The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [17]
The trees with the bulbous trunks had graffiti written on them: “Flor, I need for things to go on happening between us. Your astronaut.” Bicycles went by, Rollerbladers, not many. There was a white statue across the water, two figures, one seizing and kissing the other. The smell of the eucalyptus rose up, its shaggy aspect, hanging leaves.
People running, walking, biking, going round and round. I walked with them. Around the next bend, the scene changed back again. The prostitutes on the outer circle, standing, strolling, each choosing a territory, stepping out in front of cars. The air edged with darkness. A transvestite stepped out in front of a car, breathtaking in the headlights, in turquoise shorts and a halter. Another was dressed simply, in a skirt and black shirt. She stood in heels, a bit slouched. She looked like someone I had gone to school with, someone I could easily know. A car pulled up near her. She leaned down to talk for a moment, then climbed in. The car pulled off slowly. Where would they go? Back in the woods under the eucalyptus trees? Would they step out or stay in the car? It got darker. The families and joggers on the inner circle thinned out. I should go too, I thought. But I wanted to walk one more time around. The darkness was falling rapidly. I shouldn’t be doing this. But I’d already taken the bend. Now there wasn’t a family or a jogger in sight. I walked hurriedly, furtive myself, until I rounded the next bend and could see the avenue again. Peeling off, I made my way to it, where I finally slowed my steps.
five
Olga called. She was back from New York. Following up on her concern about me, she said there was someone I had to meet. “An Austrian woman. I was showing an apartment to a friend of hers yesterday and she came along. I’m sure you two have a lot in common.” She gave me a telephone number, which I called that evening. The voice that answered was remarkable, a female’s mezzo-soprano, deep, with flourishes. The woman’s name was Isolde. She invited me to a gathering of a group of foreign women she was attending the following day.
The meeting was held in a spacious upper-floor apartment overlooking Libertador Avenue, one of those living rooms that you could have mistaken for a hotel lobby, with its smooth couches, glass tabletops and ceiling-high curtains that you pulled closed by a string. When I arrived, there were already about thirty women there, mainly American and British, a few other accents thrown into the mix, a Hungarian woman, two Norwegians. Sodas and cookies were laid out. A woman at a separate table was selling native crafts. Women were milling around, eating cookies, chatting and looking at the crafts. The street was far below, the air up here silent. You could see in the distance beyond the edge of the city a slice of quivering brown water, the celebrated river view.
I had arrived a bit late and looked for Isolde, but couldn’t immediately identify her. Shortly afterward, the meeting began. I took a seat along with everyone else.
An Indian woman, Jannat, was in charge. She stood in the front, had a monotone voice. “First of all,” she said, pointing to the crafts table, “everyone has to go and look at Sofia’s beautiful scarves. I arrived ten minutes ago and I already bought two. Okay, let’s turn to the business of the day. Louanne has very generously compiled for all of us a list of recommended maids, with addresses and phone numbers and previous employers. I really think we should give her a round of applause. She put a lot of work into it.” Applause. “Another matter was the question of bringing natives to these meetings. Some people have said they’re not comfortable with