Free Private House by Anthony Hyde

with the crumbling ruins of the old houses lost in their over-run gardens; but with the priest striding beside her it was no longer menacing. Despite his stockiness, Lorraine had to work to keep up with him; and he was not very talkative.
    â€œThese must have once been very fine houses,” she said.
    â€œIt was a neighbourhood of possibly not the wealthiest people, but everyone here had some money. This is where the Americans lived.”
    â€œIs that why the church is where it is?”
    â€œI was born in 1971, Mrs. Stowe. I know nothing about that.”
    He had lived all his life under Castro. She concentrated on that, and on keeping up, until the priest turned between the two pillars of the crumbling wall. The door was reassuringly closed. The priest knocked—three precise knocks—then stepped back, his hands clasped behind his back. The older of the two black women, the mother if she’d understood the drama of the previous morning, opened the door. The priest spoke quickly, turning once to Lorraine who guessed what he wanted before he spoke: “Enrique,” she supplied. The black woman nodded. She closed the door but they could hear her calling. Lorraine said, “He lives upstairs.”
    The priest nodded. “He will come down.”
    He appeared a moment later. He was even shorter than the priest, though somehow the stockiness of the one reinforced that of theother: so that Lorraine, recalling her impression of a bantamweight-boxer, saw them as opponents in the ring. Enrique, though, was now fully dressed—a blue shirt with yellow flowers hid his chains— though the tautness of his body was still apparent, for his white trousers were tight and had a slightly nautical air, cut off at mid-calf; and today he was wearing flip-flops. Only once, as Father Rodriguez presumably introduced them, did Enrique show any sign of recognizing her—a smile, “Sí, sí” —but that was when he swung the door fully open and invited them in.
    They stepped into a hall. To the left and right were doorways, though both were covered with curtains; at the back, a staircase. Most of the space was taken up by a large motorcycle (missing one wheel) and two refrigerators. Enrique and the priest talked for several minutes, Father Rodriguez eventually condensing this discourse to “He has no idea where this man is. None.”
    â€œWhen did he last see him?”
    An exchange produced: “The end of March.”
    â€œWhere was he going then?”
    This question sparked something of the passion of the previous morning, and the priest finally held up his hand and turned to Lorraine. “This man—Enrique—threw the other one out of the house.”
    â€œAlmado?”
    â€œAlmado. Yes. He has no idea where he went. It was, you know, a lovers’ quarrel.”
    â€œWhere is his family?”
    Enrique understood this on his own. “Matanzas,” he said to her; but then, turning to the priest, he elaborated.
    â€œHe was from Matanzas,” Father Rodriguez explained, “and at least once he visited there. He has a sister.”
    â€œWell, does he have an address?”
    In fact, he didn’t: moreover, it was likely that the sister was now in Santiago. And Lorraine was already deciding that excursions outside Havana were above and beyond the call of duty.
    â€œPlease ask him where he met Almado, in the first place.”
    Lorraine guessed that the question was embarrassing: Enrique spoke quickly, almost under his breath, and his gaze shifted to some point beyond the priest’s shoulder.
    â€œThe Yara. Outside it. The Yara is a movie theatre not far from here . . . these people often find each other there. In the night.”
    â€œDid Almado like to go anywhere else?”
    Enrique, with a glance at Lorraine, responded with obvious impatience and by the time he finished, the priest was frowning. “There is a special club, Verano’s,