Eau d'Nuit

The perfume of the nights in Buenos Aires consists of the following: stale Marlboro Reds that are kept for months to rest on a dresser until they find a suitable club for smoking, the chemical gas from fog machines that recalls the sweetly nostalgic smell of White Rock Skate Rink while stinging eyes and causing the strong urge to yell, “Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!” over the techno beats of remixed pop music, and overpoweringly sweet cocktails made sour by human sweat and the black sludge that accumulates on the dance floor alongside broken glass and hopeless cigarette cartons. Jenny and I went to Museum last night around 9:40, since we didn’t get the memo that Damian and Annemarie weren’t going to make it. And Ben said he’d try to join us. “¿Hay un grupo que toca?” a man in line asks me. “Pienso que no.” Well, I was wrong. The stereotypical Argentine rocker girl in a leopard jacket and red tights wailed songs like Blind Melon’s “No Rain” and some early Alanis Morrisette hits along with a handful in Spanish with which I was not familiar. We watched from the second floor balcony as we saw Ben walk below in suit and tie. Damian had told him no jeans, so he dresses like he just got back from the office. We meet up stage right amongst the forty-something suits chugging bottles of champagne at their dinner table. Ben wants to move away from the speakers, so I follow a short but determined Ben and a wandering Jenny to an opening that leaves me to be the walkway to the pizza bar. A bit cozy. So we press on and a guy with a facial piercing grabs me. I walk on, uninterested and trying to follow the duo through the crowds. Another grab. This time at my elbow. Seriously? I flinch before turning my eyes to see who else but Conrad Brown! With his Cordoba friends: Diego tall with the blue eyes, Matias darker hair and babyfaced, Franco with the curls and tan sweater draped across his shoulders, and another one whose name I never quite caught. Conrad jokes that they all dressed for After Office like they just got back from work while he, dressed in a T-shirt, was the only one who had work today (exception: Franco works in Buenos Aires for IBM.) Diego talks a lot. He hands me his drink, I suppose to hold, then meanders off to buy himself another one. So I am drinking Dr. Lemon. “You do realize you’re drinking Smirnoff Ice?” Conrad tells me. Well, first time for everything. The boys train me on the proper way to hold my glass: toward the top so the ice doesn’t melt so quickly. Who says I never learned anything in Argentina? Ben wanders off and I assume he’s gone for the night at 10:45. But he later returns from the restroom. By this time, Jenny is dancing with Matias and Diego is chatting my ear off and begging me to ask Franco to kiss me, as he has a serious girlfriend and “it would be so funny to see his reaction.” I’ll pass. That sounds too messy. I’m not so much concerned about rejection as I am about him actually kissing me, knowing that he has a girlfriend back in Cordoba. I won’t play that game with anyone, and especially not Conrad’s friends. They’re real people. Diego wears a rosary around his neck and when I tell him I am not Catholic but Protestant he asks me in all seriousness, “What are you protesting?” I don’t have the patience to explain. “I have an intrigue with your hair,” he tells me in English as he asks how long it is. I take it down to show him the length (it has grown longer but I’m so bad at hair cuts in English I can’t imagine trying to explain what I want in another language) and although there is an obvious crease he wants me to wear it down. He dances with me, twirling me spinning me always holding my hands never letting me go. I feel almost trapped out in the open. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” he asks me, his goofy eyes staring at me like one of those dolls from FAO Schwartz’s ‘Welcome to Our World” display. I’m sorry, I can’t. He’s one of Conrad’s friends, a great guy. But he seems so interested and I’m … not. For one he keeps making these goofy faces and for another: he never stopped talking! There’s this song by Kings of Convenience that goes, “I’d rather dance with you than talk with you” and that’s exactly how I feel in clubs. He bets me dinner that he can kiss me without touching my lips. I don’t know what kind of trick that is, but I tell him I don’t bet. (I’m going to the horse races this Sunday.) I break off into the group a bit. Dance with Conrad as he imitates Highland Belles’ routines. The boys get ready to leave around 12:45 am or so. I am relieved and tired. But then Matias and Diego come back: “We stayed to dance with you.” My face drops. I wanted to go home! But Jenny really likes Matias, so we stay for another thirty minutes or so. I warn Jenny “last song” about eight times. Eventually we leave. I’m exhausted. The boys kept trying to order me Dr. Lemons all night, but I feared if I drank more than one I might melt away during the next heavy rain…