Private House Read Free Page B

caught the woman off guard; she changed course slightly. “The Plaza de San Francisco de Assis is the traditional place. The Fountain de los Leones is based upon the famous fountain in Alhambra . . .”
    She kept on, about the plaza, the fountain, the old customs house on the far side of the plaza, the basilica; and although, in fact, Mathilde hadn’t known about the connection to Alhambra, or most of the rest of it, she cut the woman off: “You are a guide?”
    The woman’s lips, very full—they would have been the focus of her face if it hadn’t been for the extraordinary eyes—pursed slightly: as ifto express the consideration, and rejection, of a lie, thereby validating the truth of what she now said. “Not exactly . . . I work normally for Cuban International Radio, but I have made a private study of Habana Vieja, the buildings, history . . . but I have no official licence to be a guide.” Again, her voice dropped. “I do not have friends in the Ministry of Tourism.”
    Mathilde tried not to let her expression reveal her satisfaction; she’d been right. And it was amazing, they always represented themselves as journalists, though usually for television—even in this detail, the woman was not so banal. “But you do guide?” she asked.
    â€œYes. Sometimes, in Cuba, we do things . . . with the left hand.”
    â€œYes?” Now Mathilde made a decision. “I am also a journalist. I work for a magazine.” She’d not done this on the previous occasions, and she was curious to see the effect her challenge provoked. And for a moment, the woman lost her aplomb. Mathilde pressed the advantage. “If you like, I could show you my credentials.” The woman shook her head.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œIt is not necessary.”
    Mathilde smiled. Of course. Otherwise, she would have had to offer her own, and since they didn’t exist . . . “But perhaps you don’t have time right now . . . with your job.”
    The woman regained her footing. “In Cuba, having a job and not working are often the same.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œYou would be interested, then? I could show you this. . . .” She nodded, a gesture taking in the square, the old city. “But there is also the Havana that is not so easily seen. Perhaps that would interest you, too. Of course, that is a difficulty—you understand? For me. It is a risk. I would like to say, I would do it from interest. But that is not going to be possible.”
    Mathilde laughed, a laugh at herself; she’d known it was coming, but here it was. “We can talk about it,” she said.
    The woman was disturbed by the laugh; she’d missed something. “I do not think it is funny.”
    â€œNo.”
    She nodded, apparently satisfied at this acceptance. “Not here. It is too open.”
    â€œWhere, then?”
    â€œIn the Plaza de Armas there is a small hotel, the Santa Isabel. In the bar, you can always see who is listening.”
    The Plaza de Armas: it was where she’d wanted to go in the first place.
    â€œMy name is Mathilde. Mathilde Delores.”
    By the fountain, the girl in red was lifting her skirts, ready to replace the blue girl.
    â€œI am Adamaris.”
    3
    Lorraine knew Calle K must be ascending because her hips ached with every step and her body was tilting forward, so that now she had a pain in the small of her back. And it was hot. And her feet hurt. After twenty minutes, all she wanted to do was sit down. But she kept on, walking with her head down, just concentrating on putting one foot in front of another: and so she was surprised when she came to a corner, almost stumbling.
    She took a breath. Where was she, exactly? It didn’t help, not knowing; she didn’t really feel anxious, but she felt alone in all this heat. She looked around. This was a side street, not a main thoroughfare. In Vedado, she’d