Private House by Anthony Hyde Page B

to her bottom, so she raced ahead, trying to find the right moment to reach back and pluck at herself. But then she’d be overcome again, her pretence revealed, if only to herself; and so the panic would rush in—the blare and the glare, the strange faces and incomprehensible signs, and the broken ground grabbing at her feet. She’d sink down, heart pounding, into a doorway or lean back, gasping, against a wall, her stiff, shocked legs no longer able to support her.
    She had no idea what was happening. Once, recovering a little, she tried to laugh it off—This is ridiculous—and scolded herself— Lorraine, get a grip!—but it was no good: after two steps the world was breaking up all around her, a jumble and jangle of static and fragments, a kaleidoscope of fear.
    She wasn’t lost. It had nothing to do with that at all. She knew exactly where she was and how to get back to the hotel. Besides, she had a map. Several times, she took it out, studying it as a way of covering up her predicament. And when people offered to help, she’d smile and offer a “Gracias, gracias,” as she folded it up and slipped it back into her bag, pretending that she’d found her way. But she’d never lost it, really; she even knew that she didn’t have very far to go—the next street was Habana, then Cuba and finally San Ignacio, which she only had to follow to Armagura, and she was home. Home! Five blocks and it seemed a million miles! She could almost laugh, it was so silly. I’ll sit here forever, I’ll die of starvation . . . no, that’s three weeks, thirst will get me in three days, isn’t that right?
    She was thinking this, almost comfortably settled in the doorway of an abandoned, boarded-up ruin when a group of schoolboys gathered in the dusty street. One gave her a glance, but a smile disarmed him, and they happily ignored her. They all wore the same uniform; blue short pants, white shirts, kerchiefs. Did this mean they were older or younger than the other kids, in red? Great satchels of books were lashed to their backs, but now they slipped out of these halters and set down their burdens. Squatting—careful not to touch their bums on the ground—they formed up in a circle . . . and began playing marbles.
    Lorraine recognized this at once, although, as a girl, she’d played hopscotch. They even had the little bags boys carried marbles in. And then she tried to remember what the difference was between marbles and alleys. And what were aggies? She puzzled at these questions, even as she found herself puzzling at the exact nature of the game they were playing. It was hard to see. Their circle was crowded, there was much jostling and shouting, a certain amount of disputing, and even occasionally the sharp deployment of elbows. Lorraine stood up, to geta better view. And then she edged around the circle, to a little gap. But she was no clearer on the game. For one thing, at the centre of the circle was a manhole cover. It seemed to be the target, what they were aiming at, and she stepped a little closer: ALLANTAR ILLADO was printed across it, and there was an H in the very centre, presumably for Habana.
    A boy shot.
    His marble, or alley—and she remembered now that boys sometimes had their favourite shooters—skidded onto the metal plate, but was apparently a bad shot for the boy threw back his head dramatically and groaned with disgust. Another shot was taken, this time producing happier shouts.
    She began watching more closely. Now she saw that the manhole cover was divided by raised ridges into rings, the rings themselves then broken into sections, something like a dartboard. She counted carefully, discreetly pointing with her finger to keep track. Sixteen sections in the outer ring, eight in the inner: and then the bull’s-eye with its H. The boys kept shooting as she watched. One marble rolled into the centre, but then out again—groans,