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Avenida de Mayo, Buenos Aires
January 10, 1962
AMAGUE
From amago, meaning threat. An embellishment done on one’s own before taking a step.
“I hate this movie,” Pagan said.
She and Mercedes had changed into cotton frocks and were walking down the grand avenue to end all grand avenues in Buenos Aires. Pagan had returned from the wardrobe fittings in a baleful mood, and at Mercedes’s request, Carlos had dropped them off in front of the Casa Rosada, or “Pink House,” where the presidents of Argentina lived and worked. The casa was indeed as pink as the desert hills outside Los Angeles, squatting like a sun-baked birthday cake at the eastern end of the plaza. This was where Eva Perón and many others had spoken to assembled crowds from the balcony. Now, beside the yellowing grass and weary jets of the water fountains, tourists wandered, and women in sensible shoes supervised tours of shuffling schoolchildren.
Mercedes kept consulting her guidebook, telling Pagan the history of each statue and plaque in an eager voice that was cute for the first fifteen minutes. After that Pagan tuned her out and tried to enjoy the sunshine until Mercedes finally asked how the wardrobe tests had gone. The whole story about her first rehearsal with Tony and what she learned about Victor the director at the fitting today came pouring out.
“I almost feel guilty about kicking that snake Tony that first day,” Pagan said. “I was so angry, but at least he’s behaved since then. What is it?”
Mercedes had stopped by the ubiquitous statue of some guy on a horse in front of the Casa Rosada and was staring up at the huge baby-pink arch over the entrance. “There’s a museum inside,” she said, and smiled at Pagan.
Oh, God, Mercedes and her eternal thirst for knowledge. It made Pagan feel positively stupid sometimes. She should go to more museums probably, to fill up all the empty places in her brain. But right now she was too restless and discontented to stand in front of display cases listening to M drone on about political movements and population growth.
“Maybe some other time, if that’s okay.” Pagan took a few steps away from Casa Rosada, trying to pull Mercedes away from it. “I’m starving. Where’s that café you wanted to go to?”
“Down the street that way.” Mercedes pointed toward a tall white, elongated, pyramid-type monument with a small Statue of Liberty on top. “We could eat soon, but I might not get a chance to come back here...”
“You can come back while I’m on set. Time to eat.” Pagan turned decisively and walked toward the pyramid thing.
Education and history were important and all, but...you know what? No. To hell with them. To hell with books and museums and, most of all, to hell with Devin Black. What was she doing here, ruining her career in a terrible film, putting up with handsy jackass costars and rendered immobile in ugly outfits for a guy who didn’t bother to show up?
Through the heat of the day, a tantalizing mirage of a glass filled with ice, rum and lime swam into her view. She was more of a vodka-martini girl normally, but when the weather was warm, her thoughts turned to rum.
Mercedes caught up to her silently, a line between her brows, and they moved in silence through the plaza, keeping to the shade of the leafy green trees. The strain between them tightened like a guitar string being tuned too high.
The huge, open square narrowed to a broad, busy avenue lined with tall, European-style buildings and bustling with sharply dressed pedestrians. The warm summer air was filled with dust, and the scent of grilled meat wafted out of the restaurants and cafés as they passed.
Pagan’s stomach growled. She really was hungry. And cranky.
A cranky, hungry alcoholic. That pretty much made her the worst person in the world.
“God, I want a drink,” she said. “I just... Holy hell, M. I’m ready to jump that street vendor for a beer.”
Mercedes’s face cleared. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry,” Pagan said. “I do think food will help, though. Just don’t let me order a rum and Coke.”
“We’ll eat soon,” Mercedes said. “It’s not far. And don’t feel guilty. About Tony.”
Dang, M was savvy, changing the subject from drinking to the crap underlying her need to drink. Pagan’s shrink had told her that while she was out of town and unable to go to an AA meeting or contact her sponsor, she should to talk to her friend. She’d almost forgotten that advice.
“Tony thinks I’ll put out because that’s what everybody thinks about a girl who isn’t pure,” Pagan said, head down staring at the sidewalk moving slowly under her feet. “No one’s ever going to want to date me properly if they know my history. I’m ruined.”
“Pure?” Mercedes looked her over from her brown oxfords to her pink flowered sundress to the ribbon holding her ponytail. “It’s strange that I hadn’t noticed you were ‘ruined.’”
“Mama would be ashamed of me if she knew,” Pagan said, her voice small.
“Your mother—the Nazi sympathizer?”
Pagan swiveled her head to stare at her.
Mercedes shook her head, not backing down. “Your mother had plenty to be ashamed of herself. You remember the Nazis—people who thought those with blood that didn’t fit their definition of pure should be wiped out.”
Mercedes had an irritating way of making sense that clashed with Pagan’s self-pity.
“Okay, so much for pure,” Pagan said. “And maybe Mama’s opinion would be questionable. But everyone thinks girls who don’t wait for marriage are dirty.”
“Well, everyone can get bent,” Mercedes said.
She talked tough, but she had to know as well as Pagan that the mixed messages were everywhere. Society loved it when you were sexy, like Marilyn Monroe, but they thought you were morally bankrupt if you fooled around, like Marilyn Monroe. So you had to keep the fooling around very quiet.
They walked in silence for a few moments. “Do you think Devin knows?” Pagan asked. “About me and Nicky?”
“Ah,” Mercedes said in a tone that said, So that’s what this is about. “What does it matter? He said no monkey business during this trip.”
“He knows everything else. Why wouldn’t he know that?” Pagan’s heart was made of lead. “Maybe that’s really why he said no monkey business.”
“You think Devin’s the same kind of guy as Tango Tony?”
A small laugh escaped Pagan in spite of herself. “Yeah, no. They’re nothing alike.”
“Your past is nobody’s business but yours,” Mercedes said.
“What about your past?” Pagan glanced over at her friend. “Is that none of my business?”
Mercedes wrinkled her nose, suddenly a little shy. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever...?” Pagan didn’t know how to say it. She and Mercedes had shared their worst deeds and fears during their months as roommates in reform school. But M had never talked about a boyfriend, or dating, or any kind of romantic interest. “Did you ever get really serious with a boy?”
Mercedes took her time, the way she did, pondering the question, as Pagan’s heart beat hard and fast, hoping she hadn’t offended her. “I thought about it,” Mercedes said, her eyes screwed up tight, like she was wincing. “I had a few chances. Cute boys, too.”
“But you had more self-control than I did.” Pagan tried not to feel disappointed that she was the only one with a stained reputation. “Figures. You weren’t a drunk.”
“No, I just didn’t want to.” She looked over at Pagan as if she’d said something dirty or wrong.
Pagan bumped her shoulder into her friend’s. “Very funny.”
“No, it’s true. So...” She swallowed hard and seemed to force herself to keep talking. “I went to a bar where women go to meet women. To see if that’s what I wanted.”
Pagan stopped in her tracks. Mercedes glanced back, but she kept walking. Her cheeks were pink. Was she actually blushing? Pagan hustled to catch up. “Was it?”
Mercedes shook her head, staring down at her feet as she walked. “Nope. Girls are nice and pretty and all, but I didn’t feel a thing.”
“But then...” Pagan didn’t know where to go from here. “You probably haven’t found the right person.”
“Maybe.” Mercedes frowned. She actually looked worried. “So far no one’s tempted me. All I want to do is read the next issue of Fantastic Four and study astrophysics.”
“So—you don’t want to get married? Have children?” Pagan was trying to wrap her head around this.
“It just never occurred to me. Do you?” Mercedes asked.
“Of course!” Pagan said automatically, then thought more. “But I’m not sure why.”
“Everybody says that’s what makes women happy,” Mercedes said. Her voice was unusually uncertain for her. “So if I don’t want it, what does that make me?”
Pagan frowned. “You’re still a girl! You’re still a woman. What else would you be?”
Mercedes said nothing, staring fixedly off into the distance. A couple of young men lounging in a doorway pursed their lips and made kissing noises at them as they walked past. Pagan resisted the urge to throw them a rude gesture.
“Well, nobody’s going to want to marry me, so we can be spinster old ladies together,” she said.
Mercedes thought that over as they passed a shop filled with colorful glass bottles, and another selling shiny leather goods.
Mercedes glanced over her shoulder, then back at Pagan, her expression softening. “As long as I do the cooking.”
Pagan laughed. “Deal.”
Mercedes squinted at her thoughtfully. “Except, you like kids.”
Kids. Ava. Her little sister, dead for more than a year now.
How Pagan missed pressing her cheek against that soft head of blond hair, missed making crazy faces to turn that that serious, frowning expression into a laugh. Pagan’s and Ava’s fingers had warred over the piano keys in furious duets. Their voices had meshed and clashed as they read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe out loud in tandem. They were so different yet so close.
What would Ava be like now if she had survived the accident Pagan had caused? What would Ava say about Pagan’s quest to find the mysterious Dr. Someone who had visited them so many years ago?
“I wouldn’t mind having kids if they were like Ava,” Pagan said. It was getting easier to say her sister’s name, but still it made her throat close, her fists clench.
“You’d be a fun mom,” Mercedes said.
“I’m still figuring out how to go a day without drinking,” Pagan said. “One thing at a time, please. Mostly I wish I didn’t have to go back to the movie shoot tomorrow. I used to think the tango was wonderful, but now...”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right partner,” Mercedes said tartly. She glanced over her shoulder again and a frown had creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows. Her almond eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder again. But she kept walking.
“What?” Pagan said.
“Don’t look. But the same man that’s behind us now was behind us before, in front of the Casa Rosada.”
It took all of Pagan’s self-control not to look over her shoulder. Her stomach tightened, but inwardly she told herself to remain calm. “He’s probably a tourist, like us. You said this is a popular street.”
Mercedes shook her head. “He’s not acting like a tourist. The café’s a block up on the other side. Let’s cross here.”
Pagan didn’t want to question M’s instincts. In reform school, she could look at someone once and know if they were an actual threat or bluffing. But the real world was more complicated, and Mercedes wasn’t running with a gang now.
They crossed to the southern side of the street, and Pagan took a casual glance back the way they’d come. Two men talked and smoked as they walked together, a young woman pushed a stroller and a bent old woman all in black crossed the street behind them.
Mercedes scanned the same people as they reached the other side. “He’s not there now. He was wearing a gray suit and hat. He must’ve seen that I noticed him.”
They reached the dark-wood-and-glass doors of the Café Tortoni with its flamboyant art nouveau sign above in red.
Pagan opened the door as Mercedes said sharply, “There he is again.”
“The man in gray?” Pagan stepped back out and looked down the street, but saw no man in gray.
“Gone again,” Mercedes said. “I took my eyes off him for one second, and poof!”
“Maybe he thinks you’re cute,” Pagan said, and hauled open the heavy door again.
M gave her the side eye and walked in. Past the curtained-covered glass door, the Café Tortoni became a glorious high-ceilinged fin de siècle restaurant, its glittering chandeliers shrouded in cigarette smoke. Greek columns with curlicues on top held up a ceiling with a stained-glass skylight in the center. The murmuring voices of the patrons bounced off the glowing wood walls covered with Cubist paintings and autographed photos of patrons. Pagan recognized the shock of white hair belonging to Albert Einstein in one of them. The warm smell of steak make her stomach grumble.
“My guidebook called it one of the ten most beautiful café’s in the world,” Mercedes said.
It was indeed trés elegant. They could have been in the chicest café in Paris. A waiter in a white shirt and black pants ushered them over to a table under the gold-and-black stained-glass skylight. The chairs were red leather and dark wood, the table plain but polished. They ordered iced tea and a cheese plate to share to start, followed by steaks and French fries, please and thank you and as soon as possible would be nice.
The drinks and hors d’oeuvres arrived, and Pagan began devouring the slices of apple and brie. Mercedes sipped her tea and glanced around uneasily.
“You’re worried,” Pagan said, wiping crumbs off the corner of her mouth. “About that guy in gray.”
“I’m telling you, he was up to no good.” Mercedes tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. “Do you mind if I go outside for a minute to make sure he’s not still there?”
“’Course not,” Pagan said. “As long as I eat a large steak soon, I’ll be the happiest girl in the world. The beef in Argentina’s supposed to be the best.”
“Great.” Mercedes, distracted, was already standing up. She didn’t carry a purse and never wore gloves, so she set the guidebook down on her seat. “Back in a moment.”
Then she was gone, moving quietly with her determined stride toward the front door. Pagan finished off the brie and speared a few olives from their tiny bowl with a toothpick. Olives made her think of martinis, which made her miss the icy bite of vodka moving down her throat, but she was too hungry not to eat them, and the sharp need for alcohol was dulled as her hunger abated. The waiter came by and she ordered more iced tea.
As the waiter moved off, the weird dizzy feeling in Pagan’s head and its accompanying depression brought on by the confrontation with Tony, hours of dancing and lack of food faded.
What had she been so worried about? She could handle this whole silly movie situation. She’d made some choices she regretted in the past, but she wasn’t going to let Tango Tony, as M called him, get on her nerves about it. Maybe now that he had some reason to fear her, he’d behave. And she’d find a way to charm the director, even if she did have to pretend to be the silliest clown in the circus.
“Alone at last.” A familiar voice floated over her shoulder.
Pagan’s heart beat once, very loudly. She turned to find Devin Black lounging at the table behind hers, a coffee and folded newspaper before him, his dark hair, gelled back, curled slightly around his temples in the summer humidity. His dark, turbulent eyes, like the ocean at twilight, took their time looking her over.
Pagan swallowed her last bite, her pulse accelerating, and dusted the crumbs off her hands. “Just you, me and the cheese. I think I’m in love.” She paused. “With the brie.”
One corner of Devin’s mouth turned down in amusement. It had been weeks since she’d seen that characteristic smirk of his, and it was as annoyingly beguiling as ever.
“Wait till you try the steak,” he said.
Why, oh, why did that remark make her flush? Or was it the way he was looking at her? Either way, her cheeks were hot, damn him.
She shook her ponytail, rallying. “Mercedes is going to laugh. She thought someone was following us with evil intent, but it turns out it was you. Or wait...” She surveyed his long, slender form again in its freshly ironed white shirt and crisp khaki pants, slightly scuffed brown leather oxfords on his feet. He was the picture of effortless summer sophistication, but he was not wearing a gray suit and hat. “That couldn’t have been you.”
