Private House by Anthony Hyde Read Free Book Online

has a different tradition.”
    â€œThe parts of the old city they’ve restored are very well done.”
    Adamaris exhaled delicately from the corner of her full, soft mouth. “That is very true. They do a very good job. As fast as theyare going, the old city will be restored in one hundred years. Since they do little to maintain them, the first buildings will be falling down at that time, so they will be starting all over.”
    No one had been tending the bar when they came in; now a man appeared. When he approached their table—since there was no doubt as to who would be paying—Mathilde looked expectantly at Adamaris. She glanced up at the waiter with disdain—he was there , she was here . She said, “I would like a . . . Coca-Cola,” the name pronounced so precisely, so plummily, that it took on a quality of reverence and Mathilde could see the trademark, ®, hanging above it. She was left with a stomach for nothing more than soda water.
    â€œYou don’t like the regime,” she said.
    â€œI love Cuba. I say nothing about the regime. Not to someone like you.”
    â€œLike me?”
    â€œYou have ‘journalist’ in your passport? On your visa?”
    â€œIf you like.”
    â€œYou think they don’t watch you?”
    â€œI haven’t noticed.”
    â€œDon’t worry. But it means I have to be careful. They would do nothing to you, you are French. But I can’t go anywhere, or speak to anyone they don’t want. I am here all the time. I am the one who will suffer.”
    Her tone had altered—was this the note of truth? She went on, “I know I made a mistake telling you my name. You must not take my picture.”
    â€œNo one will hear your name from me.”
    â€œGood.”
    Now, pursing her lips, Adamaris sipped her Coca-Cola, slipping the straw into the perfect little roundness formed precisely in themiddle of her mouth. She frowned. She was absorbed. On her face was an expression of pure devotion—wasn’t that it? And yet, thinking this, Mathilde wondered if she had a right to feel so superior; there was such need in the face of Adamaris. What did she need? Everything, probably. The dark sweet stream moving up the straw was only a pitiful substitute. When she finished, she picked up her cigarette; yes, it replaced the straw. She exhaled. “You understand, it is difficult to talk about the regime. Such difficult conversations are only possible. . . .”
    Mathilde nodded. There was no doubt now: Adamaris had won. She would give her money. Resistance was only a formality: “If I give you a little money, what will you do with it?”
    She shrugged, then adjusted the strap of her top; she was so thin, it wanted to slip down her shoulder. “I would like to save a little. I would like a watch.” She extended her wrist, to show it was bare. “You see, I don’t have one. It is hard, making appointments.”
    Mathilde knew, at once, that here was an invitation; and yet she likely owned one—it would only be sold back to the store.
    â€œDo you want to travel?”
    She threw back her head, with a smile, and expelled a stream of smoke straight up in the air. “Of course. Yes. I would like to travel. But you know how expensive that is? I don’t mean Paris, or New York—that is impossible. The whole world, and we are trapped here. I would be happy just to see Santiago.” She butted her cigarette. “I will tell you, what I want is to have a real job and to do it without interference. I want an ordinary life, that’s all. With the money you give me, I will buy cleaning products for my apartment. Many things are impossible to buy unless you have convertible pesos.”
    â€œEveryone here is so clean,” said Mathilde. “The children look scrubbed. Their clothes. All the washing hanging out. Everyone.”
    Adamaris drew on her cigarette. “It is our greatest