Private House

by Anthony Hyde

  This was in an old, dark, stone house of three storeys, squashed between two taller cement structures that dated from the fifties—they stole the sun. The landlady was a short, plump woman in a full skirt and a ruffled blouse, with gold hoops in her ears, so she looked like a Cuban gypsy. She had a small mole over her upper lip. She apparently lived on the ground floor, in the first apartment, but a wall had been built to form a hall and make the staircase private.

  “Mr. Hugo? He is not here.”

  “But you know him? He is staying here?”

  “Number three,” she said. “At the top.”

  Lorraine felt a wonderful rush of relief. “He isn’t in?”

  The landlady shook her head.

  “Could I leave him a message?”

  She smiled, and cocked her head expectantly. “Is possible, yes.”

  “I would like to write it down. Could I do that?”

  “Yes, is possible.”

  She pulled her Filofax out of her purse, and then made herself write slowly and clearly. Hugo, I would like to talk to you. I must talk to you. Please call me at the hotel. I will be there at 9 p.m. Or come if you prefer and ask at the front desk. I must see you. Also, I told Almado to invite you to dinner at La Guarida, it’s in all the guidebooks, on Saturday at 7.30. I don’t know whether he has told you this, but I want you, please, to come. But I also want to see you first. This is urgent. Lorraine Stowe. She folded the page over and began to hand it to the woman, but then stopped herself.

  “Could I leave this in his room?”

  She shook her head. “Locked.”

  “No, I wouldn’t go inside. Could I slip it under the door?”

  Lorraine made a sliding motion with the note and the woman pursed her lips, and brought her hands together in front of her, twisting her fingers together. Then she released her hands and nodded. “Okay. Yes? Up. Three.” She held up three fingers.

  Lorraine nodded, and hesitated an instant, wondering if the woman intended coming with her; apparently not. She set off, up the stairs. It was very dark; each landing had a light bulb but none of them were on, and the gloom hung in the air like dust. The doors all had brass numbers, which she noted were carefully polished. She reached the top: number 3. She listened, still wondering if the landlady would be following, then knocked lightly. She put her ear to the door, but she could hear nothing except the sound of her breathing. Was anyone inside? She bent down, almost to one knee. No light came from under the door, only, against the tips of her fingers, a wispy draft. She flicked the note through the gap, and then stood up, and now she knocked firmly, feeling almost reckless, and at once stepped back, awaiting whatever apparition might emerge. But none did. And all at once, the emotion she’d been feeling evaporated and she was only staring at a blank, closed door. She slumped inside. She realized how much she’d wanted him to come. She made herself wait a moment longer. No. Turning, she started down the stairs, treading on the balls of her feet now, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her, or know that she’d come. And it seemed to be this stealth that summoned, on the second landing, the creak of an opening door.

  She was already by—had turned, in fact, to take the next step down. She froze. She looked back. She was frightened in the dark. “Hello?”

  “He’s not there.” The voice was soft, and English—British. The door opened a little more, but not completely, and she could now see a round-shouldered man with a bland, white face. She turned around, and stepped back onto the landing. Closer to, he was one of those pale, soft men; his skin was all over rough, with old scars from acne or chickenpox. He had very fine, reddish hair. He realized he’d frightened her. “Sorry,” he said. “I just heard your step.”

  “It’s so dark,” she said, apologetically: she wasn’t afraid now, hearing his accent.

  He nodded. He looked up the stairs. “No one up there.”

  “You don’t know where he is?” The man shook his head, and she asked: “But you’ve seen him? Hugo?”

  He shrugged. “Once or twice, just passing. Didn’t know his name.”

  “Did he have any visitors?”

  He grinned suddenly: his teeth were quite white, but large, long, rabbit-like. “No lady friends!”

  Absurdly, she felt slightly abashed, having apparently been put into this category, and she felt, at the tip of her tongue, a remark about how very dark it was on the landing; but she didn’t bother. And then, from inside the room, a man’s voice called, “What is it, Phil?”

  The man turned, letting go of the edge of the door as he did so; it swung open a little more and now Lorraine could see in. A light was on, a big yellow patch. A young man was standing in it, naked to the waist, holding a bottle of beer by the neck. He was wearing jeans. They were the kind with metal buttons in the fly, and the top two or three were undone; a line of fine black hair curled neatly up to his navel but his chest was hairless. Turning, Phil caught hold of the edge of the door, and straightened his arm, so the door closed and the young man disappeared. Phil said, back into the room, “Jack, do you know anything about that fellow upstairs?” Lorraine heard a step, and then a hand took the door, above Phil’s hand, and it moved open; the young man, Jack, was standing there right behind Phil, and Phil turned back to face Lorraine. Jack looked at Lorraine and said, “You mean Hugo?”

  “Yes—”

  Phil said, “You know his name?”

  “We chatted a couple of times.” Jack brought the bottle to his mouth, and tilted the neck very slightly; he sipped. Then, looking over Phil, he said to Lorraine, “He’s left, I think. Gone.”

  “But he can’t have gone.” Lorraine said this very quickly, without thinking; she was shocked to hear the desperate note in her voice.

  Jack shrugged. “I don’t know about that. He had a bag. I asked him where he was going and he laughed. ‘I’m like Alice going down the rabbit hole,’ he said.”

  Phil smiled. “He was probably just going out.”

  His smile, with his rabbity teeth, came together with what Jack had said and made Lorraine dizzy. She tried to smile but couldn’t, quite.

  Jack said, “I don’t know that anyone’s been up there but him.”

  Phil said, “Yesterday, I don’t think I heard anyone up there at all.”

  Now Lorraine felt a stab of desperation, quite different from her panic but as sharp; it took all her strength to keep her voice calm. “I left a message, but if you see him . . . could you just say that Lorraine called? Mrs. Stowe.”

  Jack, sipping from the bottle again, nodded. Phil said, “I doubt if we will, but if I do . . .”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” said Jack.

  She turned away, and continued down the stairs, quicker now, hurrying past the landlady into the sun.

  2

  “Only on the principle of age before beauty,” said Lorraine, finally agreeing to get into the front of the Volkswagen.

  Bailey said, “I’m not so sure about that, Lorraine. I think we’re holding our end up.”

  At once, because of their age, Lorraine and Bailey made a connection, and they played with it.

  Mathilde, perhaps, was a little sensitive. “You’re being silly. And I don’t mind. We’re not going far.”

  Lorraine settled herself, and laughed. “You don’t know how this takes me back! How old is it?”

  Bailey nodded toward the back seat, and Mathilde. “Older than she is.”

  “You know they’re making them again? In a way.”

  “I’ve seen pictures. But I bet it’s just not the same.”

  It was a pleasant drive. Once they got going, it was too noisy to talk, but that was all right. Lorraine sat back and relaxed. She liked Bailey. Mathilde, leaning forward, rested her forearms along the backs of the front seats and rested her chin on her hands, looking between them. Lorraine turned and gave her a quick smile, trying to say, You’ve done very well! And then Bailey, taking his right hand off the wheel, reached back and stroked Mathilde’s h
air, just a touch. Lorraine wondered if this was for her benefit, a declaration of their intimacy; but she decided it wasn’t, for it seemed such an obvious, settled fact that there was no need to underline it. Finally they glimpsed the ocean. It sparkled blue and green under the white, hot sun. Bailey explained about the different beaches at Playas del Este— where Habaneros go for a swim—but it was too noisy in the car and Lorraine didn’t pay much attention. “It’s a perfect day for the beach,” was the best she could do in response. Bailey parked, and they walked through a glade of pines—that was a surprise—toward the water. There were changing huts. Alone with Mathilde, Lorraine said, “I like him. And he’s very handsome. A very fine man.”

  Mathilde was pleased. As they came out, she said, “It’s interesting, hearing you talk. It takes him back to the time before he came here, and he usually doesn’t like to talk about that.”

  “Did he really hijack a plane?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “It’s incredible, when you think about it.”

  “I read the newspapers before I came. They tried to arrest him, about some old robbery. He was in the Panthers by then, they were only trying to get him for that. He shot a policeman. He was wounded—the policeman—and he died in a hospital.”

  “My God, Mathilde.”

  “I know. When I asked him about it, he said they weren’t really trying to arrest him, they were going to kill him. The policeman he shot was trying to shoot him.” They’d reached the beach. The sand was so hot, they hopped. Mathilde said, “I wonder what really happened.”

  “I’m sure he’s telling the truth,” said Lorraine. “That’s what it was like then. I’m not sure it’s any different now.”

  Mathilde considered this, and they walked on in silence.

  Bailey had found them a good spot, not too far from the water, but away from other people, and he’d spread out the blanket he’d brought, bearing the faded image of Jane Fonda—which might have been appropriate to him politically except she was garbed as Barbarella. They set out their things—he said they’d be all right, at least on this section of the beach; but they should keep an eye on them. Then they waded into the water, together. But when it came thigh high, Lorraine waited for an easy wave, and launched herself into the face of it. At first she splashed a little in the choppy water, but as it grew deeper, she found her stroke.

  “That lady can swim,” said Bailey.

  “She must not go too far. Is there any danger?”

  “I don’t think so.” Bailey shielded his eyes with his hand, watching Lorraine. “Not here.”

  “She likes you, she said.”

  “I like her, too.”

  “You must be careful what you say. I told you, she’s religious.”

  “Don’t worry, she can look after herself.” He chuckled. “And she’s still got a pretty good body.”

  Mathilde slipped her fingers under the band of Bailey’s swimsuit and extended her middle finger into the space between his buttocks. “No, this is a pretty good body. You are so tight there, you have a great ass. But you’re right, she keeps in shape. We could share you. What do you think? You might like it. She is your age, as you keep pointing out.”

  They were both still looking at Lorraine and Bailey kept his eyes that way. “I think you put your finger on the problem. She’s my age.”

  “This finger, you mean?” she said, wiggling. But then, quickly, “Bailey, I can’t see her.”

  “That’s just the wave. There she is. There—”

  “You should call her. She shouldn’t be out that far, not by herself.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”

  But they were both watching intently now. The beach wasn’t crowded by any means, but there were still a good many people about, swimming and sunbathing, with a number of children paddling in the shallows or horsing around farther out, and this made Mathilde all the more anxious, for she felt the separateness, the distance, that set each one apart, so that everyone was alone. But then she saw that Lorraine had turned on her back and was floating. She rose and rocked on the swells, which gradually began pushing her in. And then she rolled over and swam back to them. She’d certainly gone a long way out. When she touched bottom, and began wading, she was gasping and her breasts were heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Now that was a swim,” said Mathilde. “You went a long way.”

  “It was lovely. I thought I heard you call. Did you shout?”

  “No, but you must have been reading my mind!”

  Lorraine rested a moment, hands on hips. Then she knocked her head with the heel of her hand to get water out of her ear. “I think I’ll go in, and you can go to it.”

  Mathilde was getting ready to dive in herself, but she called over her shoulder, “There’s sun lotion in my bag if you want it!”

  Lorraine trudged through the sand to their blanket. She sank down and rolled over on her back, propping herself up on her elbows. The sea rolled in. A child, somewhere, shrieked. Her whole front was flushed, rising and falling, sparkling beads of water skidding off her suit with every breath. Salt prickled on her skin and sand clung to her feet where they stuck over the blanket. Fury and frustration filled her, for now anxiety was rolling in a wave from her chest down to her middle, and then she felt empty. She closed her eyes, sinking into the golden bath of the sun. In her mind she could hear Mathilde shouting to her. That’s when she’d stopped. But she hadn’t called, that’s what she said. So it was all in her mind, after all. Yet it wasn’t exactly that, the shout, that had made her afraid. It was when she’d turned, she thought, that the anxiety had started. When she’d come back. And she remembered the other day, it had been the same then. When she’d gone to the bank, she’d been all right until she’d started back. . . .

  She looked up at the sky. It was dizzying. And below was the vast, endless stretch of the sea. It was from this vastness that she called up the anxiety, as though with a spell. It was always there, waiting. It was everywhere. It was part of the endlessness of it all, an aspect of infinity. It was the whole universe, fearfully pressing down. She could feel it now, starting. It had started in the water, coming back, but now it was stronger. She squeezed her eyes shut. It did no good. Oh God. Oh God. You can’t. You mustn’t. She opened her eyes. The world was beginning to break up into little pieces, she couldn’t hold it together. She squinted past her feet and saw Bailey, and then Mathilde, bobbing in the swell. She wanted to call to them, Help! Help! She wanted to call to Mathilde. Had Mathilde called to her? she wondered again. But then she thought, You’ll spoil everything for her, she’s been so kind. Is that what you want to do? She closed her eyes. Was it some strange Freudian thing? She wanted Bailey. She didn’t want Mathilde to have Bailey. But that was ridiculous and she didn’t believe it for a moment. And then she thrust her hand into her bag and felt about until she found the pills Mathilde had bought from that strange Cuban woman. She sat up. She was going to take one but she didn’t want anyone to know, so she drew her legs up, so no one could see. She pushed the lid off and took out one of the pills, a capsule, green and yellow, and put it in her mouth. She swallowed. It went down; but she had a bottle of water, and she twisted it open and took a mouthful of water. She gasped. She could feel the pill in her throat and then it was gone. She put the pills and the bottle back in her bag and lay back.

  She closed her eyes again. She could feel her heart beating, racing. Well, almost. Now she had the pill to worry about. What did it feel like? Did she feel anything at all? Perhaps she’d start giggling. A tranquilizer. Drugs. She’d done a certain amount of rock ’n’ roll but not much drugs. Marijuana once or twice, to no great effect. Of course there was sex too. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. She wondered again, did this have something to do with Bailey? But it couldn’t. It had started before. She liked Bailey, someone her own age, from her own . . . era, should one call it? She opened her eyes and found him in the water. He was floating on his back, not movi
ng very energetically; he seemed content with that. Then Mathilde—had she been swimming under him?—bobbed up beside him. He was in good shape, she thought. Lean. She liked that, too. Really, it was time she started going back to the gym. She wasn’t in too bad shape but nothing like him. And now it occurred to her that she would never want a man unless she wanted him that way. . . . She wouldn’t want to live under the same roof with a man unless—

  She wondered if this was the pill, taking effect. Or was it like a placebo? But she was definitely feeling calmer. She was sure now that an attack was not going to take place. Maybe it had just passed off. But it might have been the pill. But then she told herself to stop thinking about it and dug out her book, an old Elizabeth Bowen novel that wasn’t as good as she remembered. She turned her body, to put the page in the shade, which meant she couldn’t see the water. Twenty minutes later, her anxiety forgotten, she was surprised by a thumping of feet and a cold sprinkle on her back.

  “Yikes! You two are like a pair of dogs!”

  “Look at you,” said Mathilde, “you’ll burn! You haven’t put on any lotion!”

  She dropped straight to her knees on the towel and pulled a plastic squeeze bottle of lotion out of her bag.

  “Just a minute,” said Bailey, “this is a job for a man. Roll over, both of you.”

  They did, not unwillingly. He knelt between them, one hand for each. Lorraine felt cold drops of lotion plopping onto her back. When he was finished, Mathilde did him, pinching his bottom gently when she was done. Finally they all stretched out, bright with oil, and Lorraine said, “We are like three zucchinis, about to be grilled.”

  “I,” said Bailey, “am an eggplant.”

  Mathilde said, “What is an eggplant?”