The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (6 page)

Then she’s gone and I’m standing in the doorway all by myself. I am in an apartment in some strange woman’s house in Buenos Aires all by myself. I step back and swing the heavy door shut and fumble awhile with the antique key in the antique lock until I figure out that it’s clockwise twice until you hear the click. I leave the key in the lock, grab the handle on my suitcase, and make my way down the short hall with baby steps. It’s dark around the corner, but I can make out a bed toward the back of the room. I bang into a stuffed chair of some kind, smash my shin against a coffee table, and tumble, swearing quietly, toward the edge of the bed. It’s soft, and as it gives to my weight, the aroma of lilacs wafts up. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, but right now this means more to me than all the luxuries combined in that fancy Seattle hotel that cost more for one night than Andrea is charging me for a month. Could it really be okay here? Could there be some small grace granted to this perfectly stupid American woman who flew halfway around the world to live in a city that she barely knew existed a few weeks ago? I almost don’t want to know the answer and feel a small but unmistakable sense of relief when I grope for the small lamp near the bed and can’t find a switch. I vaguely remember Andrea saying something about it being on the wall. I’m too tired to get up and look, already sinking, fully clothed, into the supple mattress, into the fluffy down duvet, into the pure, unmedicated kind of sleep I’ve needed for days. Even if this is as good as it gets, I am grateful for this blessing, however brief it may be.

When I wake up, my head buried under the duvet, it takes a few seconds to register that I am not in Jeff’s postmodern-minimalist apartment. Jeff’s duvet was thin and dark gray; this one is fluffy and white. I sense light in the room, something Jeff could never tolerate in the morning. I am in Buenos Aires.

I shut my eyes tight and will myself back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next. I only know there is no way in hell I am coming out from under this duvet. It’s kind of nice under here anyway. I kick my feet out. Pretty roomy, too. I could have my meals delivered, maybe ask Andrea to move a TV under here, and spend the next few months getting fat and watching all those crazy Latin American soap operas I’ve heard about. If I need to go to the bathroom, I’ll have to get off the bed, but I can take the duvet with me. Oh, God. Bathroom. I’m almost scared to think of what that looks like in this part of the world. Wasn’t there something about a string? Speaking of which, I really, really have to go. I let go of my duvet fantasy, hold my breath, close my eyes, and poke my head up into the room. I try to prepare myself by imagining the worst. With such a nice duvet, I’m not expecting total squalor, but the memory of the massive crumbling yellow wall and pack of wild canines doesn’t bode well. “Here goes nothing,” I whisper. I open my eyes—and drop my jaw.

The studio apartment is not just beautiful, it’s nicer than any place I’ve ever lived on my own. It’s only one room, but it’s huge, with enough space for a living area, dining area, small kitchenette, and this gigantic life raft of a bed I’ve grown so attached to. Room enough to hide away in for, say, six months. Every piece of furniture looks like something from
Antiques Roadshow.
But not in an old-fashioned way, maybe because the walls are a cheerful cherry red, or maybe because of the black-and-white macro photographs of exotic flowers that hang around the room. Screw the bed. I hop up and run from toile love seat to gleaming oak table to—I slide my hand over wall tiles till I find a light switch—white marble bathroom vanity! Everything is old in the most lovely way, as though this roomful of furniture has aged gracefully in this exact spot for decades waiting for me to arrive. And all of it bathed in morning light flooding in through sheers over wide French doors. I remember—garden view! I pull back the sheers to reveal a large courtyard carpeted in deep green grass and draped with thick, flowering vines. Stepping onto the small terrace, my arms spreading the doors as far as they will go, I inhale deeply from the sweet, fresh air. I feel like Juliet, minus Romeo, of course. But who needs Romeo when you’ve got a toile love seat and a garden view?

I do, that’s who. Even the image of the Eden before me can’t compete with that of Jeff and Lauren entwined. I shake my head hard, like a dog shaking off the rain, as if this will set them loose. My Jeff. Gorgeous, successful, great-on-paper, good-in-bed Jeff. Bed. Jeff and Lauren in bed, our bed. How is it possible that weeks later and thousands of miles away, the image of their writhing bodies has grown more vivid? And the sound. I swear I can still hear the knocking of the platform bed frame against the wall. It’s so real it seems to be coming from this apartment. Maybe I’ve finally cracked up. Okay, wait, that
is
someone knocking on my door. It must be Andrea coming to drag me down to breakfast at this ungodly hour of . . . I scan for a clock. Two-thirty. Sheesh. I haven’t slept till two-thirty since, well, never.

“Just a second,” I call out, looking around the room for my suitcases and wondering which one has my robe in it, until I realize I never undressed last night. I briefly consider whether this might be more embarrassing than greeting Andrea naked, and grudgingly make my way to the door. I attempt to smooth my sweater with one hand and my hair with the other. I’d be perfectly content to hide in this lovely room of hers for the next six months. I could probably even get myself a fairly convincing tan if I hung out on the terrace at the right time every day.

The knocking starts again, louder, impatient. I know she’s trying to be friendly, but this is a bit much. “Coming.” I round the hall, catching sight of my extreme bedhead and raccoon eyes (courtesy of seventeen-dollar no-smudge designer mascara) in the small mirror. There’s the one good thing about being single again, I tell myself as I turn the key and swing open the door: I can look like total crap, and there’s no man around to see it.

Except the man at my door, that is. Broad-shouldered, skin the color of a nonfat latte, curly dark hair falling across his forehead. Looking out at me from under his hair are two utterly mesmerizing eyes, deep green like the proverbial grass on the other side. Not exactly Antonio Banderas—handsome, yes, though in an unpredictable, unfamiliar way—and a bit on the short side, but definitely . . . something.

Is this Andrea’s husband? But didn’t she say he worked in Chile? A brother maybe? Or, judging from his paint-splattered (and snug in all the right places) overalls, a handyman, perhaps. While I rack my morning-fogged brain for the Spanish word for “hello,” those impossibly green eyes skim from my wrinkled sweater and khakis to my lunatic fringe and quarterback makeup. I can feel a zit sprouting on my forehead as I stand here. A smile breaks on his face, and it is the most amazing smile I have ever seen this side of a movie screen . . . and then he starts laughing. Really loud. He stops only long enough to say something in Spanish that contains the word
Americana
and prompts him to shake his head at me as though he’s remembered some old joke, and then starts laughing again.

I might not speak the language, but I know when I’m being insulted. I cross my arms protectively, feeling more naked than I did when I thought I actually was, and force myself to look him in the eye. “Can I help you?” He might not know my words either, but my tone is unmistakable. His grin disappears. He spurts out more Spanish, maybe more insults or maybe an apology, and looks at me expectantly. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing yet another American has come to Argentina without knowing Spanish, so I stare at him and try to look unimpressed, hoping the expression translates. Cute or not, all I want him to think is that, whatever he’s saying or thinking, I couldn’t care less. Because at this point I couldn’t.

But he laughs again and shakes his head, the way you laugh at a small child who’s feigning a fit. Even his dark curls giggle at me. Before I can say something—something that surely would have been quick and witty and biting, which, even if it had been lost on him, would have given me no small amount of satisfaction—he turns and disappears down the spiral stairs. Even back inside, the heavy wood door slammed tight behind me, I’m pretty sure that’s him I can hear laughing down below.

Some welcome wagon. I don’t want to make a fuss, but I am paying to be here. Whatever the cultural differences, there’s no reason one can’t be polite. A little common courtesy—is that too much to ask? I’m beginning to realize why I’ve never traveled before. In a huff, I peel off my clothes, shower off a full day of travel, and shave my legs. In a huff I towel-dry, moisturize, and get dressed in a gauzy summer dress and flip-flops. In a huff, I put on mascara, lip gloss, and a light mist of perfume. In a huff, I repeatedly ram my hair dryer’s plug into the unaccommodatingly foreign electrical socket, giving myself a small shock and killing my hair dryer in the process. In a huff, I twist my damp hair into a loose bun. In a huff, I stomp out of the apartment, down the stairs, and up to the enormous double door with an intimidating bronze knocker that leads into the main part of the house. In a huff, I knock. And then, hearing footsteps, I pinch my cheeks and shake my hair free from the bun. Andrea opens the door, child slung on her hip, free hand magically proffering a plate of tiny croissants. Why do I feel so disappointed?

“Cassandra! Fantastic! You come! And you look so beau-ti-ful!” She steps back and tilts her head, sizing me up with approval. I shake my head in protest and attempt to change the subject by saying hello to Jorge, but the second I look his way, he buries his face in his mother’s armpit. It looks like she’s instantly sprouted a giant tuft of red underarm hair. Andrea doesn’t seem to notice as she gestures me inside with the plate of pastries and then through the foyer.

The main house makes my servants’ quarters look like, well, servants’ quarters. The floor is a dark, gleaming hardwood, the walls a soft, buttery yellow. An enormous oil painting of a man in military uniform stands guard at the foot of a staircase that curves majestically up one wall and out of sight, its wrought-iron railing inscribing the bright airy entrance with delicate black flowers and vines. Directly across on the far wall is an abstract painting on an unframed canvas. It’s a flurry of thick strokes, cool blues and electric yellows. I don’t know much about art beyond my one long-forgotten art history elective, but I like the painting. To the right are French doors that lead into a small office with a window to the street (“That was the footmen’s station,” Andrea notes, “when it was the time of horses”); to the left another set of French doors, softened with creamy sheers, opens into a grand salon complete with fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out to the courtyard. An intricately patterned area rug cushions my flip-flopped feet. A crystal chandelier dangles overhead. Despite Andrea’s jeans and bare feet, I feel ridiculously underdressed.

My self-consciousness is quickly chased away by Andrea’s warmth. Within seconds I am ushered into her home, seated ceremoniously at a round table dressed with what must be her finest china and linens, and shown an assortment of pastries, fruit, and other morning delicacies fit for a queen. Andrea waits expectantly. “
¿Medialuna?
” She lifts the plate of tiny croissants. Back home, my typical breakfast was a latte on the way to work, but it has been a long time since I’ve eaten. I put three and a pat of butter onto the small plate in front of me.

“
Gracias,
” I say, the word sounding fake in my mouth. “Thanks.”

Andrea lifts an ornate porcelain carafe. “
¿Café?
”

“Please,” I say. “
Por favor.
”

As she fills a small cup, the aroma wafts up, and I miss Starbucks so bad it hurts. The particular way of ordering: tall, nonfat, no foam, extra hot. The sound of my quarter hitting the tip box. The tear of the Equal packet. Stir stick and lid at the ready. And then, finally, the heat against the back of my throat, the delicious signal to the rest of my body that it’s morning. Except only now it’s not hot, milky espresso I taste but the salt of sadness in my mouth. Beautiful furniture and a kind landlady aside, I know with the whole of my being that I won’t be truly at ease again until I am home, and the fake smile I’m wearing for my host’s sake is starting to get too heavy to hold. Andrea gets up to find Jorge, who has run off after a small gray dog to whom I am eternally grateful.

While she’s gone, I take a tentative sip of the coffee, which is surprisingly good, and a bite of scrumptious tiny croissant. I enjoy the moment of calm, take another full sip of hot coffee, and survey the dozens of photographs clustered on a long side table. Many are of Jorge in various stages of growth. Here awed by a clown. There balancing, with the aid of a gentle hand, on a rock by the ocean. Enjoying the attention of a group of old women at a street fair. Sucking his thumb, asleep in a man’s arms—Andrea’s husband, I assume. He’s definitely not the man who came to my door this morning. He looks nice. Tall.

Scattered throughout are photos of Andrea. Some alone—on a beach smiling, in a kitchen laughing—some surrounded by what are clearly travelers, too tan and blond and happy to be anything but on vacation. What must it be like to have so many strangers float in and out of your life, I wonder. To never know what the next airplane will bring your way. For someone like Andrea, this must be an exciting adventure that comes right to her door. Years from now, will there be a side table in my dining room lined with photographs of people I’ve met here? That might be nice. Of course, if I never leave this house, that will mean a lot of pictures of Andrea and Jorge and the three dogs.

I can’t help but laugh at myself. I can’t really sit around in that apartment all day and night, however lovely it is—especially not if that incredibly cute, fantastically rude man is regularly wandering about. And there’s no way I am going home early. I wouldn’t dream of giving Jeff the satisfaction of hearing about that from one of our mutual friends. That leaves me and Buenos Aires and six months to fill. If Andrea’s house is any indication, maybe this place isn’t completely bad. Just a little rough around the edges, the way even Seattle might look to an outsider. Maybe I can handle another 180 days here. Maybe by the end of it I’ll be like Andrea, all smiles and laughter. I take anther bite of croissant. Maybe I don’t even need a plan.