The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [18]
Louise stood up. She was American, wearing pleated khakis. “I think it really defeats the point,” she said. “What we want is a place where we feel safe to say what we want without hurting anyone else’s feelings. There’s support here and understanding. We want to feel that we’re not alone. Above all, we want to be able to complain. If there are Argentines in the room, we don’t feel comfortable doing that. I think we should make a very firm policy. See your Argentine friends somewhere else.”
Jannat looked out at the room. “Do people agree?”
A discussion ensued. Another woman, Mary, broke through. “I wanted to propose a subgroup among us. I’m married to an Argentine, as many of us are. I think this means that a lot of us have certain problems and concerns that it would be very helpful if we could get together and discuss. Like, I don’t know, what it’s like to be married to an Argentine!”
Laughs.
“I thought we could meet for dinner once a month,” Mary said. “And pick American places, or at least American food, for a treat. Like T.G.I. Friday’s.”
Another woman stood up. “I’m Liv.”
“We know you, Liv!” Liv, it turned out, was the group’s Swedish chiropractor.
“Mary and I discussed this before and I think it’s a great idea. The problems I have with Carlos aren’t problems I can discuss with Argentine women. No matter what I say he acts like he’s a Paraguayan refugee, and I’m the privileged one. But it’s not true. It’s the other way around. He grew up with maids. But why do I always act like he’s right?”
“It’s our politically correct guilt!” Mary said.
“That’s right,” Liv said. “That’s what we decided. It’s the Third World–First World dynamic.”
“Hey, instead of feeling guilty, why don’t we just say to them, ‘Look who’s on top here, look who’s running the world’?” Mary suggested.
Laughs.
A Wednesday-night dinner was agreed upon for those married to or living with Argentines.
“I’d like to introduce myself,” a very different voice said, deep and rippling, with an Austrian accent. I turned and looked behind me. It had to be Isolde. It was that same voice. I saw now that she was a woman whose look had been thought to perfection, smooth, blond, rich-looking, a kind of Belle du Jour, only she was sturdier. Her plumpness, the one glitch to her perfection, pointing to a fragility, made her somewhat touching. “I’m Isolde. I’m from Austria. I’m very happy to meet you all.”
“Hi, Isolde!”
“I’m working on a project that I wanted to share with you. I think we all have a great opportunity here, to make links or—how would you say?—ties, between Argentina and the rest of the world, and I believe that one of the most effective ways to do it is through the arts.” She seemed slightly nervous, which made her arresting voice vibrate even further. “A lot of Argentine artwork never leaves this country. What I would like to propose is a small foundation to make these links, connect these people. I have some connections in the Austrian art world. I’m sure you all have some too in your native countries. The big art fair here in the spring is a great occasion because what’s interesting, of course, is the exchange, artists from abroad showing here and Argentine artists finding an audience abroad. Do any of you know Florencia Lacarra? No? Well, I recently went to a show of hers. Now she’s a very talented Argentine artist. I’m sure she’d find representation in Austria, if only that link were made. The truth is I actually don’t remember ever seeing an exhibition by an Argentine artist when I was in Austria, and I went to plenty of exhibitions. Now this is shameful. Wouldn’t you agree?” There was silence and a few murmurs of surprised assent. Isolde, with her looks and accent, if not the content of her speech, was unmistakably making an impression.
I found her afterward at the snacks table and introduced myself.
“There you are,” she said. “Helloooo.”
We were quickly interrupted by several of the women who had been impressed with Isolde’s speech. Flushed with her performance, Isolde was gracious and