We All Loved Cowboys

by Carol Bensimon

  In January, when my shift at the sandwich franchise came to an end, the sky had been dark for at least two hours. I said see you tomorrow to Corrine, the other employee, then crossed the square in front of Notre-Dame. Few tourists were there at this time of year, compared to other seasons. The Gothic building shone. Somewhere on that complex, allegorical façade, there was a man holding his own head, but that meant nothing to me. My parents never forced me to take first communion. The fattest book on the shelf in my house was always Don Quixote.

  Coming towards me, surely on the way to some bar in the Latin Quarter, was a group of teenagers, four guys, two girls, and all six were wearing I PARIS t-shirts under their open jackets. The wind blew more strongly, I shrank into myself. The tallest of the boys looked at me when we were close enough. Ah, those silly fedoras tourists buy! Do they ever wear them again after they go home? I hoped so. But perhaps that kind of courage, the kind you need to wear hats, was restricted to the wild days spent in cities that aren’t your own. I turned the next corner, then walked down the stairs to the metro station. My train didn’t take long to appear.

  Once I was settled in the carriage, I put my rucksack on my lap and opened the pocket to get my cell. No calls. Alejandra had gone to Morocco. Jean-Marc would probably wait until Friday or Saturday to call. As for my dad, the first theory was that he was pissed at me; the second was that he had finally understood that he needed to respect my time. Either way, the time had come to reply to that email.

  The blue canvas curtain was shut across the window of the Chinese patisserie. I keyed in the code and entered my building.

  At that moment, I never could have imagined that after eating two slices of toast with goat cheese and firing up the computer, hoping to distract myself with the news, a window would suddenly pop up to obstruct the lengthy reports on the European crisis, and that that window would say Julia, and that that window would say: “Hi, how are things? It’s been a while.” She was often there, I mean, her name was, sometimes even a photograph, a snowy park, a cake straight out of the oven, the stage of some concert, that sort of thing. That was all I knew about Julia in Canada. So why had she chosen that particular night to tell me that she was now nearly qualified as a journalist, but not remotely satisfied with her job as a photography assistant for the website of the Montreal Gazette? Her parents had gone to live at the beach. She might take a vacation and stay there a whole month.

  She wrote: “I’m going to link up the camera.” I saw her new haircut and the empty room where she was sitting. Card-board boxes were piled up behind her. Julia could see: my bed up against the wall, the mosaic of postcards and magazine cuttings above the headboard, my smoky eyes.

  “Wanna see where I live?” she asked.

  I said I did. Straight away, the computer was on the windowsill, pointing downward. I began to laugh. My insignificant voice telling her to be careful was lost to a Montreal corner. There was a pedestrian crossing. The light changed from red to green, the cars began to move between two rows of bare trees. It was snowing and the tires left streaks on the tarmac. Remember that trip? Remember that trip we never took? Two hours twenty-seven minutes later, I wrote the email.

  Hi dad, how are you?

  Sorry I didn’t reply before. The course is tough. I’m busy working on the sketches for a collection to present at the end of the month. It’s based on some aspects of gaucho clothing, like espadrilles, hat, bombachas, those embroidered waistbands, etc., which I plan to adapt into street-wear, with some elements of rock thrown into the mix. At least that’s the idea anyway.

  About me coming to Brazil, I agree. Thanks. I’m going to have to miss some classes, but that’s fine, I can talk to the teachers. What else, is everything all right there?

  Listen, I need to sleep now, it’s late already, but we can talk properly during the week, about dates and other details, all right?

  Miss you all.

  Kisses

  Cora

  5.

  JULIA AND I STAYED A SINGLE NIGHT at the Hotel Cavalinho Branco. On a morning that dawned fresh and bright, we bought the accessories needed to make a proper maté infusion, a bag of coarse ground erva-mate, a gourd with the traditional patterned band round the bottom and a plain silver straw, then we set off towards the canyons. It was a smooth drive, no one else wanted to be there, the kind of road we wanted desperately. On either side, the undulating fields were like hurriedly laid table cloths. There were tractors. Soya. Small wooden shacks. I was listening to some hilarious tales about one of Julia’s childhood friends, as the wind whipped her hair into a terrible tangle. I stretched out my arms as we went round the bends, all ten fingers gripping the wheel—the countryside immediately shifting on its axis—and, finally, back on the straight, I turned to Julia. She was always in the middle of something.

  “But the strangest thing about my dad is that he used to make matchstick models, have I told you that? First it was all sorts of bridges, then the Seven Wonders of the World. He exhibited them at the Clube Comercial, I was ten, the whole of Soledade was there. It was really embarrassing.”

  “I wonder how you survive something like that.”

  “Hey, it was traumatic, all right, big city girl? You wouldn’t make it a week in a place like that.”

  The hand-painted name of a general store. Three wicker chairs placed expressly for the purpose of observing the passing cars. We stopped to buy fruit and water. The elderly proprietor asked: “What are two young ladies like you doing here?” The light slanted through the windows, drawing luminous streaks of dust that seemed to point at the pinkish potatoes in a basket, as if a direct message from the heavens. A quick shot of palm fruit cachaça for Julia, please, while I paid the bill. On the street, she bent down and said: “Look at the insects clinging to your car.” I moved closer. I could smell the clouds of alcohol. “There’s blood here,” she concluded, taking a small step back, then moving forward again, rather fascinated. We stood looking at the red spots that had spurted from mosquitos caught mid-air.

  “We’re carrying the blood of strangers,” declared Julia. And then she laughed to herself as she got into the car.

  There we were, on the road again. Pieces of orange and grapes dropped onto the rubber mats. I took bites of succulent plums, then tossed the remains from the window, like in the days when you believed that watermelons would grow from the black seeds you spat out in the garden. I still didn’t know what to do about Julia. It was the fourth day of our trip. Until that moment, neither of us had made any mention of our previous parting of ways. If it had never been a big deal, why would it be now? Perhaps it was better this way. But it reminded me of Jean-Marc on Pont des Arts, opening that blasted wine bottle with his shoe, and all those padlocks signifying eternal love around us. Couples visiting Paris would write their names on padlocks and leave them on the iron bridges. Were all the keys at the bottom of the Seine? I had told Jean-Marc about Julia one sunny Sunday. I said: I was in love with a girl who just wanted to have fun. He replied that I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, that it can happen between a man and a woman too, which he could confirm from his own experience, laughing as he said this, his back against the railing, I was surprised the padlocks weren’t hurting him. But when you like people of the same sex, I continued, the relationship can get really confusing, I mean, the signals, the signals are more obvious between a man and a woman, right? Like flirting with your best friend and making yourself understood? “This is the universal problem, Cora,” said Jean-Marc with a smile, as he took a rubber band from his pocket. Then he tied his hair in a ponytail.

  “But what’s the deal, asking me for advice?”

  “I don’t know, you, God, this is going to sound really strange. I think it’s because of your tattoo. Not exactly because of that, but because of what you told me in the café, ‘I have a deep respect for my past,’ do you remember that? You seem to understand stuff. I’d say you’ve passed the test with this love shit.”

  “My God, then tha
t’s the only test I’ve ever passed.”

  Jean-Marc fell silent. His eyes began to follow the movement of the passersby. On the Seine, a bateau-mouche crammed with people was approaching and, when it got close to us, those on board waved to those on the bridge, who returned the gesture with equal enthusiasm. For as long as there had been boats in the world, waving had been irresistible.

  “Did you fuck this girl?”

  “Of course. At my house. In public restrooms. In a load of motels.”

  “Motels, eh?”

  “The Brazilian kind, you’d find them exotic.”

  “Go on.”

  “You arrive there in your car, okay, in the middle of the city, you ask for a room without getting out, you go in, park in a garage, like the garage of a house, see, and in that garage there’s a door that leads you and your girl, or you and your guy, directly to the room. The room usually has a mirror on the ceiling, a round bed, that kind of thing, as well as clean sheets in plastic bags and cheap champagne in the refrigerator. You stay there for two or three hours and pay something like fifteen euros on your way out.”

  “And you’re telling me she was the one who wanted to have fun.”

  “It wasn’t like that, Jean-Marc. At the time I didn’t have much of a choice, I lived with my mom. I would show up at home with Julia the odd Saturday and say: “Mom, Julia’s going to stay over.” But I couldn’t always do that.”

  “Got it.”

  “But it doesn’t matter now. I’m going traveling with her in March, in the south of Brazil. We haven’t spoken for almost four years.”

  “Sounds fantastic. Beaches?”

  “No, no beaches. I’m scared.”

  “Of beaches?”

  “Of Julia. Of myself.”

  “Have you ever put a chocolate mousse in the freezer?”

  “I’ve eaten a chocolate mousse that’s been in the freezer, if that helps.”

  “Right, so the part that’s exposed to the air gets hard, but it’s still delicious inside, yeah? It’ll be the same with this Julia, don’t worry. You just need to get through the first layer to find everything that was there before.”

  “Strange analogy.”

  He stared at me. I frowned.

  “Chocolate mousse? Delicious inside? Honestly, Jean-Marc, I expected more of you.”

  Jean-Marc burst out laughing. He stood up. Then he held out his hand for me to get up too.

  “Did you think it was chauvinistic?”

  “Terribly chauvinistic.”

  We took our wine and went for a walk round the Jardin des Tuileries.

  The day was filling up with clouds. Julia wasn’t speaking much any more. She had reclined her seat and picked some jazz with a stormy expression. Chet Baker singing. As we passed the final road sign for Cambará do Sul, all that remained was a narrow band of clear sky above the horizon. The town appeared right after the abandoned carcass of a cream-colored Chevette.

  A good ten years ago, Cambará do Sul was increasing in popularity. Aerial views of the Fortaleza and Itaimbezinho canyons appeared in miniseries on the Globo channel; a couple kissed in a frost-covered field in the final scene of a commercial for a certain cell phone operator, so that people like my mom’s friends began to take an interest in the idea of “a bit of a rest” in “such a beautiful place.” Along the edges of narrow unpaved roads, on land that was practically worthless, guesthouse sprang up, with restaurants offering French service. There were lakes. Ducks. Hydro-massage baths with a view. Gas heating in log cabins. Sheepskins draped over armchairs. The cold seemed to be part of the fun, if not the best thing about it, after all the town had extremely low average temperatures, coming second only to the little-visited and not-too-distant São José dos Ausentes.

  The guesthouses frequented by my mother’s friends, however, about which I had heard many times, were nothing more than a handful of delusional islands in a visibly poor district. The end didn’t seem far away. I looked out of the window and everything seemed sad. It would be difficult to find a picture of Cambará do Sul to put in a tourist pamphlet. What about parabolic antennae stuck in patchy lawns? What about houses as thin as paper with too-narrow windows? What about the stray puppies rooting in the gutters? Even so, those things said very little in respect of my own first impression of the place. Perhaps I should concentrate on the main street. I was sure that Julia was doing the same as I was as we rolled along it, that is, drawing comparisons with the towns we had already passed through, coming to the obvious conclusion that there was something inhospitable and rather oppressive in the air. While in other towns girls went out arm-in-arm to eat crepes or check out the discount rail in a clothes store, in Cambará do Sul the residents moved as if numb, tired of themselves, heads downcast, and alone. Almost all of them were male. Men who walk like that are men without jobs, I thought. Men standing on corners are men without jobs. Men playing pool at three in the afternoon are men without jobs. Men sitting in squares in front of closed churches are desolate men without jobs.

  “We should stay in that hotel,” Julia said suddenly, tapping her finger on the glass. I pulled over to the curb and leaned over her for a better look.

  “That hotel?”

  It was a wide building, right up against the sidewalk, with a row of green windows on the second floor. A bar occupied part of the ground floor. A hoard of unemployed men was there too, under sheets of corrugated iron, smoking avidly, as if the cigarettes had been offered by the jailer the night before the execution.

  “Why not?”

  Those mischievous eyes of hers lighted up. Julia had a peculiar way about her, always did: it seemed like she was thinking about sex even when she wasn’t.

  “Let me park up properly first,” I replied.

  That day, when we left the hotel for the second time, and the darkening clouds were making rain seem even more imminent, my self-confidence was pulsing sky high. I had put aside my anxiety to resolve everything quickly. We walked down very quiet streets where there wasn’t even always a sidewalk. Light was also quite scarce, which led me to think that either people must go to bed very early, or were doing their utmost to economize.

  I was wearing the red leather jacket, the wide hood balancing over my head. I had the impression that simply having put the hood up made me more dangerous or at least less vulnerable, which couldn’t be said of my traveling companion; her imitation leather leggings went perfectly with the t-shirt dress on top, cardigan with tiny buttons and the perfect little jacket, but the ensemble made her seem like some poor girl looking for a party that wasn’t even close to starting.

  We were a couple of strangers wandering around when we met Beto and Petal. It all began in a street running parallel to the main thoroughfare, in front of a well-lighted courtyard. There was a Ford Rural parked between the iron gate and the garage door. I didn’t know much about cars, as I’ve already mentioned, but of course I could identify an old-style two-tone Ford Rural in the middle of a sea of popular silver cars. With the trunk facing the street, half cream, half green, the roof like something of an afterthought, the jeep looked like it could have left the factory floor and traveled in a vehicle transporter that same week.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” said Julia.

  “Pretty cool.”

  “It’s more than cool. I’d swap your car for it.”

  “Very funny.”

  “You think I’m joking?”

  When the jeep door swung open, I was starting to think about moving on. But by then it was too late. A girl’s legs dangled for an instant. She was wearing a calf-length skirt, which ballooned up to cast a shadow in the breeze when she jumped to the ground. Tiny drawings in ballpoint pen covered the fabric and rubber sole of her sneakers. Waves, hearts, a bird. I looked at the girl’s face, and she seemed to have been smiling for centuries. I pulled down my hood.

  “Sorry,” Julia said before anyone else could speak, “we were just admiring your car.”

  “That’s fine.” She ke
pt standing there, with the same expression.

  “I mean, is it yours?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Mine and Beto’s,” replied the girl, as if Beto was an old childhood acquaintance of ours. She had a pretty face, but the kind that you look at now and feel sure that it won’t look so good in ten or fifteen years. In time, her jaw would give her the appearance of an inverted triangle, especially if she kept the long straight hair. And that Germanic tendency to flush in the cold weather would, in the not-too-distant future, cover her skin with fine, dry lines.

  The car door was still wide open. Seeming to remember this, the hippie girl turned briskly and disappeared inside once again. Only her feet remained on the outside. When she returned, she had a bag slung over her shoulder, the kind you use to help save the environment. She stared at me. She seemed to be waiting for my contribution to the conversation.

  “We’re not from round here,” I said.

  “I know.”

  There was a silver stud in her nose.

  “Did you arrive today?”

  “Yes, this afternoon.”

  “Then you haven’t had a chance to get out of town and see the canyons.”

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s really worth doing. The rest is shit.”

  Julia and I started laughing, then exchanged a brief glance.

  “I’m Petal,” the girl said, approaching the low wall. “Yes, my parents were creative. But once I met a girl called Sap, and then it didn’t seem so terrible.”

  “Petal isn’t bad,” I replied, lying unashamedly.

  Then, Julia introduced herself and, leaning across the wall, the two women kissed each other on the cheek. I would be next. Before placing her lips against my face, Petal asked what color my hair was, she liked it so much, but I didn’t want to say that I dyed my hair in France, because that would sound conceited, so I just replied that I couldn’t remember what that particular shade was called. She smiled when I said my name. She put her arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek, just once, as is the norm now in the south of Brazil, or among people of a certain age group, at any rate. Then, someone inside the house shouted her name, and she yelled back with all her lungpower, slightly annoyed, which was a surprising new side to her, “Coming!” Turning back to us, she adopted her former sweet expression.