I meet Zoey for dinner on Tuesday night at the café where I first saw Antonio. Ostensibly, we’re here to practice our Spanish. We do, proudly, manage to order coffee and ask for more sugar without a word of English, but aside from that, Antonio is all I can talk about. His face, his body, his voice, his gracious manners, his endless compliments, his insistence on calling me Cassandra, which makes me feel a bit like an Italian movie star. When I’ve exhausted all his attributes, I begin the comparisons to Jeff. I’ve known the man only half a day, but I find no dearth of material in this area. Zoey listens happily. It’s nice, she says, to focus on someone else’s love life for a change. She even joins in on the Jeff bashing, not letting a little thing like never having met him slow her down.
Two hours and four cafés con leche later, I realize that we haven’t even cracked open our textbooks. We’ve been too busy amusing each other with our collective heartbreak—it feels so good to laugh about the misery. The waitress, her arms swathed in extensive tattoo work, doesn’t seem to mind. She leaves us alone, mostly, sauntering by occasionally with a barely discernible nod in our direction. As she rounds the room, passing table after table with her nods, no patrons snap their fingers or wave to her, frantic for more coffee. Nobody hounds her for change.
“Did you notice how the people here are as fast as New Yorkers when they’re on the move,” Zoey observes, “but the second they set themselves down somewhere, it’s like time stops?”
It’s true. The rhythm of life here ebbs and flows. Inside this café, it virtually crawls. Seattleites are relatively relaxed. It’s one of the reasons (right after seeing Sleepless in Seattle and drawing the conclusion that we all live in quaint million-dollar houseboats) that people migrate there from all over the country. But unless we’re on vacation, we rarely come to a full and complete stop. The people in this café are savoring more than the amazing coffee. Everything from the stance of their bodies—elbows on tables, arms over chairs—to the way they set down their cups between sips, flaunts an enviable serenity. It reminds me that despite all the modern conveniences I am not on American soil. And for the first time, that fact doesn’t leave me sad and wistful and longing for home.
Is it Antonio who’s made that happen? I hate to think I’m so needy that a bit of attention from a man is all it takes to be happy. Is it my newly discovered buying power? I couldn’t be that shallow, could I? No, it must be more than that. Maybe it’s this café. I never had a place like this back home. Sure, Sam, Trish, and I have our favorite spots, but those places aren’t so much restaurants and bars as concepts. There is always that unmistakable reality that you are the customer. Like that coffee? Buy this music compilation. Enjoying that steak? Take home this barbecue sauce. Somehow, in this place, I feel like I’ve stopped by a friend’s house. A really, really cool friend.
I lean back in my chair and take it all in. El Taller. Zoey looks it up in her dictionary—that’s almost like studying. It means “The Workshop.” It does sort of have an industrial feeling, but it isn’t cold at all. The walls are deep red, similar to my new dress, I note with a smile. The wooden tables are battered but gleaming, and giant rough beams run along the ceiling. In the middle, industrial-looking stairs hang suspended by some complicated system of chains and pulleys. And then there are the hauntingly beautiful abstract paintings. They remind me of the one in Andrea’s foyer. Not the colors, so much, but their thick broad strokes and sheer size.
Plus, the location can’t be beat: mere blocks from Andrea’s house and with a prime view of the plaza’s comings and goings. Antonio said it was fate that we met—he never comes here, this neighborhood being so far from his. He’ll certainly make an exception now. We can stumble over in the morning for an omelet con queso. We can stumble home at night after too many beers. In between, we can sit for hours sipping enormous mugs of café con leche.
El Taller. The Workshop. Yes, I decide, this will do just fine. “I really do like this place,” I say.
Zoey nods, inhales slowly as though breathing in the atmosphere. “Yeah. Me, too.”
We both like it so much we make a plan to come back on Friday. We’ll force ourselves to practice our Spanish then, we vow. But we both know the only thing we’ll be practicing is the fine art of kiss-and-tell.
Wednesday is an eternity. Spanish class drags on and on and on. Back at the apartment, I try to busy myself with a new blog entry, but my mind wanders so often it takes me two hours to get a page out. A week ago I would have easily spent an entire evening fine-tuning my plan, but now that’s the last thing I want to do. Since letting go of my rigid schedule, I’ve had nothing but fun, and, amazingly, I haven’t lost a limb or landed in jail or anything. Instead I call home and let my stepdad blather on about his tulip bulbs. “I’m lining the whole front walk this year, and the packets say to plant them a couple of inches apart. That’ll take about fifty-eight bulbs on each side. Imagine that!” My mom reads to me from the Seattle Post-Intelligencer classifieds. “Oh, look at this, they need someone to answer phones at Amazon.com. That sounds perfect for you, honey, with all your Internet experience.” I send pointless e-mails to Sam and Trish. I clean my spotless bathroom. I hand-wash my bras. I dig out my traveling sewing kit and darn the small tear in my favorite cardigan.
Thursday morning is worse. After cooking an elaborate breakfast that I am too nervous to eat, there is absolutely nothing left to distract me. With Antonio coming by around nine P.M., I’ve got hours and hours to kill. It will surely be a slow and agonizing day.
I have to relax, I tell myself. The house being relatively quiet, I take my Spanish textbook and dictionary into the courtyard and stretch out on a lounge chair. Flipping ahead to the section called, cheerfully, “Making Friends,” I manage to parse out a few good sentences I can use over dinner. There was so much I wanted to tell Antonio that first day we met but didn’t have the words for. “Trabajé para una compañía del Internet,” I repeat over and over until I can say it without looking. I worked for an Internet company. Now, how does one say “They fired my ass”?
The house begins to rumble. Andrea must be back. I brace myself for the ensuing chaos of dogs and child, but it doesn’t come. Finally, when all is still again and I can hear only the birds communicating in the trees behind me, Andrea enters the garden alone. Wordlessly, she shuffles over and slumps into one of the other lounge chairs.
“Busy morning?” I ask.
“Mmm. Many, many preparations.”
“Jorge’s asleep?”
“Mmm.” Her eyes are closed, her arms folded across her chest.
Andrea’s husband, Martin, is coming home this weekend. He’ll be here for two weeks, and then it’s back to Chile until Christmas. She’s been scrambling to “get the house ready,” whatever that means. It always looks spotless to me, no jam fingerprints on the walls, no antique tabletops marred by felt pen. Except for the toys, you wouldn’t even know Jorge lived here. Or three dogs, for that matter. Yet somehow she’s managed to run herself ragged with preparations, carting in endless bags from the shops and boxes down from the spare room. But who am I to judge? I must have looked in two dozen shops before I settled on that red dress. I am already imagining how I will do my hair. I have been dreaming about Antonio’s soft lips all morning. Am I falling for this beautiful Argentine man who looks at me like I am a goddess and can barely understand a word I say?
Andrea is preparing for the return of her husband, the father of her child, a man she has known and loved for nine years. I don’t know Antonio from Adam. And my track record for judging men? Not so good at the moment.
I remind myself to be careful. Take it slow. Don’t get caught up. After all, Jeff made quite a fuss over me in those first few months, and look where that got me. He was all stiffly pressed shirts and ties, elaborate home-cooked dinners and breakfasts in bed, flowers, sweet silly presents like the sour candies I’m addicted to, and that silver key chain with my initial. What do I make of these things now, these remnants of love
? He’s probably plying Lauren with the same gestures and trinkets at this very moment. Come to think of it, he probably already did that years ago. No doubt it was my experiences that were secondhand. How do you know when the gestures and trinkets are real? Perhaps you should assume they aren’t.
My mom has always said it’s best to expect the worst. That way you’re rarely disappointed and often pleasantly surprised. “Better that than vice versa,” I can still hear her saying to me through my bedroom door two days before junior prom. My first high school boyfriend, Tommy Hayes, had just unceremoniously dumped me by proxy. His buddy Cam called me, said, “Tommy doesn’t want to go to the prom with you anymore. Sorry,” and hung up. Determined not to miss my prom—I had spent three weeks looking for a dress in the exact soft pink to complement the beginnings of a spring tan—I third-wheeled it with my best friend, Monica, and her date. Then I spent the whole night sitting at a table, trying to pretend that I wasn’t crying, while I watched Tommy ram his tongue down Angela Patterson’s throat. Truthfully, I didn’t much care whose throat Tommy rammed his tongue down (he was a sloppy kisser). It wasn’t the loss of a boyfriend that bothered me, either—I had begun to realize that the conversational expertise of high school boys was limited to NBA scores and how much they could bench-press. It was the loss of the perfect junior prom night I’d been imagining since the eighth grade that had me in tears.
By the time Monica’s dad dropped me back home, I was a mess of mascara. “What did I tell you?” my mom started in again with a misguided attempt to console me. “Expect the worst, and you’ll rarely be disappointed.” I looked up at her through my tears and, for the first time, saw her for the unhappy woman she was. She complained constantly, rarely smiled without the aid of a glass of wine. Had she always been this way? I had memories of her laughing, but they were few and far between. I promised myself right then and there that I would never be like her. If I couldn’t expect the best from other people, I would manage my own actions, keep my own feelings in tight check, carefully control the few things I could. The Plan was not the only wall I built to protect myself from future disappointment, but it was a formidable one. Until Jeff came along with his Trojan horse of empty promises. And then Lauren with her wrecking ball hidden inside a cello case.
Still, I refuse to expect the worst. I won’t become a miserable woman who forgets how to smile. No, this way is better. Not low expectations, but no expectations at all. Tear down the walls, put down the drawbridge, open the doors. Whatever happens, happens. This will be my new mantra.
When I open my eyes, Andrea’s gone, and the garden is in shade. I dig my watch from my pocket. Eight o’clock! All that careful preparation, and now I’m going to be rushing to get ready.
I zip upstairs, jump in the shower—no time for my usual predate bubble bath—and forgo curling my hair in favor of a quick updo. All the rushing has my hand shaking while I put on eyeliner. A few sips of wine later, I’m feeling much calmer. It’s almost nine. I slip into my new red dress and strappy black shoes and take a turn in the full-length mirror to make sure everything’s in the right place. It’s a bit cool outside, but I don’t want to ruin the look with a jacket. Stud earrings and silver bracelet, and I’m as ready as ready gets.
By 9:10, my updo is starting to wilt. I fortify it with a couple more bobby pins and another sweep of hair spray. I fortify myself with more wine. By 9:20, I’m beginning to worry. Did he forget where I live? He’s been here only once. Did he knock at the front door and get no answer? I could wait downstairs, but I don’t want to look too eager. If I had his phone number . . . How is it that I don’t have his phone number? Oh, God, I don’t even know Antonio’s last name. What in the world am I doing? In Seattle, I wouldn’t have given a guy a second thought before I’d committed his entire résumé to memory. What happens, happens? Have I completely lost my mind?
I am saved from myself by a knock on my door. “Coming,” I call out, taking one last look in the mirror. I have to admit, I look spectacular. The wine has clearly not hurt my self-confidence.
“Antonio!” I open the door, trying to pout adorably but unable to stop a wide, toothy smile from spreading across my face.
“Uh, hi.” Not Antonio. Mateo. The timing couldn’t be worse. He looks me up and down quickly. I can only imagine what judgment he’s passing on this silly American woman now. My smile deflates instantly into a flat line, my confidence flying out the window. I sense the imminent return of the mumbling mess who answered this door on that first day in airplane clothes, smudged makeup, and bedhead. But before I can say a single inarticulate word, Mateo beats me to it.
“I, sorry, I just, well, Andrea, she wanted me to, she said there’s something wrong with the uh . . .” He takes a step back and stares at his toolbox, shuffles his feet like a little boy. Once again I’m reminded of how charming and solicitous he was the day he met Zoey; with me, it’s always awkward silences and avoiding eyes.
“Bathroom sink?”
He looks up at me again, his eyes huge green saucers, then looks away. Is it possible that I’m making him nervous?
“Right, bathroom sink.”
“Well, it’s dripping a bit, but it’s no big deal.”
“Oh.” He looks at his toolbox again. We stand there not speaking, too long for comfort.
“But thanks,” I add. “If you have time to fix it, I’d really appreciate it.”
He looks at me again, this time with a small smile. “I don’t want to interrupt you.” His English is indeed flawless: only the slightest accent, just enough of the exotic to disarm a gal if she weren’t being careful.
“You’re not,” I say as breezily as possible. “I’m on my way out.” I hope, I pray. Please let me be on my way out.
“Oh. Sure. Of course you are.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” My dress is beginning to feel too red, my heels too high. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Just that you look very . . . nice.” This time when he looks at me, he smiles widely, that smile he gave Zoey. The smooth skin around his eyes crinkles softly when he smiles like this, I notice.
“Oh.”
He picks up the toolbox, his arm flexing in a not unpleasing way, and I step aside to let him enter. He turns his body to pass, and for half a second, we are inches apart. I fix my gaze safely on his suntanned neck as he moves in front of me. His scent, spicy aftershave and soap and fresh sweat, trails behind him. Wasn’t I waiting for someone?
After an extensive examination of my dripping pipes, Mateo spreads his tools on the bathroom floor and sets to work. I sit on the edge of my bed and pretend to read a magazine that I’ve read a dozen times. I’ve never dated anyone blue-collar—didn’t exactly fit into the plan. Studying Mateo’s hands wrench, twist, pull, and push the various parts in and out of place, I realize I may have been too hasty.
“How long have you been doing this?” I ask. He looks startled by my voice. “Fixing things, I mean.”
“I don’t, really. But I told Martin that I’d watch out for Andrea when he’s not here. So . . .”
“Oh. Sorry. I just assumed you did this kind of thing for a living.”
“You do a lot of assuming.” A stab at me for assuming he didn’t speak English. Somewhat earned, I suppose. But then he smiles—that devilish smile again—and all is forgiven.
“So what do you do? For a living.”
Mateo looks down, shifts from one knee to another, twiddles with a short tool with multiple handles.
“I’m sorry. Is that too personal? The guidebooks say that Buenos Airians like to talk about themselves, so I didn’t think—”
“Porteños.”
“Poor what?”
“Porteños. That’s what people from Buenos Aires are called.”
“Port town. I get it.”
“That’s right.” Mateo smiles again warmly before turning to slot a new bit of pipe in place. He tightens it, runs the water, and checks for leaks. “Well, that should do it.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, I don’t want him to go. Is it possible we’re becoming friends? Or something? “Great. Thanks.”
He packs up his tools and walks to the door. He looks me up and down again. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long.”
“No, not at all.”
“It must be a fancy place.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you’re going in that dress.” I look down at myself. Antonio. I’d forgotten all about him. But then he seems to have forgotten all about me, too. I open the door for Mateo. “I’m not sure I’m going anywhere.”
“Oh?” Mateo’s eyes go wide, his brows lift. He leans in toward me, one hand against the door frame. “Because if you’re looking for something to do tonight—” He’s cut off by loud knocking from below.
“Cassandra? Hola, Cassandra. This is Antonio.”
“Antonio,” I call down. “Just one minute. I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I need Mateo to finish that sentence.
“Not important. Have a nice night.” Before I can say a word, Mateo squeezes past me and disappears down the stairs. I can hear the gate unlocking, muffled voices, and my heart pounding in my ears. What was he going to say? If I was looking for something to do tonight, what? And why does he care? Am I kidding myself? He was just being nice, right? He probably felt sorry for me. Poor clueless American, all dressed up and no place to go. Ugh. Please don’t let it be that. Anything but that. I will die right now if he feels sorry for me.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 12
