero smiled. “Good. All right now? You may get dressed.” She smiled again. “All over . . . I come back.”

Mathilde got into her clothes. She told herself she was already feeling better. She could stand up by the time the doctor returned. Mathilde said, “I think Adamaris gave you money . . . ?”

“Yes. But was a little more difficult.” She smiled. “You understand?”

Mathilde had certainly been going to give her more money, to be generous, but now, it appeared, she was paying for services rendered. She handed the doctor twenty convertible pesos. “Is that enough?”

“Is what I expect, yes.”

Mathilde, on the verge of thanking her again, restrained herself. She hitched her bag over her shoulder and stepped to the door, which the
doctora
held open. Adamaris rose as Mathilde came into the waiting room, looking past her and saying something to the
doctora
in Spanish. Mathilde ignored this and pushed open the
glass doors, to the street. She didn't look back; and in fact Adamaris had to catch her up.

“You are all right, Mathilde?”

It was the first time that Mathilde could recall Adamaris using her name, but whether she might have felt pleasure or annoyance was dissolved in relief; it was over and she was better. “Yes, I'm all right,” she said. “But I'm tired. I want to go back to the hotel.”

“Of course, yes. . . . The doctor was all right for you?”

“Yes.” But then she added, “I gave her more money.”

“More. How much?”

“Another twenty pesos.”

Her eyes, even narrowed, were enormous; her lips, tightening, remained lush and full. “Wait for a minute, please. I will come back and we will find a taxi.”

Adamaris didn't give Mathilde a chance to argue, but spun around and went back into the clinic. She was gone all of ten minutes. Mathilde leaned against the building, resting. She didn't mind being alone. She was weak, she admitted that, but she did feel better. She sent her perception down between her legs and decided she wasn't bleeding in the slightest; but no doubt the pad was a wise precaution. Finally Adamaris came back, a plastic bag in her hand. “Here,” she said, “for you.”

Mathilde looked inside: she was astonished to see the second napkin. And then she realized that she'd been half expecting Adamaris to return with some sort of refund. Or was this it? “I don't want it.”

“You paid too much, more than agreed.”

“So you're giving me this?”

“Is something—”

“But, Adamaris, didn't you go back to get your share, the extra? Wasn't that what you were doing?”

At this, Adamaris seemed confused and Mathilde wasn't sure, perhaps her confusion was genuine. In any case, she had read in a guidebook that feminine products were often impossible to find in Cuba, that tampons made an excellent gift for a woman or could be left as tips for the chambermaid, so perhaps they constituted a form of currency. What was money, after all? Besides, she didn't care. She only wanted to be alone, to lie down, though of course Adamaris insisted on walking with her from the taxi to the hotel. In the lobby, Mathilde did not quite have to force herself to say, “Thank you for everything.”

“You are feeling better. This is important. I will call you tomorrow.”

Mathilde went straight up to her room.

Turning the lights off, she lay down in the wonderful darkness and fell asleep at once.

When she awoke, at twenty past six, she was totally refreshed. But then she had a setback. A single, dreadful cramp seized her. It passed off quickly, but almost doubled her over. She had to lie down again. And then, ten minutes later, she realized she needed the toilet, and very urgently. Her bowels, liquefied, emptied. There was nothing to do but sit, bent over on the toilet, and wait for it to end. Finally she guessed it was safe, stripped off her clothes, and got into the shower. For ten minutes she soaped and washed and rinsed; and then, wary of a recurrence, she only put on her housecoat. But very quickly she felt entirely better; in fact, she was hungry and restless. She dressed. Leaving her room, she took the stairs down to the lobby, not wanting to meet anyone, and especially the nice Canadian woman she'd met that morning; she would hate to seem unfriendly, but now she wanted to be by herself. The darkness was a pleasure on this count alone; and it was cooler. She walked over to O'Reilly, where she'd been that afternoon, but now found a restaurant that her guidebook claimed made the best Italian food in the city: Dominica's. It was a government restaurant, but
run by a private Italian company so both the food and the service were better. She was heartily sick of both beer and rum and what she really wanted was a decent glass of wine. The Valpolicella was almost that; and the Caesar salad had definitely involved anchovies and garlic. Of course the pasta was overcooked but the sauce was more or less
puttanesca
. After coffee, feeling much more like herself, she walked back to the hotel. On the way, she passed a bar, the Café de Paris, which her guidebook also mentioned, for its music. She went in. Of course it was a mistake. A single woman was either picking up a man or waiting to be picked up; that was clearly the local assumption. Even before her drink arrived, two Cuban men had approached her, and the count quickly mounted to eight. At least two were very annoying. Finally—she was about to give up and leave—another man came over, with a smile on his face. “I think we have the same problem,” he said. He was a young German, whose name was Helmut. “If you leave here, all the men will follow you. If I go, I'll take the women with me.” Mathilde laughed; and what he'd said was probably true. Helmut, it transpired, spoke excellent French, obviously good enough for them to drop English. That was a pleasure. The music, once they were allowed to listen to it in peace, was a pleasure as well. But sometime before eleven, Mathilde realized she was growing tired. By then, of course, it was obvious that Germany was hoping to succeed where Cuba had failed. Mathilde decided this wouldn't have ever been very likely, but of course not tonight. Still, Helmut walked her home, though he was only mildly insistent in the lobby. Finally, alone, she got into the elevator, giving him a little wave through the grille. She felt fine now. Better than that: despite her tiredness, she felt very good. Undressing, she thought of Helmut. No, he had not been a possibility. But then she lay down in the dark. And now she admitted that she did want a man. She wanted the black man. She wanted Bailey Friede.