The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (18 page)

Still, their posts sting less than Trish’s reaction on the phone this morning. “I knew it! I knew it!” she declared a bit too smugly. “It was just a matter of time before the old Cassie resurfaced.”

I’m not sure if I was more bothered by Trish’s lack of confidence in me or by the fact that, like her, I’d suspected all along that it was only a matter of time before I reverted to my old ways. Or, rather, came to my senses. Either way, the old Cassie has indeed resurfaced. If it isn’t obvious from the amount of time I spent choosing, ironing, and accessorizing my outfit this evening (denim skirt, white tee, leather sandals, gold hoop earrings and thin bangle) or the care I took in packing my handbag (map, passport copy, gum, sunscreen, sunglasses, Argentine pesos, and American dollars, just in case), or the obsessive checking of keys, locks, and aforementioned handbag contents before and after leaving the apartment, it is obvious in the way my leg jumps under the table at El Taller as I wait for everyone to arrive, my need to know what’s next manifested in small jerking movements.

What is distinctly different is how this old tic makes me uneasy, the familiar nervous energy, so antithetical to the luxuriously slow pace of a Buenos Aires evening, which I have come to admire.

But I don’t have to think about that right now. The gang streams in one by one, familiar and fresh faces brimming with anticipation of a unique and memorable evening. There are those brief moments of pseudocelebrity when newcomers ask, “Which one of you is Cassie?” and then we mix easily, like old friends meeting again after too much time.

I never cease to marvel at the instant bonding that occurs on these nights. There is rarely a trace of awkwardness as we fall quickly into what Maria calls “camaraderie of the road.” Along with small bowls of peanuts and olives (I’ve grown to love them) and toothpicked cheese, bottles of wine and beer quickly fill the table’s center. More than anything, we are thirsty for one another’s stories. When we tell our stories, there is no turning back. We may never see one another again—many people come only once, stopping in the city for a few days on their way to Patagonia or Brazil or wherever—but once you’ve sat at this table, you are one of us forever.

Tonight, as always, all is simpatico under the tawny lights of El Taller. When all sixteen of us have found a seat, I raise my glass of beer for our customary toast, which feels particularly appropriate. “Here’s to the ones we love. Here’s to the ones who love us. Here’s to the ones we love who don’t love us. Hell, screw them all, here’s to us!” Half the table joins in, and everyone laughs, clinks glasses, cheers, claps hands. Another good night with my sisters and brothers of the broken heart has officially begun.

A woman named Beth stands up to say hello and tell us about herself, as all the newbies are asked to do. It breaks the ice and provides new material for the night’s inevitable debates, jokes, and brilliant theories to be concocted. Beth is from Cleveland, and she’s a lesbian. Her long-term girlfriend left her for a man she met at a carpet cleaners’ convention. “And yes,” she says with a self-deprecating grin, “I do see the irony.” Everyone laughs. Someone squeezes her arm supportively. Next a Scottish guy named Ryan who’s recovering from a six-year sexless marriage takes us on a hilarious journey through his many traveling conquests (none of which involve climbing mountains). I can’t understand half of what he’s saying, since his brogue thickens with each cheap beer, but Julie seems positively mesmerized by the pale, lanky redhead. Perhaps he reminds her of the Canadian boys back home, I think with a grin. Maria and I exchange hopeful glances across the row of tables. This is Julie’s last week in Argentina, and she could use a bit of wild abandon before she goes home.

Zoey is at the far end of the table, near the windows. She’s so tiny, I can see only the top of her wild mass of hair peeking out from behind the row of laughing people between us. Dan, bolder than usual, has squished himself between two women at my end of the table. He doesn’t say much, but when I speak he watches me so intensely I feel myself blushing several times. He has the classic look of a boy with a crush—wide eyes, perpetual smile. I train my eyes on our Scottish storyteller. Don’t want to give the poor boy false hope.

The Scot finishes his bawdy tale, and the table breaks into smaller conversations. That’s my cue to do some mingling. Since I’m technically the host, I always feel obliged to talk to everybody. It’s also a good excuse to get Dan talking to the pretty blonde beside him. “Joan,” I say, smiling warmly, “did you know that Dan here is from Boston?” Joan’s face lights up. As she peppers Dan with excited questions about his hometown, I push back my chair and rise from the table.

I don’t get far. Turning around, I come face-to-face with Mateo. I’ve never seen him here at night, and the sight of him stuns me. I had planned everything for tonight except how to deal with seeing him. Before I can think of something to say, he plants an enthusiastic kiss on my cheek. I fumble to return it before he pulls back.

“You never called me back,” he says, offering the most incredible smile. I want to dive into that smile and swim around in it. “You’re not avoiding me again, are you?”

“Oh, hello,” I stammer. Of course I’ve been avoiding him, but suddenly I forget why. “Was I supposed to call you?” Be cool, Cassie. Remember The Plan.
No more Argentine men.

“About this weekend. San Telmo?”

“Right. Sorry, I meant to. I just . . .” God, he’s sexy. Crisp blue button-down and dark jeans. There is a ruby flush to his clean-shaven cheeks. He looks good. Too good.

“Don’t tell me we’re breaking up already?” He laughs. It doesn’t matter that he’s being facetious. The sentiment sends a shiver down my legs. Worse, he tilts his head and grins from one side of his mouth. That devil smile I love.

I laugh awkwardly and too long, like a thirteen-year-old on her first date. “Sorry. Really. I meant to call. I’ve just been really busy.”

“I suppose I can forgive you.” Mateo touches my arm and grins sweetly. I give that stupid laugh again. Only when I stop, and Mateo and I are standing in silence, do I realize that my end of the table has gotten very quiet, too. Dan’s smile, I notice, has disappeared. I turn to our audience. “Oh, everybody, this is my friend Mateo.” Too much emphasis on the word “friend,” perhaps. Dan’s mouth relaxes into a semi-smile.

“
Hola
s” erupt from the table. Mateo nods and smiles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. It’s funny how obvious it is to me now, after knowing him for only a short time, that what I once mistook for smugness is actually shyness—especially endearing, since I can’t imagine why anyone like Mateo would ever be shy.

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he says more to me than the group.

“You must be really busy,” I say a bit too quickly. The words come out before I can check myself. Still, it doesn’t matter how awkward I sound. There is nothing between us. This has no future. The Plan, Cassie, remember The Plan.

“Right.” He furrows his brow and looks at me as if he’s trying to place me, as if he doesn’t recognize me. I hate that he’s looking at me like that. It’s all I can do not to reach out and touch his hand for reassurance.

Zoey, unwitting savior, springs to my side. “Mateo!
¡Hola!
” She leans in, and he plants a hearty kiss on her cheek. “You must join us for a drink.” So much for my savior.

He glances at me and then away. “I’d better not.” Does he know I don’t want him to stay? With him standing inches away from me, my eyes trained on his chest rising and falling under black fabric, I’m not even sure what I want. I wonder if he has black curls under there, too. I bet they’re as soft as his hair. He adds, “We’re really busy tonight.”

A mixture of relief and disappointment washes over me. I do want him to go, but only because I don’t know how to be around him. This is not the old Cassie. The old Cassie could turn off her feelings for a wrong guy in a heartbeat. I’ve done it dozens of times. And we haven’t so much as kissed each other. I am not a thirteen-year-old girl. Snap out of it, Cassie.

“Yeah, of course.” I look around the room as if to confirm that it’s busy, though I know full well that it is—any excuse to avoid prolonged eye contact. “We totally understand.”

“But I’ll see you Saturday?” He looks at me, hopeful, insecure. It kills me.

“Saturday? Oh, right. I, uh . . . I don’t think I can, actually.” What I mean is I don’t think I can be anywhere near you without wanting to jump you.

“Oh.”

“I just have all this Spanish homework.” I know it’s a lame excuse the moment it comes out of my mouth, but it’s all I can come up with. “We have our final exam next week.”

“Since when do you care about Spanish class?” Zoey asks, laughing.

“Since always,” I shoot back quickly, flaring my eyes at her.

“No, sure,” Mateo says, looking around the room as though distracted by something. “I’m going there anyway, and I just thought you might want to tag along. No big deal.”

“Thanks for the invitation,” I say.

“Of course.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Maybe.” Mateo checks his watch. “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, Mateo,” I say.

“Yeah, thanks, Mateo!” Zoey calls out loudly as he disappears into the back office. When he’s fully out of sight, she turns and whispers, “You are certifiably insane.”

I don’t see Mateo again all night, though I watch for him from the corner of my eye. Emboldened, Dan attempts to engage me in various conversations over the course of the evening. Where did I grow up? What school did I go to? What is my family like? Do I miss Seattle? What’s it like living with all that rain? Once upon a time I would have loved the attention from a cute guy like Dan. But I am no longer in the mood for flirting, or even socializing, for that matter. I simply nod, shake my head, or offer one-word answers. I’ve lost my appetite, too, thanks to this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I switch from beer to coffee to water. At midnight I excuse myself from the party, despite protests from my friends. They’re planning to hit Pacha, a huge, internationally known club on the river. Thousands of
Porteños
grinding to electronic music as the sun comes up over the water. I’ve been wanting to go for weeks, Zoey reminds me. It was my idea in the first place.

I shake my head apologetically. I’m not in the mood for any more fun. When everyone is distracted with calculating the tip, I throw my share on the table and slip out the door into the black night, leaving the roar of their laughter and El Taller’s warm glow behind me.

On the way home, somewhere after the Mexican restaurant with its cheerful patio lanterns and wide sidewalk seating, distracted, I take a wrong turn. I’ve walked this route so many times, I assumed I could do it in my sleep. But here I am, at least three blocks in the wrong direction, staring at the half-pink, half-blue house, illuminated on one side by an interior light. As always, there is no sign of life within. Even the cats have abandoned their post tonight. Under the cover of darkness, I stand at the gate and take in the whole heartbreaking sight. It’s sadder tonight than ever, this home interrupted.

That’s it, I decide. I will not waver. No one will keep me from having the life I want, no matter how sexy, cute, sweet, or charming he is. What will my new friends have to show for their time here? Lighter wallets? A few more notches on their headboards? Countless blurry memories?

When I get home, I go straight to my laptop and pull up The Plan. I read it over yet again, committing every item to memory, reminding myself where these checkmarks will take me. I find a new mantra as I climb into bed and fall asleep. I want more. It has to be more.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
don’t need to finish my Spanish final to know that I’ve failed. As everyone writes furiously for an hour, I stare at the photocopied pages. Might as well be in Aramaic. Staring at the words really, really hard, I’ve discovered, does not make them magically register. Nor can I decipher the letters as if it’s all some elaborate spy code that will eventually yield familiar English sentences, like “You have wasted three months” and “What the hell are you doing with your life?” Marcela knows a failing student when she sees one. She sends me glances of pity across the bent heads of my brilliant classmates.

I did study all week, like I told Mateo I would, but cramming for three months’ worth of Spanish lessons in five days is a lot like trying to stuff a watermelon in your ear. I still have the jitters from the gallons of coffee and maté I consumed, but I can’t say as much in Spanish.

At exactly 1:45, I stop torturing myself. I hand my paper in to Marcela with a Post-it note attached in humble blue ink: “I’m sorry I didn’t do better.” Zoey lifts her head from her test and looks at me with a generous smile, as though there is a possibility that I have finished early because I am that good. I shrug, defeated, and slip out the door.

It’s early, and the late-September day is warm. Argentina’s spring is in full bloom. Female office workers have traded their wool coats for slim cotton blazers. Not wanting to go back to Andrea’s house and sulk, I consult my map and head to the famous
Porteño
café that’s featured in all my guidebooks as a must-see attraction—at least that’s one thing I can cross off my list today. Three blocks to the east and a shortcut through the park should get me there in a few minutes. But I’ve forgotten it’s Thursday, and a large crowd is forming around the obelisk. There are many onlookers today, so many I can’t see the Madres. Only a single blue head kerchief, bobbing slowly to the right, is visible through the throng of people. My eyes trained on the other side of the park, I weave around amateur photographers, through gaggles of schoolchildren, under banners, and over picnic blankets. The crowd makes it hard to move quickly. I stop for a second to make sure I’m still headed in the right direction. A hand brushes against my arm. This park is known for pickpockets, my guidebook tells me.
Keep a close eye on your valuables. Cameras are especially vulnerable.
I passed a million cameras back there; why are they picking on me? They can have my Spanish textbook if they really want it. I don’t have much use for it, apparently.

“
Permiso,
” I say loudly, trying to break free from the crowd. “
¡Permiso!
”

A group of schoolchildren parts like the Red Sea. As I hurry through the temporary path, I hear a woman somewhere behind me shouting. “
¡Chica, parada! ¡Por favor!
” Good luck, sister.

I walk faster, one hand moving protectively to my backpack. Nearing a clear area at the edge of the grass, I check the zipper—still closed. I breathe deeply with relief. Ten more feet to the street, and I will disappear into the throng of commuter bodies. Another hand on my arm, but this time it doesn’t let go. I laughed when my mother gave me that vial of pepper spray, threw it into the garbage at the airport when she wasn’t looking, but now I’m thinking that might have been a naive thing to do. My heart pounding, I stop and turn sharply, ready to let some punk have an earful of vitriol, and see a small woman in a blue head kerchief smiling up at me. A photo of a young man is attached to the front of her dress with safety pins.
GUERO SALAZAR,
it reads. 1947–1969.

The hand on my arm, I see after collecting myself and unclenching my fists, belongs to another woman, about my age. “
Hola.
I am Augustina,” she says in slow, careful English. “This is my grandmother Leonora. She wants to thank you. You were here many weeks ago, yes, and you give much money for the Madres.”

“Oh, uh . . .” Augustina saves me from my embarrassed stumbling. “She says you are very . . . generous? Generous, yes? You give so much.” I shake my head in protest. I couldn’t have dumped more than sixty pesos in their collection jar. I suppose that’s more than they’re used to seeing at once, but still, I don’t deserve such praise. What are a few pesos compared to their endless efforts? It was the beauty of the Madres that drew me out of my selfish haze that day. If not for them, I would have sat in this park and wallowed all afternoon. And about what? Antonio? I have thought of the Madres often since that day. When was the last time I thought about my Argentine fling? How embarrassingly childish it all looks in the light of their tremendous heartbreak and enduring strength.

“Thank you, but really it wasn’t anything. I just wanted to help a little.”

“Every bit helps,” Augustina says kindly, looking down at her grandmother. “It is not just money. People forget, and this makes justice harder. She walks here for eighteen years. I came here a little girl and played in the park while she marched. I didn’t understand then.”

“Was he your father?” I ask cautiously, already feeling like an intruder. Maybe this is too intimate a question.

“My uncle,” she says, looking at the grass. “I don’t remember him much. He was tall, and he always brings Hershey’s bars.” She smiles at the memory.

“I’m sorry,” I offer weakly. “I wish there was more I could do.”

The women bend their heads together. There is translation. Then Leonora leans forward, blue-kerchiefed head bobbing gently toward me, and whispers throaty Spanish that I can’t understand. She takes my hand and presses it to her breast. I nod and smile.

“She says you have a beautiful heart.”

The words explode inside my chest like love itself. I am speechless. I want to throw my arms around this wrinkled lovely woman, around the photo of her Guero, around her granddaughter and whole family. I want so much to do more for them all. They are the generous ones.

“
Usted es demasiado abundante,
” I say slowly.
You are too generous.
I’m not sure I’ve got the words right, but the old woman smiles warmly and shakes her head. The tail of the blue kerchief flutters softly behind.

“Is there something more I can do to help? Anything at all?”

“You are American?” the granddaughter asks without the slightest hint of disdain.

“
Sí.
”

“You tell people?” She pushes a pamphlet, the worn paper soft as cloth, into my hands. On the cover is a montage of photos of the disappeared. “The world cannot forget. Memory honors them.”

Who can I tell? Sam, Trish, a handful of other friends, a few dozen acquaintances? Then it hits me: the blog. I have access to hundreds of people every day. That’s something, isn’t it? Maybe I can’t solve the world’s problems—or even my own—but I can do this.
Memory honors them.

I squeeze Leonara’s hands and look at Augustina. “Tell your grandmother I will tell people.”

Back in Palermo Viejo, I throw open my apartment door, invigorated with purpose, and fire up my computer. Instead of my usual blog, I write about the Madres.

I whine daily about men and love and my poor broken heart on this blog, but the Madres de Plaza de Mayo know true heartbreak. These women have lost more than you or I can even begin to imagine. They have had their children, husbands, brothers taken from them wordlessly, darkly. “Disappeared.” The word is terrifying. There was no warning, no recourse, and no closure to this horrible chapter in Argentine history, this unbearable hole in these women’s lives. And yet here they are, week after week, marching so the perpetrators can’t forget, so the world will remember. I hope you will remember them with me.

On the top right corner of my home page, I create a permanent banner that links to the Madres’ website. “They need money,” I write, “but also to be remembered.” I hope their story has the same effect on my little community as it has had on me. After all, these virtual friends and the Madres are not so different. Reach out for help, even to strangers, and hands will reach back to you. The Madres have one another and their children and grandchildren and countrymen and, hopefully now, some of my blog readers, too.

As for me, it feels good to focus on someone other than myself, to think of something infinitely more important than where I’m going to live when I go back to Seattle in two months, how I’m going to pay the rent, or if I’ll ever be able to step outside my front door without fear of running into Jeff and his soon-to-be bride. It feels so good that when I do think of these things, as I do constantly and unavoidably, they don’t seem so wholly insurmountable. Today I dive into my scheduled daily Internet job hunt with unprecedented optimism. Surely, when you put good things out into the world, the world will bring good things back to you.

Unless folding sweaters at the Gap and running a hot dog stand are good things, my new theory doesn’t hold much water. The only job in Seattle that looks even remotely related to my qualifications requires, ironically, fluency in Spanish. Two hours, seven job sites, six cover letters, and four versions of my résumé later, I am no closer to gainful employment. A quick e-mail check reveals no responses from yesterday’s applications, either. Don’t these people see what a great catch they’re passing on? Cassie Moore, ex–Web producer, ex-fiancée, expat. How does one go about un-exing herself if no one wants her? My optimism gives way to sulking. Oh well, my old bedroom in my parents’ house is always waiting for me. Why, just imagine all the eligible men who will be beating down the door to date me.

I curl up on the love seat, the cool evening air easing in through the French doors, and indulge my self-pity by contemplating throwing myself off the Juliet balcony.
Don’t be ridiculous,
I hear Trish’s mocking voice say.
It isn’t in The Plan.

A gust of warm, wet wind pushes across the darkening courtyard and into my room. The trees rattle. The French doors shudder. The air calms again. Did Andrea mention something about a storm coming today? Or tomorrow? Nervous about my final, repeating verb conjugations in my head, I was only half listening. “You know it’s spring when the storms begin,” she said. That must be it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky all day, and now this urgent humidity.

It reminds me of home. There was nothing better than falling asleep to the sound of heavy rain thumping against a window. I could use a good Seattle rain. I grab my purse and my cardigan from the back of the chair and head out into the dusk.

Beyond Andrea’s courtyard, things are stormier than I expected. No rain yet, but the wind throws a tantrum against trees, screen doors, and garbage bags left on the sidewalk. My hair flies in every direction, settles, then flies out again. Old women latch shutters. Small children peer through upstairs windows. Transvestite hookers run for cover, holding their hair and skirts. The night is warm and wild and I love it. I button my cardigan to the top, wrap my arms tightly around my rib cage, and try not to think about how nice it would be to have someone walking beside me. For a moment I feel Jeff’s long fingers lace through mine, the phantom limb of our severed relationship. I shake it out and hold tighter on to myself.

Not in the mood to be alone and surrounded by couples and groups, I head south toward the smaller, less popular plaza a few blocks west. I’m not sure what I’ll do when I get there—have a coffee somewhere or maybe cry into a slice of pizza. Along the way, the universe, perhaps feeling bad about the whole job situation, offers up an ice cream parlor. The glowing pink
HELADO
sign hanging over the door is a welcoming beacon. Inside the startlingly fluorescent-lit room, empty except for the teenage boy behind the counter (the Buenos Aires equivalent of the Starbucks barista), I decide on four scoops of the chocolate almond—my favorite—and a huge fudge-dipped cone.

The boy raises his eyebrows. “
¿Cuatro?
” he asks.

“
Sí,
” I say, tempted to make it
cinco.
With my discount on Gap sweaters, hiding a few extra pounds should be no problem.

Out in the humid night again, it doesn’t take long before the chocolate is oozing toward the cuff of my cardigan. I am mid-wrist-lick, tongue coiling around the back of my hand, when my eyes meet Mateo’s. Three things stampede through my brain: I didn’t return his message yesterday, wishing me luck on my Spanish test; he looks adorable with his hair twirling around in the wind; and who the hell is the woman with her elbow locked through his?

“
Hola,
Cassie,” he says with a smile. What happened to Cassandra?

He leans in to kiss my cheek (letting go, I note, of the woman’s arm) but stops short and laughs lightly. He rubs a thumb gently across my jawline and licks it. “Chocolate almond?”

“Of course.” I return the laugh and pat my face with a napkin. Is it wrong that, for just a second, I wish I could rub the ice cream all over my body? “Thanks.”

I look from him to the woman. She watches us expectantly, eyebrows raised. Everything about her is refined and lovely. Even her long straight brown locks seem to dance playfully in the wind. My hair sticks to my mouth, fingers, and ice cream cone in long, wet chunks.

“This is Anna.” Mateo mumbles something to the woman in Spanish. She nods and smiles broadly. What did he say?
This is my friend’s tenant. No one of importance. Just smile and we’ll be on our way.

“
Hola,
” I say a bit too loudly. “
Me llamo
Cassie.”

“
Encantada,
” she replies softly with a fragile smile and leans in for the obligatory kiss. This must be the kind of Argentine woman people talk about when they talk about Argentine women.