The Foreigners (6 page)

Interesting. I'd had no idea.

Next I looked up “Río de la Plata,” the funnel-shaped water body on which Buenos Aires sits. “Hopefully named the Silver River by Spanish explorers in search of treasures, it has also been known as the ‘Sweet Sea,' since visitors, confused by its size, mistook it for a freshwater sea.” For centuries, enormous civic efforts had been dedicated to staving off the Río de la Plata's devouring of the city. Pushed miles back, the river, practically motionless to the eye yet ceaselessly encroaching, would then regain that terrain. Finally, accepting defeat, Buenos Aires gave up its dream of being a port city in the traditional sense and turned its back on the water.

I read on a bit farther and then decided to go out for a walk, directing my steps down to the coast so as to take a look at the river myself.

It took me about an hour to get there. A highway ran right along the coastline, on one side of which was the national airport. Small planes came and went. Taxis lined up. A sidewalk bordered the river itself. I waited on the far side of the highway for a moment to cross. Finally, it came. I dashed over. The river was contained by a high wall with a balustrade. I leaned over the balustrade and looked down. The water was velvet brown, gray in spots, rippling slightly, apparently so shallow that it only reached chest-high for miles. Far across was the Uruguayan coast.A few fishermen leaned against the balustrade holding their lines. Cars shot by on the highway behind them. There was no beach situation, no seaside terrace. Although elevated properties such as the penthouses of Libertador Avenue were coveted for their river views, tiny strips of glinting brown in the distance, it seemed that actually approaching the water was a different matter. The only loitering spot in the vicinity was a restaurant perched out on a distant pier, notorious, I later learned, as the place where men brought their mistresses but never their wives.

Walking along the balustrade, I passed a fisherman pulling up a wriggling catch, brown and silver. The cars roared by. A plane started lowering fast at a diagonal. There was a patch of green on the other side and I decided to cross over. The highway forked. I had to wait on a concrete island, cars whizzing by me on all sides. Relieved when I finally reached the grass, I walked on, crossing a bridge and another road, only gradually understanding that I had entered the vast park known as the Bosques de Palermo.

People in a paddleboat passed under a decorative bridge. Others sat together in the grass, they sat on top of each other, just sensing how it felt to be together, doing nothing, touching, body against body. Still others were gathering up their things, picnics, blankets, and heading home. I came upon an asphalt circle and began walking around it. Bikes whizzed past, then several joggers. On the outside edge of the circle, a figure dressed in purple satin had her back turned, head dipped forward. She was tying something at her neck. I looked over my shoulder as I passed, trying to get a glimpse of her face or at least something more, the front of her. But all I could see was the back view, legs in high heels, what looked like a short purple kimono tied with a sash. I walked on, passing a family, parents and two kids. The sycamore leaves rustled. A car cruised by. The traffic light was just changing.

Farther on, another figure—now I saw that it was a transvestite—in high white boots and white leather emerged from the woods and stood on the outer edge of the circle. Above her, the sycamores were shedding their leaves, yellow, brown, some of them still green. I looked around me. The first cars were already cruising slowly. Elsewhere men walked among the joggers with a furtive look.

I turned the bend and the scene changed. Here the lake was visible, the water reaching just to the brim. Any movement made it spill over farther, the ducks dunking their heads, the paddleboats. The swan kept its whole head and neck submerged for a long time. The little black ducks had tufts of feathers on the tops of their heads, their babies even smaller. The shimmering water flooded the grass, all that remained visible were the upper tips of the little green blades.

The trees with the bulbous trunks had graffiti written on them: “Flor, I need for things to go on happening between us. Your astronaut.” Bicycles went by, Rollerbladers, not many. There was a white statue across the water, two figures, one seizing and kissing the other. The smell of the eucalyptus rose up, its shaggy aspect, hanging leaves.

People running, walking, biking, going round and round. I walked with them. Around the next bend, the scene changed back again. The prostitutes on the outer circle, standing, strolling, each choosing a territory, stepping out in front of cars. The air edged with darkness. A transvestite stepped out in front of a car, breathtaking in the headlights, in turquoise shorts and a halter. Another was dressed simply, in a skirt and black shirt. She stood in heels, a bit slouched. She looked like someone I had gone to school with, someone I could easily know. A car pulled up near her. She leaned down to talk for a moment, then climbed in. The car pulled off slowly. Where would they go? Back in the woods under the eucalyptus trees? Would they step out or stay in the car? It got darker. The families and joggers on the inner circle thinned out. I should go too, I thought. But I wanted to walk one more time around. The darkness was falling rapidly. I shouldn't be doing this. But I'd already taken the bend. Now there wasn't a family or a jogger in sight. I walked hurriedly, furtive myself, until I rounded the next bend and could see the avenue again. Peeling off, I made my way to it, where I finally slowed my steps.

Olga called. She was back from New York. Following up on her concern about me, she said there was someone I had to meet. “An Austrian woman. I was showing an apartment to a friend of hers yesterday and she came along. I'm sure you two have a lot in common.” She gave me a telephone number, which I called that evening. The voice that answered was remarkable, a female's mezzo-soprano, deep, with flourishes. The woman's name was Isolde. She invited me to a gathering of a group of foreign women she was attending the following day.

The meeting was held in a spacious upper-floor apartment overlooking Libertador Avenue, one of those living rooms that you could have mistaken for a hotel lobby, with its smooth couches, glass tabletops and ceiling-high curtains that you pulled closed by a string. When I arrived, there were already about thirty women there, mainly American and British, a few other accents thrown into the mix, a Hungarian woman, two Norwegians. Sodas and cookies were laid out. A woman at a separate table was selling native crafts. Women were milling around, eating cookies, chatting and looking at the crafts. The street was far below, the air up here silent. You could see in the distance beyond the edge of the city a slice of quivering brown water, the celebrated river view.

I had arrived a bit late and looked for Isolde, but couldn't immediately identify her. Shortly afterward, the meeting began. I took a seat along with everyone else.

An Indian woman, Jannat, was in charge. She stood in the front, had a monotone voice. “First of all,” she said, pointing to the crafts table, “everyone has to go and look at Sofia's beautiful scarves. I arrived ten minutes ago and I already bought two. Okay, let's turn to the business of the day. Louanne has very generously compiled for all of us a list of recommended maids, with addresses and phone numbers and previous employers. I really think we should give her a round of applause. She put a lot of work into it.” Applause. “Another matter was the question of bringing natives to these meetings. Some people have said they're not comfortable with that. Louise, do you want to say what you think?”

Louise stood up. She was American, wearing pleated khakis. “I think it really defeats the point,” she said. “What we want is a place where we feel safe to say what we want without hurting anyone else's feelings. There's support here and understanding. We want to feel that we're not alone. Above all, we want to be able to complain. If there are Argentines in the room, we don't feel comfortable doing that. I think we should make a very firm policy. See your Argentine friends somewhere else.”

Jannat looked out at the room. “Do people agree?”

A discussion ensued. Another woman, Mary, broke through. “I wanted to propose a subgroup among us. I'm married to an Argentine, as many of us are. I think this means that a lot of us have certain problems and concerns that it would be very helpful if we could get together and discuss. Like, I don't know, what it's like to be married to an Argentine!”

Laughs.

“I thought we could meet for dinner once a month,” Mary said. “And pick American places, or at least American food, for a treat. Like T.G.I. Friday's.”

Another woman stood up. “I'm Liv.”

“We know you, Liv!” Liv, it turned out, was the group's Swedish chiropractor.

“Mary and I discussed this before and I think it's a great idea. The problems I have with Carlos aren't problems I can discuss with Argentine women. No matter what I say he acts like he's a Paraguayan refugee, and I'm the privileged one. But it's not true. It's the other way around. He grew up with maids. But why do I always act like he's right?”

“It's our politically correct guilt!” Mary said.

“That's right,” Liv said. “That's what we decided. It's the Third World–First World dynamic.”

“Hey, instead of feeling guilty, why don't we just say to them, ‘Look who's on top here, look who's running the world'?” Mary suggested.

Laughs.

A Wednesday-night dinner was agreed upon for those married to or living with Argentines.

“I'd like to introduce myself,” a very different voice said, deep and rippling, with an Austrian accent. I turned and looked behind me. It had to be Isolde. It was that same voice. I saw now that she was a woman whose look had been thought to perfection, smooth, blond, rich-looking, a kind of Belle du Jour, only she was sturdier. Her plumpness, the one glitch to her perfection, pointing to a fragility, made her somewhat touching. “I'm Isolde. I'm from Austria. I'm very happy to meet you all.”

“Hi, Isolde!”

“I'm working on a project that I wanted to share with you. I think we all have a great opportunity here, to make links or—how would you say?—ties, between Argentina and the rest of the world, and I believe that one of the most effective ways to do it is through the arts.” She seemed slightly nervous, which made her arresting voice vibrate even further. “A lot of Argentine artwork never leaves this country. What I would like to propose is a small foundation to make these links, connect these people. I have some connections in the Austrian art world. I'm sure you all have some too in your native countries. The big art fair here in the spring is a great occasion because what's interesting, of course, is the exchange, artists from abroad showing here and Argentine artists finding an audience abroad. Do any of you know Florencia Lacarra? No? Well, I recently went to a show of hers. Now she's a very talented Argentine artist. I'm sure she'd find representation in Austria, if only that link were made. The truth is I actually don't remember ever seeing an exhibition by an Argentine artist when I was in Austria, and I went to plenty of exhibitions. Now this is shameful. Wouldn't you agree?” There was silence and a few murmurs of surprised assent. Isolde, with her looks and accent, if not the content of her speech, was unmistakably making an impression.

I found her afterward at the snacks table and introduced myself.

“There you are,” she said. “Helloooo.”

We were quickly interrupted by several of the women who had been impressed with Isolde's speech. Flushed with her performance, Isolde was gracious and kind.

“But the truth is I can't imagine any of these women throwing soirées for artists from abroad,” she said under her breath, pulling me aside. Even as she talked, I could tell that she was assessing my clothes, which had seemed fine when I'd left my apartment earlier but now, compared to hers, looked rumpled and mismatched. Her own look was the opposite, everything pressed, fresh, clean, with touches of both milkmaid and matron. “Don't you see? They could never give a glamorous cocktail party in their lives, never
really
glamorous. They wouldn't know what to wear, who to invite.” We were standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out. “How I would die to have an apartment like this.” She turned to me with her generous schoolgirl smile. “I'd give wonderful parties, wouldn't you?”

In the elevator downward, she was still in a buoyant mood. “We're going to get coffee, right? But first come with me for a second. I want to show you my new cards.” Stepping outside, she led me to a copy shop down a side street. Her cards were ready. “See,” she said. The card was cream-colored with italic script: “Concierge international artistique.”

 

 

There's a pretty place with a garden right this way,” Isolde said, leading me to the Museum of Decorative Arts. We sat down outside at small iron tables under the tipa trees.

“So how long have you been here?” I asked.

“Four months in this part of the world. My friend Sabina and I went to Uruguay for the summer season. Then, at the end of February, we came here. She went back after a few weeks. But I stayed on.”

“And you like it here?”

“Oh, yes, there's wonderful culture.” She leaned nearer, and spoke behind one hand. “And everything's so cheap. I actually have tickets to a concert at the opera house tonight. Do you want to come?”

“Oh, I ... can't tonight,” I said. I didn't have anything else to do, but that seemed like a long day to spend with someone I'd just met. “I'd love to another time.

“Have you met nice people?” I asked.