Private House Read Free Page A

sweets. “I have a friend in Marseilles.”
    Of course she did. For the Canadians, she would have a friend in Vancouver; no doubt it would be Frankfurt or Berlin for the Germans, London for the English.
    â€œHow nice,” Mathilde said blandly. She almost went on, “I have heard all this before, I know exactly what you’re up to.” But she didn’t. And the reason was simply the woman’s appearance, which, as Mathildelooked more closely, was startling. She was beautiful; but her beauty couldn’t have been more different than the quinces girl’s at the fountain. She was the opposite of voluptuous. There wasn’t even the promise of what the Americans called tits and ass . In fact, she had little of either, was almost flat-chested and tiny through the hips. Her beauty was in her face, dark skin stretched across sharp bones to frame her huge dark eyes: a purely Spanish face. Her beauty was so extreme it was like a deformity. The eyes were hypnotic, as black as olives but enclosed in a creamy whiteness like the smooth skin of an egg. No doubt she was conscious of their effect; her hair, tightly pulled back against her skull, and her full lips, precisely outlined but without a hint of gloss, were obviously intended to set off her eyes all the more. Moreover, as she looked up her mouth hinted at a smile, and an expression of superiority, almost mocking, flitted across her face. It was annoying. But she was superior, which of course made it worse. Mathilde now realized that previous versions of this particular scam—she’d only been here four days, but she’d already been approached like this three or four times— had involved exactly the same sort of woman: they would find it hard to compete on conventional sexual lines, at least in a city like Havana. But this woman was special, she represented an ideal of a different kind. Her dress even lived up to it: flat leather shoes (brightly polished despite Havana’s endlessly dusty streets), fawn, flat-fronted cotton trousers, and a raspberry top with a scoop neck showing a hint of an ivory camisole, discreetly contrasting with the smooth darkness of her skin; and then a small bag, with a woven leather strap, dangling from her shoulder. With a tiny smile herself, Mathilde acknowledged the impression the woman had made; and her approach had worked, after all: it would have been hard now to send her away. Instead Mathilde glanced at the blue girl, posed on the steps of the fountain. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? But perhaps not as beautiful as the girl in the white dress.”
    The woman, raising her eyebrows, considered this; and it struck Mathilde that she was making a note. But she merely said, “She is about to turn fifteen, you see. For a Cuban girl, this is the most important birthday of all. She becomes a woman. She joins her mother in the house.”
    Mathilde nodded. “She eats with the grown-ups.”
    Perhaps the Cuban woman’s English didn’t extend as far as her own; or she simply refused to be deflected. “For most girls, you understand, such a celebration must be very modest. But these girls are from fathers who are better off. Even so, they have probably saved for years or . . .” Now her voice dropped. “Or perhaps they have a rich uncle in Miami.”
    So it begins, Mathilde thought; on the other occasions when she’d been approached in this way, the “difficult subject” had been introduced in exactly this tone of voice—only, with this woman, it was perfectly done, the effect all the more dramatic because it was so entirely matter-of-fact. She decided to ignore it. “It must be an old tradition.”
    â€œYes. It has never been forbidden. But just because it is so old it becomes a way of protesting the regime.”
    â€œThat is obvious.” Despite her admiration for the woman, Mathilde realized that she annoyed her.
    And perhaps her tone