The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club

by Jessica Morrison

  “Not really,” I say, the truth being that I haven’t done or seen much of anything, unless you count the insides of countless restaurants and nightclubs. My first week here, I listed more than twenty-five historical monuments, museums, outdoor markets, and buildings of architectural interest to be visited before I go home, all carefully culled from guidebooks, websites, and Zoey’s recommendations. The last time I saw that list, it was buried under a pair of flip-flops and an old issue of Marie Claire. “I mean, I want to, but I’ve been so focused on my Spanish lessons.” Sounds like a respectable excuse. It’s even partly true.

  “Toto trabaho ee no hwaygo . . .” Huh? I don’t recognize a single word. Walked right into that one, I suppose. Way to go, Cassie. I picture Marcela shaking her head at me, disappointed in how far behind I’ve fallen. “All work and no play . . .” Mateo translates. Now I feel stupid and dull. He never seems to miss an opportunity to make me feel good about myself. Did I really think there was a possibility I could be friends with this person?

  “That’s true.” I fake a self-deprecating laugh (the one I’ve honed over countless phone calls with my mother), then take a long sip from my lukewarm café con leche, hoping he’ll get the hint and leave me alone to drown in my mug.

  “But you’re not studying right now,” he says, grinning.

  “That’s true, too.” No, right now I’m just a big fat loser.

  “Well, I was on my way to the Malba.” He lifts his hands from his pockets and gestures toward the door. “If you want, you could come along. Unless you’ve already been.”

  “Oh. No. I haven’t.” At least I don’t think I have. What the heck is a Malba? It sounds familiar . . . Better question: Why would I want to go there with Mateo? I look around. My waitress is slumped against the bar, deep in conversation with the bartender. No car crashes through the window. I mean, why wouldn’t I want to hang out with a person I barely know who, in our rare moments of contact, has been alternately rude, aloof, and awkward around me? Though I must admit to a bit of curiosity. Why did he come over to my table when he could have easily hidden himself from view, as he’s admitted to doing before? Why the spontaneous invite?

  “So you’ll come?” He looks at me, waiting for an answer. He’s smiling. Sort of. He’s sexy. Definitely.

  “I guess I could . . . Sure. Yeah. Why not.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s go.” He signals to the waitress, who hurries over. I dig in my pocket for a five, but Mateo waves it away and says something to the girl.

  As he speaks to her—too long to be merely settling up the bill, too quiet for me to even attempt to catch a word or two so I can guess the meaning—she turns my way, studying my face as though she has seen me for the first time and hasn’t served me at this table by the window on countless occasions. A smile stretches across her face. Confusion flattens mine. She leans closer to Mateo, her eyes still on me, and whispers. He grins and shakes his head. She walks away, chuckling.

  What did he say to her? That yes, this is in fact one of those obnoxious foreigners who gather here every week, talking loudly in English? That he’s playing guide to this silly American girl as a favor to his friend? That he saw me sitting alone and felt sorry for me? That Argentine manners dictate he invite me along? A wave of hot indignation spreads out from my chest. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me. I am no one’s obligation.

  I stand up quickly. “Mateo,” I begin with as much cool as I can muster, “if you’d rather go alone, it’s no problem. You aren’t obliged to entertain me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, furrowing his brow at me. “I’m going to the Malba, and you haven’t been there. I don’t mind if you come along.” He walks to the door and holds it open. “Whether you’re entertained or not is entirely up to you.”

  malba, it turns out, is a palatable acronym for the rather chewy Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires. This wasn’t one of the items on my old sightseeing list. The excitement of going somewhere that isn’t on a list more than makes up for a five-minute cab ride during which the only words spoken were between Mateo and the cabdriver. For a moment I toyed with the idea of sexual tension until our thighs accidentally rubbed against each other in the backseat and Mateo’s leg sprang away instantly, as though it had touched something scalding hot. All right, I thought, I get it. I’m hideous. We’ll be friends. Or whatever it is we’re being.

  I follow Mateo to the museum’s fourth floor, where the new exhibitions are kept. “I always start up here and work my way downstairs.” It’s the last thing he says for twenty minutes.

  The current exhibition, I decipher from the plaque at the doorway, is a large collection of pieces by an abstract artist. Either the paintings were done between 1965 and 1985 or the artist died at the age of twenty. I’d ask for clarification, but Mateo seems to be in a kind of reverie the moment he enters the space. Moving slowly from picture to picture, nodding, frowning, leaning in, leaning back, he doesn’t so much look at each one as look into it. I shuffle along and wait for him to explain something to me, a puppy waiting for a bit of praise or cookie, but I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten I’m here. I sigh audibly but get no response. If I’d wanted the silent treatment, I could have sat at home and watched my phone not ring.

  I give up on Mateo and focus on the art. Luckily, it provides some amusement. The large, labyrinthlike space must hold forty or fifty pieces, mostly paintings. I don’t understand what any of them are supposed to mean, but I can’t help liking them. Especially the ones that seem to depict strange childhood monsters, the kind of things you imagine in your closet after your mother has turned out the light, except these monsters look more sad than scary. When I come to the largest painting, which is easily ten feet across, I don’t want to move away. You could spend hours tracing every brushstroke. The painting is home to dozens of sad monsters. I want to give them all a great big hug.

  “Should we keep moving?” Mateo’s voice startles me. I guess I can see how you could forget someone here. I nod, holding on to the bubble of quiet around me so I can digest the painting a second longer in my head.

  “Did you see anything interesting?” he asks as we descend to the third floor via escalator.

  Best not to say anything too specific, I tell myself. Wouldn’t want to look foolish—again. But I can’t help myself. I want to talk about what I’ve seen. I take a deep breath. “Well, I don’t really know anything about art, but I really liked the ones with all the monsters or whatever they were supposed to be. They were more sad than scary, if that makes sense. Maybe even scared themselves. They reminded me of the things I used to imagine when I was a kid, and to see them scared like that made me feel, I don’t know . . . safer.” Mateo doesn’t say a word, only looks at me with a slight frown. Then he shakes his head, and the frown dissolves into a bemused grin. I must have said something dumb. What was that I said, that the monsters were scared? Sheesh. “But I don’t know what I’m talking about.” Cue awkward, self-deprecating laugh.

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “Because that was probably the most incisive critique I’ve heard of his work.” I scan his face for sarcasm but can’t find any, only a sweetly crooked smile and those gorgeous green eyes fixed on mine in a manner that makes me uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in a very, very good way.

  The more comfortable Mateo gets with me, the more uncomfortable I become. We make our way down to the main floor, where the museum houses its permanent collection. Instead of wandering off to take in the floor at his own pace, he leads me around like a tour guide (make that an extremely hot tour guide). Twice his hand is on my elbow, leading me gently. When he lets go, I can still feel the light pressure of his fingers. He stops at his favorite pieces with a stream of excited praise. I blush ridiculously as though the compliments are meant for me.

  Mateo pauses in front of an enormous wood and metal mélange. “Aren’t they phenomenal? All these sculptures were transported from . . .” I lose track of what he’s saying. It’s very hot
inside this museum, too hot to breathe, almost. I wipe my shirtsleeve across my brow. Mateo leans to the side, cocking his head. His arm pushes against my shoulder. He doesn’t move away. Neither do I. Silence. Did he ask me a question? I nod and try to look pensive. It seems to do the trick. We keep walking.

  Mateo grins at the single Frida Kahlo painting and steps in to take a closer look. I step beside him, mere inches from the famous self-portrait. I stare into her eyes; she stares into mine. I wait for a skeptical crook in her monobrow, a sneer to form on her lip, but she gives none.

  “Did you know that she was in a horrible accident and lived most of her life in pain?” He turns and looks at me. I keep my eyes on Frida. It is more than I can take, all this serious talk and touching and deep eye contact. “She had an amazing courage—as an artist and a woman. That’s rare these days.”

  Rare. I get it. Hours ago, such a comment would have had every muscle in my body stiffening against the implied criticism. But with Frida’s support, I am emboldened.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I thunder, with no regard to who can hear me or how far my voice carries in the wide-open space. Another crazy American woman talking too loudly. Add her to the pile. “You know, it might look like I’m just shopping and hanging out or whatever, but it took a lot of courage for me to come here.” In truth, I was equally afraid of not coming and, consequently, looking like a complete idiot to everyone I know in Seattle, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “I wasn’t implying—”

  “I know exactly what you were implying.” I cross my arms tightly over my chest, thrust my hip sharply to the right. I am American woman, hear me roar. “Besides today, you’ve probably said a total of fifty words to me. You don’t know anything about me. You have no idea who I am or what I’ve been through.”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But you mis—”

  “Spare me your criticism of American women,” I spit. There’s no stopping me. “I’ve had enough of your analysis for one day.” It’s a mean shot at what was, up until five seconds ago, a great afternoon. But he had it coming. Here I was thinking he might be a decent guy, maybe even someone I might want to get to know more. And then bam. Flat on my ass once again. “So thank you for the edification, but I’m out of here.” I storm to the front door and down the steps, ignoring Mateo’s voice behind me. But when I get to the street, I have no idea which way I’m supposed to go to get back.

  There’s a hand on my arm.

  “Cassie,” Mateo says plaintively. I don’t turn around. I don’t want him to see the tears welling in my eyes. “Cassie, please. You misunderstand. I wasn’t trying to insult you. Far from it. I think it’s incredibly courageous that you’ve come here by yourself.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, of course. I know how scary it is to travel to a strange place where you don’t know anyone or speak the language. Trust me, I know.”

  “Oh, I thought . . .” Embarrassed by the scene I made, I turn and face him—well, I stare at his chest. Close enough. “I just assumed . . .”

  “But why would you assume that?” He looks at me, so genuinely bewildered, his eyes crinkly and sad, that I don’t feel angry or embarrassed anymore—I feel bad. I’ve hurt his feelings.

  “We don’t exactly have the best track record, do we? I mean, I get that you don’t like me very much, and why would you? You’re a sophisticated Argentine who speaks a hundred languages, and I’m an ignorant, loud American who wishes everyone would speak English. But it’s totally fine. Just because I live in your friend’s house doesn’t mean we have to be friends.” When I’ve hurt people’s feelings, I tend to ramble.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Right. Well. There you go.” When my feelings have been hurt, I tend to shut up.

  “But I’ll be very disappointed if that’s the case.”

  “You will?”

  I look at the ground, and he lifts my chin with his fingers.

  “Why don’t you like me, Cassie?”

  I gape, flabbergasted. “Why don’t I like you?”

  “Yes, why? Because I like you,” he says, softly plaintive. What alternate universe have I just stepped into?

  “You do?” I look up and see the cocky man who was at my door that first day, the sweet man who held out his hand to me in Andrea’s dining room, the smiling man in those photographs, the gentle man before me now. His café-con-leche skin has been darkened slightly across his forehead and nose by the spring sun. His curly dark hair has been cut recently, the edges blunt. The long incisors that give that devilish edge to his smile sometimes, the soft pink lips, the thin white scar that peeks out from under his chin. Those impossibly green eyes are still rimmed by impossibly long lashes, but with the sun behind him, I can see my face reflected clearly in the irises. My heart races, my palms are undeniably sweaty, my throat is dry and sticky.

  “Of course.” Mateo chuckles and shakes his head. “You make me laugh.” I look away quickly, disappointed and then disconcerted by my disappointment. Naturally, I make him laugh. I fall on my ass. I make scenes in museums. I’m freaking hilarious. What was I expecting him to say?

  “Well, you’re in luck, because I’ve got an endless supply of knock-knock jokes.” Mateo doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t know what a knock-knock joke is. “Sorry about all that,” I say, gesturing toward the museum. “I guess I ruined your afternoon.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything.” Again he gives me that look—amused and confused. “Do you always assume the worst?”

  “No. Not at all.” The words come as a reflex, but maybe it’s true. Maybe there’s more of my mother in me than I want to admit. Mateo smiles the sideways smile that I assumed was a smirk but doesn’t seem quite so cynical now. In fact, it seems kind of adorable. “Sometimes,” I add.

  He grins and shakes his head again. “Then you’re more Argentine than you think.”

  Mateo and I decide to walk back to Andrea’s, enjoying the manicured streets of Recoleta, Buenos Aires’ wealthiest neighborhood. He could suggest we walk to Canada right now and I’d happily oblige. The proximity of our bodies on the sidewalk is enough to make me ecstatic. His elbow rubs against mine as we walk, and neither of us moves farther apart. I’ve got goose bumps on my goose bumps. Mateo likes me.

  Recoleta is a far cry from the young, hip, artfully decaying Pa-lermo Viejo. Suited men climb into SUVs. Despite the heat, several women parade in fur. Wealth is alive and well in these few square miles. Where wealth has faltered, pride has taken its place. As we walk, Mateo points out historic homes and various architectural treasures, as well as things that have been lost over time in the name of progress. I remark that I can’t imagine the area being more beautiful than it is right now. This sets Mateo on a rant against the fumblings of his country’s ever shifting government. The things I have only read about in guidebooks and on websites, he makes alive and real. He speaks with such fiery eloquence, gesturing excitedly—the city’s Italian influence, I imagine—to punctuate each point with jabbing fists, curling fingers, sweeping palms. He is passionate and utterly adorable.

  Mateo is dissecting the last election and the misconduct of the IMF, and I am thinking this might be one of the most perfect afternoons I’ve ever spent. Then he stops abruptly and pulls me into a spare, brightly lit shop. “Where are we going?” I ask, but one look around and it’s obvious. There is a pimply young guy behind the counter wearing a badly fitted blue polyester vest. There are buckets and buckets of ice cream everywhere.

  “Helado,” he whispers in my ear. And helado to you, too, I think with a small smile.

  The Argentine ice cream is sinfully creamy and intensely flavored. We sample flavors until the man waiting behind us sighs audibly. Minutes later, we are back on the street, deep into the IMF again, our hands dripping chocolate and pistachio. I am strolling historic streets in Buenos Aires, one of the largest cities in the world, with a brilliant, passionate, sexy Argentine who has green eyes and a de
vilish smile, discussing politics and eating ice cream. This is the most perfect afternoon ever. No contest.

  The sky is easing into dusk as Mateo and I near Andrea’s neighborhood. This has always been my favorite time of day. Every light glows gold against the deepest blue imaginable. In Palermo Viejo, dusk is sadly sweet. The daytime street life of focused shoppers, lazy college students, and playful children is replaced by the culture of night. Transvestite prostitutes have taken their places, leaning against homes locked up tight against the coming dark. In a few hours, the city’s poorest will begin their nightly shift of rummaging through garbage bags for bits of metal, paper, and twine that can be redeemed at recycling depots. I recognize the half-pink, half-blue house up ahead.

  “This house always makes me sad,” I say in a near-whisper, as though to speak louder would wake the ghosts inside.

  “Why do you say that?” Mateo asks in a similarly hushed voice.

  “The unfinished paint, the untended garden. It’s like life stopped here one day and never started again.” It looks even sadder at night. All the lights are off, and the only sign of life is cats lounging in a lump on the stone walkway. “Even the cats seem depressed.”

  Strangely, as we pass by the gate’s open door, one feline guard rises with a small cry and runs toward us. It slips through the gate and curls itself through Mateo’s moving feet, nearly tripping him. He stops and frowns down at the little creature, shooing it away in soft Spanish. So he’s not a cat lover. This I can live with.

  He stops and checks his watch. “It’s very late,” he says. “I hope I haven’t kept you from any plans.”

  “No,” I say. “No plans at all.”

  We don’t speak again for several blocks. It might be the dusk that’s cast a spell on us. If we were on a date, this would be the point when the boy would reach out to hold my hand. But he doesn’t, because we’re not. Which is actually kind of a relief as we approach Andrea’s great front door. There will be no tellingly uncomfortable silence, no clumsy hug, no panic over which way to turn my head for that awkward first kiss. Definitely a relief.