of floral wallpaper, floral sofa cushions, floral carpeting . . . I should be so lucky, I remind myself. More likely, I’m about to spend the next six months staring at cracked stucco walls and stained gray Formica. But it smells freshly cleaned—the best thing I’ve smelled in hours, in fact, between the faint stench of airsickness and the taxi’s mix of cigarettes and stale sweat—and at this point that puts Andrea’s servants’ quarters on par with the W Hotel back home.
“I show you everything now?” Andrea smiles at me expectantly, hitching up Jorge, who buries his face against her neck.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say a bit too quickly. “
Soy . . . Soy . . .
” I grope for remnants of grade-eight Spanish. Didn’t Trish promise it would all come back to me? No such luck. Still, Andrea leans forward and nods, visibly excited by my attempt. “I’m very tired,” I say. Translation: I’m about to burst into tears and no one needs to see that.
Andrea is clearly disappointed—and determined. Her frown slides easily back into a grin, and she throws up her free arm like a mad conductor. “Then you come for some tea.” It’s more statement than question.
Tea? It’s almost midnight—I think. “Thank you. Thank you very much.
Gracias. Mucho.
I’ll probably just go right to sleep.” Translation: I’m going to crawl into bed, fully clothed, lights off, curl into a fetal position, and stay that way until the Jaws of Life pry me apart. I fake a yawn.
Andrea nods understandingly and hands me the key. “We see you in the morning, then. You have breakfast with us.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll try,” I reply, knowing full well that I won’t. “But I don’t think I’ll be getting up early.” Not before two or three days, at least. I search my brain for the Spanish words for “depression-induced coma,” but my hostess is already letting herself out of the apartment.
“Any hour is good,” she sings cheerfully over her shoulder as she shifts Jorge to the other hip before starting back down the staircase. Jorge tucks his face into his mother’s mass of red curls, blending their two heads into one impossibly huge Ronald McDonald wig. “We wait.”
Then she’s gone and I’m standing in the doorway all by myself. I am in an apartment in some strange woman’s house in Buenos Aires all by myself. I step back and swing the heavy door shut and fumble awhile with the antique key in the antique lock until I figure out that it’s clockwise twice until you hear the click. I leave the key in the lock, grab the handle on my suitcase, and make my way down the short hall with baby steps. It’s dark around the corner, but I can make out a bed toward the back of the room. I bang into a stuffed chair of some kind, smash my shin against a coffee table, and tumble, swearing quietly, toward the edge of the bed. It’s soft, and as it gives to my weight, the aroma of lilacs wafts up. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, but right now this means more to me than all the luxuries combined in that fancy Seattle hotel that cost more for one night than Andrea is charging me for a month. Could it really be okay here? Could there be some small grace granted to this perfectly stupid American woman who flew halfway around the world to live in a city that she barely knew existed a few weeks ago? I almost don’t want to know the answer and feel a small but unmistakable sense of relief when I grope for the small lamp near the bed and can’t find a switch. I vaguely remember Andrea saying something about it being on the wall. I’m too tired to get up and look, already sinking, fully clothed, into the supple mattress, into the fluffy down duvet, into the pure, unmedicated kind of sleep I’ve needed for days. Even if this is as good as it gets, I am grateful for this blessing, however brief it may be.
When I wake up, my head buried under the duvet, it takes a few seconds to register that I am not in Jeff’s
“I show you everything now?” Andrea smiles at me expectantly, hitching up Jorge, who buries his face against her neck.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” I say a bit too quickly. “
Soy . . . Soy . . .
” I grope for remnants of grade-eight Spanish. Didn’t Trish promise it would all come back to me? No such luck. Still, Andrea leans forward and nods, visibly excited by my attempt. “I’m very tired,” I say. Translation: I’m about to burst into tears and no one needs to see that.
Andrea is clearly disappointed—and determined. Her frown slides easily back into a grin, and she throws up her free arm like a mad conductor. “Then you come for some tea.” It’s more statement than question.
Tea? It’s almost midnight—I think. “Thank you. Thank you very much.
Gracias. Mucho.
I’ll probably just go right to sleep.” Translation: I’m going to crawl into bed, fully clothed, lights off, curl into a fetal position, and stay that way until the Jaws of Life pry me apart. I fake a yawn.
Andrea nods understandingly and hands me the key. “We see you in the morning, then. You have breakfast with us.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll try,” I reply, knowing full well that I won’t. “But I don’t think I’ll be getting up early.” Not before two or three days, at least. I search my brain for the Spanish words for “depression-induced coma,” but my hostess is already letting herself out of the apartment.
“Any hour is good,” she sings cheerfully over her shoulder as she shifts Jorge to the other hip before starting back down the staircase. Jorge tucks his face into his mother’s mass of red curls, blending their two heads into one impossibly huge Ronald McDonald wig. “We wait.”
Then she’s gone and I’m standing in the doorway all by myself. I am in an apartment in some strange woman’s house in Buenos Aires all by myself. I step back and swing the heavy door shut and fumble awhile with the antique key in the antique lock until I figure out that it’s clockwise twice until you hear the click. I leave the key in the lock, grab the handle on my suitcase, and make my way down the short hall with baby steps. It’s dark around the corner, but I can make out a bed toward the back of the room. I bang into a stuffed chair of some kind, smash my shin against a coffee table, and tumble, swearing quietly, toward the edge of the bed. It’s soft, and as it gives to my weight, the aroma of lilacs wafts up. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation talking, but right now this means more to me than all the luxuries combined in that fancy Seattle hotel that cost more for one night than Andrea is charging me for a month. Could it really be okay here? Could there be some small grace granted to this perfectly stupid American woman who flew halfway around the world to live in a city that she barely knew existed a few weeks ago? I almost don’t want to know the answer and feel a small but unmistakable sense of relief when I grope for the small lamp near the bed and can’t find a switch. I vaguely remember Andrea saying something about it being on the wall. I’m too tired to get up and look, already sinking, fully clothed, into the supple mattress, into the fluffy down duvet, into the pure, unmedicated kind of sleep I’ve needed for days. Even if this is as good as it gets, I am grateful for this blessing, however brief it may be.
When I wake up, my head buried under the duvet, it takes a few seconds to register that I am not in Jeff’s
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