Private House by Anthony Hyde

rolls and breads, was empty, and the long buffet, normally a mountainof glittering ice with colourful slopes of melon, orange, pineapple, banana, guava, and other fruits too exotic for names but always delicious, was bare.
    â€œNot even coffee!” murmured the woman, glancing toward the spot where the urn usually sat.
    Lorraine leaned toward her. “I don’t mind so much,” she said. “I think it’s a lot better if you ask the young man to make it fresh at the bar.”
    â€œAh. But I never thought of that.”
    Just then a young Cuban woman in a starched white cap pushed through a door at the back of the room, presumably the kitchen, and caught sight of them: she went right back, the way she had come. “Isn’t she the one who does the eggs?”
    There was normally a griddle at the end of the buffet. “I’ve been too guilty to ask,” said the French woman. “You know, for their ration, a person has only eight eggs each month.”
    Lorraine, in fact, hadn’t known this. She said, apologetically, “Well, I only had one.”
    Now a young man came through the doors. There were usually several young men in the breakfast room. One always checked Lorraine’s room key, insisting on seeing it even though he clearly remembered her face—that was his job. But this was the young man who was always so nice about her coffee. He smiled as he came over. “Ladies, the hotel has less than twenty-five guests, so we don’t have the buffet. Just ask what you want. Orange juice? Coffee? Sit here.”
    He was assuming they would sit together and it would have been awkward to do otherwise; besides, it was plainly what both women wanted. As he went off, they introduced themselves, and exchanged the usual particulars. Mathilde : Lorraine thought it sounded a rather old-fashioned name. And Mathilde was thinking that Lorraine surelymust come from the French, but on this woman, with her blond hair and pale skin, it sounded so Anglo-Saxon: windswept, chilled. Well, she was Canadian, after all.
    Mathilde said, “That looks so light and cool.”
    She had meant Lorraine’s long, full, cotton skirt with the big buttons up the front, but Lorraine plucked at her top, loose with a big scoop neck. “It looks like linen but it’s really hemp . . . with something else, of course, so it doesn’t wrinkle. You’re so lucky, tanning like that. White is always so perfect.”
    â€œWell, it’s easy.”
    â€œI have to be careful, or I simply go pink in the sun. I looked at myself in the mirror after my shower, and I was all pink here—my neck—my wrists—the backs of my legs . . . I looked like a farm girl.”
    Mathilde smiled; she would never, under any circumstances, have applied such a description to herself.
    After the young man brought their juice—and coffee superior to the usual provender at the urn—Lorraine glanced around the room and said, “You know, I don’t believe ‘less than twenty-five.’ I think we are the only ones here.”
    â€œHave you noticed? No one seems to stay more than one night. They come in from the beach—Veradero—on their way home. The next morning, they take the plane.”
    â€œOr the other way around, I suppose. I’d like to go to the beach,” said Lorraine, sipping orange juice. “Playa, I mean . . . But I’m not sure I’ll have time.”
    Mathilde said, “You are busy, then?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know about that. I’m looking for someone.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œThe trouble is, he’s disappeared—at least I can’t find him. A Cuban. His name is Almado.” Mathilde said nothing; she knew silence is oftenthe best leading question. And after a moment, Lorraine went on, “I’m the executor of a will—the executrix —and he’s supposed to receive some money under it.”
    Mathilde