Private House (15 page)

She opened them. Her conscience pressed upon her with the weight of resignation. Murray's money wasn't hers; if anyone's, it was Almado's. In simple arithmetical terms, the exchange might seem equal, and yet it couldn't be entirely proper. Or was she being silly? The trouble was, she knew that transactions were always expressions of self-interest, and one party, inevitably, would get the better of another. The very fact that she was tempted proved it was wrong. Even if the value she took could only be measured in some sort of emotional currency, it would still be stolen, and from an interest she was duty bound to protect. She'd known this from the start, of course. Her delay, all this thinking, was entirely sham. She snapped open the wallet, and tore out two cheques. She put it back in the safe, and removed her passport. Then she locked the safe and stood up.

Now, Lorraine knew, she must move very carefully; above all, she must avoid any haste—that would be the admission of exactly the possibility she couldn't admit, would not even name. Don't make a fuss. Take everything for granted. Pretend nothing has happened. This was the reason she didn't go into the breakfast room; Mathilde was probably waiting, and she knew that the temptation of asking her for help would be too near to avoid, but in fact she wouldn't ask, she wouldn't quite be able to do that, and it would all become a self-fulfilling prophecy; she would be doomed at the outset. She couldn't take the chance. She remembered walking to school and how it was bad luck to step on a crack in the sidewalk, but it was cheating to stop, you had to keep going—so one false step finished you. That was the trick: no false steps. A single stumble would bring the fear rushing in, even if the stumble only took place in her mind. This meant, for example, that she couldn't take a single wrong turning, which was strangely made more complicated because it made no difference, really, which way she went. Oficios and
Brasil—Banco Financiero Internacional, that's where she was heading. And she'd been there before. Stepping out of the hotel, she could turn down San Ignacio to Brasil, then go left again, for it ran into Oficios. On the other hand, she could leave the hotel and turn right, into Armagura, until she reached Oficios, and then go along to Brasil. The key was not to hesitate, whichever way she went. She mustn't think about where she was going, and once she was walking she must let her mind be absorbed, on the one hand, by the sights the street presented to her—a young Cuban woman walking to work in high heels, never mind the potholes, and a young black man in a singlet pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with rubbish, and further ahead a fat young white man, a tourist, in short pants with dozens of bulging pockets—and, on the other, with perfectly good thoughts that were entirely inconsequential, the mistake it had been to bring traveller's cheques at all, and the problem Murray's will had presented, for it had specified ten thousand
American
dollars except the Cubans no longer wanted them, so his shade was going to have to accept Canadian money even if the amount wasn't precisely exact: and then she was there, she had made it, she opened the big glass door and stepped inside.

The bank was crowded. It always was. She was ready for it. She'd been here before. There was a lineup but no actual line. An older black man, somewhat stout in his plain black suit, kept things in order, and when she smiled at him, he indicated the person ahead of her. That's how it worked. You kept your eye on that person, who was himself keeping an eye on the next person ahead, just as the person behind kept her eye on you. So people stood about, wherever they liked; early birds even had couches to sit upon, but that was all right, she didn't mind standing. She waited. She was all right, in here. It was frustrating, waiting, but that was all right. Four wickets were open.
She tried to work out who were Cubans, and who were tourists. She heard an Australian accent but didn't look round. Simultaneously, two people walked away from the wickets and two people walked up. At the wickets, people were always so self-absorbed. Even if they'd been complaining about how slow things were, now they took their own sweet time. It was their turn. Now they were the only one. It was like looking into a mirror. For a moment, you were the only person to be seen, the only person in the whole wide world. No one else existed. Money was like that, too. Your money was the only money that counted. At the same time, one dollar was as good as another, it stood in for all the rest, all the money that existed, and of course a dollar could be turned into pesos or anything else. It was a kind of magic. Rabbits turned into doves. Oddly, she thought, Don would likely have agreed, though all his life he'd treated money as an object of mathematical thought, as if it were a part of nature, like the planets in their orbits. But of course he'd known that wasn't true. So he'd had his secret life, the poetry; and after Eliot, Robert Graves had been his passion—a secret within a secret—and they'd once made a pilgrimage to Majorca, infinitely disappointing. In fact, Don had been an expert in exactly this, foreign exchange. The Bank for International Settlements. Banco Financiero Internacional. Of course they were different, but what difference did the difference make?

Now her heart lifted. She was next. And then she was walking up to a wicket, the last on the left. The Cuban woman behind the glass was probably thirty, young, but smartly efficient: her fingernails were painted gold and she was slightly turned on her stool because she was wearing a short, tight skirt. Lorraine knew exactly what to do. She signed the cheques but didn't fill in the line for “place” because the Cubans didn't like you to. She passed through her passport. The woman looked at it, and wrote down all the details, but then—without
even looking—she held it up, and waved it a little, until a young man came up behind her cubicle and took it from her. She smiled and said, “They make a photocopy.”

Lorraine cleared her throat. “Of course.”

The money came out of a machine. The woman counted it, stroking through a line on a chit the machine had printed: so many twenties, tens, and so forth. The man returned with the passport, and she barely looked at him as she took it back. She was very efficient. When she was finished, she counted the money all over again, passing it to Lorraine. Lorraine decided there was no point counting it again. She smiled and said,
“Gracias,”
and the young woman slipped her passport under the glass and Lorraine tucked it into her purse, then pulled it shut. She smiled, passing by the black man. She stepped outside, into the sunshine, and now she allowed herself a little luxury, the thought that she could walk along into the Plaza de San Francisco. . . . And was this the trigger? Was it a question of pushing her luck? And yet it didn't seem to be so. For she decided, after all, to play it safe; decided it would be best to go back. She did
not
go on. She
did
turn back, but it was exactly then that the terror swept across her, like a cold wind. She felt it everywhere, fright, terror, and alarm, it was all around her, even though she knew it was all inside. She began to walk. Faster. A fatal mistake: the fear was quicker than she could ever be. She closed her eyes, she wanted to cry—she'd been so sure, it had been so nice, walking in the sun, so nice. . . . What had she done? Now she was running. But she was trying not to, or at least not
too
quickly, running with a certain degree of decorum, the way a lady should, as if she were running for a bus or perhaps to make an appointment if she was just a tiny bit behind time. But she knew it was hopeless. She couldn't possibly run fast enough, and it was just too far, she couldn't make it in a single dash, on a single breath—she was holding her breath. She had to stop and once
she stopped . . . She pretended to look in a window. She leaned in a doorway, and looked at her watch: she was waiting for someone. She couldn't go on. But she had to, and then she did, she didn't know how, but she made it to the corner. That was crucial: now she could see the hotel, just a block away. Its rocky rococo facade loomed up like the prow of a ship. If she could see it . . . Her legs were stiff as sticks. Her back was corseted with sweat. But she passed her hand through her hair, as if she didn't have a care in the world. I'm just a little flustered, that's all. . . . And what was there to be afraid of ? Nothing. Nothing at all. There was no cause for alarm. Everything was all right.
She
was all right—

She walked up the steps into the dark, still lobby, trembling, her legs weak and her heart drumming inside the hollow of her breast. She took a moment to catch her breath and then went up to the desk for her key. She began to feel better. She thought, The rigor mortis is passing off, and she smiled, thinking of herself as the corpse in a Wimsey. She was able to smile, and her voice sounded perfectly normal, as she asked the blond lady for her key. The lady fetched it, and handed it across the counter—but caught herself as she began to turn away. “Mrs. Lorraine?”

Mrs. Lorraine. . . . Cubans were always doing that. “Yes?”

“I have a message. A young man left it about ten minutes ago.”

She passed Lorraine a piece of paper, folded over, a page torn from a small wire-bound notebook. The writing was in the Cuban national hand, in ballpoint ink.
Dear Mrs. Stowe. A man from Canada told me that you are wishing to speak to me about Murray. They don't like Cuban people waiting in the hotel. I will be in Iglesia de la Merced. 11 oclock. It is near, and anyone in the hotel can tell you where to go. Almado Valdes.

Almado . . . Hugo. Of course. “Hugo.” She said his name aloud.

2

The Jardín del Edén, the restaurant in the Hotel Raquel that also served as the breakfast room, was merely a corner of the lobby set off by a number of elegant, decorative screens—dark wood inset with stained glass, symbolic of the Tree of Life; and so it was easy enough for Lorraine to peek in and see that Mathilde was still there, though she was now alone in the room. “You're late,” she said. “I was getting ready to go.”

“I'm sorry. I was afraid—I was out, you see.”

“But that's good!”

“Well—” Lorraine sat down. “I didn't want to ask you—I had to get to the bank to cash some traveller's cheques. But I had one of my attacks.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I am. But now . . . oh, I'm sorry, but I would like your help.”

“Of course. You must not be sorry.”

“This was at the desk.” Lorraine gave her the note. “You remember, I told you why I came here, to Cuba?”

Mathilde began reading. “Almado. He is the lover of your friend . . . who died?”

“That's right. Yes.”

“So he's found you, somehow.”

“I know how, I think. I can't remember if I told you this, but that very first day I went into Coppelia, the ice cream place, and I saw a young man who I thought was Almado, but it turned out he only looked like him. I had to explain, of course, and he offered to help. He spoke Spanish. He said he'd try to find him.”

“So, that's it. He tracked him down.”

Lorraine picked up the note. “I wish I'd been here, when he came.”

Mathilde sipped her coffee. “He's right, you know. It's a scandal, but they don't like Cubans hanging around in the lobby.”

Lorraine was remembering. “The next day, when I went back with Father Rodriguez, I think Hugo had already been there.”

“Hugo?”

“That's the young man's name. The one who found him.”

“Well, it's very good. It all worked out in the end. We'll go to the church. Of course I'll come. I'd love to. You know, it's very famous? Catholic, but all made over to their African religion.”

“Thank you. You don't know—I'm so relieved.”

“Don't think of it. Listen—wait here. You should have some coffee. I'll go up and get my guidebook and ask at the desk.”

Mathilde went off. And Lorraine asked for coffee, and then some eggs from the young woman in her white cap, discovering, as she ate, that she was famished: and she got some more bread. And orange juice. She felt better now. She'd almost forgotten what she was doing here—reading Almado's name had been a shock, and the prospect of going to the church alone . . . but, as a joint project, it seemed perfectly feasible. And Mathilde's enthusiasm was obviously genuine. She came back with her guidebook. “He's right, it's not far. One block to Cuba, and then straight down to the Merced—”

“It must mean ‘mercy.' Our Lady of Mercy.”

“According to Santeria—the black religion—she is the equivalent to Obatalla, the great deity of the Yoruba. It's from the time of the slaves. They weren't allowed to worship their own gods, so they used the saints instead, a trick.” Mathilde smiled. “Or that's what the guidebook says. It's simple, though, to get there. Don't rush. We have enough time.”

When Lorraine was finished, they decided to go up to their rooms; the hotel put fresh bottles of water in the minibar every morning, and
although it was more expensive than the water you could buy on the street, it was important to have some if you were walking any distance at all.

They set off, Mathilde discreetly leading the way. It was hotter than the day before, and more humid; the sun pressed the grey, hazy clouds down upon the city. In the redevelopment of Habana Vieja, Cuba Street had been largely passed over; it was rough, decayed, a deep gutter. Only its ruins were picturesque and the beauty of the old stone had to be imagined under the grime. Soon they passed out of the tourist zone. Now there were no longer policeman at the corners. People pushed and crowded around them. Through doorways they glimpsed dark courtyards, stairs rising up to the tenements: in a shaft of sunlight a woman drew up black water from a well. Now, many of the faces were black. Also poor. Dignity fought with squalor and did not always win. For the first time Lorraine saw people in filthy clothes and one doorway breathed out a stench of sodden garbage so intense Mathilde put her head down and hurried past, throat clenched tight as a fist. The eyes of the blacks were bloodshot and sullen, full of anger and resentment, but without the energy to quite be hostile: at the same time, as the sidewalk narrowed, Mathilde realized they weren't necessarily going to get out of her way. She said, “I don't think I'd want to be here at night.” Lorraine said nothing. Mathilde was excited. This was different; to the extent it was frightening and a challenge, she wanted to meet it. Finally, she wasn't being a tourist. All the preconceptions she might have had about what she was seeing felt false. She took half a dozen shots with her camera, but then put it away—it was a hindrance. She was feeling the exhilaration of seeing something with her own eyes, and that was far more exciting. Lorraine, in her own way, felt somewhat the same; the street began to take over her feelings. Across the road she spied a little boy standing in a doorway, in his
school uniform—his bright red shorts—who had one leg in a cast, so that he couldn't hold it straight. He was as clean as a new pin: his cast was pristine white. And his bright, fresh cleanliness, and the hope of his childishness brought out all that was sordid in the street more strongly. She felt a sudden onrush of tears; the child was so pitiful she couldn't help herself. Then she thought, You are a Christian, and then she repeated the thought with great emphasis,
You are a Christian
, although whether she did so as reassurance or with surprise wasn't clear to her. But it was as if, for the first time, she felt the force of her own deepest belief,
thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.
And she did love them—that was what she felt. These poor, beaten-down people, who had nothing. She loved them. She had to love them. They had nothing,
nothing
, and all that distinguished them were the marks life had laid on their faces and bodies, even though these were only the signs of their common humanity. Which she shared with them, which was hers as well. It was as if she'd touched them and burned where they touched. The very violence of this made her step back, wondering if what she felt now wasn't just an aspect of the strange fear that had gripped her lately, part of her breakdown. Perhaps that was so; for, absurdly, she was now able to imagine preaching to these people, making her life over to theirs, like Mother Teresa. Then she thought— as an appeal to her common sense—But it's not the Black Hole of Calcutta, it's not as bad as all that. And she thought of what Mathilde had said,
I wouldn't want to be here at night
. Of course she was right. Wasn't that terrible? To be afraid of these people . . . whom she wanted to love. It was shameful, but she would be afraid, at night. They'd take
your
humanity, your very life, God's gift, in order to steal your money. Did that mean your humanity was a luxury, something you could only afford if you had cash in your pocket? It was a terrible thought. And it was even worse, because these people couldn't afford theirs, though it was all they possessed. They were lost, and lost again. It was hard to imagine their redemption, except for grace. What gospel could you spread amongst them? What could the good news be? How could Christ compete with a lottery number? Her heart ached with pity. But at least it was obvious, whatever misgivings she'd had about her own state, that her feelings weren't out of keeping with the place. For the landmarks they passed as they descended deeper into the slum of Belén were a convent, Santa Clara, and then churches, first Iglesia del Espíritu Santo and finally Merced itself. Moreover, the church was the centre of this world, if it had one. There was a crowd around the door, people constantly passing in and out. And on its modest steps, people were selling flowers, candles, strings of beads. It was a happy, busy, normal scene. As they came up, both Lorraine and Mathilde felt a rush of relief that was an admission of how fearful they'd been.