The Foreign Girls Read online

  THE

  FOREIGN

  GIRLS

  Sergio Olguín

  Translated by Miranda France

  To Mónica Hasenberg and Brenno Quaretti

  To Eduardo Arechaga

  These insurgent, underground groups, the mara wars, the mafias, the wars police wage against the poor and non-whites, are the new forms of state authoritarianism. These situations depend on the control of bodies, above all women’s bodies, which have always been largely identified with territory. And when territory is appropriated, it is marked. The marks of the new domination are placed on it. I always say that the first colony was a woman’s body.

  RITA SEGATO,

  INTERVIEW BY ROXANA SANDÁ

  IN PÁGINA/12, 17 JULY 2009

  One goes in straightforward ways,

  One in a circle roams:

  Waits for a girl of his gone days,

  Or for returning home.

  But I do go – and woe is there –

  By a way nor straight, nor broad,

  But into never and nowhere,

  Like trains – off the railroad.

  ANNA AKHMATOVA,

  “ONE GOES IN STRAIGHTFORWARD WAYS”

  (TRANSLATED BY YEVGENY BONVER;

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN POETRY LOVERS’ PAGE, 2008)

  We are all hiding something sinister. Even the most normal among us.

  GUSTAVO ESCANLAR, LA ALEMANA

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  1: New Moon

  2: Unfinished Business

  3: Scandinavian Blonde

  4: A Party

  5: The Others

  6: Yacanto del Valle

  7: A Man of No Importance

  8: The Mind of Man Is Capable of Anything

  9: Forty-two Photos and a Video

  10: The Robson Archives

  11: A Silent Funeral

  12: Family Matters

  13: On Love

  14: Working the Land

  15: The Call

  16: Truth or Dare

  17: The Killing of Verónica Rosenthal

  18: Girl Seeks Girl

  19: Black Moon

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  from: Verónica Rosenthal

  to: Paula Locatti

  re: Radio Silence

  Dear Paula,

  This is going to be one long email, my friend. Apologies for not replying to your previous messages nor to your request, so elegantly expressed, that I “stop sending fucking automatic replies”. Originally I intended not to answer any emails during my vacation and anyone who wrote to me was meant to get a message saying I wouldn’t be responding until I got home. But what has just happened to me is shocking, to put it mildly. I need to share it with someone. With you, I mean. You’re the only person I can tell something like this. I thought of ringing you, even of asking you to come, because I didn’t want to be alone. But I also can’t behave like a teenager fretting about her first time. That’s why I decided not to call but to write instead. On the phone I might beg you to come. And, to be honest, there’s other stuff I want to tell you, things I could never bring myself to say in person, not even to you. Written communication can betray our thoughts, but oral so often leads to a slip of the tongue, and I want to avoid that. There’s a slip in the last sentence, in fact, but I’ll let it go.

  As I was saying, what I write here is for your eyes only. Nobody else must find out what I am going to tell you. Nobody. None of the girls, none of your other friends. It’s too personal for me to want to share it. Come to think of it, delete this email after you’ve read it.

  I told you that I was going to start my trip in Jujuy, then go down from there to Tucumán. Well, I didn’t do that in the end. A few days before I set off, my sister Leticia reminded me about the weekend home that belongs to my cousin Severo (actually, he’s the son of one of my father’s cousins). He’s not only a Rosenthal but also part of ‘our’ legal family: a commercial judge in Tucumán. I think he’d love to work in my dad’s practice, but Aarón has always kept him at arm’s length. He’s forty-something, married to a spoiled bitch and father to four children. Anyway, Severo has a weekend cottage on the Cerro San Javier, and whenever he comes to Buenos Aires he insists that we borrow it. I checked and the house was available for the time I needed it, so I decided to change my route: to start in Tucumán, stay a week in Cousin Severo’s house and then go on to Salta and Jujuy. I thought it wouldn’t be a bad thing to spend a quiet week there, resting and clearing my mind after the very shitty summer I’d had.

  So I arrived at the airport in San Miguel de Tucumán, picked up the car I’d rented and swung by the courts to see my cousin and collect the keys to the house. I spent half an hour in his office exchanging family news (his eldest son starts law this year – another one, for God’s sake). I graciously declined his invitation to lunch and, with barely suppressed horror, another invitation to have dinner at his house with the wife and some of the four children. He gave me a little map with directions (even though I had rented a GPS with the car – although God knows why, since you can get anywhere just by asking) and a sheet of paper with useful telephone numbers and the Wi-Fi code. He told me that a boy came to clean the pool once a week and there was a gardener too, but that they came very early and had their own keys to the shed, that I wouldn’t even know they were there (and he was right, I’ve never seen their faces). He offered to send me ‘the girl’ who lives in their house in the city, but I declined this invitation.

  If you saw my cousin’s house you’d go berserk. It’s hidden away behind a little wood on the hillside. A typically nineties construction, Californian style: huge windows, Italian furniture, BKF butterfly chairs (uncomfortable), a Michael Thonet rocking chair which, if it isn’t an original, certainly looks the part, a spectacular view (even from the toilets), a Jacuzzi in almost all the bathtubs, a sauna, a well-equipped gym, huge grounds (looking a bit sparse now that autumn’s on its way), a heated swimming pool, a changing room, a gazebo which is in itself practically another house and lots, lots more. Plus full cupboards, a wine cellar and more CDs and DVDs than you could possibly ever need. Never mind a week, it’s the kind of paradise to hide away in for a year.

  And that’s what I’ve been doing. Reading, spending time in the pool, watching movies. Even though there’s Wi-Fi I haven’t gone online; I haven’t watched the news or read the papers. If there had been a coup, a tsunami in Japan or World War Three had broken out, I would be none the wiser.

  It feels like a kind of professional and life detox. After spending the summer covering for other people at the magazine who were on leave, writing pieces no one was interested in, and feeling no appetite to get my teeth into a proper story, I needed this: to be far from the relentless noise of the city – no friends, no guys, no family. Nothing. It’s the first time since Lucio died that I’ve been able to spend time alone with myself. And I’ve needed it. The summer was hard. I don’t need to tell you that.

  A few days ago I decided to go out for a bit. It was still light when I set off in the car with no particular destination. The mountain road in this area is really beautiful, so I was driving along, taking in the view without worrying about anything. After a thousand twists and turns, the road came to a kind of seaside town, like a cool resort: a few pubs, boutiques with hippie clothes, groups of shouting teenagers. The usual.

  I stopped at a bar that looked promising and had a parking spot right beside it. Inside there weren’t many people. I sat down at a table near the bar and asked for a Jim Beam. It seems my order caused a stir because, when the glass of bourbon arrived, I noticed s
ome guys on a nearby table were staring at me – them and the barman too. I focussed on my maps and guidebooks. I wasn’t there to flirt with the locals.

  Soon after that, two girls arrived. I didn’t actually see them come in and go up to the bar. It was their voices I noticed first. Or rather the voice of one of them who, in very good Spanish but with a foreign accent, asked the barman where they could buy “una cuerda”.

  I think it was the word cuerda that got my attention, and I immediately imagined that these two women were looking for rope to tie up some man, not thinking that cuerda can also mean “string”. The barman must have thought something similar, because he asked them “Una cuerda?” in a surprised tone of voice. The foreign girl clarified: “Una cuerda para la guitarra”.

  The barman said if they were looking for a music shop they should go to the provincial capital, San Miguel de Tucumán. The other girl asked if they could call a taxi to take them there from the bar. And I, who had been listening as though I were part of the conversation, offered to take them myself.

  I don’t tend to have such quick reactions. And I still don’t know what prompted me to make the offer: whether I was starting to get bored sitting there, or I wanted to talk to someone after so many days alone, or that the fact they were foreign girls prompted a sudden urge to be a good ambassador for my country. Anyway, the girls were happy to accept the offer.

  As for what happened next, I’ll be brief. I realize now that the reason I included so many unimportant details in what I wrote before was to put off the most important part, the only thing I really want to tell you. That I need to tell you.

  Petra, Frida and I quickly bonded in the way that people who meet while travelling often do. We talked about our lives over empanadas in a restaurant on the edge of town. Petra is Italian, sings and plays the guitar. The other girl, Frida, is Norwegian and spent a year living in Argentina. That was when they got to know each other. And then they made a plan to meet up again to travel together in northern Argentina, Bolivia and Peru.

  They both speak perfect Spanish. Frida has a slight Castilian accent because she studied in Madrid. Petra, on the other hand, sounds really Argentinian. She lived in Milan with a guy from Mendoza for more than a year and after that she was in a relationship with someone from Córdoba. Nothing like pillow talk to improve your accent.

  On more than one occasion we raised our glasses to all the idiot men who have ruined our lives. My Italian and Norwegian friends would have been right at home on a night out with you and me in Buenos Aires.

  We decided to travel on together, at least until we reached the city of Salta (they want to spend a few days there, but I’d rather press on to Jujuy). Yesterday I went to pick them up so they can move into my cousin’s place. There’s plenty of room.

  The girls are a lot less prudish than me. They sunbathe topless and don’t mind walking naked out of their rooms. I’ve tried to follow suit, at least by going topless next to the pool. They’re two lovely, cheerful girls, a few (but not many) years younger than me.

  I’ve realized from one or two things they said that there is, or was, something between them.

  Last night we got drunk on some whisky that my cousin is definitely going to miss. Don’t ask me how – or how far – things went, but Frida and I ended up in what you might call a confusing situation.

  There it is, I’ve said it.

  It was nice, unnerving, exhilarating.

  I don’t want any jokes, or winks, or sarcasm from you. Is that possible? Or for you to cling to the edge of the mattress if we end up sharing a bed when we go to the hot springs at Gualeguaychú.

  I’m writing all this from my bed (alone, obviously). Midday. I woke up with a crashing hangover. But even so, I remember absolutely everything that happened last night. I still haven’t left the room. There’s too much silence in the house. Ah well.

  Kisses,

  Vero

  *

  from: Verónica Rosenthal

  to: Paula Locatti

  re: Kolynos and the party

  Hi Pau,

  Thanks. I expected nothing less from you. But your thing doesn’t count. Nothing one does as a virgin can be taken seriously. If I told you about the stuff I got up to back then, you’d be appalled.

  I’m in Cafayate now. All on my own.

  After the last email I wrote you, I showered, got dressed and went into the kitchen. Petra and Frida were there. They were making coffee and didn’t seem to be in a much better state than I was. I mean, they were obviously hung-over too. None of us mentioned the disconcerting experience we’d had a few hours previously. During our last days at the house there were a few histrionics from Frida, too boring to go into details. Nothing worth sharing.

  Eventually, we decided to go to the north of Tucumán province. They wanted to head for Amaicha del Valle, but I was keen to stop first at Yacanto del Valle, a little town much closer than that, which I’d been told I should see. We agreed to stay there for two or three nights.

  In Yacanto we stayed in a charming hotel run by a couple from Buenos Aires. The girls stayed in one room and I was in the other.

  Yacanto is a boutique town. All very cool and fake. Apart from the main square and the eighteenth-century church, everything else is like a kind of stage set put together by city types from Buenos Aires and San Miguel de Tucumán. There are vegetarian restaurants, clothes shops (more expensive even than the ones in Palermo), antique shops; there’s even a contemporary art gallery – whose owner is related to my cousin’s wife and from a traditional Salta family, like her.

  I took the girls to the gallery and we met him there. He’s called Ramiro. I already knew a bit about him from my sister, who met him on a trip she made with her husband and the kids. Leti practically drooled when she told me about Ramiro. Knowing my brother-in-law, and Leti’s taste (in all things), I was prepared for the worst. But on this occasion my elder sister wasn’t completely wrong.

  Ramiro. Roughly my age or possibly a couple of years older, a bit taller than me, broad shoulders, lantern jaw, blue eyes, Kolynos smile, very short hair that left his nape dangerously exposed (bare napes should be banned). And single. This information he offered himself, two minutes into our conversation.

  Kolynos behaved like a gentleman. He showed us round his gallery. Nothing too earthy, no indigenous art: there were pieces by artists from the Di Tella Foundation, a Plate, a Ferrari, a couple of Jacobys and work from the eighties and nineties (Kuitca, Alfredo Prior, Kenneth Kemble). The guy has good taste and clearly likes showing it off.

  I already know what you’re thinking: run a mile from exhibitionists! You’d equate his artworks, the big house where he has his gallery and his Japanese pickup with the kind of man who flashes at the entrance of a girls’ school. But the only time that ever happened to me I had a good look. I was shocked, but I still looked.

  Evidently some methods of seduction don’t work with foreign girls – or perhaps contemporary Argentine art is the problem – because Petra and Frida seemed bored as they listened to Ramiro. I tried to arrange something for that night because I didn’t feel like only being with the girls. Ramiro said he was busy, that he had a lot on. It came across a bit like an excuse. I know what you’re going to say: he sounds like a dick.

  Kolynos asked for my phone number, asked if I used WhatsApp – obviously, I said no – and looked at me as though I’d landed from another planet. “I’m an old-fashioned girl,” I added, with a quiet pride.

  I could already see myself spending the evening eating tamales with Petra and Frida, then going to get drunk in their room or mine. But get this: an hour after we left the gallery, Kolynos called me. He said that there was a party that night at a house on the outskirts of Yacanto, and did the three of us want to go. Obviously I said we did, without even running it by the girls.

  Petra and Frida were both happy when I said we’d been invited to a party. I’d almost say I was mildly offended that they were so keen to spend the night with some
one other than me. And so…

  That evening Ramiro came to fetch the three of us in his pickup and off we went. Why didn’t we walk, since it was only six or seven blocks away? More exhibitionism. It’s true that the house was on the outskirts of town, but that’s because Yacanto is only five blocks long.

  We arrived. A big-ass country house with music blaring out and people dancing and holding glasses. It looked like a beer ad.

  To start with the girls stuck by me, something I wasn’t thrilled about. Kolynos was very gallant. We danced, we chatted, we strolled around the garden. All very proper.

  He introduced me to the owner of the property, a certain Nicolás. Also single. I marvelled at the size of his house and the idiot started boasting about the huge estate that surrounded it. As Mili would say: good game, terrible result.

  We were still with Nicolás when a group of offensively young twenty-somethings turned up. One was a dreamboat – bronzed, sub-twenty-five. You’d have loved him. “My little brother, Nahuel,” Kolynos said by way of introduction. Well, that was a surprise. Immediately I thought of Leti, who had recommended the older brother without mentioning the younger one. Either she hadn’t met him, or she considered me far too old for such a morsel. Anyway, full disclosure: Nahuelito barely registered me and didn’t have much time for his brother either. He started talking to Nicolás and we moved away from the group.

  At one point it seemed to me that Petra was annoyed about how Frida was treating me, or about something, anyway. For some reason the Italian kept freaking out at Ramiro or any other man who came her way (and a lot did).

  A lot of alcohol later, I ran into Frida coming out of the bathroom (was she waiting for me?) and she told me that she wasn’t enjoying the party at all. I asked where Petra was and she pointed at the dance floor. That was when I realized that these two were a couple of drama queens who got off on making each other jealous and wanted to stick me in the middle. She didn’t like Ramiro either, she said. I laughed and she got annoyed. I made it clear that I was planning to leave with Ramiro and that she should go and have fun with other people. Before she had a chance to answer, I was already walking away.