Victoria at the Falklands

by Jack Tollers

  *

  Three stations later, a pair of military cadets boarded the train chatting away while they remained standing in one of those empty spaces between the carriages. They were looking most elegant in their brilliantly coloured uniforms, their short swords swinging at their sides, their big black bags on the floor by their side, talking shop intently in low voices. One of them was Peter, a tall sprightly fellow, with a big mouth that showed a resolute mien and an easy laugh, especially on this occasion, when just released from the hard weeks of drilling and studies and the general routine of long and demanding days full of activity and short hours of sleep. He was dead tired but in excellent spirits with the wonderful prospect of a long weekend (there was a national holiday that Monday, and he only had to be back at the Military Academy by daybreak on Tuesday). And then, he was young, and it was a wonderful spring morning and he was going to visit his old friend, Jimmy.

  The cadet that had got on the train with him left at one of the intermediate stations while Peter remained in his place looking through the open door at the French designed parks of Palermo. He was wondering how he would be received by Jimmy. They had recently argued quite a lot. They had had differences. They didn’t see eye to eye on more than one subject, but... this! First, Jimmy had taken to criticising the school, then the Army itself as a whole, and finally, most of the world. Peter frowned while he tried, for the umpteenth time, to figure out what the deuce was the matter with his friend. He could not fathom it. Jimmy had come down from the military school a fortnight before, leaving behind a depressed Peter to go on with the dreary military routine all by himself. He was left at the Army Academy brewing over the fact that his best friend was throwing his career down the drain, after nearly four years of excellent companionship, years of extremely hard work—and lots of laughter. On top of it all they were in their last year, only a couple of months away from graduation. They had entered the school together with high hopes, and now... what was Jimmy going to do? But Peter was conscientious enough to know that what really saddened him was his own fate, carrying on alone for the rest of a career that they had both dreamt about so many times. Officers and gentlemen who were going to fight for the good of the country. It all sounds terribly naive now, but it must be remembered that there was a time, not so long ago, when young people adopted a military career with splendid ideals, professional considerations relegated to the backstage by dreams of heroism and glory. It had to do with the welfare of the country. In those days a military career was wound up in an inextricable fashion with patriotism and courage. So, inevitably, Jimmy's defection had an apostasy-like ring which wouldn’t easily wear off.

  Peter sighed while getting off at the terminal station and walked slowly towards the gateway in lower spirits than when he had got on that train.

  Until he saw Victoria. We've always thought that part of Victoria's magic had to do with her long dark hair hanging loosely down her back, sometimes blowing in the wind or just swaying along with its graceful and unselfconscious owner. Anyway, that particular day she had put on her white sweater, which, of course, made her back all the more alluring. Black magic woman. Peter couldn't keep his eyes off her. In those days many people, especially among the lower classes, were given to dedicating flirtatious remarks to any female within earshot. Of course, one would have to have Latin blood in one’s veins to really understand the flattering compliments dedicated to a female in a most delicate mix of love words, a bit of irony, and the inevitable sexy undertones (without the dreadful impudence you so often hear nowadays). Until some years ago these piropos were something of a national sport, and Peter would have loved to have the hang of them, but, belonging as he did to a class that didn't indulge in these word plays he was particularly maladroit at dedicating passing love words to a perfect stranger. Apart from the fact that, in any case, he probably hadn't the necessary chutzpah.

  Also, he certainly was not a womaniser, and though half engaged at one time, was only 22, quite timid with girls in general and not much given to accosting perfectly strange females in public. So, there wasn’t much sense in following her. A case of love at first sight. Or maybe a little less than that. Maybe we should say love at half first sight since he had only seen her back. But, what he actually did was adjust his pace to his quickening heart beats so he could complete his view of this walking wonder.

  A case of love at first sight seeking the whole picture.

  Completely unaware of all this, Victoria stopped at the 132 bus stop queue, right in front of the gateway at the Retiro terminal, and Peter only just managed to edge unobtrusively into the same line before the bus arrived. He now saw her profile and was rewarded by the full view of her distinguished nose. He liked what he saw, but was confused with the situation. Luckily he had to take the same bus anyway, even when he wondered where she would be getting off.

  Victoria bought her ticket and sat down in the first seat of the bus, a double seat with a free place next to her. Peter clumsily sat down beside her, his sword clanging against his side while he deposited his big bag on the floor in front of him. Victoria took stock of him glancing sideways in a discreet fashion before plunging again into her Oscar Wilde. Peter glimpsed at the book and was surprised again. Oscar Wilde! He was well read—exceptionally so considering his age and the fact that he followed a military career—and he loved Dorian Gray, but had never even heard of De Profundis.

  Well, ask her, he ordered himself in military fashion, silently stressing the urgency of the circumstances. To no avail. She must be about twenty, he thought, getting it wrong because of her spectacles. ‘Well, that's all right,’ he thought, ‘So... Come on! You must start from somewhere...ask her about her book.’ But he was paralysed with fear; he just couldn't.

  The bus turned into Córdoba Avenue and crossed the broad main avenue called 9 de Julio and Peter saw through the window his bus stop go by without getting off. He felt helpless. That is, until Victoria got off at the next stop. Peter followed her more self-conscious and muddled than ever, as she turned down Talcahuano Street and walked a couple of blocks until she suddenly stopped at number 1246. Peter couldn't conceive on the spur of the moment a good enough excuse for stopping there, so he continued on his way with as much an air of detachment as he could muster, not without a quick glance at the electric bell she was pushing. 8 - D. ‘Got it!’ he repeated to himself triumphantly, ‘Got it! Talcahuano 1246, 8th. floor, apartment «D». Got it!’