The Scent of Buenos Aires

by Hebe Uhart

  His godfather continued:

  “Pastor sent his son to Rosario. So did my younger sister-in-law’s brother. Those kids are really getting a leg up on life. You wanna stand out? That would make three from Portofino in Rosario.”

  As always, Arturo’s godfather was right. He would send the boy to Rosario that same year, and the following week they would go in to Portofino and have two suits made: one navy blue and the other gray, which both go so well with gray socks.

  Arturo listened to his destiny from behind the door and what struck him most was the part about the suits. Would he feel comfortable in those suits? Would they be made right? Tailored to fit him? Or would he end up in very long trousers because they hadn’t taken his measurements? He was quite short with dark skin. One day he asked Father Esmeralda, who came to collect the tithe:

  “Father, how come I’m not getting any taller?”

  “Because of the solitary vice,” said Father Esmeralda.

  Father Esmeralda came every month to collect the tithe: pumpkins, tomatoes, and fruit. Arturo watched from afar how his father arranged everything carefully in the priest’s truck. His father—who never got on anyone’s case about anything—mistreated the boys who helped him stack the fruit in the truck.

  Arturo thought even if he were to give up the solitary vice for a while it might not take effect because the decision had been made in haste…

  * * *

  —

  The Rosario boarding house was far from downtown, two blocks from the bus station. With all that noise at the bus station it was just as wearisome as Buenos Aires. The loudspeaker belted: “Bus departing for Mendoza,” “Bus from Cordoba arriving at platform 102.” What if he didn’t make it on time? What if Pastor’s son, the fellow from Portofino, couldn’t find him? There would be no one to ask. No one knew that he was waiting for Pastor’s son, from Portofino. Pastor’s son found Arturo sitting on his suitcase. He wasn’t wearing a suit; he wore blue jeans and a leather jacket. He chided affectionately:

  “Arturo! What’re you doing there?”

  “Nothing. Here I am.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. But let’s go, man,” he said and grabbed the suitcase from Arturo’s hand.

  Pastor’s son was tall and dark, but lighter than Arturo. He carried the suitcase carefully, as if there were a treasure inside. Arturo didn’t say anything; he was slightly annoyed at having his suitcase taken from him but he wasn’t about to bring it up. Pastor’s son took one look at Arturo and said:

  “There’s no vacancy at my boarding house. I’ll take you to a nice place.”

  Fortunately, the din of the terminal began to fade. They entered a neighborhood with one-story houses unlike those in Portofino. Back home, the houses were yellow and azure with blue trim. Here, it seemed like the residents didn’t care about what color the houses were—or about anything else for that matter. This notion was reaffirmed when he saw a man watering the patch of land in front of his house: he was tossing big buckets of water on the ground without bothering to look where they landed. And the people who had set their chairs on the sidewalk, they weren’t like the people from Portofino either. In Portofino people greeted everyone who walked by, and if a stranger happened to pass they wouldn’t look at him so suspiciously, like they did here, without so much as a “good day.” Plus, people here didn’t sit calmly by the door; they went in and out, and the children wearing skates and riding bicycles on the sidewalk didn’t get out of the way or look at anyone.

  When they got to the boarding house they were met by a lady in her forties and Pastor’s son requested a room for Arturo. Behind the lady there appeared an elderly woman who made gestures and movements with her mouth, as if she wanted to say something. The movements were constant, automatic, as if she were trying to speak very softly without using her voice. Maybe the daughter didn’t let her speak. The younger lady looked at them in a not-too-friendly manner and said:

  “It’s one thousand five hundred pesos a month.”

  Pastor’s son said:

  “That’s expensive, for one thousand two hundred you can get…”

  “Never mind then,” said the lady.

  The old woman followed the conversation with her eyes, intrigued. Arturo addressed the old woman, without looking at the younger lady:

  “I’m Arturo, Ma’am. I’m a good fellow and I have some money. I’ll take a room.”

  The old woman moved her head. Arturo wasn’t sure if she was nodding yes or no, so he looked for some positive cue on her face.

  “Just a moment,” said the daughter and she took the old woman inside to talk alone.

  Pastor’s son pinched Arturo and said:

  “It’s expensive. Let me do the talking.”

  “I’d like to stay here, if they’ll have me,” said Arturo, and he started to pull out papers: his ID card, transcripts, high school diploma with a photograph of all the students. He also took out a photo of himself with his little sister and their cat. When Pastor’s son saw the photo he said:

  “Put that away, man!”

  But the two women reappeared and Arturo showed them all his paperwork, just like he wanted to. The old woman liked the photo of the kids with the cat and her daughter said to him:

  “Come in, Arturo.”

  Pastor’s son was annoyed and told him:

  “Do whatever you want.”

  Arturo grabbed his suitcase. Pastor’s son looked at the room and said:

  “It’s not bad. If you need me, here’s my address. What’s the number here, Ma’am?”

  “The telephone is for incoming calls only. You can’t make outgoing calls from here.”

  “Alright,” said Pastor’s son. “I’ll call you once you’ve settled in.”

  Once Arturo was alone he sat on the bed and looked around at everything: the bed, the mattress, and the bedspread were all hard, as if they were meant for business-minded people. He had a little table all for himself! The table had a drawer, and right now he was going to take out his two-volume dictionary. His father had told him:

  “You’ll find all the words in our language there. When in doubt, turn to the dictionary.”

  As he was setting the dictionary on his table—he now referred to it as his table—there was a knock at the door. The lady said:

  “Do you need an iron?”

  “…”

  “I’ll leave it for you.”

  He accepted it because he didn’t want to say no. He didn’t know how to iron but he didn’t want to say anything; maybe here in Rosario men ironed. He hung his suits and balled up the rest of his clothes using a big towel his father had given him. As he gazed out the window at the vast sidewalk there was another knock at the door. This time it was the old woman. She asked:

  “Have you finished ironing?”

  Her words seemed to keep time with the movement of her head. He said:

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Let’s see,” said the old woman.

  He didn’t know what to tell her. Finally, quite embarrassed, he said:

  “I don’t know how to iron, Ma’am.” And he showed her the bundle of clothes.

  She seized the bundle and the iron in a huff, saying:

  “Fancy that! Did you ever! This boy!”

  On her way out with the iron and the clothes the daughter stopped her, saying:

  “But mother!”

  He closed the door, but an argument ensued between the daughter and the old woman. The daughter was saying:

  “This is the last time.”

  What was the last time? The last time he would see his clothes? The last time in the old woman’s life that she could iron? Maybe ironing aggravated her illness?

  * * *

  —

  At the boarding house, dinner was served at nine o’clock. It’s a good thing that Ar
turo got his clothes back before the meal. The lady came and said:

  “After ten o’clock food will no longer be served.”

  He didn’t understand why she’d told him that. He didn’t plan on breaking the rules. At nine o’clock sharp he sat down at the table: the bread was set out, but bread shouldn’t be eaten before a meal begins. At ten after nine a very pale girl arrived with her head held high and her nose in the air. She started eating bread straight from the breadbasket. Arturo was hungry, but he didn’t follow her lead: perhaps she had some special privilege.

  She asked him:

  “Where are you from?” She had a funny accent.

  “I’m from Portofino. Well, actually, about eighteen miles from Portofino.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “It’s in Ecuador, in the northern region, but…”

  She interrupted him:

  “Far from Quito?”

  “Indeed! That’s a different region.”

  She seemed to lose interest when she found out he didn’t live near Quito. She walked over to a room and called out:

  “Mabel!”

  Instead of Mabel a skinny, dark-skinned guy appeared from the street wearing a yellow T-shirt with red patterns. The dark-skinned guy asked Arturo, with a hint of arrogance:

  “What’s your name?”

  “Arturo, at your service.”

  “Service? Forget the service, man! Are you from my homeland? I’m from Maracaibo, which should rightfully be the capital but it’s not because the usurpers from Caracas won.”

  “Why did the usurpers win?” asked the white girl named Ana.

  “It’s a long story and right now I’m hungry. In Argentina there are no beans, or mayonnaise, or chicken with French fries.”

  Ana had already heard the Venezuelan from Maracaibo mention this several times: the night before she’d heard him say that in Argentina there were no melons. She grabbed a book and started paging through it. Arturo thought it was rude to read during a meal. Perhaps the landlady would scold her; in fact, he almost wanted her to get in trouble because that girl was so pale, wearing shoes with no heels, she looked just like a North American girl he had once seen when he went to Quito. And like everybody knows, North American girls are from outer space.

  When the old woman’s daughter started to serve dinner Mabel showed up. She was around thirty or thirty-five years old. Her skin was the same color as the Venezuelan’s from Maracaibo, but hers was radiant and her dark eyes were shiny, too. She was wearing a bathrobe; her lips slightly tinged with lipstick and smiling, she said:

  “Good evening everyone.” She looked at Arturo and said, “Welcome.”

  “Thank you very much, Ma’am,” said Arturo.

  Ana and the Venezuelan laughed. Calling Mabel ma’am!

  “What’s so funny, you two?” Mabel asked.

  “It’s just that Arturo is so polite, that’s all,” said the old woman’s daughter. Upon hearing the word “polite” the old woman perked up, nodding her head:

  “Yes, yes! You see? Manners come first. Always, always.”

  The daughter picked up the soup tureen and walked back to the kitchen with her mother. The Venezuelan from Maracaibo said, specifically addressing Mabel:

  “Now, seriously, I’ve noticed incredibly bad manners here in Rosario. Nobody stops to give you the right of way, they don’t walk on a lady’s left side…”

  Mabel smiled as if she were thinking of something beautiful, something she kept to herself, and said:

  “They’re just different ways of life…”

  Arturo ate his soup and didn’t speak up. That lady, who was so pretty, had looked at him and said, “Welcome.” They’d all laughed at him, but then the old woman had redeemed him. And maybe someday he would get used to addressing her as “Mabel,” that lady who was dressed as if she were ready for bed. Did she wear lipstick to bed?

  When it was ten o’clock at night—the time when food is no longer served—the loud bell of an approaching bicycle rang out. Seated on the bicycle was a fellow with a straw hat cocked jauntily to one side. He came right into the kitchen with the bicycle, tasted the soup of the day—straight from the pot—and the landlady’s voice resounded with mock alarm:

  “Jorge!”

  After Jorge arrived on the bicycle the meal became more lively. No, he didn’t want any soup. (Arturo noticed that Ana hadn’t wanted soup either. How could they turn down a dish that helps a child to grow, and a grown-up to thrive?) Jorge wanted a steak sandwich and then he was leaving because he had a political meeting at the regional convention. He was going to battle it out until they won. Jorge said to the Venezuelan from Maracaibo:

  “How you doin’, man?”

  “Alright.”

  Jorge was Venezuelan, from Caracas. He made himself a steak sandwich and while he ate, still wearing his hat, he said:

  “If we win the primaries we won’t stop until the regional election. We’re just one vote away and we don’t plan on budging an inch.”

  He yelled to the kitchen:

  “Isn’t that right, Granny?”

  It was obvious that the old woman paid no attention to the primaries or the Student Regional Convention, or how to get more votes, but when Jorge went to the kitchen and took some jam from a nook in the corner where the old woman kept it hidden, she yelled:

  “How dare you!”

  Jorge grabbed a hunk of bread with jam, got on his bicycle, and went to the primary convention. Mabel looked at herself in a little mirror and said:

  “I look so tired and haggard. I’m going to sleep.”

  Ana went to read on the patio. If Mabel was going to sleep Ana couldn’t read in the room, nor would she want to chat. Arturo stayed with the Venezuelan from Maracaibo, who said to him:

  “The women here are no good. I don’t know what they’re like where you’re from, but where I’m from they grow their hair down to their waist. White girls have brittle hair. I’ve seen bald ladies here in Rosario. And when they get old, little blue veins appear in their legs. They’re called varicose veins, did you know that? Back in Maracaibo I’d never seen it before. Have you seen them?”

  “No,” Arturo said.

  “Look at that girl,” he said, referring to Ana, who was at the far end of the patio. “Look at those white legs, do you see?”

  “Yes,” said Arturo.

  Arturo only saw a girl reading in a corner.

  “Well those pretty legs will be filled with varicose veins in ten years. You’ll see what I mean.”

  The Venezuelan from Maracaibo went to the bathroom and on the way back he said to Ana in a gruff voice:

  “Always reading, you. You’re gonna ruin your eyes.”

  Ana looked up for a moment and then turned back to her book without saying a word.

  “Did you see that?” the Venezuelan asked Arturo.

  “Uh-uh,” said Arturo.

  “I talked to her and she didn’t even answer me.”

  Now Arturo looked at her differently. That girl was somebody you couldn’t talk to: if you talked to her she didn’t respond.

  “My name is Gualberto,” said the Venezuelan, “but everyone calls me Freddy. You can call me that, too.”

  “Alright, Gualberto,” said Arturo.

  Gualberto looked at him strangely and said:

  “Good night.”

  Why? Why had he looked at Arturo like that? Now Arturo had to go to his room and whereas before he’d been content with his table, a little table all for himself, he now looked at it differently. Maybe because of the climate in Rosario the table would also deteriorate, just like the women, like that Gualberto had said. He seemed like a short-tempered guy. Back in Portofino Arturo imagined it was seven o’clock in the morning. His father was loading the truck and saying to him, “C’mon son, come help me o
ut.” His little sister didn’t want to get up and go to school and his father said, “Go wake her up. Make sure she gets dressed. Set her books out for her, boy.” He couldn’t sleep. He started to think about Mabel. She smiled at him, exposed one of her breasts from her bathrobe and offered it to him. Then she seemed annoyed, because what right did he have to look at her figure? But it only lasted a moment, then she smiled again. She took out a little mirror and started to look at herself. She left her bare breast exposed as if to suggest that she wasn’t the least bit bothered by what he did. He locked the door, succumbed to the solitary vice, and fell asleep immediately.

  * * *

  —

  Jorge, the Venezuelan from Caracas, was talking on the telephone in a low, clear, serious tone of voice. He wasn’t acting like the same person Arturo had seen on the bicycle with that fancy hat. He made call after call and then suddenly the phone rang. He said to Arturo:

  “It’s for you, it’s Pastorcito. Make it short.”

  Arturo thought, what a sharp tongue! And if Honorio Pastor had heard what he’d said? The nerve! Referring to Dr. Pastor’s son that way!

  Honorio told him:

  “I’m coming by to pick you up in half an hour. I’m going to show you around the city.”

  Arturo put on his two-piece suit and his gray dress socks. He scrubbed his face, his head was filled with lovely thoughts. Honorio was going to show him around! He had a look at his socks, they were straight. His jacket was brushed. He took a seat on the wicker armchair on the patio and saw Mabel rushing out on her way to work. The old woman was chopping onions and something green for a long time; she hadn’t seen him. The house was silent, it didn’t seem like a boarding house. The old woman’s daughter wasn’t around. It was hard to believe the day before that same room had been filled with people and laughter. Honorio showed up wearing a checkered suit with black, purple, and yellow stripes. He looked at his watch and said:

  “Let’s go, ándale.”