The Foreign Girls

by Sergio Olguin

  That was how Verónica spent the first five days. On the afternoon of the sixth she got bored and decided to leave the house. Coincidentally, her stash of cigarettes was running low.

  IV

  It was the first time Verónica had got properly dressed since arriving in Tucumán. Her jeans felt rough against her skin. She had very quickly got used to life in the great outdoors. She thought of putting on a shirt she had bought shortly before leaving which had struck her as perfect for the trip but, looking at herself now in the mirror, it seemed very formal. Instead she opted for a DKNY T-shirt in pastel colours and put a light blue jacket over it. The weather was getting cooler.

  Instead of taking the road by which she had come from San Miguel de Tucumán, Verónica decided to keep driving up through the hills. She had noticed that the route was almost circular and that, if she kept following it, she would arrive at the provincial capital. The aim was to find a bar before she reached the centre of town. She drove along, enjoying the mountain road, absorbing as much as she could of the view without taking her eyes off the winding road, its ups and downs. As the road finally levelled out and became straighter, she passed a neighbourhood of weekend homes. In the distance she saw a sign advertising a bar called Lugh, which seemed to have the vibe of an Irish pub. The availability of a free parking space right in front of it was enough to persuade her to stop outside, although, on closer inspection, it looked less like a happening pub and more like a typical small-town bar.

  There weren’t many people in Lugh and very few of the tables were occupied. There was a couple, a group of four men, and a family of two adults and two pre-teens who were sitting at one of the tables outside. She asked the waitress for a double Jim Beam Black and a still mineral water on the side. For a moment she sensed that the four men, who were sitting alone at a table at the other end of the bar, were watching her. The barman also watched her as he poured the bourbon. Verónica pretended not to notice, turning her attention instead to the map of Argentina’s north-east she had brought with her. It was time to relinquish the sepulchral peace of her cousin’s house and continue north. She would pass through Yacanto del Valle, meet that relative of her cousin-in-law; he’d be a charming guy, she’d fall in love with him and spend the rest of her life in the little town.

  Admittedly the plan had some flaws: she wanted to reach Humahuaca and couldn’t let a man detain her en route. Perhaps she could take him along with her, though. Settle down together in some other little town. But even if this guy turned out to be a perfect combination of Clive Owen, Rocco Siffredi, nineties Arno Klasfeld and Leonard Cohen at any point in his life, it wouldn’t be enough to tempt her away from Villa Crespo, her beloved neighbourhood in Buenos Aires. So she might as well quickly abandon the fantasy of staying in Yacanto del Valle.

  Verónica had already finished the water and drunk half the bourbon when two girls entered the bar. Absorbed in the map, she didn’t notice them come in, only becoming aware of them when one of them asked, in Spanish with inflections of German or Russian or something similar, “Good afternoon, where can we get some rope?”

  You could tell straight away that they were foreign, especially the blonde, who had a Nordic look and was wearing military-style trousers with lots of pockets, a black vest and lace-up boots. The other one could have passed for Argentine with her slightly curly black hair, bone-coloured shorts, flat strappy sandals and a loose T-shirt with some writing on it that Verónica couldn’t make out.

  The question sounded absurd. What did two foreign girls want with a length of rope? She stared at them with the same expression as the barman.

  “It’s for a guitar,” the blonde girl clarified.

  The barman told them that they would have to go to the city. He looked in a telephone directory for the address of a specialist shop and mentioned that it was about to close. The dark-haired girl asked if they could call a taxi from the bar. Verónica listened to the whole exchange and thought nothing of offering to take them herself.

  Frida and Petra had come into her life a few seconds earlier, when Frida first spoke. Now she was the one entering into the destiny of the Norwegian and Italian girls. They looked at each other and all three felt a connection. They exchanged smiles, never suspecting that they were already moving towards a tragedy. Days later, Verónica would keep revisiting, tirelessly, each moment they had spent together, and would alight on various things that she wished she could change, but she would never regret speaking to them in that lost wayside bar.

  By the time they arrived in San Miguel de Tucumán some minutes later, they had already told each other a bit about themselves. Frida was a sociologist with a doctorate titled “Migrations and Social Change in the Suburbs of Buenos Aires between 1950 and 1990”. Her studies had brought her to Argentina on various occasions. Petra was a music teacher and an amateur singer-songwriter. Petra and Frida had first met in Córdoba two years previously. At that time Petra was living in San Marcos Sierra and about to separate from her Córdoban boyfriend. Frida had moved to Buenos Aires to work on the final part of her thesis. Petra made several trips to the capital to visit Frida, who returned to Oslo a few months afterwards. Petra went to visit her there. Together they had travelled through the Norwegian fjords, then Sweden and Denmark. They had visited other parts of the European continent too. But Petra didn’t want to stay there. Her new corner of the world was Córdoba: “I’m an orphan, I have no siblings, no aunts or uncles. And the mountains of Córdoba remind me of Piedmont, which is where my paternal grandparents were from. I feel at home in the San Marcos Sierra.”

  While travelling through the Norwegian fjords, Frida and Petra had promised each other to visit the ruins of the Incan Empire. They would start in the north of Argentina, travel through Bolivia and then on to Peru. They were at the start of that adventure now.

  Verónica briefly described her work and home life. When the other two pressed her on her love life, she told them only that she had been dating a married man and that it was over now.

  “Good thing too. Married men are the worst.”

  She didn’t tell them that Lucio had been killed or about the circumstances of his death. Nor any of what she had been through at the end of the previous year. Why would they want to know? When it came down to it, Verónica was exactly as she must have appeared to them: a friendly girl.

  They arrived at the music shop just before it closed, then decided to get something to eat. A colleague of Verónica’s from the magazine had recommended a wine bar where they served the best Tucumanian empanadas and tamales to die for. The GPS said it wasn’t far, so they headed for Lo de Raúl, a traditional bar full of families. That night there was no show. From the loudspeakers came the voice of folk legend Atahualpa Yupanqui:

  I went to Taco-Yaco

  To buy a Spanish steed

  And I came back with a little bay

  A snoring, skinny low breed

  They ordered empanadas, tamales, humita and red wine. Deciding against the house wine, they asked for a bottle of Finca Las Moras. Over coffee they polished off a second bottle.

  Petra told them how she had broken up with her Argentinian boyfriend, also a music teacher, prompting Frida to observe, as though she were writing a sociology paper about the local male, “All Argentine men are liars. I don’t know a single man in this country who hasn’t lied to his wife at least once.”

  “Not to sound overly patriotic or anything, but I don’t think lying is exclusive to Argentinians.”

  “Or to men,” Petra added.

  “Sorry, girls, no. I’ve met men from all over and none of them is like the Argentine male. He reels you in, he gives you a lovely present, all beautifully wrapped and with a ribbon on top. And inside is a big fat lie. Greek mythology talks about the sirens. In this country they should talk about the Argentine male: deceptive, charming – I won’t deny it – but incapable of honesty. Even the Uruguayans are better!”

  “Hey, that’s going too far.”

  Ve
rónica wanted to know if her knowledge was based on some specific romantic disappointment.

  “Well, obviously I went out with some Argentinians. A European woman on her own in Argentina is going to end up in the bed of a local male at some point. They talk to you, they whisper sweet nothings. They work so hard to seduce you, as though their lives depend on it.”

  “They put their backs into it.”

  “Their backs?”

  “They make an effort.”

  “Right – they put their backs into it. And you fall for it like a sailor on the Aegean in Homeric Greece. You end up in their bed. And it takes a while for you to realize that they aren’t men, they’re more like mermen.”

  “What, fish?”

  “No, I mean like sirens. A lot of singing, no substance.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Just look around the table: you used to go out with a married man. Petra got cheated on by her little music maker. I’ve had men tell me they’d move to Norway for me.”

  “And why not?”

  “Nobody in their right mind wants to go and live in Norway! It’s all talk. They think they’re Borges. But at least Borges really did have a passion for Nordic countries.”

  The bar had a patio with no tables, which smokers could use without having to go out into the street. Petra and Verónica went there for a cigarette and Frida accompanied them so as not to wait alone inside. It was a moonless night, quite cold. There were vines on a trellis above the patio from which a few bunches of grapes still hung. The attenuated sound of music and chatter reached them from inside the bar. The women smoked in silence and Frida looked around at the trees and the vines as though searching for something.

  “I always feel that nature’s hiding something.”

  “Men lie, nature hides. Nothing’s safe.”

  “No, no. I mean that it’s hiding something supernatural. I’m an animist. I believe that there are spirits in the branches, in those vine leaves. We’re surrounded by ethereal beings.”

  “Ah, la piccola Frida and her childhood full of Viking legends,” said Petra, going over to her friend and smoothing her hair as though they were mother and daughter.

  Frida let her do it, like a good girl, then moved her hand to Petra’s face and stroked her cheek. A brief but unmistakable gesture. It was dark and Verónica couldn’t see how they were looking at each other, but she intuited there was something more than friendship between the two women.

  Back at the table, they decided not to drink any more – since Verónica had to drive – and ordered coffee. While they were waiting for the bill, the girls suggested that she join them on their journey to Bolivia and Peru. Verónica thought this over for a moment: it wasn’t a bad idea, although she would prefer to stick to her original plan and not go further north than Jujuy, but they could at least travel that far together. She accepted and immediately invited them to stay at her cousin’s house, an idea that delighted them both.

  She dropped them off at the door of their hotel and they agreed that she would return to pick them up the following day, before lunch. Then Verónica returned alone to Severo’s house. The road was completely dark. She could see only what was illuminated by her car’s headlights. The alcohol was beginning to disperse through her body. She felt strange. All the same, she arrived safely at the house in Cerro San Javier and stayed outside in the garden for a little while. A year ago Verónica would never have invited two strangers to come and stay in her house. But the last few months had taught her that worthwhile things were often to be found somewhere unexpected. When it came down to it, if she had chosen to be a journalist it was because she felt a particular kind of adrenaline when confronted with something unknown. To seek out the unknown was to know it. And she was a full-time journalist, even on vacation.

  V

  “Klar som et egg,” said Frida, appearing in the living room in a bikini. Verónica looked to Petra for a translation, but the Italian shrugged her shoulders. “I’m as ready as an egg,” Frida said, in Spanish. Verónica and Petra stared at her expectantly. “As ready as an egg to go outside. That’s what we say in Norway.” And without waiting for them she went down to the decked area by the pool. Petra and Verónica followed her.

  They had arrived at the house less than an hour ago, carting their rucksacks and a guitar. Verónica had given them a little tour of the house and the girls had seemed enthralled by every discovery: the spectacular view of the garden, the larder, the drinks corner, the pool table, the bedrooms with en suites, the Jacuzzi in every bathroom. Verónica had invited them to take their pick of bedrooms (and was careful not to say anything else). She was surprised when they opted for separate rooms. They left their luggage there and went to the veranda. Verónica brought out three open Corona beers. They sat and looked out over the landscape, smoking and drinking.

  “This is much more amazing than I’d imagined,” said Petra.

  “Exactly how I felt when I arrived a week ago.”

  “Is your cousin single?”

  “He’s married and very boring.”

  “Shame.”

  They finished the beers and decided to get changed and go and sunbathe.

  When Verónica came out of her room, Petra was in the living area looking at the CDs and sound system. She was wearing a pink, orange and yellow bikini that accentuated her brown skin.

  “Which part of Italy are you from?”

  “I was born in Turin, but my father’s family was from Villadossola and my mother came from Sicily. My parents met at university. They were both psychologists against shutting people away in asylums, believing in the principle of no one being truly ‘normal’: Da vicino nessuno è normale. They were two amazing people. They died when I was twenty. An accident on the Milan–Turin freeway.”

  “How awful.”

  “Yes, it was. I was studying at the Conservatory. I thought of giving it all up. But then I changed my mind. I got my degree and left Italy. I don’t think I could live there again. Too much sadness.”

  Frida appeared, said something in Norwegian and the three of them went outside to lie in the sun. Each settled onto her lounger. Petra and Frida both took off their bikini tops. Verónica stared at them.

  Petra smiled back. “You’ll get tan lines.”

  “It’s just that I feel like someone’s watching us.”

  “So what if they are?”

  Verónica felt a bit foolish. Or worse: prudish. She took off her top and dropped it down by the lounger.

  Verónica watched Frida put sunscreen on her hands then, rather than rub it into her own body, walk over to Petra and start to spread the lotion over her back. Petra murmured something Verónica couldn’t hear. Verónica decided it was better to lie back and not keep ogling them like a voyeur.

  “You should put some cream on.”

  “Yes, I should.”

  “Turn over and I’ll do your back.”

  Verónica did as she was instructed.

  “I’ll warm it in my hands first so it doesn’t feel too cold.”

  She felt Frida’s hands sweeping over her back. Softly, from her shoulders to her waist. It was what she had been needing: to be touched. She closed her eyes. Some horrible music was playing in the distance, perhaps that summer’s hits. Closer, she could hear cicadas and her own breathing. She didn’t want this moment to end. She wanted to go to sleep feeling Frida’s hands on her skin. In this sleepy state, she heard Frida’s voice.

  “Right, time for one of you to do some work.”

  Verónica turned her head and saw Frida lie face down on her lounger and Petra pick up the bottle of sunscreen. She closed her eyes again and seemed to hear Petra’s hands sliding over Frida’s back.

  VI

  That evening she received an unexpected call. Apart from her sisters, nobody had been in touch with Verónica since she arrived in Tucumán. So the sound of her phone ringing took her by surprise. She didn’t even remember where she had left it. When she found it, she saw Fe
derico’s name on the screen.

  And at that moment, it stopped ringing. It was strange for Federico to call her. He knew that she was on vacation – she had told him by email a few weeks before setting off. They didn’t often write to each other anyway. Although they had spent last New Year’s Eve together, with members of her family, Verónica had gone to spend the night at her father’s house. Her sisters were also going, with their husbands and children, along with some of her father’s friends. And of course they had invited Federico, the most promising lawyer at the Rosenthal law firm, a junior partner, the son that Aarón Rosenthal had never had and the man everyone, including her father, sisters and even nieces and nephews (who, egged on by their mothers, called him “uncle”) wanted to see her marry. Her sisters knew that there had once been something between them and that it hadn’t come to anything, a detail that seemed not to strike them as important. Her father must have made Federico a partner on professional merit; even so, Verónica suspected that her father’s gesture was something like an advance on the dowry he would hand to Federico if he ever managed to trap her and whisk her off into a mixed marriage. Because, as long as they could see her married, it didn’t matter too much to her father and sisters that Federico was a goy. Her father hadn’t given up hope that his star lawyer might have Jewish ancestry. He had said as much to Verónica at one of their lunches at Hermann (“Córdova is a Jewish converso surname”) and added, with that smile so typical of the Rosenthals when they knew themselves to be in the right, “I’ve done my homework.”

  In truth, Federico Córdova’s parents were from Argentina and his grandparents – from Seville and Galicia – were as Catholic as the Macarena and the Virgen del Monte. Both sets of grandparents had made the same immigrant journey. They had arrived in Argentina with nothing and built a life for themselves and their children. One of Federico’s uncles had risen to the rank of judge in La Plata. He was the one who had offered to organize an internship for Federico at one of the capital’s courts or at the law firm that belonged to his friend: Doctor Aarón Rosenthal, an eminence in the legal world. Federico had opted for Rosenthal and Associates.