by Anthony Hyde
“So you saw yourself as a soldier?”
“I was in uniform, so was he. But let’s not be too journalistic—if you don’t mind my putting it that way. It all happened too fast. How did I see myself ? I was a revolutionary. That’s the best I can do.”
“Now, looking back, doesn’t that sound a trifle absurd?”
He smiled. “Presumptuous, maybe.”
He was able, with such expressions, to deprecate himself, to establish a certain distance between then and now: not recanting or regretting anything he’d done, but assuming an objectivity in relation to the past. So it was hard to pin him down politically. They had ordered lunch, and eaten it, and she had allowed him to persuade her into a mojito; and with this to fortify her, she tried again. “You still consider yourself a Marxist? A revolutionary?”
“Yes. Twice.”
“And so you think Cuba is a Marxist revolutionary state.”
“That’s not for me to say.”
“Because you’re afraid.”
“No. Because I’m prepared to answer for myself but not for Cuba.”
“You’re not just afraid of the Ministry of the Interior, like everybody else?”
“No. It’s all more complicated than you’re prepared to accept, that’s all. For example, is it possible for any state to be Marxist and revolutionary in a capitalist world?”
“Well, we know how Stalin answered that question—yes. And isn’t Fidel’s answer precisely the same?”
“I’ve never met Fidel. I don’t know what his answer is.”
Mathilde lifted her hands, raising her palms. “But isn’t this it? Isn’t his answer here? Look—I put it to you—you’re cut off here, cut off from the modern world, living in a historical cul-de-sac, and you are an ideological cul-de-sac.”
“But I already told you, that’s how I’m seen. A survival, a freak.”
“Yes, but what I want to know is how you feel about it—you said it would emerge—and why you go on. I want to know about you. I want a personal answer.”
He took a sip of his drink, and his tone, as he replied, wasn’t argumentative but reflective. “You’re right, I’m cut off, but you don’t understand what that means . . . if you want it personally. You don’t understand how it works. It’s time. That’s how you’re cut off. I was born then . . . that date . . . it’s the first date on my tombstone. I lived from then on. When you’re young, you think you’ll live forever, but what that means as a practical matter is that you can live in the whole of history, it’s all yours. As you get older, that shrinks. You only have your own little chunk, and you’re cut off from all of the rest. All those possibilities you once entertained turn into illusions, false promises, roads you can’t go down. Cul-de-sacs? Sure. All the labels you’ve tried to pin on me, life has already stripped them away. Of course I’m not a revolutionary. It turned out, whether I like it or not, I didn’t live in a revolutionary time. Am I a Marxist? Given these times, my time, what can that mean? I don’t mind being an exile. It sums things up pretty well. I can’t be an American, because I’m black, every time I open my mouth and say something in Spanish these people know I’m not Cuban, so in the end all I can try to be is a man. That’s it. That’s what I’m stuck with. As for why I go on . . . let’s just say, the future’s not over yet.”
Was that his credo? It would do, at least for quotation. Soon after, they agreed they’d done enough for that day, and parted. But when Mathilde stepped into the street, she saw Adamaris at the next corner, plying her trade, however that might be described. She had no use for her then, and ducked into the Ambos Mundos. It was a hotel with a pleasant bar, cool and dark, with the tall mahogany windows thrown open: Hemingway had written For Whom the Bell Tolls here, and for a peso you could see his room. Mathilde hadn’t bothered. She sank down into one of the big, soft chairs, ordered another mojito and played back her “tape.” And now the particular quality that Bailey possessed, which she’d sensed the first instant she’d seen him, was plain enough; it was virility. He intrigued her. Because he could live with his failure and not be a failure? He did not give up. Despite his age, he was a man and the force of this now struck her . . . not, immediately, as sexual, but as something outside herself, something other than herself, almost a mystery. He possessed it. And then it was sexual: she felt it clearly enough between her legs. But almost immediately, in that same general area, this sensation passed and she was stabbed, even more sharply, with the pain she’d been feeling the previous day.
4
“Hello. It is a great day?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You like Cuba?”
“Very much.”
“From where you are?”
“I’m from Canada.”
“Oh, Toronto!”
“Not Toronto.”
“Vancouver!”
“No, I’m from Ottawa.”
“Ottawa! I have a friend in Vancouver.”
“Really?”
“He is living in Vancouver a long time. You know, letters Canada to Cuba, very good. Cuba Canada, very slow. Many weeks. You understand?”
“I think so. It takes a long time to send a letter from Cuba to Canada.”
“They look at every letter. This is political. You do me a favour, please. If I give letter for my friend, is possible you take it with you and send in Canada. A card. That is all. Only a card is all I am talking about.”
“Yes, I don’t see why not. Certainly.”
“This is my wife, Maria. I Tomayo. Step in here. In here. My sister work here. She has address in Vancouver.”
“All right, but I’m on my way back to my hotel. I can’t wait too long.”
“Five minutes only. Five minute.”
Lorraine “stepped in” to a large, entirely respectable bar, with fans turning slowly on its high, patterned ceiling. She was never sure, in Parque Central, what the streets actually were; they ran together and intersected in a series of squares. But she knew where she was in relation to the hotel, and that’s all that mattered. The bar was almost empty; lunchtime customers, like Lorraine herself, had departed. Only the barman, bald and bespectacled, in a white apron, and a single customer, hunched over a beer, looked up as they came in. Tomayo and Maria were short, dark, solid people, young, almost juvenile; together, they didn’t seem a married couple, but more like brother and sister, or chums on their way home from school. But they were clearly old enough to drink. “You like a mojito? Very, very good Cuban drink. Lime juice. Rum . . .” With his thumb and forefinger, he indicated how much rum. “And then mint”—Tomayo smiled—“secret ingredient.” At this point, the barman came over and looked blandly down at their table. “You like mojito?” Tomayo asked again.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Don’t mind if we do?”
“Of course not.”
Tomayo spoke rapidly in Spanish to the barman, who went away. They sat in silence, Maria with her hands clasped together and resting on the table. She had short, thick, dark hair and brown eyes; she was deeply tanned, and again Lorraine had an impression of childishness, as if Maria were a tomboy all brown and lean after a summer at the beach. It was absurd; she was thinking of Swallows and Amazons. Not Titty. Not Susan. The other one—Nancy—
The barman returned with two drinks, and slapped the bill exactly in front of Lorraine: it seemed she was paying . . . though she caught one nervous glance from Tomayo and Maria was studying her hands.
“Is your sister coming?” asked Lorraine. “Has someone gone for her?”
“She is working in the kitchen. The address is upstairs. Maria, my wife, is very worried about our poquito.”
“Poquito?” This, in any case, was the word she had heard.
Now, for the first time, Maria spoke. “Child. Baby. We have no refrigerator.”
“No refrigerator.”
In a grave voice, Tomayo said, “In Cuba, very, very expensive. But, to tell you the truth, it is no difference for us. Where we live,
no electricity.”
Maria continued, “Milk.” Then she gave Lorraine an interrogative glance. “Milk?”
“Yes, milk.”
Maria smiled. She had beautiful white, even teeth. “The poquito need milk every day and so we must have dried milk. Powdered milk—powdered?”
“Yes, I understand. Powdered milk, because you have no refrigerator.”
“Sí, sí.”
Tomayo said, “In Cuba, five pesos for one single package. Very, very expensive.”
Maria, with her hands clasped in front of her, looked at Lorraine. “It is possible you give us the money for one single package. For the poquito.”
Lorraine looked at Tomayo. “Where is your sister? Why hasn’t she come?”
“Five pesos. Is a lot of money for you? Sorry, we shouldn’t be asking.”
Maria said, “For the poquito.”
“Of course it’s not a lot of money—”
“For us, convertible pesos, hard to find. Very, very hard.”
Lorraine reached for her purse. She now wanted to get out of the bar and leave. In any case, she would have to pay for the drinks. She opened her bag. Why did she stop—why, suddenly, did she refuse? Why did she care? But she knew if she gave them the money . . . Was there a poquito? The barman was polishing a glass, and when his bland, expressionless face turned toward her, it offered no answer. Wasn’t it obvious? There was no sister. There was no friend in Vancouver. How could she believe them? Everything they said was a lie. But what difference did it make? Why did she care? Five pesos—a wave of revulsion, which was in part self-revulsion, passed through her. Her suspicions were so base; it made no difference that they were true—but could she be sure?—suspicion was so base in itself. And their need was true, absolutely. They were so desperate. These people have nothing and you have everything: that statement, if no other, was certainly true. Five pesos. Is a lot of money for you? Sorry, we shouldn’t be asking. And yet, the truth was, she didn’t want to give them the money: she could not quite bring herself to do it. “Where do you buy this powdered milk?” she asked.
“Is easy. Every supermercado.” Tomayo nodded his head repeatedly to emphasize how easy it was.
“Well, perhaps we should find a supermercado and see,” said Lorraine.
She must have said this to thwart them, to call their bluff; why else say it at all? And she felt ashamed at her slyness; the satisfaction it gave her was so mean. She placed the money for the drinks on the table. Maria rose in her chair at once, showing a flash of midriff as brown as the rest of her, and the paler zigzag of a scar. Lorraine thought, She doesn’t want me to get away. And Tomayo, too, seemed determined that she not escape, following right at her shoulder as she made her way to the door. And she thought she had escaped: “I’m sorry your sister couldn’t find that address, but now I have to go back to my hotel.”
“You don’t want to help our poquito?”
Tomayo stood right beside her. Maria said, “See, there is a supermercado, there—you see?”
“Step right here, please,” said Tomayo. “You never tell us your name.”
“Lorraine—”
“Please, Mrs. Lorraine, On that corner . . . see, a supermercado. Look!”
The sun was bright. They were approaching the hottest hours of the afternoon. Tomayo dashed across the road. He stood on the other side, beckoning. Maria was at her elbow, close to her side. Lorraine was quite in the open. There was nothing to fear. This was a main street, busy with traffic. One of the enormous old American cars for which Havana is famous went belching by: and plucked from her childhood—from the remembered aspirations of her father—she knew that the “portholes” along its lovingly polished side meant it was a Buick. A scooter buzzed past after it. Ahead, waiting for a light, she could see a yellow school bus, ECOLIERS written across it, for all the school buses here had retired from service in Canada. But now she was crossing the street, after Tomayo, shepherded by Maria; and Tomayo was right, almost at the next corner was a supermercado, advertised as such, though it was scarcely the size of a drugstore. A guard in uniform manned the door, letting people in and out. The shelves were empty, or nearly so. What goods the place did stock were on shelves behind the counter, or in a glass display case under it. Tomayo, as eager as a child, had gone ahead. “Here, Mrs. Lorraine, you see? Is what I told you so?”
She looked down, into the case. A few foil packets were lying there, though hardly displayed. She felt her lips move silently. She supposed that was the Spanish word for milk. Maria said, “My poquito.”
Oh yes, her poquito. Lorraine glanced at her hard, lithe body, and wondered if she might have borne a child. But it was impossible to tell. It was impossible to tell for sure. There was no certainty.
“Is all right?” said Tomayo.
Lorraine heard herself say, “Yes,” and at once Tomayo was rattling on in Spanish to the girl behind the cash. This woman took two packets from the case. “For the poquito,” Maria said. Was this the chorus of a lullaby? The woman, ringing in the sale, looked at Lorraine and said in plain English, “Fifteen pesos, please.” Lorraine handed her the money; what did it amount to, after all—twenty dollars, not even that much—and the girl, with a certain definiteness, as though the gesture had some legal import, put the plastic bag into Lorraine’s hand. Together, they went outside, the guard swinging the door open for them. The sun was bright. They crossed the road. Lorraine had the idea, though it seemed quite pointless, that she was retracing her steps. Maria was on one side, Tomayo on the other. Now they were in Parque Central, with the statue of Martí and the Inglaterra, where she’d had her lunch, on the far side. She closed her eyes. She handed Tomayo the plastic bag. She kept up the niceties. Why were they so important? “I’m a little tired, I should go back to my hotel.”
“When you go from Cuba?”
“Next week. Next Monday.”
“You have a good time, Mrs. Lorraine, a good holiday.”
“Sí, sí,” said Maria.
She walked a little away from them, and then turned round; they were standing as she’d left them. They smiled and waved, and she waved back. She walked on. She told herself, Don’t look back, as though she was walking along some dark and frightening road. She told herself, Remember what happened to Lot’s wife. But once she was in the middle of the square, surrounded by the thronging crowds of people, she at last turned around. Tomayo and Maria were gone. She stood quite still. She knew. But what difference did it make? Rather: why did it make a difference? Because, apparently, it did; for with no conscious thought or plan, she now walked quickly across the square. Her heart was beating wildly. She came up to the point where they’d crossed before, and looked up, toward the supermercado, where Tomayo and Maria were turning in. She was running now. She was out of breath. She stared through the glass window, past the guard, and there they were, holding up the two packets, for the poquito, while the girl behind the cash counted pesos into Tomayo’s outstretched hand: holding up one bill at the end for herself. And then they turned, Maria and Tomayo, and looked toward her. Lorraine was overcome with shame. Revulsion filled her—she was at the edge of throwing up the Inglaterra’s lunch. But whether this was because of what she’d seen, or that they’d seen her, she didn’t know. She had to get away. She ran. She ran toward the place where she’d crossed before. She stopped there. But now the eyes staring out at the world were not her own, the sights they were seeing were not her world. It was as though she had no face. And the street was too busy. She couldn’t get across. She walked down it. She ran a few steps, then slowed her pace. Yet she was walking quickly now. She walked as quickly as she could. She didn’t know where she was, but she didn’t have to. All these streets ran into the labyrinth of the ancient city, Habana Vieja. O’Reilly. Obispo. Obrapia. One was as good as another; whichever one she took, that was where she ran. But the street was jammed with people, talking, walking, pushing, looking. She tried to get by. More lay ahead. And the road was so rough, so broken,
so cracked, so cut across, so holed, that now she couldn’t run, she could barely walk, and all the horror that her steps had fled now caught her, seized her by the legs, wrapped round her thighs, crushed her buttocks and her back—she was rigid now. She staggered. She looked around. She wanted to cry out, I need help. Her voice was still. Voices, faces, pressed upon her. Signs: No Arrojar Basura . . . Un Mundo Mejor Es Posible . . . La Cita Es Con La Patria . . . Giron Triunfo del Pueblo—they seemed to be everywhere. She stumbled into a cross street. She was gasping. She was so afraid. And now she couldn’t run, she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed: like the rabbit bitten by the stoat. She started to tremble. She thought, Lot’s wife turned to salt. Oddly, then, she wanted to laugh, and she almost did laugh. Oh Lorraine, oh Lorraine, she thought, do something! She sank down in a doorway. She turned her face away, behind her hand—I’m so ashamed, I’m so ashamed of myself. Her face was burning and she spoke aloud: “Oh God, I hate you!” She had meant herself, but now she bit her lip; for the first time in her life she hoped that God had not heard her voice.
5
Mathilde was in too much difficulty to worry whether this meeting was an accident or, as seemed more likely, Adamaris had known she was in the Ambos Mundos and had waited outside; and her pain was too obvious to deny.
“Something is the matter?”
“Yes. I need a doctor. I don’t have time to talk, Adamaris. I’m going back to the hotel.”
“Please, take my arm.”
“I’m all right.”
“But I am coming with you to the hotel.”
And a moment later, she stumbled in the dusty, broken street and Adamaris took her arm, anyway. The pressure of her hand, the impress of her long, elegant fingers, was gentle and entirely unobjectionable; and just because of this, all the more irritating.
“Turn here.”
“I know where I’m going.”
“Of course. Yes. You are in pain—where? You ate something?” Mathilde shook her head. “You are dizzy?”
“No.”
