Cantoras by Carolina De Robertis

Author:Carolina De Robertis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2019-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

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She invited her Polonio friends to their parties, all except for Flaca of course—she’d never come, it would take time, wouldn’t it? for them to be friends again? don’t worry about her, Ariella would croon in the pale wash of first dawn light after the last guests had finally left, she’s just jealous, she’ll get over it—but the others. They all came together once: Romina, Malena, and Paz. Romina and Malena never left each other’s side, hewing to the periphery of things. La Venus approached them just as Romina was listening to a bearded man, a painter, passionately reminiscing about the Paris of his youth. “None of us go to Paris anymore,” he bemoaned.

Romina’s face was tight. “There are plenty of Uruguayans in Paris,” she said. “Right now. More than ever.”

The man coughed. “Oh. Sure there are. But I didn’t mean exiles.” He placed the word in the air carefully, as if proud of his daring. “I meant artists. Les Deux Magots and all that.”

“Many of our exiles are artists. Writers. They’ve been publi—”

“Certainly, of course. Yes. Well, in any case, if you could see the Louvre, the Notre Dame, you’d never be the same, I’m sure you’d agree.” His eyes were glazed now, roaming. “Ah! Venus! The goddess herself!”

La Venus smiled. “There’s more sangría in the kitchen.”

“Aha! I’m off to find it. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He bowed deeply, and was gone.

La Venus turned to her friends. “Are you having a good time?”

Romina glanced at Malena, and they shared a look. On becoming a couple, they seemed to have forged an intimacy that sustained them both. “That man. So ignorant.”

La Venus nodded. Romina had become involved with a secret circle of dissidents who smuggled written words into the country: letters, essays, and newspaper clippings from Uruguayan exiles speaking out abroad about the human rights abuses back home. Apparently, out beyond the nation’s borders, there were publishers who listened, readers who cared. It all seemed insanely dangerous to La Venus. Why risk yourself for the impossible? How could those words change anything here, where the authorities held all the reins? And then there was Romina’s direct political work, here on the ground; she wasn’t sure of the details, but she’d heard the rumors of new networks of subversives, sprouting up and organizing acts against the regime. But what would it change, all this meeting and word smuggling? Only the safety of those who did it. She wished her friend would come to her senses, but didn’t dare say this to her, as she knew it was the last thing Romina wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But at least you can talk about these things here.”

“I suppose so.”

“I mean, these parties are a kind of oasis, no? Like our Polonio.”

Romina gulped down the rest of her wine. “No. Not like our Polonio at all.”

La Venus tried to hide her irritation. What was it in her that angled so sharply for these friends’ approval? They went to Polonio without her, were going soon.

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