Free Private House by Anthony Hyde Page A

where he liked to go—but he says he told all of this to the other man.” The priest frowned. “Do you know what he means—this other man?”
    It took an instant for Lorraine to remember. “Ask if this other man looked like Almado?”
    Enrique turned to her with a smile as he replied, and she almost understood what he was saying before the priest told her. “Yes, he looked like Almado. He says he thought at first that Almado had come back, but he says that the man was also a Canadian who was looking for him on his own.”
    Lorraine explained to the priest: “He was a young man I came across yesterday, after I’d been here. I thought he was Almado, too— he looks very much the same. I had to tell him—I had to explain— and he offered to help.”
    â€œSo, it seems he came here,” said the priest. “He asked these questions too.”
    â€œLook, please tell Enrique that I understand he is angry with Almado but that it’s very important that I find him.” Then she added, “Should I offer him something?”
    â€œIf you like. But then he might lie.”
    â€œI don’t want that.”
    The priest, apparently with eloquence, made this general appeal, and Enrique seemed to respond positively, replying at length and turning repeatedly toward Lorraine with a friendly smile.
    Father Rodriguez said, “He says he knows nothing . . . he is sorry. He understands it is important. The other man explained to him a little, but there was nothing he could tell him that he hasn’t told us. If he hears anything of Almado, he will come to me at the church. Then I can get in touch with you.”
    Lorraine wasn’t sure about this; she would have preferred to leave the address of the hotel. But then, as they stepped outside—the blinding sun, the wild growth of the garden, the busy white hen—she reflected that Father Rodriguez might hear something after she’d returned to Canada and she quickly wrote her address on a page of her Filofax and passed it to him. “Thank you, Father, you’ve been such a great help.”
    He smiled. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œAs I told you, this is a practical problem, but then there’s the question of conscience. . . . My best efforts.”
    â€œSo I must think of mine!”
    â€œYour conscience should be perfectly clear. And I will remember what I said. I don’t think Murray would be in the least unhappy. He wasn’t unreasonable, was he? You have done your best, and I’m doing mine. That’s all he would have wanted.”
    When she held out her hand, the priest took it with a smile . . . which faded into a more serious expression. “We have a deal, then?”
    His handshake was firm. Then, with a nod, he turned down the street, striding along in his brisk, businesslike way. Lorraine headed in the opposite direction. What had seemed a long, hot, difficult walk the day before was a pleasant outing today. She knew where she was, she knew where she was going; she enjoyed the small pleasures of recognition. She decided against ice cream—she didn’t want to spoil the lunch she had promised herself—but she walked through the grounds of Coppelia on the chance that she might see Hugo again. With the priest, she hadn’t remembered his name; but it had all come back to her. He seemed to have carried through on his promise, which was nice. But there didn’t seem much hope. She went along La Rampa to the Yara, which she’d also noticed the day before. It presented a high, purplish concrete facade to the street, presumably the back of the screen. Kill Bill was still advertised on the plastic marquee, but it was all rather shabby, and there weren’t any posters; all the entrances were closed. She looked around. Along the sides of the building were alleys, shrouded in the usual jungly undergrowth. At the back was a dusty car park—