Such were the contradictions that plagued her for months before she finally decided to fuck him. And while he was still talking, she was thinking that she needed a whisky and a spaceship to beam her out of the motel and back to her parents’ house (she was still living at home).44
It was a long time before they had fucked again. That next time hadn’t seemed so incestuous to her but, noticing how in love he was, she felt obliged to say what she believed everyone should say when they know they won’t be faithful to someone who loves them: that there were, and would continue to be, other men in her life. Federico thanked her for her honesty, and they didn’t go out together again. He had remained very present in her life, though.
Federico never asked her for anything, never showed her any weakness. And that annoyed Verónica. It seemed that the only time he was prepared to reveal himself emotionally was in bed. And given that he never asked her for anything, why had he called her?
The phone rang again. Federico’s name reappeared on the screen. She answered straightaway.
“Federico Córdova?”
“Dr Córdova to you.”
“Like that, is it?”
“Or Lil Daddy, if you like.”
“I’ve only got one Daddy and he’s sitting ten feet away from you.”
“More like twenty, to be precise.”
“Has something happened?”
“No, nothing. I just wanted to know how the vacation’s going.”
“Well. I’m at Severo’s house.”
“Are you going to stay there much longer?”
“I don’t know, a couple of days. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Come on, Fede. Why do you want to know?”
“Don’t panic – I’m not thinking of joining you. My mother doesn’t let me out of Buenos Aires on my own. Are you going to Salta afterwards?”45
“No. I’m heading to Yacanto del Valle. From there I think I’ll go to Cafayate.”
“And are you on your own?”
“Fede, if I didn’t know you, I’d think that you were monitoring me or that my dad’s asked you to make sure I’m eating properly.”
“And are you?”
“Is there anything else, sweetheart? Make it quick, because I’ve got a couple of friends waiting for me.”
“Ah, that’s great you’ve got company. It’s boring travelling alone. I’m sending you a kiss.”
Verónica hung up feeling that Federico wanted to talk to her about something but had decided not to for some reason. Could something have happened to her father? No, it wouldn’t be that: her sisters would have told her. Might Federico and old Rosenthal have fallen out? Impossible. Some other woman was messing him around and making him sad? Who knew…? It couldn’t be anything too serious. She might as well return to the pool.
VII
They spent most of the day in the sun, getting in the water every so often or going to the kitchen for drinks and snacks. The only time they left the pool area was at lunch, when they ate a salad of chicken, lettuce, carrot, sweetcorn and tomato in the cool shade of the veranda. As evening fell, they went to their rooms to shower and get changed. Verónica took the opportunity to lie on her bed for a bit and read the Marta Lynch novel she hadn’t yet finished. Then she had a shower with warm water that felt boiling. Despite using sunscreen, her body seemed sensitive to the heat. She stepped out of the shower, dried herself and looked for her Méthode Jeanne 46Piaubert moisturizer. For a moment she remembered Frida’s hands putting cream on her back. She thought that she shouldn’t spend so much time alone.
It was dark by the time she went through to the living room. Frida had opened a bottle of white wine and was working her way through a block of provolone. Petra was sitting in an armchair, tuning her guitar. Verónica brought out a jar of anchovy-filled olives, a liver sausage with herbs, blue cheese and some crackers. Thinking the Roquefort might taste best with pasta, she set off to find butter, whisky, Tabasco sauce and a dish. She mixed a couple of ounces of butter with the Roquefort, a splash of whisky and a few drops of hot sauce, then put it all in the microwave and twenty seconds later, with a bit of forking, it had turned into a serviceable pasta sauce. Frida was still grappling with the provolone.
They sat around the coffee table, Frida and Petra in the armchairs and Verónica on the sofa with her feet up. What did they talk about? Everything and nothing – and perhaps that was the best proof that in twenty-four hours they had built a friendship: they could glide over any subject, leave an idea half-finished or jump to another story without the need to finish the last or spend an hour analysing some anecdote. If, days later, someone had asked Verónica what they had talked about that night and during the subsequent days, she would have struggled to supply a precise answer.
At some point in the evening, Petra picked up the guitar and sang some of her own compositions. Her music was like her character: ironic, funny, sometimes dramatic or overblown. Verónica observed as much to her.
“I’m an Italian who’d like to be Argentinian. What would you expect me to be like?”
“I don’t know. Like Mina Mazzini?” 47
“I never liked Mina very much. I prefer Iva Zanicchi.” Petra started singing: “Prendi questa mano, zingara / Dimmi pure che destino avrò / Parla del mio amore / Io non ho paura.”
Petra accompanied herself on the guitar, although at times she scarcely touched it. Her voice was her favoured instrument.
“Mi hai detto ‘non scordarti di me’ / Il cielo già portava l’autunno / L’estate se ne andava con te / Ed io, io t’ho visto andar via senza di me / Portavi la mia vita con te / Fra noi è finita così.”
Frida had gone to fetch another bottle of wine, and when she returned she sat on the sofa next to Verónica. As Petra finished the song, Frida raised her glass to Verónica.
“Let’s toast our songbird.”
Frida was slightly drunk and, for a moment, Verónica thought that she was annoyed to see Petra at the centre of attention. Or to see her, Verónica, paying more attention to Petra. As they clinked glasses, Verónica wished she could think of something to say specifically to Frida, but nothing came to mind. She closed her eyes and, as if the absence of one sense sharpened the others, she smelled Frida’s sweetish perfume. Eighteenth-century English gardens must have smelled like this when heroines fainted of love. Without opening her eyes, she asked:
“What perfume do you use?”
“Flowerbomb, by Viktor & Rolf.”
“It smells like you’ve escaped from a Jane Austen novel.”
“To escape you have to run. Are you saying I smell of sweat?”
She felt Frida’s hand stroking her cheek. The perfume exploded in her face. She kept her eyes closed.
“No. I’m no perfume expert, but your hand smells of flowers.”
“I smell of ancient history.” 48
Frida’s fingers stroked her chin. Verónica could have sat for hours enjoying the caresses on her face. That girl. She opened her eyes. Frida was smiling at her, amused. Petra was no longer in her chair or anywhere in the living room. Frida took her hand away but kept looking