The Foreign Girls. Sergio Olguin
Verónica had selected for herself.
“Are you OK?” Frida asked her.
“Fine. A bit hung-over.”
“You should never mix wine and whisky.”
“How about you?”
“No hangover at all. Must be because I didn’t mix my drinks.”
The afternoon progressed like any other: they went from the sun to the veranda, and from there to the kitchen in search of something to eat and drink. After her initial awkwardness, Verónica started to feel more at ease. This indifference about what had happened suited her. She even began to enjoy observing Frida and Petra as they went back and forth. She found them different, attractive. So was she someone who liked women now? Had she always liked them? Or was it just the company of these two girls that she found erotic? Whatever the answer, she felt good.
She tried picturing the same situation with two guys: to be lying in a bikini – or rather, topless – sunbathing while the guys came and went, swam, brought coffee in a thermos. She wouldn’t be able to feel relaxed or comfortable, not even about the fantasy of hooking up with them both. She would feel like she was sending out sexual signals all the time. With Frida and Petra, however, it was different. Everything was much more natural, less laden with subtext. They were all there having a good time. Period. There was no need to worry about anything else.
As dusk fell, Verónica went to her room. She took a shower and put on moisturizer. Her skin was a little tender after all the time spent in the sun. She ought to have used more protection. She had waited too long for Frida to offer to rub it 79into her body, but Petra was the one who noticed she’d been lying in the sun for a long time without any cream on. It had been good to feel Petra’s hands on her. They were soft like Frida’s, though perhaps less charged with unnerving energy.
She put on a short, light sleeveless dress that she didn’t often wear in Buenos Aires but which felt ideal for this evening after a day of sun. Emerging into the living room, she met Petra, who was more done up than usual and seemed ready to go out. For a moment Verónica thought the girls had arranged a night on the town, not something she was really in the mood for.
“Have we got plans?” Verónica probed.
“I have,” Petra replied. Frida was fiddling with the sound system. As she attached her MP3 player, she added, “A date. A boy I met on the bus to Tucumán. He lives in Villa Nougués.”
“And she literally means a boy,” said Frida.
“He’s over the age of consent,” said Petra, directing herself at Verónica. “I didn’t want to give him my number because I’m terrified of stalkers, but he wrote me such a charming email that I thought, well, what’s another notch on the bedpost?”
“Sing him the song,” said Frida, a reference Verónica didn’t understand.
The taxi Petra had ordered was already at the front door. She gave each of them a kiss and went on her way. Verónica and Frida were left standing in the room, like characters in a bad play. A serious male voice growled from the speakers.
“I want to go to the beach,” said Frida.
“What?”
“Iggy Pop. Do you like him?”
“I liked him when he was more of a rocker.”
No, these weren’t lines from a bad play. This was a cowboy movie. When the good guy squares up to the villain and they 80get each other’s measure, exchanging words but all the while thinking ahead to the moment when they’ll pull out their guns and fire. It was a shoot-out, but Verónica wasn’t sure which of them was the good guy and which the villain.
“I saw some salmon in the freezer. I could make sandwiches.”
“I’m not hungry yet.”
“Do you want a caña?”
“A what?”
“A little beer. It’s what they say in Spain.”
“Sometimes I think I’d understand you better if you spoke Norwegian.”
“Tror ikke det.”
Frida went to the kitchen to get some bottles of Corona. Verónica considered going with her, but she didn’t want to look clingy. Instead she went to sit on the sofa. Frida appeared with two bottles and passed her one, before taking the armchair opposite. Evidently she wanted to keep her distance, passing up the opportunity to get friendly with Verónica again. Either Frida was very polite, or she didn’t fancy her any more. The first possibility could be remedied, but the second would mean that any attempt Verónica made at seduction would fall on stony ground. How many times had she been all over some guy one moment and then not wanted anything to do with him the next? And even though it had never happened the other way round (the man fleeing after a few kisses), it was still possible Frida wanted to step back or have nothing more to do with her, sex-wise. Perhaps Verónica had been gauche when they were making out the previous night. Perhaps Frida had expected more, or something different, from her. Women are impossible to understand, she thought. Frida was drinking her beer in little sips and watching her. Scrutinizing her. OK, so now they 81were back in the bad theatre play with two armchairs and background music.
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Verónica after downing some Corona to contrast with the little birdlike sips Frida was taking from her bottle.
“A what?”
Verónica repeated the phrase in English.
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking anything in particular. I was enjoying the beer and the view.”
That settled it: Frida was the movie villain. She was playing with her like the cowardly cat plays with the poor mouse in that tango by Carlos Gardel. Had Petra really gone out because she had a date, or to leave them alone? Had Frida asked her to go? Had she wanted to be alone with Verónica? What for – to drink beer?
“I like that Liberty print dress. I love flowers.”
Verónica looked down at her own dress, trying to arrive at a conclusion. A man would have told her he liked the way her short dress showed off her bare thighs. Men were definitely better.
“I have a dress a bit like that. Only with sleeves,” she said, and, as if she had just had a brilliant idea, she added, “You have to see it, it’s very similar. Come, and I’ll show you.”
Without waiting for an answer, Frida set down her nearly empty bottle and went towards her bedroom. Verónica had no choice but to follow her. It was the first time she had gone into Frida’s room, and she noticed there were clothes lying all over the place. She had imagined a Norwegian girl would be more tidy. Frida went over to the wardrobe, opened it and stood looking at the clothes. Verónica had stopped just inside the door.
“Come to think of it, I left that dress in Norway.”
“It’s going to be difficult for me to see it, then.” 82
“Never mind, lovely. Take it off.”
“What?”
“Take off the Liberty. I want to see what you’ve got underneath.”
Verónica wanted to make some remark that made her look witty, or at least funny. Say, for example, “Ah! That old dress-left-behind-in-Norway trick,” but all she managed was a nervous laugh. Just hearing that laugh was enough to make her hate herself.
“Seriously, take it off.”
Verónica pulled her dress over her head and let it fall to one side. Underneath she was wearing matching white underwear, a simple cotton set, the white accentuating the tan she had picked up in the last few days. Frida walked towards her, looking at her with the expression of someone about to give a verdict on the quality of her clothes, or the shape of her tits, or the wisdom of