‘Do you feel better?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. You were right.’
‘Of course I was, I’m always right.’
The redhead makes a move I don’t see and the Tucumano gets irritated. He puts his hand on his forehead and mutters insults between his teeth. The redhead looks at me and smiles.
I think my presence distracted the Tucumano and it’s my fault he’s losing now. I get up and move to an empty table beside the window where I can look at the rain-soaked garden. Frau Wittmann comes over and asks me to help her hang some curtains that just came back from the cleaners. I assume she chose me because I’m alone and I’m not doing anything. Everyone else in the room is talking or reading or holding Skype calls in different languages. How is it that the manager of such a large residence doesn’t have anyone to help her? She hands me the curtains, yards of heavy fabric that I have to hook to the rods over the window. I stand on a table and Frau Wittmann gives me instructions from below. Seeing me standing there the Tucumano gets up and tells me to get off the table, says I’m irresponsible. Since our walk to the castle, since my tell-tale vomiting on the side of the road, the Tucumano hasn’t stopped treating me with a certain disdain. All his initial enthusiasm has turned to disappointment and he’s hardly looked at me or spoken to me except to say two or three things with a disapproving tone. Now he’s quit his game of chess and is standing on the table following Frau Wittmann’s orders. I silently obeyed him and got down, and now I’m standing on the floor unsure what to do. I want to help but don’t know how. I really don’t know what I’m doing in this place, in this residence where I don’t belong, in this conservative storybook city, in this repulsively perfect country. I go to my room to put on a jacket and go out. I walk in the rain rehearsing words, phrases, tones of voice. I look for a phone to call Buenos Aires.
I insert two one-euro coins and dial my old phone number. As it rings I pray that no one answers, I know it’s a mistake to call with so many uncertainties but I can’t make myself hang up. I resolve to be very direct, to just spit it out. It all boils down to two things, the only two things I know for certain: I’m in Germany and I’m pregnant. Ten thousand kilometres away, Santiago answers the phone. I ask him how he is. He tells me that Ringo was hit by a car and is going to have an operation. The news makes my stomach turn. I start crying again. I ask him what the vet said, if he’s going to be all right. He says he doesn’t know and that’s life. I think about how Ringo is the single living thing Santiago loves most yet he uses that same old sarcastic tone, the same one he used when we broke up. He tells me that if I want to be there for the operation it’s going to happen tomorrow morning. I tell him I can’t, that I’m in Mar del Plata. I don’t know why I lie, it’s the first thing that comes to mind. He remains silent for a minute and then asks me to send him our Telecentro account number so he can change the bill over to his name and have them stop charging the service to my card since I don’t live there anymore and it’s his responsibility to pay the phone bill. ‘Yep, I’ll send you an e-mail,’ I answer. We both fall silent again. He asks me if I have anything else to say. I tell him I don’t. He says we should hang up then, that the call from Mar del Plata is going to be expensive and that he has to give Ringo his medicine. ‘I hope he’s all right,’ I say. ‘I hope you have fun in Mar del Plata,’ he answers and hangs up. I freeze for a moment with the phone in my hand. When I hang up the receiver, the phone returns a one-euro coin and three ten-cent pieces.
I walk slowly, still hearing Santiago’s voice in my head, squeezing my fists inside my jacket pockets. I can’t imagine Ringo in pain, the very idea makes me feel nauseated. In Heidelberg there are no stray dogs rummaging in the trash or lying in the shade like in any neighbourhood of Buenos Aires. The dogs here are all purebred, small, and walk on leashes or carried in their owners’ arms. There are restaurants that don’t allow children, but do allow dogs. I wander for a little while longer. Now the rain has become a melancholic drizzle. I don’t want to spend money in some café but I also don’t want to keep getting wet. I start heading back to the residence and I think of Ringo, his warm furry body, remembering how comforting it felt to hug him when I got home in winter, his eyes, which looked at me as if he understood everything, his ears that moved up and down depending on our moods, his way of lying in the patio to nap in summer, how he stuck his nose in everyone’s backside when they came to visit and how he wagged his tail every time he heard Santiago’s keys in the door. I miss him and I know I’ll never feel the same about another dog again.
II
When I get back to the residence Shanice greets me wearing a fuchsia wig and a striped dress. She says she was looking for me, that it’s karaoke night. In the little while I was out they’ve decorated the dining hall for a party, with balloons on the walls and a mirror ball hanging from the ceiling. Shanice tells me that she wants me to be on her team. I tell her that my singing is terrible and that I want to change out of my wet clothes. She gives me a blue wig and a purple feather boa and tells me she’ll be waiting. It’ll be fun, we’re going to dress up and forget our problems, she assures me in a high-pitched squeal as she waves her hands in excitement.
My options for tonight are: go to bed, replaying the unpleasant phone conversation over and over in my head, calculate the dates, again, to determine the percentage of likelihood between Leonardo and Santiago, then cry till I fall asleep, or participate in karaoke night. I choose the latter. I take a hot shower and go down to the dining hall. I’m wearing a dress, the only one I brought, and the purple boa. I carry the blue wig in my hand. Everyone is dressed up and happy. A German rock group I’ve never heard of is playing. Shanice grabs me by the arm and drags me to a corner, she puts the wig on my head, straightens it, and tells me it looks gorgeous. A boy in a ski mask and a pipe asks me to dance, introducing himself as Subcomandante Marcos. He speaks with an accent that at first sounds Russian. He dances very badly but it’s funny. He asks me what I’m dressed as.
‘I’m an outer-space princess.’
‘Must be a character from your country.’
‘Yeah.’
‘If I were you I would’ve dressed as Evita.’
‘How do you know I’m from Argentina?’
‘I’ve been watching you since you got here.’
‘Oh. Are you some kind of Zapatista spy?’
‘No, I’m an Albanian womaniser.’
I suddenly recognise him, it’s the bearded redhead who was playing chess with the Tucumano this afternoon. The music stops. Shanice, visibly drunk, grabs the microphone and asks for silence so she can say a few words. I’ve never seen her so excited, her über-perfect German now a confusing mish-mash of tongues.
‘Good evening everyone! Welcome! Karaoke night, hooray, viva karaoke! Viva music! Today we all sing and dance and no one sad. Many prizes. A kiss for the winner! Hmmmm who will it be? Maybe you, the guy in the bunny costume, who will kiss you? The girl in the bunny suit, of course! Yeah, it’s a party and everything goes, okay? No one sad. Viva Heidelberg! Let’s see what the first song is…’ she takes a little piece of paper out of a bag and reads it. ‘It’s: ‘Papa Don’t Preach,’ the old hit by Madonna. Who’s coming up?’
A Mexican guy wearing a gold robe and a Marilyn Monroe wig goes up to the front and does an absurd imitation of Madonna. Next up is a French girl dressed as Little Red Riding Hood who sings a Britney Spears song and then the Tucumano goes up, dressed as a gaucho, to sing “Matador” by the Fabulosos Cadillacs, with some Chinese guys pronouncing the lyrics phonetically as backup singers. It’s all very funny and even though I had to force myself to participate, I have to admit that Shanice was right: for a while I manage to forget about the horrible conversation with Santiago, my pregnancy, my terrifying uncertainty. Also, there are delicious sausages and really good beer.
The fake Subcomandante Marcos asks me to go outside to smoke a cigarette with him. The night has clea
red up completely and the moon is enormous like in some romantic comedy or in a werewolf movie. We talk a while about our countries, about politics, about what we like and don’t like about Germany. He tells me that he’s learned about Peronism in his political science courses, that he’d love to visit Patagonia, and that he’s a fan of Maradona. Marcos, I still don’t know his real name, takes off the ski mask and smiles at me. His smile gradually becomes a seductive stare as he passes his gaze slowly over my forehead, my mouth, my neck. I know that at any minute he’s going to try to kiss me. I can tell he’s very young, like the Tucumano, he can’t be over twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He moves close to me and brushes aside the fringe of the wig, he says my eyes shine in the moonlight or something to that effect that I don’t fully understand. I tell him that I’m probably ten years older than him and that I’m pregnant. He looks sceptical for a second but immediately realises that it’s the truth. ‘I’m fascinated by pregnant women,’ he says as he presses me against the wall and kisses me on the mouth. For a moment something inside me resists, but quickly my arms relax and my mouth opens. I like what he’s doing. I bury my fingers in his terracotta beard, we kiss. His hair is red and feels like straw. With my hands now on his head an image makes me stop cold, it’s the terracotta-coloured rug that Santiago and I bought in Salta that looked so nice in front of the couch. Red and straw-like, a rug that looked rustic but was very expensive and was a worthless lie in the end, because playing house is a game that can be abandoned for any other game at any time. Something suddenly became clear to me: I don’t want to buy a set of coffee mugs ever again, or straighten pictures on the wall, or decide where to put the rug that looks rustic but isn’t. I don’t want to go to the plant shop and ask which ones like sun and which are houseplants. I don’t want to choose the fabric for the curtains, or the colour of the bedspread, or the size of the bookcase. Those rugs that everyone brings back from the North prove that it’s all a lie. I’d rather live like a refugee forever, sleeping in other people’s beds, having coffee out of strange mugs, mugs that I didn’t choose and that I don’t care about because I don’t even remember the name of the street of the house I woke up in. I’d rather be surprised when I open the window, wonder whether it’s a nice neighbourhood, what it would be like to live there walking on rugs with no history, or with other people’s history because everything is always the same anyway. The redhead stops kissing me and looks at me in silence. I apologise, tell him I was distracted because I remembered something. He slowly moves back toward me, rests his whole body against mine and runs his hands up and down my arms. An irrational urge moves up from my feet all the way to the roots of my hair. I hug him desperately. He unhooks my bra through my clothes with one hand, lowers the strap of my dress and kisses my shoulder. I’m embarrassed by the thought that someone might see us, I pull up my bra strap, I smile at him. He grabs me by the waist, as we kiss he slowly lifts my dress and I feel his hand move up my legs until he hooks his fingers into my knickers. I think I hear someone calling my name from inside. As if by reflex I push him away and straighten my clothes, he says something in his language that I don’t understand. Then he takes a step back, lights a cigarette and looks at the street silently smoking. I try to talk to him but I can’t think of anything to say and once again we’re two strangers, uncomfortable, outside a party.
I hear the Tucumano calling my name over the microphone: ‘I want the other Argentinian to come sing a chacarera with me!’ And he shouts my name several times. I don’t know if I feel sorry or embarrassed for him and I realise he’ll only stop shouting if I go inside. I tell the redhead I’ll be right back. The Tucumano is lying on the floor with the microphone in his hand, some people are laughing at him while others are trying to help him up but he just repeats: ‘The other Argentinian, I want the other Argentinian to come. The other Argentinian who’s knocked up.’ I take the microphone from him and tell him he’s an idiot. He stands up and wobbles as he tries to talk to me.
‘Be careful with that Yugoslav guy. Hesathirdrate-
gypsywanker.’
‘I think you’re drunk.’
‘Ithinkyourebeautiful.’
He falls back to the floor. I bring him a glass of water but he’s passed out. Shanice is swaying barefoot alone in the centre of the dance floor, not paying attention to anything else that is going on. One of the Chinese guys helps me move the Tucumano to a couch where he lies down muttering insults at us. Some of the students have started clearing the tables. It’s not late but the party seems to be over. In the back I see the fake Subcomandante Marcos sitting next to the French Little Red Riding Hood who sang the Britney Spears song, they’re looking into each other’s eyes and I can see his hand rubbing her leg insistently. It’s annoying and funny at the same time. I look around the room, they’re experiencing what they’ll remember in the future as the best time of their lives, their student years, their foreign adventure far away from their parents. In ten years they’ll probably be exhausted, they’ll have kids, good jobs, and they’ll look back fondly on these days in Heidelberg, days they’ll never get back. But I don’t belong to this group. Even if I crossed the whole world looking for a place to feel at home, I wouldn’t belong anywhere. ‘It was a nice party,’ I tell Shanice, who doesn’t seem to hear me. And I go to bed without saying goodnight to anyone.
III
Monday very early someone slips a note under my door. Since it’s written in Spanish I know right away it’s from the Tucumano. It says:
Forgive me for the scene on Saturday. I hardly remember anything, too much alcohol. Yesterday I slept all day. I wanted to tell you that I’ll go with you to the doctor. You have to see a doctor. I asked around and the university hospital has good gynaecologists. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs at breakfast, I have the pretzels you like. And then we’ll go to the doctor.
Miguel Javier
Do pregnant women have to go to the doctor as soon as they find out they’re pregnant? Is that necessary? I feel fine. I hardly get nauseous anymore and everything feels pretty normal. I think the Tucumano is overreacting but deep down I’m happy that someone’s worrying about me.
When we enter the hospital the Tucumano walks confidently to the information desk, makes an appointment and quickly finds out where we have to wait and which examination room we’ll be in. There are three couples waiting to see the doctor before us. I find the whole situation extremely uncomfortable but I resist the urge to flee. The Tucumano smiles sympathetically and asks me if I want him to get me some coffee. I tell him no, and then I start explaining things, as if I’d already given it a lot of thought:
‘Look. Miguel, I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m outside my country and in less than two weeks I’ll be out of money. Another problem is that I’m not sure who the father is. It might be my ex, but it could also be another person. So because of all that and because right now, at this exact moment, I wasn’t expecting it and because I’m not sure about anything, maybe – I still haven’t decided – but maybe the best solution would be to have an abortion.’
‘Yourecrazy.’
‘No. I need you to help me say all that to the doctor. We’re in Europe, they’re not going to be shocked.’
The Tucumano sits quietly, looking noticeably upset until they call us in to see the doctor.
The doctor is a man of around sixty, dressed in his white coat. He bears some resemblance to Barenboim, the pianist. He asks my age, my weight, if I’ve been pregnant before and if I’ve had any illnesses. When I tell him it’s my first pregnancy he wants to know why I waited so long to have kids and I realise I won’t be able to ask about an abortion. I also realise that he took it for granted from the start that the Tucumano is my husband. He tells me to lie down on an examination table behind a screen and to get undressed from the waist down. I silently obey. As he touches me with his latex gloves I look at the ceiling and try to think of something else, I want to
sing a song in my head but I can’t remember any, so I sing the Argentinian national anthem. I sing it silently two times all the way through and just when I’m starting the third round, at ‘see noble equality enthroned’ I feel him pat me on the knee to signal that he’s done. He takes off his gloves and tells me I can put on my clothes, that he’ll wait with my husband on the other side to talk about the pregnancy. I’m halfway through tying my shoes when he starts a kind of monologue that neither the Tucumano nor I interrupt at any point:
‘Everything looks very good. The pregnancy is about six weeks along. I recommend you don’t drink alcohol and definitely don’t smoke. If you’re a smoker and it’s hard for you to quit, the hospital has free programmes that can help. The same if you do any drugs, you should stop right now. You should take folic acid for the first two months but you can maintain your regular lifestyle. Try to eat a healthy diet, rich in vegetables and fibre and avoid excessive intake of sugar and salt. I’ll write you a prescription for some drops that will help with any nausea. According to my calculations the little one is due the second week of March next year. You should book an appointment to see me again in ten days. We’ll do the first ultrasound and you can hear your baby’s heartbeat. Congratulations, it’s a very important moment in the life of a couple, you’ve stopped being individuals to become a family.’
The Tucumano invites me to lunch at the university cafeteria. He has class in forty minutes but he’s too worried about me now. We stopped by the pharmacy to get the drops the doctor prescribed, now we’re sitting at a table by the window. We order steamed vegetables, an omelette and mineral water, which according to the Tucumano are the healthiest items on the menu and good for me in my condition. We hardly speak through the whole meal. Then, in an attempt to distract myself from my thoughts, I ask him about his classes, how he’s doing, if he’s learning a lot, if he misses Tucumán. He tells me he misses his mum’s empanadas and his sister Marta Paula, who out of his six sisters is the one who spent the most time with him. I think what bad taste in names his parents had. Martapaula, all together like he says it, is as horrible as Miguel Javier. He tells me that Marta Paula is thirty years old and has three kids. That she and her kids live with his parents because she’s divorced and works as a receptionist in a hotel called Miami, near the San Miguel de Tucumán bus station. That her ex-husband is an alcoholic and that he doesn’t give her any money, so he used to help his sister with some of her expenses but since he came to Germany he hasn’t been able to send her anything. He misses his nieces and nephews too. Before coming here he was teaching the oldest one, who looks just like him, to play chess and he picked it up right away. Miguel Javier chose to study economics in order to understand why poverty exists, to get a clear-eyed, in-depth understanding of the situation he’d experienced all his life, and which before him his parents and before them his grandparents had lived through. It’s time for his class but he doesn’t seem to want to go, he’s more interested in talking about his family and his studies. I tell him not to miss class, that it would be silly, then he pays the bill, says goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, and leaves. I stay to finish the coffee we’ve just ordered and soak up the rays of sun coming through the window. From outside the Tucumano turns and waves his hand. The light hits him and he squints his eyes, I wave with one hand as I hold the coffee cup in the other. The air smells like coffee, the sky is blue, the sun warms my face and for an instant I feel at peace, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were in perfect order.
The German Room Page 3