II
When she woke up a few hours later she was on her own. The lights were all turned off, apart from one lamp in a corner of the living room. The house was quiet. From outside came the sound of crickets. Her body felt like a dead weight. Her hand still smelled of Frida. Sitting up on the sofa, she found her discarded shorts underfoot. She picked them up and summoned the energy to get up and go to her room, where she fell face down on the bed and went back to sleep. Around midday, as the crickets made way for the cicadas, she woke up again.
What a night, Vero, she told herself. She had done a lot of wild things in her life, but never this. She hadn’t even been one of those adolescents who made out with her friends amid fits of giggles. She had always been very clear that she liked men, and didn’t feel that had changed. But had it? How well did she know herself at that moment? Best not to dwell on it and instead start the new day. And yet she hesitated to come out of her room. How should she act? What should she say? Where had Petra been all that time? What would happen if Frida came up to her, touched her again? Should they talk about what had happened last night? Questions, questions. Verónica needed advice. She could call her friend Paula, but that felt like something a teenager would do. It would help her understand more clearly what had happened. For the first time in ages she turned on her laptop and wrote a long email to Paula, giving her a brief rundown of what had happened in the days leading up to and including last night. She wasn’t very explicit about last night’s events, but she made her confusion clear.
After sending the email she showered and gathered herself to leave the room. She could hear someone splashing in the pool. In the kitchen, Petra was making coffee and offered her one. She admired Verónica’s T-shirt, a violet one from GAP that her sister Daniela had brought back from Miami. Petra asked her about her sisters. From the way she acted, she seemed to know nothing about what had happened the night before. They walked to the pool together and there was Frida, swimming. When she noticed them there, she stopped and said hello cheerfully. She stepped out of the water, briefly dried herself and lay down face up on a lounger next to the one Verónica had selected for herself.
“Are you OK?” Frida asked her.
“Fine. A bit hung-over.”
“You should never mix wine and whisky.”
“How about you?”
“No hangover at all. Must be because I didn’t mix my drinks.”
The afternoon progressed like any other: they went from the sun to the veranda, and from there to the kitchen in search of something to eat and drink. After her initial awkwardness, Verónica started to feel more at ease. This indifference about what had happened suited her. She even began to enjoy observing Frida and Petra as they went back and forth. She found them different, attractive. So was she someone who liked women now? Had she always liked them? Or was it just the company of these two girls that she found erotic? Whatever the answer, she felt good.
She tried picturing the same situation with two guys: to be lying in a bikini – or rather, topless – sunbathing while the guys came and went, swam, brought coffee in a thermos. She wouldn’t be able to feel relaxed or comfortable, not even about the fantasy of hooking up with them both. She would feel like she was sending out sexual signals all the time. With Frida and Petra, however, it was different. Everything was much more natural, less laden with subtext. They were all there having a good time. Period. There was no need to worry about anything else.
As dusk fell, Verónica went to her room. She took a shower and put on moisturizer. Her skin was a little tender after all the time spent in the sun. She ought to have used more protection. She had waited too long for Frida to offer to rub it into her body, but Petra was the one who noticed she’d been lying in the sun for a long time without any cream on. It had been good to feel Petra’s hands on her. They were soft like Frida’s, though perhaps less charged with unnerving energy.
She put on a short, light sleeveless dress that she didn’t often wear in Buenos Aires but which felt ideal for this evening after a day of sun. Emerging into the living room, she met Petra, who was more done up than usual and seemed ready to go out. For a moment Verónica thought the girls had arranged a night on the town, not something she was really in the mood for.
“Have we got plans?” Verónica probed.
“I have,” Petra replied. Frida was fiddling with the sound system. As she attached her MP3 player, she added, “A date. A boy I met on the bus to Tucumán. He lives in Villa Nougués.”
“And she literally means a boy,” said Frida.
“He’s over the age of consent,” said Petra, directing herself at Verónica. “I didn’t want to give him my number because I’m terrified of stalkers, but he wrote me such a charming email that I thought, well, what’s another notch on the bedpost?”
“Sing him the song,” said Frida, a reference Verónica didn’t understand.
The taxi Petra had ordered was already at the front door. She gave each of them a kiss and went on her way. Verónica and Frida were left standing in the room, like characters in a bad play. A serious male voice growled from the speakers.
“I want to go to the beach,” said Frida.
“What?”
“Iggy Pop. Do you like him?”
“I liked him when he was more of a rocker.”
No, these weren’t lines from a bad play. This was a cowboy movie. When the good guy squares up to the villain and they get each other’s measure, exchanging words but all the while thinking ahead to the moment when they’ll pull out their guns and fire. It was a shoot-out, but Verónica wasn’t sure which of them was the good guy and which the villain.
“I saw some salmon in the freezer. I could make sandwiches.”
“I’m not hungry yet.”
“Do you want a caña?”
“A what?”
“A little beer. It’s what they say in Spain.”
“Sometimes I think I’d understand you better if you spoke Norwegian.”
“Tror ikke det.”
Frida went to the kitchen to get some bottles of Corona. Verónica considered going with her, but she didn’t want to look clingy. Instead she went to sit on the sofa. Frida appeared with two bottles and passed her one, before taking the armchair opposite. Evidently she wanted to keep her distance, passing up the opportunity to get friendly with Verónica again. Either Frida was very polite, or she didn’t fancy her any more. The first possibility could be remedied, but the second would mean that any attempt Verónica made at seduction would fall on stony ground. How many times had she been all over some guy one moment and then not wanted anything to do with him the next? And even though it had never happened the other way round (the man fleeing after a few kisses), it was still possible Frida wanted to step back or have nothing more to do with her, sex-wise. Perhaps Verónica had been gauche when they were making out the previous night. Perhaps Frida had expected more, or something different, from her. Women are impossible to understand, she thought. Frida was drinking her beer in little sips and watching her. Scrutinizing her. OK, so now they were back in the bad theatre play with two armchairs and background music.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Verónica after downing some Corona to contrast with the little birdlike sips Frida was taking from her bottle.
“A what?”
Verónica repeated the phrase in English.
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything in particular. I was enjoying the beer and the view.”
That settled it: Frida was the movie villain. She was playing with her like the cowardly cat plays with the poor mouse in that tango by Carlos Gardel. Had Petra really gone out because she had a date, or to leave them alone? Had Frida asked her to go? Had she wanted to be alone with Verónica? What for – to drink beer?
“I like that Liberty print dress. I love flowers.”
Verónica looked down at her own dress, trying to arrive at a conclusion. A man would have told her he liked the way her short dress showed off her bare thighs.
Men were definitely better.
“I have a dress a bit like that. Only with sleeves,” she said, and, as if she had just had a brilliant idea, she added, “You have to see it, it’s very similar. Come, and I’ll show you.”
Without waiting for an answer, Frida set down her nearly empty bottle and went towards her bedroom. Verónica had no choice but to follow her. It was the first time she had gone into Frida’s room, and she noticed there were clothes lying all over the place. She had imagined a Norwegian girl would be more tidy. Frida went over to the wardrobe, opened it and stood looking at the clothes. Verónica had stopped just inside the door.
“Come to think of it, I left that dress in Norway.”
“It’s going to be difficult for me to see it, then.”
“Never mind, lovely. Take it off.”
“What?”
“Take off the Liberty. I want to see what you’ve got underneath.”
Verónica wanted to make some remark that made her look witty, or at least funny. Say, for example, “Ah! That old dress-left-behind-in-Norway trick,” but all she managed was a nervous laugh. Just hearing that laugh was enough to make her hate herself.
“Seriously, take it off.”
Verónica pulled her dress over her head and let it fall to one side. Underneath she was wearing matching white underwear, a simple cotton set, the white accentuating the tan she had picked up in the last few days. Frida walked towards her, looking at her with the expression of someone about to give a verdict on the quality of her clothes, or the shape of her tits, or the wisdom of her haircut. But she did none of those things. She stretched out her arms, placed her hands on Verónica’s hips and slipped her fingers between the elastic of her underwear and her body. Gently she eased the garment down to knee level, where it fell the rest of the way unaided. She had knelt down to do this and was now gazing at Verónica’s pubic area. She seemed to be carrying out a connoisseur’s evaluation. Lifting her head, she said, looking at Verónica:
“I like the way you don’t wax everything. It makes me want to touch you even more.” And she lightly ran the tips of her fingers upward until they reached Verónica’s navel.
Verónica put her hands on Frida’s shoulders and made her stand up. As she kicked off the underwear, she pushed Frida gently but firmly against the wall.
“I like you a lot, but I’m no good at playing the part of innocent little girl. Either you take off your clothes too, or I’ll put mine back on and go and get drunk in the garden.”
“Verónica, you bad girl. Then take my clothes off for me.”
“Funny how you seem to be getting more fluent.”
Verónica unbuttoned the shorts Frida was wearing and took them off together with the scanty bikini bottom she had on underneath. She made her raise her arms so she could take off her T-shirt and, while she had her arms up, kissed her. She sent the T-shirt spinning through the air while Frida did the same with her own top half. Verónica’s bra flew to a far corner of the room. In a vortex of kisses they fell onto the bed. At that moment Verónica wasn’t thinking that this was her first time with a girl. Instinct was her perfect guide. She wasn’t a disciple, or a young virgin in need of sexual education. Her hands sought out Frida’s pussy with the same enthusiasm they would a cock. The pleasure of discovering another person’s body, of being able to touch it, satisfy it, wasn’t very different. Frida kissed her mouth, her tits, and she felt that skin sliding over a body was the most spectacular thing that could happen to a person. Frida had gone down, leaving a trail of saliva that went from her navel to her clitoris and then her ass. If she did that for a few more seconds, Verónica would come. She tugged her hair to bring her up and now Frida’s tongue was exploring her mouth with the same dedication. Frida’s body rubbed against her. Her right hand took Verónica’s left and guided it to penetrate her. Frida moved rhythmically, making her caress the labia before going inside her again. Verónica’s face was buried in Frida’s neck. She liked her smell. She would have inhaled her whole body if it had not been that the movement of their two bodies had fallen into an even rhythm that had them reaching climax at the same time, both with a smile. There must have been at least one in her life, but she couldn’t recall a single man who had smiled when he came.
III
She woke up at first light. Frida was sleeping deeply. Verónica breathed in the smell of her again. It had been an incredible night. She wondered how it would be when they woke up in the morning. She didn’t like the idea of waking up next to Frida and talking about inanities. Or rather: she was scared to think that Frida might not like waking up next to her and having to talk about everyday things. Better to go now, in the afterglow of their kisses, their caresses. Yes, better to go. She picked up her clothes, or at least the few items she could find in the dark, and went to her room. There was no sound in the house. Was Petra back? Could she have heard them?
Verónica went to her bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror: her hair was all over the place, her expression was dazed, as if she had smoked a joint, and there was a bruise under her left breast. She smiled to think that Frida was unlikely to have fared any better. She drank a glass of water, went for a piss and climbed into bed.
At midday she got up. She put on shorts and a T-shirt and went to the kitchen. Petra and Frida were already there having coffee. Petra poured her a cup and they all sat around the table. There was no word or gesture from Frida to hint at what had taken place between them. But this time such behaviour didn’t surprise Verónica, so she concentrated on enjoying her coffee and the musical lilt of Petra’s voice as she talked them through the events of the previous night. She had gone to meet the boy at the house of his parents, who were away in Buenos Aires.
“There’s nothing like young men. They’re tireless. He barely let me sleep. At dawn I had to ask him to call me a taxi because I had nothing left to give.”
“So what plans have you made with this teenager? Are you going to take him to the zoo, or to a museum?”
“He’s not really a teenager. He’ll be twenty in two weeks. I haven’t made any plans – how could I? I told him I was travelling onwards with my friends, that we were bound to see each other again in the future.”
“So are you thinking of seeing him again?”
“I don’t think so, but he seemed smitten and I felt bad. It’s been a long time since a man looked at me with such love.”
“A man … a boy, you mean.”
“Whatever. He insisted on taking my mobile number and I said it would be better if he wrote to me, that I don’t like talking on the phone.”
The day spun out its usual routine of pool, food and sun worshipping. Verónica observed everything as though taking part in a game, as if she knew Frida was waiting for her to react. She wasn’t willing to give her that pleasure, despite being willing to give her every other pleasure that came to mind. As she dozed on the lounger, Verónica thought that she’d had a very good time with Frida the previous night but that, save for the minor details, it hadn’t been all that different from being with a man. And this difference was nothing to do with the presence or absence of a cock, but with a certain intimacy that she could share with a woman but had never managed to achieve with a man. That was what she had most liked about Frida. That feeling of a shared essence. There was no artifice between them like when she was with a guy. The word honesty came to mind. She wondered if perhaps it was a more honest experience – but that word didn’t seem quite right either. It wasn’t a question of honesty but of comprehension. A woman would always understand another woman better.
For dinner they ate oven fries with hamburgers made by Petra and drank beer before moving on to vodka and whisky. They listened to music, went out to the garden to gaze at the night sky and at some point Frida said she was going to bed because she was very drunk, she had had too much. Petra and she were alone again. Verónica asked if she really believed the boy was in love with her.
“At that age it’s all love and sex.
And I sometimes feel a bit old for both those things.”
They also went to bed soon afterwards. The next morning Verónica woke up feeling annoyed that she didn’t know what Frida was playing at, so the first thing she said when she saw the girls in the living room was that they would leave for Yacanto del Valle the next day. They both agreed.
Perhaps as a result of this announcement, Frida seemed much more affectionate, at one point walking over to Verónica to give her a shoulder rub. When they crossed paths in the kitchen, she gave her a quick kiss on the lips as she took drinks to the living room. A couple of times she shot her complicit looks, and Verónica imagined they would be together again that night. So she was surprised when Frida and Petra both agreed that they would like to have dinner out that evening. She had expected that they would all eat together in the living room, as on the previous nights, especially since this was their last day in the house. Although she put up mild resistance, Verónica didn’t want to push the idea of staying in. Instead she went off to her room in a bad mood and struggled to concentrate on Hemingway’s stories. Then she had a shower and put on moisturizer and clean clothes. Jeans and a shirt.
As they were about to leave, she asked if either of them could drive so that she didn’t have to be the one watching what she drank again. If not, they could order a taxi. Frida and Petra looked at her with surprise: they both drove and didn’t mind not drinking. It was decided that Verónica would drive on the way there and Petra on the way back. They ate in a restaurant that had looked nice from outside, but the food wasn’t great and the wine was very expensive. Petra drank only one glass. At about midnight they returned to the house and Petra opened a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Frida wanted a vodka and went to the study where the drinks were. Verónica followed her there.
The Foreign Girls Page 7
