The answer to my problem swings open mere inches from my nose. There it is on the door in big block letters: INTERNET and TELéFONO. I step into the small shop and repeat the second word to the guy at the counter, who reminds me of a doorman at my favorite dance club in Seattle who never smiles. Sam, Trish, and I tell him stupid jokes and flirt shamelessly to see if we can get a reaction, but he’s as stoic as a Buckingham Palace guard. The counter guy waves me toward the line of empty glass booths, barely lifting his eyes from the computer game he’s playing. His disinterest is kind of nice, like a bit of home. I am tempted to recite a naughty limerick, but I suspect I’d be wasting my breath.
I step into a booth against the window, look up the international code for the U.S., and start to call . . . Who should I call? If I call my parents, I’ll have to fake that everything’s wonderful or they’ll worry. If I call Sam or Trish, I’ll end up telling them everything, and that means having to relive it all. I can’t do it. My pulse and breathing have finally settled into a normal rhythm. Plus, the idea of Mr. Empathetic at the counter watching me cry is too much to bear.
I call Jeff.
I’m not sure why. My fingers seem to be pushing the buttons, and now it’s ringing and I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say. Jeff and I haven’t spoken, if you can call it that, since I went by our apartment to pack up my clothes. “I’ve come for my things,” I said when he answered the door. He stepped back to let me in, not saying a word, then sat quietly in the living room while I packed. In the end, I took only my clothes. I didn’t want anything else, not the things we’d bought together, not even the meager furnishings that I’d brought from my old apartment in the University District. As much as I loved the ebony lamps we swooned over in that swank downtown boutique and the circular area rug I’d hauled home seven blocks from a garage sale, I couldn’t bear the thought of keeping anything she might have touched. When I’d loaded two big suitcases, three garbage bags, and a laundry hamper full of shoes into the elevator, he came into the hall and said, “Take care of yourself.” Not “I’ll take care of you.” Not “I made a mistake.” Not even “I’ll miss you.” Take care of yourself. That’s when I finally understood that we were done. I nodded and pushed the lobby button. I held it together just long enough for the mirrored doors to close.
Four rings and the voice mail message clicks on. I should hang up, but I can’t seem to manage it. “Hi, you’ve reached Jeff. Sorry I missed you . . .” He changed the message. Why am I so surprised that he changed the message? It’s been weeks. I don’t live there anymore. I am thousands of miles away. I sold the engagement ring. What was I expecting? Of course he changed the message. The beep jerks me back to my senses, and I slam the receiver down. If I didn’t know what I was going to say when I made the call, I sure as hell don’t have a clue now. Hi, you’ve reached Jeff. Sorry I missed you . . . I’m not sure how long I stare at the phone—could be a minute or an hour. It’s the strangest sensation to feel as though you are falling, or rather, being pulled down into a hole in the earth, when you are most definitely sitting on a stool in a glass booth in an Internet café in Buenos Aires. I try to conjure up an image of something to calm me, but my mind is blank and buzzing at the same time. A million words and images and thoughts and hopes, but I can’t grasp any of it.
There’s knocking on the glass behind me. I’ve been sitting here too long, and I suppose the disinterested young man is now very interested in the crazy woman who spends two pesos on a ten-second call and then sits staring at the phone for hours on end. I would be embarrassed, but I’ve tapped my quota on that emotion for the day. I fish a five-peso note from my purse and turn to face him with as much disinterest as I can muster.
But it’s not the guy at the counter. It’s my landlady, smiling and waving wildly, Jorge sprouting from her hip and chewing on a granola bar. I am so glad to see them both.
“Oh, Cassandra,” Andrea almost shouts as I step out of the booth. “What happy luck. I’m going to the market now for dinner, and I see you sitting here.”
“Andrea. Hello. I was just calling . . . home.”
“Oh, marvelous. Your family must be happy to hear from you, sí?”
“Yeah. Yes. Sí.”
“You tell them how you love Buenos Aires.”
“Sí.” I don’t even know this woman, but I feel bad lying to her.
“You are done now?”
“Uh, sí.” That’s true, at least.
“You come with me to the market, then?”
“Well, I . . .” Market. I imagine open stands of tropical fruit and vegetables, exotic smoked meats and rind cheeses hanging overhead, crooked wood crates spilling over with rustic breads and delicate pastries. I have a kitchen in my apartment. I should probably put something in it—I can’t subsist on Andrea’s coffee and croissants indefinitely. And I am starting to get very hungry. “Okay, sure. Yes. Sí.”
“Then we go home.” Home. That word used to fill me with such comfort. “And you have dinner with us.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” I feel bad—she must get lonely with her husband gone all the time—but I have important things to do. Like organize my T-shirts by fabric and color.
“You have plans? You go out?”
“Oh, no.” I want to tell her my plans, but I wonder if they’ll translate into “I’m loco.” “I just don’t want to impose.”
“Oh, I thought maybe you have a date.” She giggles, and Jorge follows suit. “Maybe with Mateo.” Mateo? Why in the world would she think that? Is she teasing me? Does she know that Mateo and I took an instant dislike to each other? If she does, that would have to mean that Mateo talked to her about me. I can only imagine how flattering he must have been.
“Mateo? No. No, no. Nothing like that.” I am aware of the rising pitch in my voice. I don’t need to look in the mirror behind me to know that I have gone as red as Andrea’s hair.
“Then you must come. It is only me and Jorge. We would love your company.”
I guess I could squeeze some time from my busy schedule. “All right,” I say. “Thank you. That would be nice.” I smile at Jorge, who replies by scowling and tucking his head into Andrea’s armpit. One of these days, that kid is going to like me.
The three blocks to the market, Jorge runs a few feet ahead of us and then back, ahead and back. This is the movement of someone who feels safe, and it’s difficult not to be jealous. As we walk, Andrea does most of the talking. About how the neighborhood has changed in the past decade, about the young people who are moving in and starting businesses, about the older families who lost their savings and are moving out. “Out with the old, in with the new,” she says. “Isn’t that what you Americans say?” I nod, more than content to listen. Her singsong voice and those delightfully rolled R’s nearly drown out Jeff’s voice mail recording, which stills plays over and over in my head.
“That was my school.” She points across the street to a stern-looking structure with few windows. “Mateo was in my class. All the little girls were crushed by him.” She has my attention, but before I can learn more, she’s trailed off, indulging in a few silent memories, perhaps.
“It doesn’t look like a school,” I say, wondering too late if that sounds culturally insensitive. “I mean, I don’t see a playground or anything.”
“Listen.” She stops and looks up at the sky. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to listen for, but then I hear them. Children laughing.
In the city, schools have walled courtyards, she tells me. “For safety.” You can’t see the children, she says, but you can always hear them. We walk on. She doesn’t mention Mateo again.
The market is . . . a market. Bored cashiers stand beside cash registers that pling and chirp. Long lines snake around pillars and displays of sale items. Skinny stock boys skulk around corners, armed with pricing guns and coils of orange stickers. Jars, bottles, and boxes display familiar brands from my favorite peanut butter to the hair color I use. I guess they’re called multinat
ional companies for a reason. Oh well, I think, one more thing that’s failed to live up to my expectations. Maybe people with low expectations are on to something.
It’s easy to hide my disappointment from Andrea, who zips deftly down aisle after aisle, snatching items from the shelves with barely a look. As we move through the store, she keeps a running commentary, pointing out the best brand of fresh ravioli and counseling me on the characteristics of a cheese I’ve never heard of. This would almost count for an exotic food if it didn’t look precisely like the slabs of Edam and provolone beside it. Jorge disappears every few minutes and returns with a can of black olives, a chocolate bar with almonds, squeezable mustard, a bag of red grapes, a baguette that’s as tall as he is, anchovy paste. Andrea puts each of his treasures in her cart without breaking speech or stride. Not much of a cook, I drop a few essentials and some treats for snacking into my green basket. (If only I knew where Jorge got that chocolate bar.) When Andrea’s cart starts to overflow in the dairy section, we turn sharply and head for the checkout.
On the walk back to the yellow house, I sate my growing hunger with bites from a mini-baguette while Andrea continues with her seminar on the neighborhood. Closer to home, the history gets personal. Each beautiful house I admired this morning has a story, and Andrea condenses them for me as we lug our bags past. Her husband went to school with a girl who lived in the redbrick house on the corner. Set back ten or so feet from the edge of the sidewalk and protected by a black gate adorned with detailed ironwork, this house has a structural disdain for its surroundings. The girl, Andrea tells me, squandered her inheritance long before the economy failed, on a man she met in Brazil, where Andrea was born. “She still lives here, but the number of men who come and go—well . . .” Andrea shakes her head. Down the block is Rosaria’s, a modest white building with a weathered red awning. Real estate listings cover its windows. “The woman, she was a famous prostitute,” Andrea says, grinning at me. “Now she is one of the wealthiest people in the neighborhood. People like the story, I think. I like her. She is full of life. Always laughing.” There are more stories; most are less sensational, but most involve a loss of fortune and dignity. You don’t need an A in freshman world history to see that’s a common theme here.
As we near the half-painted blue and pink stucco home I passed earlier, I expect a particularly juicy story, but Andrea doesn’t say a word. Quite the opposite: She goes uncharacteristically silent. But I have to know. “What about this old place?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager. “Do you know who lives here?”
Andrea stops to contemplate. “This house,” she whispers, “this house has a very sad story.”
“Did they lose all their money, too?”
“No, something more special.”
Jorge, walking on the far side of her, grabs her hand, pulls her down to his height, and whispers something in her ear. “Sí, amore. Sí,” she sings back to him gently, swooping her little man up in her arms and giving him a squeeze. He squawks in protest, and she covers his face in kisses. “He is hungry,” she says, smiling again. “And so am I. Come. It’s dinnertime.” As we start again, a light comes on in the pink and blue house, but Andrea is too far ahead to notice. We walk the rest of the way in silence.
“Here we are.” Andrea’s voice startles me. She unlocks the great door to her yellow house, and the second it swings open, Jorge runs through, shrieking. The dogs appear from around a corner at full speed, and they all disappear into the dark house. Andrea flips on the lights in the entrance. “Dinner?”
“Thanks so much for everything, Andrea,” I say. “But I’m so tired, I think I’ll go to bed. If you don’t mind.” The truth is, as lonely as I’ve felt all day, I’m suddenly not in the mood for company.
“Oh, of course. Of course. You are not used to Argentine hours yet.”
“No, not yet.” I pass her a bag of groceries.
“I hope it is okay in the apartment,” she says as I make my way toward the stairs. “Mateo said he finishes everything.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it’s great. Thanks again.”
Once inside the apartment, I drop my groceries in the foyer and sink into the bed. I should have called my parents. My mom’s probably frantic with worry. If only I’d remembered that plug converter, I could have managed a few happy-sounding e-mails. Hi, everyone, I’m still alive, ha ha. My apartment is gorgeous. I walked the neighborhood today. Met a hundred cats. Bought a hair dryer—very important—a lovely block of cheese, and some cheap red wine. I’m practically a local now! In its abridged version, it almost sounds fun, doesn’t it?
I glance wistfully in the direction of my laptop bag. It isn’t there. Oh, God, my laptop isn’t there. I rush over and lift each piece of luggage a dozen times. Nothing. I rummage through every article of clothing. Nothing. Jeez, Cassie, think. I swear I left it right here with everything else, but I wasn’t in the most lucid state last night. I scan the room, and there it is, sitting atop a desk against the far wall. Funny, I hadn’t noticed that desk before. Did Andrea say something about Mateo bringing up a desk? I don’t think so.
Like every other piece of furniture in the room, it’s lovely. An antique, no doubt, with a large writing surface and lots of drawers. And that’s when I notice the best part of all. Beside my laptop bag and a small vase of purple freesia sits a plug converter. It is an invitation I can’t ignore. I plug it in and turn on my laptop, ready to reconnect.
CHAPTER FIVE
You’ll have to bear with me. I am no writer. Just an ex-Web producer, ex-fiancée, and temporarily ex-Seattleite who’s ended up in Buenos Aires by some bizarre stroke of drunk luck. I am scared, lonely, and consumed by a constant state of dread that I will never find my way back to the life I want. So how did I get to here? That is the question I keep asking myself. Heartbreak? This is more like total devastation.
Just to catch you up—assuming that someone is actually reading this—I lost my job and my fiancé and my home in one day. Then in a moment of temporary (martini-induced) insanity, I booked a six-month trip to . . . where am I again? Ah, yes, glamorous Argentina, where all the dumped and fabulous are going these days. Why, isn’t that Paris Hilton over there?
Yeah, right. So far this trip has been anything but glamorous, and I definitely don’t feel fabulous. Although my landlady’s friend and handyman, M, did make me feel rather fabulous when he knocked on my door my first morning here and welcomed me to his country by laughing in my face. Okay, so I didn’t look so hot in my slept-in clothes, and I couldn’t understand a word he said, but I was jet-lagged and, kill me, I’m not from here. Of course, he did try to make amends later by dropping me on my ass. Boy, did I ever feel fabulous then. So fabulous, in fact, that now I’m scared to venture outside my suite for fear of running into him in the house. There’s only so much praise and adulation a gal can take.
But I’ve got more to worry about than an obnoxious (and, okay, beautiful) Argentine man who thinks he can get away with being a jerk just because he gets me the plug converter I need so I can use my laptop, which is how I’m writing this blog right now about how obnoxious he is. Speaking of which, why am I wasting perfectly good cyberspace on him? Back to the real story . . .
Nearly seven hundred words later, I hit the publish button. Off goes my very first blog entry into cyberspace. It feels so good to write about what I’m going through here—to say all the things I can’t possibly say to anyone back home. If I said these things out loud to my parents, they would insist I come back immediately (which I’d be tempted to do but can’t if I want to maintain what little dignity I left Seattle with). Sam and Trish would ply me with well-meaning platitudes (what else could they do?), and I’ve had my share of those recently. The moment I put it all down on the screen, I am instantly lighter.
No small amount of pleasure is derived from the short rant I allowed myself on the subject of Mateo’s oh-so-warm welcome. Maybe writing that he’s a “stuck-up snob who thinks he’s better than everyone”
was a bit harsh, but would anyone blame me for calling him an obnoxious jerk? What’s the harm, anyway? I’ve called him M to be on the safe side, not that he’s ever going to read it anyway.
Realistically, no one is. There are zillions of personal blogs like this that no one ever reads, aside from the blogger’s mom, maybe. Getting it all out is the important part. And one day when everything is right again, perhaps I’ll read through it and laugh. Even at the Mateo bits.
Because I’ve decided that one day I will look back on all of this with great fondness. To get to that point, I’ve also decided that Buenos Aires isn’t really all that big or all that scary. Admittedly, I haven’t seen much of it, and I know that empirically, it is a big city. Enormous, really. And maybe a little bit scary. Okay, totally terrifying, but why should that stop me? After all, Seattle is a large metropolis with occasional muggings and neighborhoods I dare not venture into, but it’s my home, and I love it. When I walk through Pioneer Square after the sun has gone down, I always get a good laugh watching the tourists clutch their bags and glance around nervously while they try to decipher the route to Pike Place Market from their complimentary hotel map. Now I’m supposed to turn into the frightened, bumbling tourist? Not happening. So what if it’s not safe to hail a taxi on the street here or travel south of certain streets? I’m a born urbanite. I eat, sleep, and breathe city. I dream in concrete and glass. I am big enough for this place. Sure there were a few (five) tough days of adjusting (crying), but culture shock (fear of the outside world) is to be expected. Perfectly normal. Like I told Sam and Trish yesterday via e-mail, it’s part of the process. If I hadn’t experienced some form of meltdown, I’d be worried something was wrong with me. And I’m fine now. Really. It’s simply a matter of putting things in perspective. As suspected, all I needed was a plan.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 8
