We Came Here to Forget

by Andrea Dunlop

  At last, Alberto seems to have found where we’re going.

  “Jeez Louise,” I say, taking in the breathtaking town house with its ivy-covered facade. “This is it?”

  The boys go into hysterics over “jeez Louise,” but after a moment, Alberto checks the address and confirms. He rings the bell and a moment later, a man—much younger than I expected the mysterious Edward to be—answers the door.

  Suddenly my boisterous companions have fallen silent, as though they’re little boys waiting for their mother to speak for them. Christ.

  “Hi,” I say, “Edward? We were told”—mortifyingly, the man seems content to let me finish my sentence—“to come to the party,” I manage.

  “I’m not Edward.” He smiles as though the very idea is hilarious. “But you’re in the right place. Come with me.”

  He turns and we follow him. The boys look thrilled and the one puts a hand on my hip precariously close to my ass as we make our way inside. Soon, we’re all distracted by our surroundings. The first wall is a lush garden leading up to the house’s portico, a tangle of jungle plants split by the wooden esplanade we’re now crossing. There are fairy lights strung through the foliage, giving the whole place an enchanted look. The festivities are already underway, and groups of glamorous partygoers are spilling out onto the patio and the small patches of grass that surround it. None of the ebullient din of the party could be heard from the street. It feels like we’ve gone through the looking glass.

  “Some party,” Alberto says, raising his eyebrows at us. The boys, I suddenly realize, look as underdressed as I do. I half expect some security personnel to appear and ask us to leave. I’m reminded of all of the parties the trustees threw us in Aspen and Vail where it always felt like a mistake that someone let a bunch of punk kids into a place this nice.

  Inside, there is music playing and yet more beautiful people tumbling over one another. A jumble of languages emerges from the babble: Spanish, Italian, French. A handsome young man, his bow tie already undone, ambles by holding two overly full glasses of something clear. He says hello in Spanish to the three of us, and then offers me his extra shot.

  “Might as well,” I mumble to myself in English and toast my drinking buddy. “Bottoms up,” I say and drink what turns out to be tequila.

  We’re carried along with a tide of people to a massive gleaming kitchen, where waiters bustle around efficiently and someone directs us to a bar in the corner. As we wait for drinks I take a moment to scan the crowd around me, and as I do, I notice that not all the guests are as young as the one who answered the door. People in their thirties and forties mingle with younger guests. There’s an elegant octogenarian in a full-length black gown laughing gaily in a crowd of younger men; someone drapes a feather boa around her shoulders, and she smiles and plants a kiss on his cheek, leaving a gash of red lipstick behind.

  Santiago (maybe) is getting handsier by the second. I’m feeling the booze and don’t really care one way or the other. When we make it to the bar, I order a glass of champagne.

  “¡Vamos a bailar!” Santiago says, pulling me back to the main room, where people have moved some of the furniture to make a dance floor and incorporated the rest. A skinny girl in a sequin dress has climbed on top of a thankfully formidable-looking coffee table.

  The music—heaving house with a visceral beat—is not my taste, but it fits the mood of the party so well that I find myself getting into it. Santiago is a good dancer, and at first I enjoy being led along by him. But when he starts pulling me in, pressing his comically obvious erection into my leg, I start to feel a little claustrophobic. I down the rest of my champagne and use the excuse of needing another to get some space. He offers to come with me, but I tell him I’ll be right back. He joins Alberto in trying to get a glimpse up the skirt of Coffee Table Girl.

  I take my time making a slow lap around the party. The anxiety that has become my constant companion is both charged and released by the party’s atmosphere and the booze. A middle-aged couple makes out with abandon next to a massive marble fireplace where a fire—which fortunately appears gas powered—roars beside them. The more I look into the faces of the guests, the more the mood starts to feel a little apocalyptic. Or maybe it’s just me. I’m remembering the last New Year’s Eve I spent with Luke and Blair two years ago. Red Bull, who sponsored all three of us, was throwing a giant party at the top of Whistler Mountain in Canada, and we, along with their other athletes, were guests of honor. The town had already begun to transform for the 2010 Olympics, and it all still felt possible for me. At midnight, a spectacular display of fireworks lit up the side of the mountain, and Blair and I watched from the deck. Luke was nowhere to be found, and when the countdown happened Blair and I kissed, just lightly, unthinkingly. Am I only remembering now that he looked at me for an oddly long moment after? Am I imagining it?

  I grab another glass of champagne from a tray and head outside, where there is an expansive enclosed patio with a swimming pool and deck chairs. I lean up against the outer wall.

  “Hi there.” A foxy fortyish guy appears at my side. He has a full head of prematurely gray hair, a world-weary smile, and sparkling dark eyes. “You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “That obvious, huh?” I ask. He smiles. “Well, so are you, right?”

  “Sort of,” he says. “I grew up partly in New York, partly elsewhere.”

  “So what’s the tip-off?”

  “Well, you’re tall,” he says, “for one thing. And there’s an openness about Americans. I can always tell. I’ve never been wrong.”

  “About just that or about anything?”

  He laughs. “So what’s a nice girl like you doing in this den of iniquity?”

  “Nice line.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Got picked up by a couple of young guys at a bar, they brought me here.” I shrug.

  “And you were free on New Year’s, or were they just that charming?”

  “God no,” I say. “I’m new here, I didn’t have any plans. I don’t think the guys I came with actually know the host.”

  “I don’t think very many people at this party do,” he says.

  I shake my head. “What kind of nut job lets a bunch of strangers into his home?”

  At that moment, a boisterous blond woman about his age appears at his side and wraps herself around his arm.

  “Darling! How many times have I told you, you’ve really got to lock the doors to the bedrooms. There was about to be an orgy back there, honestly! But don’t worry, I’ve shooed them off. Oh, hello,” she says, noticing me. “Who have we here?”

  “Actually we haven’t been properly introduced . . .”

  Who am I again? “Liz Sullivan,” I say.

  “Gemma,” the blond woman says, shaking my hand. Her eyes are a bright, inviting blue. Without knowing why, I like her instantly.

  “Liz here was just wondering what kind of madman invites a bunch of strangers over to his house,” the man says, and Gemma bursts out laughing.

  “Liz Sullivan,” she finally manages to spit out, “meet Edward White, the madman of Belgrano.”

  I feel myself blushing, though thankfully Edward looks more amused than annoyed.

  “Actually,” I say, shaking his proffered hand, “I said ‘nut job.’ Anyway, sorry.”

  “Oh Edward, I like her. I like you, do stick around.” Thank goodness, she’s shit-faced.

  “I didn’t realize,” I say. “I thought you’d be surveying the party from a balcony somewhere. Keeping the high watch for Daisy Buchanan.”

  “Fitzgerald,” Edward says, smiling. “Now you can stay.”

  “Spot on,” Gemma says. “Edward is always picking up waifs and strays.”

  “I like colorful people.”

  “That’s one word for them! So, Liz Sullivan, what brings you to Buenos Aires?”

  It’s the first time someone’s really asked me this, and I don’t have an answer ready. “I’m just doing some travel
ing. I needed to get away for a while. Bad breakup.” That’s true at least.

  “Oh no!” Gemma says. “Another member of the Buenos Aires Lonely Hearts Society!”

  “Breakups are one of the main things that bring people here,” Edward says. “Anecdotally, anyway.”

  “We’ll have to keep Gianluca away from you!”

  “Gemma, don’t be terrible.”

  She rolls her eyes and with a sly smile says, “Didn’t I tell you? A soft spot for reprobates.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I never said I didn’t.”

  Have they forgotten I’m standing here? “Sorry, who’s Gianluca?”

  Gemma laughs. “It depends on who you ask! A Roman exile, a Grecian con man, the illegitimate son of Juan Perón.”

  Edward rolls his eyes. “Gossip and rumors. Gianluca is a very talented musician and dancer. I met him years ago in Saint-Tropez. He owns a tango studio here now.”

  “Oh, he owns it, does he?” Gemma is perhaps too drunk to notice that Edward looks irritated. “And do you want to tell her the story about the countess? It’s really my favorite.”

  “That’s about enough, thanks.”

  “So how do you two know each other?” I say, sensing that a subject change is in order. I can’t tell if they’re a couple or not.

  “We’ve known each other since we were babies! Which was many decades ago.”

  “Out our age just like that, Gem?”

  I try to get a read on Edward. He seems unlike those of his contemporaries that I know back home. There are the coaches and equipment guys who have wives and families and drive practical cars with room for offspring and gear, and then the eternal ski bums, who still live like twentysomethings despite the fact that they’re more likely to shred their ligaments than anything else.

  “We should embrace forty, Edward. We wear it well. Our fathers were dearest friends at Oxford,” she continues, “but then Edward’s father moved to New York City to seek his fortune. He married an Argentine who had decamped to Paris during the junta. It’s all very Continental. Thank goodness they came back to England all the time. Edward was my first crush!”

  “Still not quite over me, are you?” Edward sips his champagne and smiles, sending charming crinkles fanning out around his eyes.

  “So you have family here?” I say.

  “My aunt and uncle and a very beloved cousin, Camilla, though she travels so much she can scarcely be said to live here. She’s here tonight though, home for the holiday.”

  I look out into crowd. The party is more densely packed every time I turn around, as though it’s an organism whose cells are multiplying.

  “I invite a few friends and they invite a few friends. I’ve been having these parties for a while now. What’s the point in having a house like this otherwise?” he says, looking around as though only now noticing the ruckus. “I suppose the word is out.”

  “And you really don’t mind having all these strangers in your house?” I ask.

  Edward shrugs and looks at the bustle as though observing adored children in a sandbox. “I enjoy it. Think of me as a social anthropologist.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it these days, Edward?” Gemma snorts.

  He shakes his head. “Gemma will have you believe I’m an insufferable Don Juan, but my heart was shattered too. But that’s more than enough about me. What foolish man broke your heart back in the U.S.?”

  “I was with my boyfriend for about a decade. Then I had some family drama. I don’t know, things got messy.” I think I see something flicker in Edward’s eyes, some recognition, but I know I’m probably being paranoid.

  “That’s a lifetime at your age,” Gemma exclaims. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty,” I say. “And yeah. First love.” This seems like a silly way to describe Luke, but it’s as accurate as anything else I can think to call him. “We got together when we were nineteen and then broke up not long ago.”

  “Nineteen! I can’t imagine,” Gemma says.

  “This is making me feel very ancient, but please, continue,” says Edward.

  “That’s it, really. We tried to be friends.” It feels surprisingly good to talk about Luke with these strangers; they don’t know or even know of him. The narrative is mine. “Which turned out to be a stupid idea.”

  Edward nods and raises his glass to mine.

  “Oh but that’s terrible!” Gemma says. “How can you not at least be friends with someone you’ve loved? Are you just supposed to cut them off like a gangrenous limb?”

  “Yes, Gemma,” Edward says. “And if you can swing it, move to another hemisphere: which brings us here tonight.”

  Gemma looks exasperated. “For a time, I suppose some distance is healthy, but not indefinitely! Aren’t we more civilized than that?”

  “We’re really not.” Edward smiles. “At least I’m not. I don’t want to see Amelia ever again, thank you very much. Or Rachel for that matter.”

  “That’s the ex and her new girlfriend,” Gemma says to us in a stage whisper. “They were all friends once as well. A very sordid business.”

  Just then, some friends of Edward’s spot him and come to hug him. They ignore me entirely, and after a few moments of feeling awkward, I slink away. My head is swimming from all the champagne, and I think perhaps I should leave, but Alberto and Santiago intercept me with more shots and pull me back out onto the dance floor.

  As midnight approaches, everyone gets drunker and louder and more people arrive. Someone falls in the pool and then several more jump in. I’m worried on Edward’s behalf about what these people might do to his beautiful house.

  I’ve had so much champagne that my head feels pleasantly detached from my body. I let myself be carried along with Alberto and Santiago, who are now pawing at me alternately. Good grief! There are dozens of girls at this party, am I really such a novelty? After some mysterious conferring with a few fellow party guests, they head off to find cocaine. I tell them to find me later, not caring much whether or not they do.

  I notice that someone has stopped the music and people are moving the furniture, shooing away an amorous couple who’d claimed the couch. Gemma pops back up next to me, her blue eyes shining, her expression bleary.

  “Hello, darling, are you enjoying yourself? It’s Liz, right? You’ll have to forgive me, I’m just terrible with names.” She clutches my forearm, in affection or maybe just to remain upright. “Better with faces.”

  I smile. “It’s fine. Me too,” I lie. I’m good with names. I’ve just realized that I want to be friends with this woman. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “It’s time for the dancing to begin!” she says with a mischievous grin.

  “Everyone’s been doing a pretty good imitation,” I say.

  She waves a hand. “Amateur hour. Gianluca is going to dance for us now,” she explains.

  Sure enough, on the makeshift dance floor that’s emerged stands a man—is he thirty? Fifty?—and his beautiful young partner. Both have sparkling dark eyes and glossy black hair, fair skin, like many Argentines. This man is the cause of all the fuss? I can’t decide if he’s ugly or handsome. As he makes a series of movements to ready himself for the dance—his partner settling into his arms, her eyes shining and her face intent—he rapidly switches between one and the other: he is slender and wiry, a little taller than me maybe, with dramatic cheekbones and a long Roman nose. I decide he’s more compelling than handsome. So unlike my golden boys, Luke and Blair. Luke with his thick sandy brown curls, his irreverent, crooked smile, and Blair’s surfer boy locks, his blue eyes, his star quarterback smile. I’m convinced people thought I was better-looking because of my constant proximity to them.

  The song begins and Gianluca holds his partner in a close embrace. There is a loaded moment where tension builds, and somehow the two of them there, scarcely moving, is breathtakingly intimate. Then they begin in a kind of walk across the floor, so deeply synchronized with eac
h other that they almost appear to be one body. The drunken crowd is captivated into silence. A few bars in, the two of them up the drama, the space between them widening as she goes into a series of intricate patterns, swooping her long legs in tight figure eights and looping them around Gianluca’s waist. He spins her and pulls her in, pushes her away. It’s like watching a couple fight, or make love, or both, but more elegantly than any couple has ever done either of those things. The crowd murmurs exaltations—exploding into applause at the final move. When the song finishes, Gianluca and his partner are immediately swarmed with partygoers trying to get to them. The two gamely lead a few people through some moves.

  “So that’s the mysterious Gianluca?” I ask Gemma, trying not to sound as impressed as I feel.

  Gemma laughs, and now Edward is with us again as well. I was so wrapped up in watching the dance, I didn’t notice him.

  “Ye-es, the one and only. Sometime when Edward isn’t being so boring, he’ll tell you all about how he met him, it’s the stuff of legends! Edward was with his ex—a different ex, an Italian girl from a while back—and they’d been invited out on a superyacht owned by her aunt’s husband, an Italian count. Gianluca had been working as a performer on some luxury European cruise line until he was sacked for sleeping with the guests. He was abandoned in Saint-Tropez and the countess discovered him busking outside a café. She invited him on the yacht to teach dance lessons, told her husband he was gay of course.” She smiles and bites her lip as the man himself approaches, pulling Edward into a handshake that becomes a swift and hearty hug.

  “Hey, man!” Edward says. “Glad you made it.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. Hello, Gemma,” Gianluca says, leaning in to kiss her cheeks. “Edward, you know she’s the star student in my intermediate class.”

  “Naturally.”

  “This is our new friend Liz,” Gemma says, and he turns to greet me with the customary two-cheek kiss and a smile of bottomless confidence. He’s the star who’s come down to earth. I know because I used to be on the other side of this divide. I used to wave to screaming throngs: feeling their energy, hearing their clattering cowbells, the roar of them as I came over the last rise, seeing the blur of their faces and the fluttering flags through the spray of white as I came to a stop. The fans. The moments you shared with them were both impersonal and addictive. People love watching sports because they feel like they’re a part of something, and they are.