Private House by Anthony Hyde Page A

her, and you will give her money. Twenty pesos. I will pay her. She is very good. You can trust her.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Adamaris spoke to the driver; was it possible they argued—that he had already been given the clinic on Prado as the address? But then the car was jerking forward and she leaned back into the seat, her eyes closed, the sun and the shadow flickering over her eyelids, the sound of the engine surrounding her: and as they rounded a corner, she was pressed into Adamaris. And now Adamaris murmured something in Spanish, and slipped her arm around her shoulder, holding Mathilde to her with a slight tension. She thought of her mother’s voice, her mother’s touch; and the pain and the sympathy merged, ran together, formed a viscous surface of feeling and memory, which closed around her, like a custard or an aspic, though she could breathe, as embryos breathe. She felt the woman’s hand touch her forehead, and from faraway, her voice came, “You don’t have a fever, I think. You will be all right, yes?” And then the cab was pulling up, and her eyes winced at the glare of the sun as she opened them. She opened her bag. “No,” said Adamaris, “that is all right, I will pay.”
    â€œNo. Please—” She took money out, and gave it to her.
    â€œThat is enough.”
    â€œYou said twenty pesos.”
    â€œAll right.”
    They walked. The cab had stopped a block or two away. “You see, he writes down the address. This is better.”
    And she felt better, walking; or at least she did for a moment. Adamaris was there, to lean on. Now her smell was familiar, the particular tilt of her body, its weight; the form of her being—all this was familiar. With the slightest pressure, she was turning her, up to the large glass door of a modern building. They stepped in. A woman, with a baby on her lap, sat in a chair. A man, sitting beside her, leaned forward and was very still, like a fisherman. Adamaris went up to the desk and spoke to the nurse, a woman in a coloured smock. She listened, then nodded; and then walked through a door, leaving it open. She returned a moment later. “Wait,” said Adamaris. And then Adamaris went through the door as well. A moment passed. The pain had ebbed. Mathilde moved toward the desk, so that she could see past the door, in the direction Adamaris had gone. It was a short hall. Partway down, a door stood open—it opened inward, into a room. On the back of the door was a plastic holder for files or forms, a kind of tray but attached to the door: plastic, clear—scratched, but still smooth enough to take up a reflection, a milky image of Adamaris and another woman, in a doctor’s white gown. Adamaris had her little bag open, she passed the doctor a bill . . . and then, with her right hand, took the doctor at the back of the neck and drew her facecloser, pressing a kiss on her mouth. The baby cried then, a howl. The two women looked around. And, Mathilde assumed, reflected in the same way, they were now looking at her.
    6
    Mostly, people ignored her; they might give her a glance, sometimes a quick smile, but then they were gone. But eventually someone always paused and looked at her, frowning, wondering what she was doing there. Even worse, some spoke, Spanish and quick, presumably asking if she was in trouble or needed help; then the confusion of language would compound her shame and she’d feel a fool twice over, stammering like an idiot, smiling inanely, standing up and brushing herself off in a futile attempt to justify her words, “I’m all right, really I’m all right.” But this, at least would move her on. You can always count on embarrassment, she thought. Twice she was propelled onward for a full block or so, the shame of it all literally pushing her from behind since she would feel that the hem of her skirt had flipped up or that the seat, after so much sitting, was stuck