The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [25]
Isolde introduced me. “Hello, dear,” Beatriz said, staring at me hard for a moment. Then she turned away.
Isolde had told me that she suspected Beatriz of judging her and disapproving. On the other hand, it seemed clear that Beatriz was also trying to impress.
Clara came in with a tray of tea. She was dressed in a pale blue maid’s outfit. “In 1910, in the Campaign of the Desert, led by General Rojas, the Indians were all wiped out,” Beatriz said once she’d left. “That’s why you don’t see Indian traits among us. Shortness, dark skin, flattened features. In other South American countries, you will see those things. But we Argentines are European. You can find all my ancestors in the Recoleta graveyard.” She batted her eyes slightly. “It’s ridiculous, but people here think of me as Lady Di.”
During the daytime, Beatriz lay in bed and watched TV. She collected horror stories from the news. This was her main subject, Isolde said, since the crisis. She relished in repeating the stories she’d heard, about people getting their purses ripped out of their hands by motorcyclists or being held for ransom in their houses, mistreated, fingers cut off.
“No one’s safe anymore,” Beatriz said now. “Never go out alone. The city’s not safe. It’s a terrible thing to live alone. Don’t you see? Everyone’s moving to gated communities. Clara? Call Clara. Get her to call you girls a cab.”
I dropped Isolde off at her apartment, let the cab go and began to walk. Isolde’s loneliness had been palpable that day. Should I have lingered on with her? I pictured her in her apartment, a smaller version of the woman’s apartment. Although the arrangement was that she could stay as long as she never brought anyone back there, she had once shown it to me. I pictured her retreating to the bedroom, which she’d told me was the only place she felt comfortable.
It was still early, 2:00 P.M. in the afternoon. Familiar with my own loneliness, I had no trouble imagining Isolde’s. The day stretched before her. What should she do? She’d glance at the cultural pages of the newspaper, where she had marked certain events. If only she had, at least, an evening activity. A cocktail party was preferable. She’d heard there was one at the Portuguese embassy. Though she hadn’t received an invitation. Usually it didn’t matter. Still, in her mind, there was always the doubt. And then there were the agonizing moments, inevitable if you went to these events alone, when you floated there, waiting, with no one to talk to, pretending to be utterly riveted by the art. No, she wouldn’t go. She wasn’t feeling strong today. But what, then? She couldn’t bear either to stay at home, all afternoon and then all night as well. A movie? A modern dance performance on her own?
The foreigner’s loneliness should not be underestimated. Anyone who has felt it knows what it is. At first, Isolde would sense something like a dark liquid dripping into her chest. She’d grow more and more uneasy. She’d get up, try to do something, shake herself, dress or change her clothes. But even here, while dressing, usually for her such a pleasure, the beautification of her already very pleasing frame, nothing correction, all enhancement, the level of the dark liquid would be rising. As she put on her pink lip color, picking up the glow in her pinkened cheeks, she’d already feel the futility. Why? What would it matter? She felt herself isolated, cut off, behind glass.
She’d make up an errand, talk it up to herself, “Yes, this’ll be good, this is what I’ve been meaning to do,” step out, start the errand. But already by then, the city seemed blurry, as if she couldn’t see it. Everything was grayed over. She felt herself