“Oh yes, that really was something. I was chosen to be part of the wait-staff for the state dinner to honor Castro when he visited Montevideo in ’95. Naturally, I more or less detested the Castro regime, but some of my dear friends still tease me and call me a Communist because I once served El Caballo. What do you want? It was a job.”
Miguel gave a shrug much like the one he had given Jonah the night before. He seemed to be a man who kept his true opinions and those he shared in casual conversation in separately marked boxes. Jonah didn’t push him and instead inquired whether Miguel knew of any independent theaters in Montevideo.
“Independent. What do you mean?”
“A theater where I could watch local Uruguayan movies or art films.”
“I don’t know, but maybe Cinemateca Pocitos. At least, that’s the most famous one.”
Following Miguel’s rudimentary directions, Jonah walked all the way down to the waterfront. Cinemateca Pocitos was only a few blocks up from there. A film festival was under way, and people were congregating. He looked closely at what was being screened and was shocked to find him. Phineas stared back from a poster box. It was as if the places and cultures Jonah was from, that he had made all the effort he could to escape, were actually being reproduced everywhere he arrived. To move away from the center was to drag the center to the periphery. He had made efforts in that direction and what did he have to show for it? All too soon, he reflected, these circles would converge and there would be no outside, no elsewhere. No need for a future version of himself to travel at all. By then his failures would become like Phineas himself. Bowdlerized for passive consumption; languishing in the vast lot of the unfinished and unlamented. One more entry in the encyclopedia of black failure to achieve the greatness that black hope demands.
Spooked, he considered buying a ticket, but finally did not. Instead, in a kind of disoriented panic he picked a film called Tango Amoroso, the poster for which was peppered with award medallions. He settled down in his seat, wanting something to distract him from a creeping sense of anxiety, a dread that he was being followed, not by a sinister force or a surveilling state, but by the swirling accumulation of his own evasions coming to account. He could understand almost none of the dialogue, but that hardly mattered. The film was a documentary about tango dancers, about bodies in their color interlocking in the swiveling pattern that sailors and dockworkers, the sons and daughters of Africa and Italy and Spain, had invented on the shores of European outposts in America. But much of the film wasn’t explanatory. It was simply a recording of human bodies expressing desire with extraordinary beauty. The smile of one dancer to another in motion. It summed up everything, it said it all. The pleasures of human dance swept over him. Everything about it effortlessly repulsed the very notion of cerebral tics, malaise, disgust with life. It was like a vision of all that he felt he was not. He found himself on the verge of tears and unable to move. He didn’t want the movie to end. He wanted to hide, and when the last of the colorful bodies had dipped and the fade to black surrendered them to the theater’s soft lights, he had to gather all his force to move on.
Outside, the city’s nocturnal rhythms were beginning to take hold. Pockets of laughter and conversation reverberated under the pale evening sky. The thought of ambulating alone any longer, any farther, brought a leaky lightness to his bones. He leaned against a patch of wall between two posters for coming attractions and pretended to himself that he was merely catching his breath.
What was in reach? Across the way, directly in his line of sight, glowed the neon trimming of the cinema’s Hollywood-themed bar. Before he knew it, Jonah had downed two, then three whiskeys, the slender bartender dispensing each shot and slinking off to the far end to continue conversing with a pair of older gentlemen with portly bellies and stylish glasses. From where he was sitting, he could watch folks exiting the theater. A porter opened the door and walked in with a broom. A few people staggered out, couples, students. Behind a small group, a woman in a dark coat emerged and moved swiftly past him toward the exit, and he had the fluttering sensation that it was the woman from the previous night at El Vasco, but he wasn’t sure. He thought he should follow her, but he hadn’t paid his bill, and in his excitement, it took him even longer than usual to get it settled. By the time he emerged on the pavement she was long gone.
In a state of anxious bewilderment, compounded by drink, he thought he must find an internet café and write to Arna and to Isaac to tell them about this lonely stretch of a trip that had taken him to a city in which he had never imagined setting foot. And then, if he was sober enough, he would find out about the most reasonable flights back to New York. He marched himself up to the more heavily trafficked city center and entered the first place that he found. When he opened his inbox, he saw a short note from Isaac telling him that he’d received a raise at his school and was happy about it, but not sure if it would be enough to keep him around for more than another year or two. But there was another bold line in his inbox that grabbed Jonah’s attention. Nathaniel had written him back.
Dear Jonah,
It sounds like it’s complicated out there, but look, man, don’t think I don’t envy your travels, it’s a great chance that most of us never get. I am glad to hear you are okay. About the letter, it would mean much to me if you could hang on to it, at least while you are in Montevideo. I know you will make the most of your time, and even the thought of both of you being somewhere down there makes me feel hopeful somehow. I’m attaching a scan of one of the only photos I have of her—of us, actually. Paris, 1994. She was a beauty, man, and now I can see that I was looking pretty damn good then too. I wonder if she saw me now if it would even go the same, but you know, we’ll always have Paris, like the movie says. And that’s okay. I’m feeling more myself these days than ever, other than getting old and the fact that my jump shot ain’t right, I’m what you might call a satisfied man. You can’t imagine how great it is when one of my kids graduates, and I get to hug everyone in the family. Truth be told, I never had so much fun hooping as I’ve had coaching, even though our record isn’t exactly pretty. Every time I see those eyes light up when I rap to them about this crazy world we’re living in, well, it just makes me feel good, man. I mean sometimes we get to conversating and I can see it’s connecting, how it’s about the bigger picture, how the world is really theirs if they are willing to make it. But now you got me carrying on about myself again. Listen, be well out there, young brother, and remember to come back—that’s why I gave you the letter too, because you can always come home again. We all got peoples who need us. We all got to find our own way to do good. So do your thing, man. Enjoy that life. I hope to hear from you again somewhere down the road.
Peace,
Nate
Jonah clicked on the photograph. Nathaniel did look terribly happy and handsome in the image. They looked very much like a couple in love. And Laura. Could it be her? The woman he had seen at the theater? The woman he had seen at El Vasco? She would be older now, so there was room for some difference, but the face was so strikingly similar; it felt uncannily cosmic, as though the universe were walking him to a crossroads. It seemed unlikely that she would return to the same restaurant two nights in a row. But Oscar and Miguel seemed to know her.
Jonah anticipated the evening playing out much like the one before it, with Miguel paying him little to no attention. But when he arrived for a table, he noticed that Oscar and especially Miguel were in noticeably good spirits. Miguel tapped his fingers to the music playing from a little Toshiba stereo, his hostility all but evaporated.
“Ah, muchacho. Good, good, you are here. Tonight we celebrate the feast of Saint James, the patron saint of the Basque people. I make piperrada y bacalao. Muy rico.” Don Miguel led Jonah to the same table he had eaten at the night before, only this time, without prompting, he returned with a bottle of Uruguayan Tannat, a wine made from an Uruguayan red grape, as he expla
ined while pouring a generous glass. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, before returning to his hawkish perch at the lectern. A bark broke through the music and a whimpering short-haired wiener dog came waddling over the tiles to Miguel.
“Garufa!” he said. “Go say hello to the guest!”
When the dog refused, Miguel grabbed the Tannat and walked back to Jonah’s table, coaxing Garufa to follow by patting on his thigh. To Jonah’s surprise, Miguel took a seat, grabbed himself an unused glass from the table and, filling it, took a pleasured sip. Neither of them spoke. Jonah turned to look back at the photographs on the wall, many of which showed Miguel and Oscar on ports with cities spread out behind them. He came across a portrait of Miguel with Oscar’s arm over his shoulder, the two of them dressed in overly heavy coats with the wintry skyline of New York in the background.
“So, tell me about your time in New York,” Jonah said.
“Ah yes. The Big…Apple. Well, it came about as a result of our both doing a tour in the Merchant Marines,” said Miguel, whose decent English now sounded tweaked with a James Cagney-like nasal snarl. “It’s how we met, traveling the world together. I would say we’ve known all the major ports of the world. Buenos Aires, of course; Sydney; Singapore; Shanghai; up to New York; over to Dublin; down to Bilbao—the best of all; down even more to Cape Town, which is on the same latitudinal line as Montevideo, you know.”
“Why was Bilbao your favorite?” asked Jonah.
“Have you been to the Basque country? It’s beautiful for the people, an unconquered tribe. It’s where Oscar and I…well, let us say that it has become like an adopted home. We have since been back many times.”
Miguel waved his hands at the flag and jersey Jonah had noticed earlier. “That’s the jersey for the Athletic Bilbao. Oscar is a big fan, as is Garufa. Aren’t you, Garufa?”
Miguel reached down to give the dog a scratch. Jonah noticed that Garufa’s collar was in Athletic Bilbao colors.
Oscar came out of the kitchen with the piping hot peppers, set them down, and poured himself a glass of Tannat. “A break now until the next guests arrive,” he said, glancing at the door. But no one showed up.
Miguel put in a new CD and returned to the table to pour himself another glass of wine. The restaurateurs listened to the aching voice of the tango singer, and at times joined their voices to his song, gazing into each other’s eyes with wonder and an insider’s deep satisfaction.
“Who is this?” Jonah asked.
“Carlos Gardel. Uruguay’s greatest.”
Miguel pointed at a sepia-toned photograph of a man who looked like a South American Humphrey Bogart.
“I thought tango was Argentinian,” Jonah said.
“What? Absolutely not!” Miguel hissed. “The Argentines are always claiming things that are not theirs. They even think Gardel is Argentine.” Miguel gave Jonah an icy glare. “It’s as if all good things that develop here must be taken from us. All our beautiful men leave for Buenos Aires, all our writers and artists leave for Paris, all our riches leave for foreign accounts in Switzerland or Brazil or up north. We were once the richest nation in South America until those Tupamaro bastards came along and ruined everything. And now this country is being run—into the ground, if you ask me, by those crooks.”
“Now, come on, Miguelito, you’re getting all upset over nothing.”
“No! I won’t calm down!”
No one spoke for a moment, and Jonah realized that Gardel was no longer singing. His music had been replaced by a song in a language he didn’t recognize.
“What’s this playing now?”
“Ah,” said Oscar. “This is Evert Taube.”
“What language is Señor Taube singing in?”
“Swedish,” said a female voice. Standing in the entranceway was the woman from the theater, the woman from the previous evening.
“Señora Aussaresses, que bueno verte!” Oscar leapt up to kiss her hand and welcome her.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt the conversation with your guest,” she said in soft, French-accented English.
“Not at all,” said Oscar, also switching to English. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
Miguel was at the table, pouring her a glass of Tannat. Evert Taube’s lilting sea-captain Swedish sounded out like a bard’s tale, full of roving wanderers and unhappy endings.
“Señora Aussaresses, this is…eh…” Oscar paused. “You know, I don’t think I’ve asked for your name, muchacho.”
Jonah stood up and extended his hand, which she took gently. “Jonah.”
“These gentlemen call me Madame Aussaresses, but you can call me Laura.”
“Jonah is here from New York City,” said Oscar with a boastful note.
“I have always wanted to visit that city. I was once in a relationship with a man from New York, but that was a long time ago in another place. Now I live in Montevideo.”
It was Laura. C’est pas possible.
He had whispered it softly to himself, but she had picked it up immediately.
“Ah, but how are you speaking French?” she demanded to know.
“I’m actually from Paris,” said Jonah.
She gave Jonah a look that he found hard to interpret, something between suspicion and relief. “Très bien, then you will understand why I come and eat here nearly every night. It is so hard to find a decent place to eat in this town. All Uruguayans eat is steak, steak, steak. But these gentlemen, Oscar and Miguel, fellow wanderers and exiles like myself, they always make good company and good fun, and they have the most wonderful collection of music. You picked this place out of all others, so you must have an eye for good things too. So, why don’t you tell me: What brings you here?”
“I’m thinking now that it must be fate,” Jonah said faintly.
“Fate…” She turned to the Basques. “You hear that, Oscar? This young man seems to think he knows a thing or two about fate.”
They shared a laugh at Jonah’s expense. As easily as he had seemed to win over Miguel’s approval, now it looked as though he were losing it just as quickly.
Laura stood up again, seeming to take note of the intensity in the young man’s gaze upon her.
“Well, I’ll leave you to your food…and fate.”
“Vous devez m’excuser, je suis impoli,” Jonah broke in.
“Alors vous êtes vraiment français…” Laura said, still skeptical.
“Oui, enfin, plus ou moins.”
Oscar and Miguel had to attend to other guests, but Laura demanded to know more. She wanted details, the whole story, and with his permission, she joined his table, poured herself a glass, and listened. Jonah began at the beginning, as he had with Nathaniel. He tried to explain himself as best he could.
“And what about you?” Jonah asked, when he had finally come full circle to the present evening. “What is your story?”
“It’s like yours,” she said. “Made of so many threads and wanderings I never know where to begin.”
19
“Maybe with a question,” she said. “Because who I am is not so simple, and even very difficult to say if one expects the name of a country to suffice. For instance, I am Armenian by heritage. Born in Beirut. Speak French and Spanish and Arabic. You could say I am a métèque, like Moustaki says in his song. My education was French. I was a student at the Sorbonne before I left it all. I lived for three years in Mexico City where I fell in love with a young lawyer who wanted to marry me. Another man I had to desert. I returned to France to be with my family.”
She tended to her father who was dying a long time. And then her mother, who started to decline soon after. She cared for them with the help of Rosemarie, a Catholic from Guyana who came by to help before her night shifts at the hospital. After her mother’s death, she fell into a depression. She took up part-time work at a travel agency.
They were very nice and did their best but she was a terrible employee and they fired her soon after. She wasn’t working for the money anyway. Her parents had left her enough, not a fortune, but more than she had expected, especially once she sold their apartment.
That was the beginning of the second fugue. A flight to Buenos Aires, with vague plans to stay for a few months. The men she met there were intolerable, and most of the women too. But then in Quilmes she met two friends who were different from the others, who she discovered were not porteñas at all, but Uruguayans who lived in Buenos Aires where they could find work. They insisted she should discover their hometown. Her initial impression of Montevideo was that it was the ugliest, saddest-looking city she had ever seen. Nothing in its appearance should make one want to stay. And yet, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she started to feel alive again. Something about the city’s unrelenting air of sadness alleviated her own. For so long she had stopped trusting the faces of men. As the fog of depression lifted, she could see them again, but differently. She felt at ease and no longer sorry. She enjoyed defying them. The roughly whiskered drunks in their caps who inched along through the market streets of the Ciudad Vieja or sat on the seawall along the Rambla staring at the long breakers. She felt neither fear nor desire as she crossed paths with young men shouting and knocking into each other. Their world was so gray and melancholy that her own life in comparison stood tall. The weightlessness of afternoons became addictive.
The Fugitivities Page 22