They stared at her, rapt, as if a female, beef-carving Che Guevara had just appeared in their midst. She felt elated, as if she could say anything next and they would follow her, into the jungle, into the revolution, into madness. The sensation rushed through her and then vanished, leaving her feeling hollow and exposed. That crazy idea. What would they think of her? What if she failed them, and lost the only friends she had? She couldn’t bear the thought. She pushed forward.
“All right, so here’s my vision. Each of us puts in what we have—whatever we can. We add all that up and see how far we’ve gotten. But here’s the catch, and this part I insist on: no matter how much each woman puts in, we all hold an equal share. We all own this place equally or we don’t own it at all.”
Something wrung at Paz’s heart, her heart was a wet rag, she couldn’t breathe. She had no money. And this. To be included. To be carried. To be held.
“Mirá vos,” Romina said. “Those Communist meetings did you some good, after all.”
Flaca bowed solemnly, accepting the compliment. “So who agrees to these terms?”
“I do,” Romina said.
“I do,” Malena said.
“Why on earth not?” La Venus beamed.
“I do.” Paz could barely hear her own voice.
“All right, me too, so that’s it, then. Next question: how much does each of us have?”
They took turns answering the question. La Venus had a bit of cash she could put in—“not much,” she said, “I’m sorry, it’s the most I can take out without him noticing”—and Romina had an old pasta sauce jar full of bills and coins from tutoring jobs she’d done for local kids. She’d counted the money before coming over, and told them its amount. Flaca had a little saved from her work at the butcher shop; Paz had nothing, absolutely nothing, but she knew that she could ask her mother for movie theater money and would get enough for the ticket plus pizza with fainá afterward, and, also, she could forgo her monthly bus pass and walk to school, for as long as necessary.
“Let’s say for four weeks,” Flaca said. “Just to get a number.”
Paz did a furious mental calculation and told them her paltry little sum, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
It was Malena who, to everyone’s surprise, offered the largest sum, without an explanation.
Flaca wrote all the numbers studiously on a piece of paper, then added them up in pencil, carrying ones, checking her work. They had two-thirds of the funds they needed to buy the house, a sum much smaller than the cost of a house in Montevideo, but still, for them, out of reach. After she announced this, they sat in silence for a while. Muffled television voices beat their dull insistence at the door.
“It was such a lovely idea,” Romina said quietly.
“Shut up,” said Flaca.
Romina looked at her tenderly. Flaca, her Flaca, who dreamed up new ways of being and pursued them, who’d first turned the world inside out for her. It was one of the things she loved about Flaca, this infinite ability to see a place for herself in the world, and to hell with the world’s failure to return the favor. Romina chided her for it, but at this moment she saw that it also stirred other things in her: envy, and the need to protect.
“It’s not over,” Flaca insisted. “It has to work.”
Nothing has to work, Romina thought but did not say. Everything and anything can be broken.
“Mi amor,” La Venus said gently, “we’ve all done what we can.”
“I’ll get the rest,” Malena said.
They all turned to stare at her. She was perched at the edge of the bed, back straight, knees together under the pencil skirt she’d worn to work that day. Her hair was pulled into its bun, tamed and glistening with pomade.
“How?” Romina said.
“Let me guess,” La Venus said, relieved to think that one of them had hidden means. “You’ll ask your parents?”
“No,” Malena snapped, and her vehemence took everyone by surprise. “I don’t have parents.”
Muffled television sounds throbbed through the bedroom door.
“I mean, I do,” Malena said, “but we haven’t been in contact for years. They’re not in my life and they never will be.”
How can you know that? Romina wanted to say, but Malena’s face was so raw that she kept her mouth shut.
“I’m sorry,” La Venus said. “My mother doesn’t understand me either.”
Malena studied the picture of Plaza Matriz as if the top hat men had stolen something from her, held it hidden in a pocket she was determined to find.
Flaca couldn’t imagine a life without her parents. Her soul hurt for Malena. But it seemed like the wrong thing to say. “What’s your plan, then?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Malena glanced at her, then back at the picture. “I can do it. And I really want to. The only thing is, it’ll take me some time.”
“How much time?” Flaca said.
“I don’t know. Let’s say two months.”
“I can skip another bus pass,” Paz said.
“And I can ramp up the tutoring,” Romina said.
La Venus shrugged. “A few pesos here and there out of my husband’s pockets—he won’t notice.”
“All right,” Flaca said. “We have a plan, then. We’ll pool what we have and all save and gather pesos where we can. And we’ll hope that the house waits for us.”
* * *
*
The house did wait. Malena came up with a significant additional sum, and the rest of the women brought their harvests from marital pockets, extra students, buses not taken, meals occasionally skipped. Three months and thirteen days after their meeting, in the warm December sun, Flaca traveled up the coast to Castillos and exchanged a box of pesos for the deed to the house. All five of their names went on the new paperwork, in alphabetical order.
They celebrated over beers in a corner café, a soccer game blaring on the overhead television. They’d never gathered in a public place in the city before, and at first they were tense and coded, referring to the house as church because it was the first thing that leapt to Flaca’s mind, we’ll go to church soon, last time we went to church. Middle-aged and old men hunched over their drinks and grilled sandwiches at nearby tables, and at first they ogled and seemed about to come over and try to start a conversation, but they were tamed with a few severe looks, they weren’t threats after all, it seemed, just sad men with the air punched out of them by life, by the years, by the Process. The women toasted and took turns staring with exhilaration at the paper Flaca passed around surreptitiously like a guerrilla’s communiqué. It was a thing they’d never seen or even heard of before: a deed for a house, full of women’s names and only names of women.
The sight of the paper thrilled Romina, though it also hurt her, knowing that the victory meant nothing to her parents. You spent your savings on a fisherman’s shack, her mother had said, more bewildered than angry, and you have to share it with people you barely know? Romina had tried to explain that she knew these women, that they were in fact good friends, but she found herself stopping short of too much detail as that could raise suspicion, either of subversive organizing or of the truth, and which of those would be worse? She didn’t know. Hija, her father had said sadly, when are you going to think about your future? And by future he of course meant husband and children, since her studies were going well and she was almost a fully trained teacher. She’d failed them. The knowledge of her failure cut her open. But here she was anyway, holding this deed, this piece of paper with her name on it, and, though it seemed foolish to her parents, it meant more to her than any marriage certificate or future baby or even teaching job ever could.
La Venus was restless as she nursed her beer. In the winter, with its heavy rains, her apartment had felt like a prison. The very thought of her marriage bed repulsed her. It had become a place
where she disappeared from herself, and this hut on the beach was well and good and yes, she’d gotten excited about it along with the others, but she couldn’t live there all the time, now could she? What would she eat, where would the pesos come from? How was this deed to a faraway shack supposed to save her from her life?
“What’s on your mind?” Flaca said. “Where are you? Aren’t you happy?”
“Sure. Of course I am.” La Venus made her best effort at a smile. “I just need to get out of the city.”
“Well,” Romina said, “that can happen soon enough.”
“When shall we go?” said Malena.
They compared their schedules. Christmas was coming, with its family dinners in the sweltering night, its neighborhood fireworks. Better to wait until all that was done. January, Flaca said, and the others agreed. School would be out for Romina and Paz, the butcher shop and Malena’s office would close for a summer break, and they could all go together. It would also allow them to stay for longer—a week, maybe more—and they could start repairing the walls and making lists of what else they’d do to turn the house into a home.
“It might take years to get it into shape,” Romina said.
“Who cares?” Flaca said. “We have years.”
This thrilled Romina, and she was about to answer when she felt a prickle in the air. She turned. One of the men from a nearby table stood over them, too close, a sneer on his face that she supposed was intended to be friendly.
“What are you ladies talking about?”
“Nothing,” Romina said quickly.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Flaca said.
The man looked at Flaca and his expression became hostile. He was a tall, balding man with heavy jowls. “You’re no lady.”
All the men were watching now, the ones slouched over tables and the one in waiter’s uniform behind the bar. No one spoke. The man pulled up a nearby chair and sat down between Malena and Paz.
Romina felt Flaca tense beside her. If she lost her cool it would not make anyone safer. “Sir,” she said, as evenly as possible, “this is our table.”
“It’s a public place, isn’t it? And you’re missing something at this table. No sausage.” He laughed, then scanned the room for appreciation of his joke. The waiter chuckled as he wiped the counter with a rag.
Flaca sprang from her seat.
Romina pulled pesos from her purse and put them on the table. “Let’s go.”
The women fumbled for bills, began to rise. Paz felt a pang of sadness at leaving her beer behind—after these months of saving, a drink in a café was a great luxury and she’d hoped to enjoy it down to the dregs. She took a long, greedy swig as she put coins on the table with her other hand.
Romina was holding Flaca’s arm, to calm her or restrain her, or maybe both.
The man was looking closely at Malena now. His hand landed on her shoulder. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”
Malena went rigid. “No.”
“You look familiar.” His fingers fondled her shoulder, moved slowly up her neck. “You do. Ha! How many of you are putas?”
Panic spread across Malena’s face. Flaca had never seen her so afraid. She curled her hands into fists. “You get your hands off her—”
“Not that one.” He sneered at Flaca. “Can’t be. She’d never make a centavo.”
“We’re leaving.” Romina steered Flaca toward the door, relieved to feel the others moving with her. Outside, the sun bore down on them. They walked in a cluster, fast-paced, hearts pounding loudly in every chest. The café had released them with no more than a low wave of laughter in their wake. They reached a plaza with empty benches, but did not stop walking. Flaca turned in the direction of the river, and they followed.
“Damn them,” Flaca said.
“You didn’t do anything,” Romina said as reassuringly as she could.
“I know damn well that I didn’t do anything!”
“Malena,” La Venus said, “are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“He had no right to—”
“I said I’m fine.”
She didn’t seem fine; she was shaking; but it was clear that Malena had retreated into herself, a hunted animal, prepared to bite any hand that approached.
They walked in silence for one block, two.
In a panic, Romina thought of the deed to the house—she’d held it in her hands, and then what? time itself had blurred—but then she saw that Flaca held the large manila envelope she’d brought it in. “The deed?”
“It’s in here,” Flaca said.
“Thank god.”
They fell silent again until they reached the river, the Rambla, the paved promenade that hugged the city’s coast. There, they allowed themselves to sit on the low wall overlooking the water. If anyone bothered them, it would be easy to get up and keep walking.
The Río de la Plata offered up its tiny shards of light.
It had been a mistake, Flaca thought, to meet in a café. She was an idiot. She’d been so flush with excitement at their victory that she’d lost her good sense, had forgotten where she lived, where they lived, what they were.
“Does anyone remember,” Romina said, “what we were talking about before we were interrupted?”
“I do,” Paz said. “We were talking about how it might take years to fix up our house. And how we could do it.” She remembered the exact words, as in the moment they had made her hands itch with excitement. In just a few days, she’d be finishing high school, and that milestone seemed like nothing, a stupidity, compared to this. “Flaca, you said, ‘We have years.’ ”
Flaca made a snorting sound. Her throat felt dry. She wanted to say something with brio, to restore their mood of exuberance, but she couldn’t muster it. He’d gotten under her skin, that man, and she hated herself for it.
“Meanwhile,” Romina said, “we can go no matter what shape it’s in. We can get out of this city.”
“I’ll gladly sleep on the floor,” Paz said.
“Me too,” Malena said, with a force that surprised everyone. Strands had escaped her bun, and for once she’d made no effort to force them back. It was almost, Paz thought, as if the man had unlocked something inside her, untamed rage. How long had it been in there, biding its time? “We’ll bring blankets, the way we did last time, and make our own nests that we’ll add on to little by little until they’re what we want them to be.”
Flaca felt herself expand inside, spark up again. It was the talk of the years ahead that fed her, not so much the blankets and chairs they’d find for the hut but the very fact of having a square of space to love and the will to love it.
Romina was looking wryly at Malena. “You’re not becoming optimistic, now, are you?”
“Maybe.”
Romina was struck by Malena’s large dark eyes, their beauty, the wildness in them after all. “Ithaca.”
“What?”
“It’s definitely Ithaca.”
Malena seemed perplexed, then smiled as she remembered.
“What are you two going on about?” La Venus said.
“One of Romina’s literary things,” Flaca said.
“I love literary things,” Paz said, in hopes that Romina would explain.
But Romina just poked Malena’s arm playfully, and Malena’s eyes widened in what could have been surprise or pleasure or alarm.
* * *
*
They arrived in Polonio late on a Friday, after the New Year, when it was already 1979. They walked in over the dunes, through the growing twilight, anxious to arrive before they lost all light and risked losing their way. By the time they arrived at their hut, their legs ached and their heads spun with exhaustion, but the thrill of being in their hut—their hut!—made it impossible at first to sleep. Flaca lit five
candles and placed them at the center of the bare, empty floor. The five of them sat cross-legged in a circle around the flames and watched each other’s shadows leap and curl along the dark walls. Outside, the waves glowed with song. Already the city was shedding from them. Home, they thought, in wonder, amazement, doubt, delight. Home. A whiskey bottle made a few rounds, and then they blew the candles out, spread their blankets across the floor, and went to sleep in a haphazard circle, pulsed over by the lighthouse beam.
The next morning, over mate, they took more careful stock of their surroundings. The walls were scuffed, and pocked with holes where rain would enter in the winter—and in summer, too, Flaca pointed out, let’s remember that this coastal area sees all kinds of storms—so those should be fixed, and the privy was no more than a bucket in a small stall behind a reed door, but it was a decent start, a solid hut, theirs.
“It’s a palace,” Romina said.
Malena laughed, but stopped when she saw the hurt on Romina’s face.
“I thought you were joking,” Malena said.
“I wasn’t.” Romina had meant it. It was a palace, because every inch of it belonged to them, and within those four walls they could be anyone or anything they wanted. Be themselves. She’d never lived in such a place before; the freedom dizzied her. It was strange, she thought, how you could live all your life in a home defined by people who loved you and took care of you and shared ancestors with you and yet did not entirely see you, people whom you protected by hiding yourself. Much as she loved her parents, home had always been a place for hiding, until right now. She opened her mouth to try to say this to Malena, but then stopped short, lacking the words.
Malena touched Romina’s arm. Communication enough.
Each of them had brought one plate to start their kitchen, as well as one fork, a knife or two, a cup. It was all they needed for now—that and the earth and the ocean. They settled these items onto the two shelves in the corner that was the kitchen, and then they gently scattered for the morning. Flaca investigated the holes in the walls and began to patch them with plaster she’d brought from the city. Malena, Romina, and La Venus went for a walk in search of seashells with which to decorate the windowsills, driftwood from which to fashion shelves. They would douse themselves in the ocean along the way. Paz, meanwhile, headed off to El Lobo’s for bread and conversation. He was unabashedly happy to see her. “I told you I’d come back,” she said, then set about dusting the merchandise. Javier came running in, his face leaner and hair longer than last time, excited to show her an Indian arrowhead he’d found out in the dunes. There used to be many of them, El Lobo said, when he first arrived in El Polonio as a little boy, about Javier’s age, with his parents, who were desperately seeking work and found need for laborers in the local sea lion and seal trade. They’d arrived in a horse cart with all their possessions tied into blankets; he still remembered the tremble and rattle of the cart, the bundles under his back, the heat, his mother’s warm damp hand around his. In those first years, he’d often found arrowheads scattered on the land, until, when he was in his early teens, a group of men came from the city and gathered them all up for a museum in Montevideo, perhaps Paz had seen them?
Cantoras Page 11