Bomarzo

Cecilia Pavón
Translated by Jacob Steinberg

If I gave you all the gifts from my shop, I would feel clean, new, carefree. (What can I do to get closer to your love?) I’m walking down Corrientes Street like I’m floating. I see teenagers shout names across the street. Their shouts cross the intersection fine, but the sound is unclear, a name or word I can’t quite make out. It snaps me out of my distraction. It feels like they’re calling me, but I lift my eyes and they are strangers, calling out to Carina. Or maybe Laura? But not Margarita. And even if they are saying Margarita, it’s a different Margarita, not me. Is it the onset of spring that’s causing people to shout with such enthusiasm? People are calling out to each other, and they’re the calls of women. When I raise my head to look, I do so hoping it will be my love, who lives in this neighborhood and is waiting for me. It would be so wonderful to run into each other on the street, just by chance.

“Hey! How are you?”

“Hey. What a beautiful day! What a beautiful street! What beautiful trees and what beautiful leaves falling from them!”

“I listened to the song ‘Trash Dance’ yesterday and loved it.”

“Ah, cool.”

“Yeah …”

“…”

It’s winter, and I watch the trees often. But luckily winter is almost over—just forty-seven days left. Almost all of August and almost all of September. August, in any event, isn’t an ugly month. Corrientes Street is my favorite. I go to her constantly. She is my river of cars. I own a shop two blocks away, on the corner of Medrano and Humahuaca. I sell gifts. That’s why I thought about gifting him everything. It wasn’t just conjecture or a form of emotional bribery. It was a sincere impulse. I’ll gift him everything and close the shop. Instead of a clearance sale, I’ll give him everything and I’ll plant myself in front of his door and wait for him to come out so I can see what he thought of the gifts. I would send them in boxes on a moving truck. In open cardboard boxes … though, thinking about it, this whole plan sounds a bit childish. What would it achieve? Maybe I wouldn’t even see him. Maybe it would scare him off, he’d think I’m obsessed with him. It’s most likely. And all I want is just to see him. Just to see him again. It’s so hard to catch him. He stays holed up in his apartment picking the songs he’ll play each night, because he’s a DJ who works in a nightclub. His name is Pedro. The club is Bomarzo, but they don’t play Brazilian music. No. There, they play modern music: electronic, his specialty. They’re open every day, and he works there every day, Monday to Monday. He goes to bed at 6 a.m. and doesn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. Sometimes I stand in front of his building around then. Just to see if he’ll step out onto his balcony. Sometimes he comes out to hang clothes or with a cup of tea in his hand, in a fine china teacup. For me, it’s like the sunrise, for I am in love and his presence feeds my cravings more and more every time. I don’t even know if he knows who I am. I go listen to him whenever he plays and stand next to the speakers, and I try dancing as best as I can, but I don’t think he ever looks my way.

My story is kind of terrible because it’s a story of loneliness. A story sure to bore everyone because nothing ever happens; there’s no action. “Action” is all my friends’ favorite word whenever I talk to them about my problem. For them, “action” means “conversation.”

“How can you be in love with somebody you’ve never even spoken to?”

“Yeah, I know. But I go listen to every song he plays.”

You must always be in love with somebody, no matter what. We all agree on that. Nobody denies it; you can’t live without being in love.

I’m starting to think loneliness and introversion are attacking the city. Then again, I do see affectionate couples holding hands in the street. Corrientes is full of them. Did I only fall in love with this guy because he lives close by? During my afternoon breaks, I lie down on my living room sofa bed and envision every little movement he made the night before. He’s so frail to be handling records. It’s almost as if music were a religious chore for him. He plays the best music. Hands down. Everybody knows it. He’s the top DJ in all of Argentina. He’s on every chart, even though the club he plays is small and there are never more than forty or fifty people. One time he did a set wearing a dress.

“Tonight is glam rock night,” he said on the mic. It was one of very few times that I’ve heard him speak. He was wearing earrings, eyeliner, and mascara. It was so weird seeing him like that, it caught me off guard. Pedro, the love of my life, dressed as a woman! I almost left the club running.

I have a business partner at the gift shop, Violeta. She’s married, but her husband is crazy. I try not to bring it up, because she immediately starts crying and then nothing calms her down.

“You must always be in love with somebody, no matter what. We all agree on that.”

“Why don’t you get divorced?” I suggest, trying to get her to think about it while I console her.

“I don’t know. The thought scares me …”

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m scared he might do one of his crazy things.”

His “crazy things” are quite simple. He stops speaking. His issue has to do with introversion (this city’s ailment). He stops speaking for days. Violeta will come home, and he’ll be sitting with a can of beer in his hand watching TV. Doesn’t even acknowledge her. She’ll go to the kitchen, make dinner (he’s usually already grabbed pizza somewhere nearby), eat alone, shower, and go to bed. He’s already in the bed, silent. They turn off the light and go to sleep.

“What a weird marriage you have.”

“When we got married, he would speak more. He’d talk on the phone. I don’t know what happened.”

“Maybe he’s depressed.”

“Probably. Depression—this city’s ailment.”

I, for one, am not depressed. The truth is I’m lucky, because almost every other person I know is depressed. The sun always cures my depression in two minutes. Just two minutes on the sidewalk and I get all the energy I need to make it through the day. What’s more, I’m in love, and that gives me great drive. Of course, I’ll go listen to his set tonight. Even if the outing bears no fruit, because it’s monotonous and always ends the same way: I listen to his set and then go home to sleep. Yet somehow, I feel like I’m gradually absorbing him. And his absolute presence appears in my soul and my mind.

Through these spurious contacts, he’s becoming real in me.

It is 10 a.m. A cloudy day. Spring, whose arrival seemed so imminent, had second thoughts; it abruptly got cold again. At the shop, Violeta and I have run out of stuff to talk about.

We’ve known each other for so, so long. We’ve already told each other everything—everything. All of our childhoods, high school years, first kisses, gay experiences, fears.

I’m afraid of electricity, and she’s afraid of gas leaks. That’s why we don’t have a stove in the kitchen—it makes her anxious. I’ve suggested she seek treatment, but she hates when you talk to her about psychologists. At one point, our friend circle went wild with a rumor that Violeta was crazy, so she does everything she can to avoid that subject.

In reality, it was all her husband’s fault—people jumped to their own conclusions; why else would she marry someone crazy? But it’s all nonsense, because the sane and the insane are codependent, like dry sand and water in a desert.

The phone rings, and we fight over who gets to answer.

She answers. It’s my ex, Osvaaaaaldo, she says drawing out the “a.”

I jump and look at her. She returns a not-so-friendly glance, handing me the phone.

Osvaldo was just calling to catch up, that’s all. We stay on the line for five or six minutes, small talk. Osvaldo is so handsome … much hotter than the DJ, but he’s too anxious. When I was with him, I’d get anxious too. To tell you the truth, when that relationship ended, I was a mess. I don’t even know why he could be calling.

“What do you want?” I ask dryly.

“Just to say hey, that’s all. Are you around to grab a coffee?”

“No,” I reply, and hang up.

I decide to go out for a walk, because hearing his voice put me in a bad mood. I chance upon Bomarzo, which isn’t open this early. There’s a Coca-Cola truck parked out front. Strong men loading and unloading cases of drinks. The club is getting ready for the night. I go another block and let my imagination wander. I think I should forget about Pedro, get back together with Osvaldo, and try to rebuild my life. That saying: “rebuild my life.” It sounds like something they’d put on all the billboards in the city. It sounds like a phrase hiding out in some chapter of every book. But as I’m lost in these thoughts, somebody taps my shoulder. I turn around, and it’s Pedro, looking hotter than ever, although he’s never really been hot. He’s carrying a heavy bag.

“Could you help me out with this?” he asks.

And I help him and grab a handle. I know he’s carrying records, but he doesn’t know that I know that.

“They’re records,” he adds. “I’m Bomarzo’s DJ.”

And I stare at him. Words won’t come out.

“Do we know each other?” he asks, relaxing his tone.

And again: “Do we know each other?”

And I don’t answer. I get a bout of shyness. The same panic attacks I’ve felt since I was a little girl. They’re infrequent, but they happen, and they’re the worst. I turn as pale as a piece of paper. My eyes get puffy.

You could even say that the color of my hair changes. I look older. Everything about me starts to feel older. It’s a kind of panic that, while it’s happening, makes me look ten years older. And I can’t speak, can’t make gestures. I’d like to at least say something with my eyes, but I know I can’t. Everything I think or feel now will stay in my heart, but undetectable from the outside. When we get to Bomarzo, I leave the bag on the ground and keep walking. I leave through the same door where I came in. I take the bus home. Lie down. Fall asleep. Still overcome by my panic. The next day, as the attack starts to wear off, I feel so sad. I feel like getting out of town for a few days to recover. Going to Brazil or Uruguay or somewhere else with sun and beach to see if my shyness can go away once and for all. Once and for all. I feel so bad, like I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. Now, I’m single, single forever. Universally single.