by Anthony Hyde
Mathilde hesitated. She didn’t exactly distrust the woman—still: she took fifty pesos, in ten-peso notes, out of her bag . . . and counted two into the woman’s hand. She held up the others. “When I am there.”
The woman didn’t like this; her features contracted until she looked like an angry pug. Yet she said nothing; only turned and spoke sharply to the young man, who brought the bicycle taxi around. Mathilde didn’t look at the woman: she got into the taxi, which was like a rickshaw, and the boy said, “Okay?” and then he said something to the dumpy woman and started heaving at the pedals, and then stood up on them. They rolled ahead.
Mathilde sat upright, her hands pressed over her bag on her lap. Away from the intersection, where there’d been a little light, it was very dark. It was a strange, clear dark, not murky, but like black water, transparent but impenetrable, so that glimpses of faces and figures flashed like reflections: quick, bright, and then gone. She was blinkered, in any case, by the hood that arched over her, and so jolted and jarred that everything was jumping around. The boy, bent over, laboured. And Mathilde found herself leaning forward as well, urging him on. Sweat glistened like dew in his hair, and on the back of his neck. He panted and gasped. His arms, bent and tensed, gripped the wheel. She smelled him. Yet she didn’t turn her head away, for he became the scent of the night, flowing past her. She closed her eyes. She felt her hot cheeks, as the breeze cooled them. And then she was looking at the curve of his back, and she had a sudden desire to reach under the filmy cloth of his shirt and run her hands up, over the smooth skin and hard muscle. He had revived her desire, it filled her again, yet it was not desire for him, or even for Bailey, but the heightening of all her feeling, so that she was now joined to the night, and became one of its creatures. Now she did not feel afraid. She leaned forward, the curve of her body making a parallel to him. And then she leaned back, remembering that she had a small flashlight in her bag; she took it out and pressed it on. She leaned forward again, and with her left hand touched the boy’s left shoulder, her fingers curling over it and squeezing. He turned his head around. She pointed the light up, not to get it into his eyes, flashing it around the inside of the hood, and he nodded, “Sí, sí,” and let go of the handlebars with his right hand and reached back to take it: but that was impossible, they hit a bump and swerved; he had to get his eyes back on the road; and so Mathilde leaned forward as far as she could, right over his body, reaching up and pointing the light. “Gracias! gracias!” This was hissed under the violence of his breath, a violence that only increased her excitement. The night was so pure and huge. The light tore it into bright strips, the glint of rocks in the road, of water in a hole, a black man sitting with a bottle in a doorway with his feet stretched out on the sidewalk. But finally the boy was easing up, sitting back, even taking one hand off the handlebar and rubbing the top of his thigh. He turned around. “Here?”
“What is this?”
He pointed down. “San Isidro . . .” And then he pointed away. “Give me,” he said, and held out his hand for the light. “Aguacate.” He pointed the light around, flashing up the side of a building to find a street sign but he couldn’t; so he said, “Aguacate,” again. He stopped then, his feet sliding off the pedals and touching the road.
Mathilde got down. Her face was flushed and her whole body was humming, flowing into her mind. She gave the boy the money. “You come back?” he said.
“No. You should go.”
“You don’t come back?”
“Go, go.”
She waved him away: with him, she felt very conspicuous—though there seemed to be no one about. The boy pushed the bicycle around, and gave her one quick look and then pedalled away, along San Isidro: the street ended at the Malecón, or what the Malecón became as it curved around the harbour. She watched him, thinking that it was probably the easiest way to go back. And then he was gone in the dark. But Almado might come the same way; he might already have done so. How long had it taken from the hotel? How long might it take from the Malecón? But she wasn’t sure, she didn’t know the streets well enough, and there was nothing to do but wait and see. She stepped back, against a wall. What a slum. She thought of Paris: the apartments they jammed the Africans into, that burned down and made a scandal. There was a door down there that led inside but there was no light, no sound. Well, it was late. Even for here. Not so late, though. She could hear cars passing, there was a big street just behind her, and one ahead, she forgot what it was called, another big old ruined street. She was still holding the light in her hand but she didn’t turn it on. She didn’t need to. Maybe her eyes were used to the dark or she was turning into a cat because she could see very well. In this strange dark, people were ghosts, shadowy, grey. A man passed on the far side of the street; he didn’t look her way, but what would he think if he had? She wondered if they had streetwalkers here, but they didn’t seem to work like that, though that’s what she looked like, standing near a corner, waiting for a man. Yet she didn’t have to wait long; abruptly—but at first rather faintly—she heard the rough, high-pitched buzz of a scooter . . . it must have suddenly turned in her direction . . . and then its odd carapace appeared, weaving down the street, its tiny headlight sweeping across the wall of the building behind her, but so feebly that even if it had fallen on her directly she would still not have been seen. It pulled in. The engine sputtered, then idled shakily. Dust rose in the beam of the headlamp: it was hard to see through it. Someone got out, shadowy and shapeless. But as the driver of the scooter gave the engine two quick bursts of gas, and wheeled away, the swinging light flashed across a young black man, his head turned slightly back, his eyes wide and bright; and the larger shadow beside him, shrinking into the dark as the taxi disappeared, resolved itself. Almado, she thought. The whine of the taxi’s engine vanished. The street fell silent. The shoes of the men scuffed in the empty dark. They were walking toward her, then past her, on the opposite side of the street. The street was so narrow. Mathilde felt her shoulders tense. She dared not move. She had to let them get well ahead. And then they disappeared into a patch of deeper blackness. She started after them, hurrying, and spotted them again: fell in. But two minutes later, they were gone.
They simply vanished.
She walked on; ahead, the narrow street was as dark as a mine shaft and for a moment she thought she’d only missed them. But after going a few steps along, she stopped and listened; and she could hear nothing. She still had the light in her hand, and for a second she thought she might use it; but it would have flashed like a signal and who might answer? She looked back, the way she had come. There were several doorways Almado and his friend could have turned into, and in one dark wall a light now came on, a window high up: was it them? Further back, still on that side of the road, a building had collapsed, and was braced with wooden timbers like the buildings near the hotel: the wall facing her had a great hole banged though it, and she watched a cat clamber over the rough, broken masonry and disappear, as if down a rat hole. But she could see that the building was abandoned, surrounded by a maze of scaffolding; if they’d gone in there, she certainly wasn’t going to follow. She looked all around. Nothing. What could she do? After her ride through the dark, this end seemed rather anti-climactic. She smiled to herself, and thought, In real life there aren’t any clues. Still, she was disappointed. She’d at least hoped to find out where Almado was living, but she’d even failed in that. He was gone, soaked up by the night. She began walking. She could turn left, and find the big street, and a taxi; but that seemed silly: if she kept straight on, she’d eventually run into Armagura, and then she’d only have to turn right to find the hotel.
But a few moments later, she heard steps behind her.
Her heart jumped. The steps vanished. At once she assumed it was Almado; he’d seen her, recognized her, and now he was following her. But then the steps came again, and a voice called, and then another, something in Spanish that sounded like “Hey!” and then voices were all calli
ng together, words she didn’t understand.
She turned around.
Three young men were coming down the street, toward her.
The black, bare shoulders of one shone in the dark. One was very big, his white T-shirt tight on his chest. He was big and burly, not like one of Bailey’s boxers, but cruder, a wrestler. As she faced them, their faces flashed with smiles. They must have known from her clothes that she was a tourist, and now they all began calling at once, in English, “Lady! Hey lady!”and one of them, his hands held in front of him, wiggled his fingers, beckoning. “Lady! Hey lady! You know what I got!” Mathilde looked around the dark, empty street. She told herself not to be afraid, that they were only young men on the prowl, that really they were more afraid of her than she could ever be of them; but then she was afraid, regardless. She began walking backwards. The young men, still calling, came closer. The fear she’d felt walking to the Merced with Lorraine the other morning came back to her. And all the fear she’d avoided earlier, the fear that had been absorbed in the excitement of her ride through the night, rushed up in her breast. She wanted to run. It took all her strength not to. But she knew that the men could outrun her, that no matter how she struggled they would subdue her, and that they could drag her into the dark and then—
Now they came closer. Their laughter mocked her, their voices taunted. She still had the light in her hand and she turned it on, pointing it toward one of the men, the big one, with the T-shirt, and when the beam touched him, he grabbed his heart, and staggered, pretending he’d been hit by a bullet and the one in a singlet put his hands up, like an outlaw. They were all laughing. She told herself they meant nothing by it. They were playing with her. But she sensed that in a moment their playfulness would become something else, and she threw her flashlight—not to hit them, but distract them—and they all yelled, looking up, and then one of them ran and tried to catch it. He fumbled it, but it didn’t go out—it didn’t break. He ran to where it had rolled, and that took long enough to let her move farther away. And she almost turned and ran then, but the man flashed the light onto her, and they all laughed and called, and then he turned the light onto himself, the crotch of his grey sweatpants, which he grabbed, walking, holding it and playing the light over himself. Now their voices changed, became more determined, intent, though actually softer, they were almost cooing, calling softly, coaxing, “Lady, lady, pretty lady,” but always coming on; and she reached into her bag now and found her wallet. She pulled it out. She held it up and because of the light they could see it. And then she took out some money, a fistful of bills, and flung it up in the air. They all began shouting, and the man with the light waved the beam through the dark, trying to pick out the bills as they floated on the breeze. And Mathilde reached down to the very bottom of her bag, and flung all her loose change toward them, so that silver rained down on their heads. All at once their voices were different, they were serious, almost angry; they turned away from her, calling to the man with the flashlight, and then they began dashing this way and that, bent over, trying to grab at the money as it scudded along. They weren’t looking her way at all—she turned and ran.
She ran as fast as she could to the next street, turned right and ran along it, then went left: and then right once more. And then she was out of breath, bending over, hands on her knees, panting with exhaustion, her heart pounding with fright.
But there was no one behind her.
Again, the narrow street was silent, the dark walls of the houses rising up and turning the night into the dark, distant entrance of a cave.
Walking quickly on, she took the next turning; she must be on Habana, she thought, or Cuba, though it didn’t matter which; she knew the way. And now she could see several people, taking the air. Someone called, “Buenas noches,” and ahead a few lights glowed in the buildings. She was all right now. She walked easily on. A woman, standing in her doorway, slowly turned her head, watching her pass. Soon, civilization appeared, the bored policeman on his corner. The relief she felt was bitter. It was infuriating, that she’d lost her head. They’d probably meant nothing. They were only teasing her. It had all been a kind of macho display, and if she’d been cool—but then she thought, as if she was speaking to someone else, But you weren’t alone there, in the dark. All the same, she felt very subdued as she came up to the hotel, whose doors were closed, so she had to knock and wait for a sleepy guard. The lobby was dim and silent; the elevator would have been much too loud, and so she climbed the stairs, her hand running up the smooth, cool marble rail. In her room, with the light on, and the hum of the air conditioner, the tension began slipping out of her, and she felt shaky. She found a box of orange juice in the mini bar and drank it; then she fixed herself a whisky. She drank a gulp, undressed, and got into her pyjamas. Then another slug before the bathroom, where she washed her face. She urinated, absently stripping off a length of toilet paper and folding it into a small, neat square. She wiped herself. And now the pressure of her hand recalled the desire she’d felt earlier in the evening, first in the restaurant, and then with Bailey in the car—it was this desire, she thought, that must have propelled her into the night; and it was still there, waiting for her. She stood up and flushed the toilet, then went back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, and then lay back, her feet on the floor, the glass of whisky resting on her stomach. With her body stretched out, she could feel the desire between her legs, the possibility in her own hand. But then what had happened in the street came back to her; her fear, her stupid fear, but also the young men chasing the money down the filthy street, the narrow, jumping light waving wildly in the dark. She felt herself make a face. They had disgusted her. But she had disgusted herself. And it made no difference, for now the taste of whisky was filling the back of her throat—and something worse, something vile. Quickly, she got up and went into the bathroom, knelt before the toilet, and was sick.
SUNDAY, MAY 8, 2005
1
For a moment, all the old doubts came back and Lorraine thought, I wish I hadn’t come.
Bailey said, “You better let me do the talking.”
But she really didn’t have any doubts, and so there was an afterthought: she told herself, All the same, it’s good you have come.
She smiled as Bailey glanced at her and then Mathilde, seeking assent for his position as spokesman; but she didn’t say anything. At breakfast, Mathilde had been rather subdued, and it had seemed to Lorraine that she was regretting her promise of the night before. She’d insisted that everything was arranged with Bailey, but she’d gone off to phone, and when she came back, Lorraine had wondered: Mathilde hadn’t sounded so certain. After all, why should Bailey care what had happened to Hugo? He was only being polite. She thought, He’s only doing this on account of Mathilde. But then she thought, a moment later, After all, you’re only here because of Murray. And she remembered what he’d always said about doubt: If you don’t believe, pray anyway. She looked about her. The hall of Hugo’s casa particular was certainly dark enough for contemplation.
Bailey knocked. A moment later the door swung open.
The same woman answered, and she made the same impression: a Cuban gypsy. Her big gold hoop earrings bounced beneath her plumped-up curls. Again, she was wearing a wide skirt, red with a pattern of white flowers; a white blouse was tucked tightly into this, not so much showing off her breasts as her brassiere, formidable and stiff in structure, creating two geometrically perfect cones. Confronted with a delegation, she was momentarily startled; but she seemed to remember Lorraine. “Señora,” she said with a nod.
Bailey tried to begin, “Buenos días.”
But Lorraine, catching the woman’s eye, continued, “I was here about Mr. Hugo. Do you remember? I’m still looking for him.”
“Is not here.”
Lorraine looked at Bailey. “Please ask her when she saw him last.”
Bailey gave Lorraine a glance, perhaps in protest at being usurped. But then he started in, the wo
man listening with a frown and darting quick looks toward Lorraine. After she replied, Bailey said, “She hasn’t seen him for a couple of days.” Then the woman added something and he went on, “His room is paid up until tonight.”
Mathilde said, “Find out his full name.”
Without waiting for Bailey, the woman shrugged. “Mr. Hugo.”
“We know that Mrs.—Señora. . . .” Lorraine paused suggestively, waiting for the woman to supply something; but she looked quite uncomprehending. With a smile, Lorraine went on, “We know his Christian name. But do you know his last name, his family name?”
She still didn’t understand. Of course the whole question was complicated by the Spanish way of treating names. Did the woman think they wanted to know Hugo’s mother’s name? Which was of course—if she understood correctly—the mother’s father’s name. Bailey translated and the woman shrugged, and then Bailey turned back to her and started saying something else. This became an argument, which Bailey finally won: she held up one hand, as a signal to wait, and retreated inside her door. Bailey said, “It’s okay. She says she has all the right forms, and has given them to the police. I was saying we’d get the police here and she doesn’t want that. She says she’s also got a register.”
Lorraine bit her tongue. She didn’t want to criticize Bailey but she wished he hadn’t threatened. The woman had left the door open, and by craning her neck Lorraine could see into the apartment. It was dark, crowded: a sofa covered with a printed throw, tasselled lamps, rugs with obscure patterns overlapping. She was a landlady, Lorraine thought. No doubt this place was everything she had. It was what life had given her, just as it had given her that short, plump body, and all those curls: the woman was only trying to make the best of it—guilt, wrapped around with her doubt, welled up in her. Finally the woman came back to them, a book in her hand—it was open and she held it toward them, pointing at a ruled page.
