The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (14 page)

“So what
does
he want out of life?” I ask.

“Who?”

“Dan.”

“Oh, you know, marriage, kids, a nice house in a nice city, two vacations a year.”

“So basically, he’s perfect.” And he’s been asking about me. It occurs to me that someone like Dan would slide neatly into The Plan. It also occurs to me that when I wanted guys like Dan, nice, clean, beige guys, my life was beige, too. I didn’t know it at the time—I wore Jimmy Choo boots, how could my life be beige!—but compared to the rainbow I’m riding now, it’s impossible to pretend my old life was anything but. At its best moments, it might have ranked a nice, frothy cappuccino color. And the worst part is that I wanted it that way.

“Don’t forget exceedingly dull,” Zoey adds, as though she’s reading my mind. It takes me a second to realize she’s referring to Dan.

“Right.”

“I really need to meet someone fun.” The number 156 bus pulls to a stop in front of us. “You’re so lucky you’ve got Antonio to entertain you.”

“Sure—I can’t understand eighty-five percent of what the guy says. For all I know, he could be rambling on about how he wants to get married and have kids, a house, and two vacations a year.”

“Not likely.” She looks at me slyly, and we both laugh. I’ve told Zoey way too much about Antonio’s and my nocturnal activities. “And even if he was, who cares what’s inside when the package is that pretty.” We kiss each other on the cheek, and she climbs aboard the 156. The door slides closed between us, and the bus pulls away.

She’s got a point. The truth is, not only do I not know all that much about Antonio, thanks to the language barrier, but (poor Marcela would be crushed) I kind of like that we don’t understand each other. What was at first frustrating is now surprisingly liberating. When I started dating Jeff, I listened intently to every word he deigned to let fall from his lips, then I’d call Sam and Trish to dissect each precious morsel for deeper meaning. He might as well have been speaking a different language for all the time and energy I wasted interpreting him. How was I to know that “I’ll love you forever” was Jeff-speak for “As soon as my ex comes back to town, I’m outta here”?

My Spanish is now on a level with Antonio’s English—it would be better, I’m sure, if I hadn’t skipped all those classes to meet him for lunch—but that still doesn’t amount to a whole lot of deep, meaningful conversations. We stick to easy topics, like the weather, the meal, how much I am enjoying my trip. When he attempts more complicated fare that I can’t understand, I fill in the blanks with my fantasy du jour. My new favorite: “You are the most beautiful, talented, smart, funny, amazing woman I have ever met in my entire life. When my father dies, I will inherit Argentina’s largest cattle ranch. Marry me and be my cattle queen.” I don’t want to marry the man, of course, but the soap-opera element is too much fun to resist. It is a luxury not to care.

Besides, this is all about fun for both of us. Through the constant miscommunication, somehow we manage to make each other laugh, often because of yet another miscommunication. On our fifth date, while dear, sweet Antonio waxed poetic in his mother tongue, I imagined he was making plans to whisk me away to his private island on his hundred-foot yacht. What will I pack? I wondered. Then his voice rose excitedly, and his eyes widened. “Cassandra, do understand what I saying?”

A twinge of guilt. Could Antonio actually be pouring out his heart to me? “I think so.” He looked satisfied. “Well, no, not really.”

He chuckled softly and touched my cheek. “You are wonderful, yes?”

“Yes,” I answered. We both laughed. Then he leaned in across the table and kissed me.

No, no one is getting hurt here. You get hurt when you count on someone, plan for something, expect one outcome over another. You get hurt when you hope. The only thing I hope for when I hang out with Antonio is that the weather will hold out for our afternoon picnic or that I won’t mispronounce a word too badly. It’s fun. Casual. A fling.

Yes, just a fling. This is what I tell myself when I don’t hear from him for three days straight. He usually checks in every couple of days, whether or not we have plans, so I’m not sure what to make of the phone silence. Maybe he got really busy at work—whatever that might be. It’s probably no big deal. He’ll call when he calls. Or he won’t. Whatever.

I ask Andrea and Martin what they make of it.

“Girl to girl to girl. Argentine men are all like this. They only think of one thing,” says Andrea, thrusting a long knife into the air for effect. She’s carving an enormous slab of beef that her husband has carted in from the grill outside. “Tell her, Martin.”

Martin is a tall, gentle man with a pleasant face and a welcoming disposition. He’d been in Chile for three months, yet on his first night back, he knocked on my door, with Jorge on his hip, to ask if my suite was warm enough. He can’t seem to take his eyes off Jorge or his hands off Andrea for even a second. I’ve been trying to give them lots of privacy, but they keep inviting me to join them for meals. Tonight I am too upset to refuse. I’m glad I didn’t. It’s soothing to watch them all together.

“They are all like this,” he agrees. “Even I was once.” He smiles and leans in to kiss his wife, careful not to wake Jorge, who has fallen asleep in his lap.

“They’re not bad,” Andrea adds, smiling at her husband. “But very romantic. This is trouble.”

My Buenos Aires hosts are the poster couple for romance. They adore each other with the intensity of high school sweethearts (they grope each other about as often, too). If Andrea drops a piece of food on the floor, Martin erects a velvet rope around it. When he hums along with the radio (endearingly off-key), she looks at him like he composed the song. So why the warning? Maybe something is getting lost in translation.

Or maybe A’s and my relationship is the thing getting lost in translation. I keep reminding myself that A and I are not in a real relationship. He doesn’t owe me a call—doesn’t owe me anything, for that matter. But something more is bubbling below the surface. Is that panic or simple anxiety firing across synapses? Could I actually care, really care, about him? Despite the language thing, we do manage to have a lot of laughs together. I picture A’s face, much the way I pictured M’s that day in the cat park. Far from calming me, the outline of A’s sharp jaw, deep brow, and puffy lips sets my pulse racing. I move down to his broad shoulders, his taut stomach muscles, and that delectable trail of dark hair from his belly button down to his . . . Okay, so what? I’ve fallen madly in lust?

The worst part is I feel like such a loser waiting by the phone, afraid to leave the house too long in case I miss A’s call. And I’m so distracted. M caught me in the courtyard staring up at the balcony of my apartment. The magazine I’d started to read an hour before was still sitting open on my lap at the first page. He was here to drop off some toy he’d bought for Jorge—like that boy needs another toy—and he had to poke his nose outside, where I was having a lovely time telepathically willing the phone to ring. “Where is your boyfriend?” he said, smiling wryly. “Shouldn’t he be whisking you off to some five-star restaurant where the beautiful people congregate?” Did he know? Did Andrea tell him?

I shrugged, pulled my sunglasses down from my forehead, and pretended to read, but the very thought of M knowing what’s happening is driving me almost as crazy as A not calling. Also, did M just call me beautiful?

The advice my blog readers offer is heartfelt but unhelpful. “Two more days and then you should definitely call him,” says [email protected]. “Don’t give him the satisfaction,” counters [email protected]. “If you call him, he’ll have all the power.” And there is the usual splinter group who refuse to discuss anything but Mateo. Some are convinced, insanely, that he is secretly in love with me and vice versa. Others, like [email protected], want me to “do him ’cause he sounds d’lish.” I’ve dubbed them the Sado-Mateoists. Let the debate rage online.

On the third day
sin
Antonio, I decide to skip Spanish at the last minute—I’m completely unprepared, anyway—and wander the streets of downtown in a melancholy funk. An hour and two bags of sugared peanuts later, I give my feet a rest on a park bench. The skinny trees provide some much needed shade, and if I sit facing the street, there’s good people-watching to distract my mind. Unlike me, everyone seems to have somewhere important to go, and this haste is not as comforting as it usually is.

My attention moves from the bustle of well-heeled business types to a growing congregation of old women toward the end of the park. They aren’t rushing anywhere. Rather, they stroll slowly around a small stone obelisk jutting up toward the sky. Many wear kerchiefs over their gray hair. Most clutch some sort of poster against their chest. I had thought there were twenty or so women, but as they round the monument, their front blending into their tail, I can count at least forty. And it seems that more are joining all the time. Clearly, this is something important. Something is happening here.

“
Excúseme,
” I ask a young man in a Che Guevera T-shirt. “
¿Qué pasa?
”

“
Son las madres,
” he says impatiently, dragging hard on his cigarette. I nod slowly with exaggeration as if to say, Of course, the mothers. How stupid of me.

It does sound familiar, though.
Las madres.
Didn’t Zoey mention something about this once? I rummage through my backpack for the sole mini-guidebook I now allow myself to carry. There they are, between sections on the city’s famous cemetery and the choicest cuts of beef—Las Madres de Plaza de Mayo.
Over twenty years after the end of the Dirty War, during which over 30,000 Argentine dissidents “disappeared,” Las Madres continue to march every Thursday afternoon, demanding information, justice, and closure.
This is Thursday. Their day.

I abandon my shady bench for one in the sun so I can get a little closer. From a few feet away, I can see that the signs they hold are photographs of people. Their beloved children and grandchildren, all missing.
Las Madres
walk and talk and hold their signs with such resignation. Hundreds of Thursdays they’ve gathered here, refusing to give up. Zoey was right. It is a truly heartbreaking sight. Yet also one pouring out hope and love.

I step into the shadow of a tree, feeling that I am somehow intruding on a private moment, a glimpse into their country’s great grief not meant for my foreign eyes. But mostly, I am suddenly, deeply, to-the-core-of-my-bones ashamed of the way I’ve been acting about Antonio. Such self-indulgent behavior, and over someone I barely know. What is his disappearance compared to the loss they have suffered? I spot a nearby table with pamphlets and a collection jar. I take out all the paper money I have in my wallet and shove it into the jar. As I hurry, head down, toward the subway station entrance, I hear a woman calling after me: “
Gracias, chica. ¡Muchas gracias!
” But I don’t look back. I don’t want her gratitude, just absolution. Only when I reach the subway gate do I realize I’ve given away my fare. I rise into the sun again and start the long walk home.

CHAPTER NINE

You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not feeling particularly entertaining today. It’s been a week without any word from A, but I’m not sure that’s what’s bugging me. Since that day downtown, silently admonished by the presence of
Las Madres,
I have forced myself, rather successfully, not to think about him. He only popped into my head twice yesterday, and I chased him out quickly by singing an old Madonna song (thanks, Madge).

Still, there is an uneasy feeling brewing under the surface, a sense that things just aren’t right. Something has shifted like a cloud eclipsing the sun, and my fabulous Buenos Aires self doesn’t seem quite so fabulous lately. Shopping has lost its spark. I spend more time on the information highway than I do traipsing through the neigh-borhood streets. When I’m not reading the latest celebrity gossip, I’m updating my bookmark list—
mucho
exciting, let me tell you. The rest of the time I’m moping. Andrea has tried to lure me along with her to the grocery store, yoga class, even to one of Jorge’s playdates, but I just can’t find the energy. Even the animals are concerned. Chico, the smallest and oldest, keeps leaving his favorite chew toy at my door. Pity from a dog. I’ve got to snap out of this. Whatever it is. It’s got to be A. Doesn’t it?

M
aybe you’re ovulating,” Zoey offers over the phone. “Maybe I’m molting.”

I drag myself downtown to Spanish class, but my mind is a churning, preoccupied mess. Every time I’m called on to read, I start on the wrong page, stammer over the most basic conjugations, mispronounce words. The ever positive, cheerful, supportive Marcela shakes her head at me several times. At the end of class she hands back our last pop quiz. I have failed another one. Zoey offers an encouraging smile and hides her own grade, which is, no doubt, near perfect. Everyone looks happy. They are all improving. If I want, Marcela offers kindly, I could start sitting in on the class after ours as a review. I decline politely. How important is it that I learn Spanish, anyway? I get around fine with the small amount I know. It’s not as though I will ever be a
Porteño
. I am merely passing through this place, having fun, making a few memories to amuse myself when I’m old and settled.
Can I try these on? Another drink, please. Not tonight, I have to wake up early.
What else does an American gal need to know in this town?

After class, the friendly Irish couple invites the group for coffee. I beg off. I need to get home and check my messages. When I return home to find none, I sink back into my unmade bed and call Sam and Trish at work. They’re working on their proposal for a new twentysomething-trends newsletter, which could mean a big promotion. I skip the usual updates and focus on the Antonio issue.

“Hold on a sec,” Trish cuts me off before I can get out my full rant. “I thought you didn’t actually care about this guy.”

“So did I,” chimes in Sam.

“I don’t,” I say firmly. “I really don’t. It’s just that—”

“Just what?” asks Sam.

“It’s just that—” I stop. For the past week I’ve felt completely shaken, obsessing about why Antonio hasn’t called, but have I even once wondered if he was okay? He could be lying in a field, trapped under a cow, for all I know. Have I been missing him or the predictability of him?

“Just that you hate not knowing what’s coming next.” Trish has this way of seeing through all the crap we pile on top of ourselves to avoid looking at the truth we’re afraid to face. It’s really annoying. “You can take the girl out of The Plan, but you can’t take The Plan out of the girl.”

“You’re right,” I sulk. “Forget everything I said. Let’s talk about you guys.”

As I listen to Sam’s detailed description of her latest bartender crush, I make a decision: If I want to go with the flow, I’ve got to stop fighting the current. I will not care when or if Antonio ever calls again. What comes, comes, and that’s that.

After we hang up, I walk over to El Taller to preoccupy myself with a gigantic mug of coffee, good food, and some midafternoon people-watching in the plaza. Instantly, I realize this was not the best decision. I seem to be the only person sitting alone in the café. There are happy groups, lovers, and BFFs all around me, enjoying the simple pleasure of another person’s company. For the first time in weeks, I feel cavernously lonely. I should have gone out with everyone after class. I should be practicing my Spanish more. How much have I missed out on because I was going with the flow? Wasn’t the point to stop missing out?

A waitress with short pink-streaked hair stops by and, determined to redeem myself in my own eyes, at least, I order completely in Spanish: café con leche and an omelet with lots of cheese. She nods confidently and returns five minutes later with the coffee and an enormous platter of olives. The sight of those tiny spheres skewered with toothpicks is too much. My eyes start to well.

“
¿Está bien?
” she asks, looking concerned.

“
Sí,
” I whimper. “
Sí. Gracias. Muchas gracias.
”

I take a deep breath. I will make the best of this day if it kills me. Staring out the window, nibbling at the olives, I indulge in a good dose of melancholy. As always, the plaza hums with activity. Do they all have a destination, or are they seeing where the wind takes them? A large, noisy family passes by. The man—the father, I suppose—has dark curly hair, Mateo’s hair. How many Argentine men have this kind of hair? I wonder. Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? The man disappears from frame, yet I can still see Mateo’s curls, shiny and reflected in the glass. I even imagine I see the outline of those paint-splattered overalls he seems to live in. I’m willing to accept that I’m capable of midafternoon hallucinations, but shouldn’t it be Antonio I conjure? I shake my head, but the illusion won’t go.

Someone clears his throat behind me. I turn slowly and see Mateo standing behind me.

“
Hola,
” he says, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his overalls. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or squinting from the sharp beam of sun cutting across the room. “I thought that was you.”

“It is.”

“Are you by yourself?” he asks, scanning the table, my half-drunk mug of coffee, my closed notebook. Is that some kind of dig?

“Yeah. I had a sudden craving for olives.”

A short, skinny guy with an overgrown mullet pats Mateo on the arm, providing a moment of relief. They kiss each other on the cheek and commence what I assume is Spanish small talk. I try to imagine my heterosexual guy friends back home greeting each other like this, but the image is all wrong. As I watch Mateo and his friend, I can see the reason it seems so natural here. Argentine men pull it off because, like women, they’re more in touch with their sexuality. The way they walk, talk, dress, dance—it’s all laced with sex. American men focus all their energy on female sexuality, ironically, but not much on their own. And they wonder why we think Latin men are so hot. Even the way they stand is sexier. American men work so hard to fill up space. Mateo holds his arms close to his sides, slouches a little, touches his stomach when he talks. A guy like Mateo doesn’t try to fill up space, and that makes you want to fill up the space beside him. Theoretically speaking.

The friend walks off to join a table near the bar, leaving Mateo and me in awkward silence. Since that day he fixed the sink, things have reverted to their original state. The image of him rushing past me as Antonio called out from below is still between us. I think we might have been on the verge of near friendship until that moment. And now nothing. Mateo was supposed to come to dinner at Andrea’s last week but canceled at the last minute. To avoid me, no doubt.

“Was that a good friend?”

“No, just a customer.” Was that a smirk? He hates me, doesn’t he?

“A customer?”

“Yeah, I work here.” He frowns. Talking to me must be painful for him.

“You work here? I had no idea.” Why didn’t he tell me when I asked him that day? Why so secretive?

“I’m the manager. Technically.” He looks out the window.

Manager? I don’t like this at all. How will I ever relax here again, knowing he could be lurking about, waiting for me to do something stupid? “I’ve never seen you here before. I come here all the time.”

“I know.” He smiles slyly.

“Oh.” What does that mean?
I know you come here every week, surround yourself with more loud Americans, get drunk, and carry on about your ex-fiancé
? I don’t need to look in a mirror to know that I’ve gone beet red in his presence yet again. I fiddle with the menu. “Funny that I’ve never seen you here.” Not funny at all, actually.

“I mostly work in the daytime. I’ve seen you here a couple of nights. I would have said something, but you’re always with your friends, so . . . ”

“Sure. Of course.” I wonder if anyone would mind if we moved our nights to a new venue. “The sink’s working great, by the way, so thanks.”

“The what?”

“The sink. No more leaks.”

“Good. So it’s not giving you any more trouble?”

“Nope. No leaks at all.” I’m sitting in a café in Argentina talking about sinks with a man who would probably rather be, well, doing anything other than standing in this café talking to me about sinks. I need to make this stop. Can I say I was about to leave? My mug of coffee is more than half full, and I’ve barely touched the olives I didn’t want to begin with. Clearly bored, Mateo scratches his bicep, his rippling brown bicep, and looks past me out the window. Then he bites his lip. His soft pink lip . . .

If only the waitress would come over and rescue us from each other. If only a car would come crashing through the window and put us out of our misery.

“Yup,” I say. “Everything’s good as new.”

“Good. I’m glad. How is your friend? That girl?”

“Zoey? She’s great.”

“Oh, good. Great.” He scratches his other arm and looks at the door, no doubt developing his own exit strategy. The black curls shake when he turns his head. They must be soft, to move that easily. “And your other friend?”

“My other friend?” Mateo hasn’t met anyone else in our little group. He’s probably confused me with another American woman he doesn’t like. There must be many. I tilt my head, semi-curious about his answer.

“The person who came to pick you up.”

“Oh,” I say. Antonio. A week, no phone call. Well, what should I say—I may or may not have been dumped? “We aren’t really hanging out anymore.”

He turns sharply and makes eye contact. “Oh. Well. That’s too bad.” Am I imagining things, or does he sound a lot happier? “I’m sure you’re busy enough with all your sightseeing.”

“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.