The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club

by Jessica Morrison

  “My name’s Zoey,” she says in a deep smoker’s voice incongruous with her small frame. “I’m from New York, and yes, I’m older than I look. I’m here because my husband is a rotten lying cheating bastard. I’m going to spend lots of his money and forget I ever met him. And what the hell, I thought I might learn a little tango while I’m at it.” She smiles at me, and I smile back. I have just met my new best friend.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zoey’s gravelly New York accent sounds like something straight out of an old gangster movie. Hearing it come out of her tiny, cherubic face makes me smile. She’s like Little Orphan Annie if she’d never been adopted by Daddy Warbucks. And believe it or not, her Spanish pronunciation is worse than mine, but when everyone’s watching her sputter out another conjugation, she doesn’t go beet red like I do. Nothing seems to embarrass her. When Marcela tried to correct her R’s, Zoey said, “I’m afraid the only way you’re going to get me to roll my R’s is by pushing me down a hill.”

  So you see why I couldn’t help but adore her instantly. Who could? Except maybe M-the-perfect, who would think her another ridiculous tourist who can’t speak his language. Did I mention that M snubbed me in the hallway yesterday? I fumbled through the front door, both hands full of grocery bags, and there he was, fixing a table leg or something. When he saw me, he looked startled, mumbled something in Spanish, and practically ran out of the room. I mean, I realize we don’t like each other, but am I really that repulsive to him? Okay, enough about M. I might as well be wasting my time writing about J. I wonder if M and J would like each other. They could bond over their low opinions of me. What fun! Okay, okay, I’m stopping now. Back to Zoey.

  There are so many things I love about the girl. She is as silly as my friend Sam, as sarcastic as my friend Trish, and occasionally, as wise as the Dalai Lama. “What’s really so bad about having an American accent, anyway?” she said to me (the only other American) with grave sincerity at the end of class. “Americans are always going on and on about sexy Spanish accents. Maybe all this R rolling is actually detrimental to my chances of getting some hot Argentine action.” Here I’ve been killing myself to get my R’s into a perfect round trill, but you have to admit, the girl has a point. Not that I’m on the prowl for “hot Argentine action,” but the thought of meeting someone who doesn’t find me repulsive or “perfect”—or any other synonym for wrong—does have its charms. There I go again. Sorry.

  Zoey’s friendship proves to be a much needed distraction from thinking about things I don’t want to think about, and by the third Spanish class, we are inseparable. We partner for dialogues, check each other’s work, and giggle over Elena’s smolderingly handsome husband during breaks. Whether we’re helping or hindering each other’s Spanish education remains to be seen, but at least I look forward to class. Over our lunch break, I discover that she’s staying with an Argentine family in a neighborhood not far from mine, so we ride the subway seven short stops home together after class. Between downtown and the first stop along the grand and loud Avenida Santa Fe, we swap the basic plot points of our respective cheating-bastard stories. From there to her stop at Bulnes, she gives me what she refers to as an abbreviated list of her Argentine adventures to date. She is bursting with Argentina anecdotes, and despite the fact that she’s been here for a week less than me, she’s already been everywhere.

  “Well, let’s see. The MALBA is pretty spectacular. It’s huge and really new and there are so many amazing Latin American artists. I met an art student there. He said he’d like to sketch me. Isn’t that a great line? And you can walk right up to a Frida Kahlo self-portrait, nose to nose. It’s funny. She clearly knew she was in possession of a serious unibrow but made the decision not to pluck. Do you think it was some sort of political statement? The cemetery in Recoleta has lots of beautifully carved tombs and cats everywhere. Some of the old tombs are a total mess, and you can reach right in through the gates and touch the coffin. It’s gross. Too bad they close it at night—bet it’s totally Blair Witch in the dark. Evita’s there, but her crypt is actually really dull. On the weekends there’s a big fair in the park right outside. It’s the typical mix of music, food, and crafts, but it’s huge, and there are all these artists selling their stuff. I met the cutest guy at a sandwich stand. What was his name? Sandy-blond hair and so cute. We had a little impromptu picnic, and then he had to get to work. I bought the most amazing drawing for, like, twenty-five dollars. The artist acted like I was some great benefactor, and here I felt like an art thief. Have you seen the Madres? Oh, God, they’re amazing. There are all these old women, mothers and grandmothers of the people who were killed by the government in the seventies. Have you read that book Imagining Argentina? Don’t bother. The ending’s total bull. Anyway, the Madres march in protest every Thursday at this park downtown. It’s the most heartbreaking sight. You have to go. I mean, these women are like a zillion years old. After that I ended up at the Teatro Colón. It’s this totally over-the-top, ornate old theater, but it’s kinda cool. You can take a tour or whatever, but I went to the cheap show. Opera for a couple of bucks. Not bad, if you like that kind of thing. I’d gotten it in my head that I could walk home from downtown, and my feet were starting to really ache because, of course, I’m wearing a pair of Keds that I love but are a size too small, when I walk by the theater and see all these people going inside, so I figure why not check it out and maybe have somewhere to sit for a minute. Oh, and San Telmo. Duh. There are these expensive tango shows all over the place—I haven’t seen any—but if you go to San Telmo on the weekend, you can eat at an outdoor café and watch people dancing in the street. This adorable little man insisted he give me a personal demonstration, if you know what I mean.” She smiles and winks. I laugh, nodding knowingly and generally pretending as though I’m not in complete and utter awe of her.

  “But listen to me blather on. You’ve been here twice as long as me. You’ve probably done all this stuff and a ton more.”

  “Yeah, right.” Here’s the point where I would usually change the subject, but seeing how Zoey is my new best friend, I try honesty instead. “I am intimately acquainted with the inner workings of my apartment and can find my way around the local supermarket with relative ease. I saw the inside of an electronics store—mostly through tears, mind you, so I can’t recall much about the decor or ambience. Oh, and I went on an accidental wildcat safari in a park. I’m practically a native.”

  “You mean you haven’t gone anywhere?” Zoey looks at me in total disbelief. “You haven’t done anything?”

  “Well, there are tons of things I want to do. I just wasn’t . . . ready.”

  Her face softens, her head tilting. “Oh, you poor thing. Of course not. I’m being so insensitive. I tend to get over an old boyfriend by getting under a new one, but that’s just me—tough New York stock and all that bullshit. But losing your guy and your job in one day, it must be god-awful.”

  “Don’t forget a place to live.” I laugh, but it comes out like a little cough. She must think I’m a total loser. “But really, it’s not like I’ve been lying in bed all day and crying.” Not all day, anyway.

  “Well, good.”

  “Mostly, I’ve been working on my plan.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath and explain. As I speak, Zoey’s face screws itself back into disbelief, then releases into a wide grin. She lets out a loud guffaw. The subway car is packed, but no one seems to notice.

  “Cassie,” she manages, catching her breath through lingering chuckles. “You are a kick. Really. But lady, it’s time you got out of your room. This weekend we’re doing something fun.” The subway slows as we pull into the next stop. Zoey stands up and inches toward the exit.

  “But I don’t have anything fun scheduled for another week and a half.” Only after I say it do I understand how ludicrous it must sound.

  She furrows her brow at me and shakes her head. “I hope you’re joking.”

  I f
ake a laugh.

  “Cassie? That’s short for Cassandra, right?”

  I nod.

  “The prophetess,” she says, smiling to herself, then slips seamlessly into the stream of commuters and out the subway door.

  As I watch the edge of her red sweater disappear from view, it occurs to me that while I’d assumed she was on her way back to her Argentine house, I really have no idea where she is headed. With someone like Zoey, someone who doesn’t live according to a plan, you don’t know where she’s going when she slips out of a subway car in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe she’ll wander down Santa Fe, letting herself be distracted by the seemingly endless line of shoe stores and clothing boutiques, spend all her money on leather goods, and have to go home to New York a few months early. She could duck into a café for a midday snack, flirt with the waiter-slash-student-sculptor and fall madly, instantly in love, get married, and live out her life as the exotic American muse. And that’s when it strikes me cold and hard in the middle of my forehead: Zoey lives things I don’t dare to daydream.

  Is Zoey scared when she walks through a door, never knowing what it might open to? Is it thrilling for her, the not knowing? Does she give any of it a second thought? I can only imagine what it’s like to be her, and even that I can’t do very well. I don’t walk to the grocery store without some sort of plan in my head before the front door locks behind me. My stepdad likes to tease me, telling stories about how I used to prepare itineraries for our summer vacations in my Hello Kitty notebook; how I came to him and my mother when I was nine and asked to be taken out of ballet because I realized that I had started too late to make anything out of it; how I broke up with my sixth-grade boyfriend, Steven Harris, because he still didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up. Everyone always gets a good chuckle out of that one around the family dinner table. The first time Jeff had dinner at my parents’ house, they were thrilled to regale him with these and countless other classic Cassie tales. Didn’t he whisper in my ear, as I passed him the mashed potatoes, that I must have been the most adorable child? I was so happy to have found someone who really got me. Now, that’s funny.

  Adorable or not, for better or worse, I’ve been this way for as long as I remember. Well before I wrote down a plan, I always carried one in my head.

  Saturday morning, Zoey calls to make sure we’re still on for our “Argentine adventure,” but she won’t say where we’re going or what we’re doing. “Should I pack a suitcase?” I joke. Her long pause has me concerned. “Seriously?”

  Zoey laughs. “Just bring a positive attitude,” she says.

  I shower, dry my hair, and then sit staring at the wardrobe full of my clothes. What does one wear to an Argentine adventure? Gaucho pants and combat boots? I choose a denim skirt and comfy tennis shoes and tie a light hooded sweater around my waist so I’m covered for at least a few different meteorological and sartorial requirements, tornadoes and red-carpet premieres notwithstanding. I’ve loaded my small canvas tote bag with maps, translation dictionary, bottled water, digital camera, an apple, and two protein bars.

  At least tonight I’ll have something interesting to write in my blog. I can only whine about Jeff for so long before I start to bore myself to tears. And it’s not just myself I have to think of now. I checked my reader stats last night and discovered that four whole, real live people have visited my site. One of them actually added a comment!

  I’ve been through the same thing. Twice! Hang in there, sweetie. You’re better off without him. You will look back one day and be grateful that you escaped the noose!!! hopefulromantic@excite.com

  Not exactly insightful advice, and nothing that my best friends haven’t said to me a hundred times, but for some reason, coming from a complete stranger, these kind words make me feel better.

  And for that, I owe hopefulromantic@excite.com and any other people who may venture onto my blog something interesting to read about. Whatever surprises I’m in for this afternoon, no doubt they’ll make for better reading than yet another treatise on how you can’t trust anyone who has sex to symphony music.

  Zoey is ten minutes late. Standing at the open front door but behind the locked gate, I grip the iron bars like a prisoner terrified by her impending freedom. Marcela’s “five most important phrases” churn in my head: ¿Habla usted inglés? No hablo español. ¿Cuánto cuesta? ¿Donde están los servicios? If I can just remember how to ask where the toilets are, everything will be okay. “Estoy perdida,” I whisper to myself. I am lost.

  “You don’t look lost.” At the sound of Andrea’s voice, I break instantly into a pleased grin despite my embarrassment. I’m glad Andrea’s here to witness the start of my brave adventure. I know she’s worried about me, thinks I spend too much time in my apartment. Yesterday she knocked on my door three times to invite me out on various errands under the pretense of needing my help. I finally relented and walked the three blocks to her beauty shop to assist her with the selection of a new cream rinse.

  The truth is, I’m thankful for her gentle meddling. Her motherly instincts make her the closest thing I have to family on this side of the world, but I don’t want her to worry about me.

  “Your Spanish is sounding very good,” she exclaims as she deftly pulls something surely lethal out of Jorge’s mouth before it can be swallowed.

  “Thank you. But I know my pronunciation is awful.”

  “Not at all! Even your R’s are very good.”

  “Really?” Despite my protest, I can’t deny the sense of satisfaction. The four-hour classes are headache-inducing, but at least they’re paying off.

  “¡Sí! Sí! Now when all the Argentine men whisper love poems in your ears, you will know what nonsense they are saying.”

  I can’t keep a goofy grin from settling on my face. It’s more praise than I’ve heard from my own mother in a long time. “¿Donde están los servicios?” I repeat for Andrea with what is quite likely the longest and silliest rolling R in the history of the Spanish language. She claps enthusiastically. Jorge claps, too, and doesn’t stop even when he catches me smiling at him. The dogs come running, no doubt to see if the fuss involves some sort of meat being dropped on the floor. Finding none, they sniff my tennis shoes. I reach down and stroke the tall one on the head. His fur is soft and slightly damp. They must have had their baths this morning. He lifts his head and licks my hand. The other two try to get in on the action, but they’re too short.

  “You learn so fast!” Andrea beams with pride. “Say something else!”

  “¿Habla usted inglés?” I fling a hand out as though I’ve just performed a great feat.

  “Sí, por supuesto.” This time it isn’t Andrea speaking. He’s sneaked up on me again. Mateo. His tall frame slouches in the doorway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his paint-splattered overalls. He’d look almost sweetly shy, childlike, even, if not for the cocky angle of his head and that crooked smirk of a smile. A lone long black curl flops over one eye. I wonder if his hair is soft, too. No, probably not. Probably thick and coarse and wiry. “Hola,” he says.

  I offer a small smile but don’t say a word. I want to, acutely aware that I should be speaking, but no words come to me, Spanish, English, or otherwise. Except “water” (I’m suddenly very thirsty, my tongue all starchy), but I can hardly make clever banter out of that bon mot. Mateo dips his head, his hair falling across his face on one side. He looks up at me through those dark curls and grins. There’s a bit of devil in that grin. I am not breathing.

  “Oh, don’t be shy,” Andrea pleads. Her voice surprises me. I’d almost forgotten that she was here. “Say more Spanish for us.”

  “¡Los pollos se han escapado!” All heads, human and canine, turn to the space on my right. It’s Zoey, grinning happily through the iron bars. I have no idea what she said, but it’s clearly funny. Even Mateo chuckles a little, his white teeth shining, his eyes softening. And it doesn’t stop there. Not only does he laugh at her joke, but he practically knocks me over t
rying to get the gate open to let her in. Suddenly, he’s Mr. Manners. I look at him and then at her with bewilderment.

  “The chickens have escaped,” Zoey offers to me, and I recall the line from a story Marcela read in class. “I had a feeling that one would come in handy one day.” But I barely hear her, preoccupied with the sight of back muscles twisting under Mateo’s thin gray T-shirt. Zoey turns to Andrea and Mateo with a giant smile.

  “Hola. Me llamo Zoey,” she says cheerfully, planting an enthusiastic kiss on Andrea, who is hugely pleased. A twinge of shame hits as I think of how reserved I was on that first night in the city.

  “Welcome, welcome. I am Andrea. This is my son, Jorge, and my friend Mateo.”

  “Hola.” Zoey waves at Jorge, who quickly tucks behind his mother’s leg. At least I know his distrust isn’t personal. “Hola,” she says to Mateo, extending her cheek for a kiss. Mateo offers one gently. Not exactly the welcome I received from him. He clearly has manners, it’s just a matter of whom he chooses to use them with. With Zoey, he’s Hugh Grant. With me, Simon Cowell. Well, now I know for certain that it’s me he finds distasteful, not all Americans. Great. That makes me feel so much better.

  “¿Hablas inglés?” Zoey asks in her endearingly bad Spanish accent.

  “Well, of course. Who doesn’t?”

  I’m sorry, but that sounded suspiciously like English. Not just English but really really really good English. Almost better than that of my Spanish teacher with the slight British accent.