And that’s what I’ve been doing. Reading, spending time in the pool, watching movies. Even though there’s Wi-Fi I haven’t gone online; I haven’t watched the news or read the papers. If there had been a coup, a tsunami in Japan or World War Three had broken out, I would be none the wiser.
It feels like a kind of professional and life detox. After spending the summer covering for other people at the magazine who were on leave, writing pieces no one was interested in, and feeling no appetite to get my teeth into a proper story, I needed this: to be far from the relentless noise of the city – no friends, no guys, no family. Nothing. It’s the first time since Lucio died that I’ve been able to spend time 14alone with myself. And I’ve needed it. The summer was hard. I don’t need to tell you that.
A few days ago I decided to go out for a bit. It was still light when I set off in the car with no particular destination. The mountain road in this area is really beautiful, so I was driving along, taking in the view without worrying about anything. After a thousand twists and turns, the road came to a kind of seaside town, like a cool resort: a few pubs, boutiques with hippie clothes, groups of shouting teenagers. The usual.
I stopped at a bar that looked promising and had a parking spot right beside it. Inside there weren’t many people. I sat down at a table near the bar and asked for a Jim Beam. It seems my order caused a stir because, when the glass of bourbon arrived, I noticed some guys on a nearby table were staring at me – them and the barman too. I focussed on my maps and guidebooks. I wasn’t there to flirt with the locals.
Soon after that, two girls arrived. I didn’t actually see them come in and go up to the bar. It was their voices I noticed first. Or rather the voice of one of them who, in very good Spanish but with a foreign accent, asked the barman where they could buy “una cuerda”.
I think it was the word cuerda that got my attention, and I immediately imagined that these two women were looking for rope to tie up some man, not thinking that cuerda can also mean “string”. The barman must have thought something similar, because he asked them “Una cuerda?” in a surprised tone of voice. The foreign girl clarified: “Una cuerda para la guitarra”.
The barman said if they were looking for a music shop they should go to the provincial capital, San Miguel de Tucumán. The other girl asked if they could call a taxi to take them there from the bar. And I, who had been listening as though I were part of the conversation, offered to take them myself.15
I don’t tend to have such quick reactions. And I still don’t know what prompted me to make the offer: whether I was starting to get bored sitting there, or I wanted to talk to someone after so many days alone, or that the fact they were foreign girls prompted a sudden urge to be a good ambassador for my country. Anyway, the girls were happy to accept the offer.
As for what happened next, I’ll be brief. I realize now that the reason I included so many unimportant details in what I wrote before was to put off the most important part, the only thing I really want to tell you. That I need to tell you.
Petra, Frida and I quickly bonded in the way that people who meet while travelling often do. We talked about our lives over empanadas in a restaurant on the edge of town. Petra is Italian, sings and plays the guitar. The other girl, Frida, is Norwegian and spent a year living in Argentina. That was when they got to know each other. And then they made a plan to meet up again to travel together in northern Argentina, Bolivia and Peru.
They both speak perfect Spanish. Frida has a slight Castilian accent because she studied in Madrid. Petra, on the other hand, sounds really Argentinian. She lived in Milan with a guy from Mendoza for more than a year and after that she was in a relationship with someone from Córdoba. Nothing like pillow talk to improve your accent.
On more than one occasion we raised our glasses to all the idiot men who have ruined our lives. My Italian and Norwegian friends would have been right at home on a night out with you and me in Buenos Aires.
We decided to travel on together, at least until we reached the city of Salta (they want to spend a few days there, but I’d rather press on to Jujuy). Yesterday I went to pick them up so they can move into my cousin’s place. There’s plenty of room. 16
The girls are a lot less prudish than me. They sunbathe topless and don’t mind walking naked out of their rooms. I’ve tried to follow suit, at least by going topless next to the pool. They’re two lovely, cheerful girls, a few (but not many) years younger than me.
I’ve realized from one or two things they said that there is, or was, something between them.
Last night we got drunk on some whisky that my cousin is definitely going to miss. Don’t ask me how – or how far – things went, but Frida and I ended up in what you might call a confusing situation.
There it is, I’ve said it.
It was nice, unnerving, exhilarating.
I don’t want any jokes, or winks, or sarcasm from you. Is that possible? Or for you to cling to the edge of the mattress if we end up sharing a bed when we go to the hot springs at Gualeguaychú.
I’m writing all this from my bed (alone, obviously). Midday. I woke up with a crashing hangover. But even so, I remember absolutely everything that happened last night. I still haven’t left the room. There’s too much silence in the house. Ah well.
Kisses,
Vero
*
from: Verónica Rosenthal
to: Paula Locatti
re: Kolynos and the party
Hi Pau,
Thanks. I expected nothing less from you. But your thing doesn’t count. Nothing one does as a virgin can be taken 17seriously. If I told you about the stuff I got up to back then, you’d be appalled.
I’m in Cafayate now. All on my own.
After the last email I wrote you, I showered, got dressed and went into the kitchen. Petra and Frida were there. They were making coffee and didn’t seem to be in a much better state than I was. I mean, they were obviously hung-over too. None of us mentioned the disconcerting experience we’d had a few hours previously. During our last days at the house there were a few histrionics from Frida, too boring to go into details. Nothing worth sharing.
Eventually, we decided to go to the north of Tucumán province. They wanted to head for Amaicha del Valle, but I was keen to stop first at Yacanto del Valle, a little town much closer than that, which I’d been told I should see. We agreed to stay there for two or three nights.
In Yacanto we stayed in a charming hotel run by a couple from Buenos Aires. The girls stayed in one room and I was in the other.
Yacanto is a boutique town. All very cool and fake. Apart from the main square and the eighteenth-century church, everything else is like a kind of stage set put together by city types from Buenos Aires and San Miguel de Tucumán. There are vegetarian restaurants, clothes shops (more expensive even than the ones in Palermo), antique shops; there’s even a contemporary art gallery – whose owner is related to my cousin’s wife and from a traditional Salta family, like her.
I took the girls to the gallery and we met him there. He’s called Ramiro. I already knew a bit about him from my sister, who met him on a trip she made with her husband and the kids. Leti practically drooled when she told me about Ramiro. Knowing my brother-in-law, and Leti’s taste (in all things), 18I was prepared for the worst. But on this occasion my elder sister wasn’t completely wrong.
Ramiro. Roughly my age or possibly a couple of years older, a bit taller than me, broad shoulders, lantern jaw, blue eyes, Kolynos smile, very short hair that left his nape dangerously exposed (bare napes should be banned). And single. This information he offered himself, two minutes into our conversation.
Kolynos behaved like a gentleman. He showed us round his gallery. Nothing too earthy, no indigenous art: there were pieces by artists from the Di Tella Foundation,