el.angeleyes-第1部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


SANCTUARY

BUENOS　AIRES/SAN　FRANCISCO

　Whenever　Tori　Nunn　was　bored；　she　went　to　Buenos　Aires。　Partly　it　was　because　Buenos　Aires　was　a　place　she　had　never　worked；　so；　essentially；　no　one　knew　her…what　she　had　been。　Partly；　it　was　because　in　Buenos　Aires；　sitting　beneath　the　natural　awning　of　the　jacarandas；　their　clattering　shade　striping　her　face；　she　could　at　last　forget　Greg。　But　perhaps　more　than　anything　else；　she　came　to　this　inplete　city　because　here　she　could　begin　again　to　define　herself；　as　if　now　even　her　own　shadow　had　bee　unrecognizable。
　Here；　in　Buenos　Aires；　inhabited　by　the　portenos　…　the　port　dwellers；　as　the　city's　natives　were　known…controlled　by　the　alta　sociedad；　there　was　a　mix　of　stupendously　beautiful；　sensual　people　who　were　exhaustingly　proud　even　as　they　were　consumed　by　shame　at　being　South　Americans。　They　were；　like　college　dropouts；　inevitably　embarrassed　by　themselves　and　their　place　in　the　world。　When　they　went　to　New　York；　they　always　said；　〃I　am　flying　to　North　America。〃
　This　is　what　made　the　portenos　interesting　to　Tori：　their　inner　hurt　was　protected　by　their　cultural　traits　in　the　same　way　a　tortoise　is　protected　by　its　shell。　The　patrons　of　the　Cafe　la　Biela　and　the　nearby　Cafe　de　la　Paix　proved　this　to　her。　They　might
smell　of　imported　suntan　oil；　of　perfumes　by　Calvin　Klein　and　Jean　Patou；　just　as　their　city　might　smell　of　auto　fumes　and　mate；　the　local　herb　tea；　but　beneath　it　all；　Tori　knew；　the　portenos　and　their　streets　were　redolent　of　cigar　smoke　and　marzipan。
　This　was　their　history；　as　Jorge　Luis　Borges　wrote　it；　as　then…forefathers　had　lived　it；　where　illusion；　like　the　rich　smoke　from　rolled　tobacco；　had　e　to　create　the　past　even　as　it　obscured　the　present。　In　the　decade　after　the　Second　World　War；　the　fathers　of　these　exquisite　portenos　had　amassed　their　wealth　by　selling　their　slaughtered　cattle　and　the　fruits　of　their　Pampa　to　a　starving　Europe。　But　by　the　middle　of　the　fifties　the　excesses　of　the　Perons　had　bankrupted　the　country；　throwing　Buenos　Aires　and；　indeed；　all　Argentina　into　chaos。　Escalating　terrorism　from　the　far　right　and　left　began　to　tear　the　country　apart。　The　result　was　the　ing　to　power　of　a　succession　of　repressive　military　juntas。
　But　the　country's　frightening；　two…year　bout　with　hyperinflation…12；000　percent　per　year…riots；　and　civil　unrest　had　toppled　a　succession　of　elected　governments。　Despair　had　gripped　the　nation　until　some　months　ago；　when　a　coalition　led　by　Las　Dinamicas；　the　two　most　powerful　women　in　Argentine　politics；　managed　to　win　control　of　the　government。　Their　party；　the　Union　of　the　Democratic　Center；　had　pledged　to　end　Argentina's　long　history　of　authoritarianism　by　instituting　reforhis　granting　extensive　individual　liberty　and　an　end　to　the　crippling　control　of　the　government　in　business。　〃The　beginning　of　a　free　market　economy；〃　went　their　successful　campaign　slogan；　〃is　an　end　to　hyperinflation。〃　The　first　priority　had　been　to　convert　the　official　currency　into　American　dollars；　which　had　the　effect　of　immediately　stabilizing　the　runaway　Argentine　inflation。
　Through　all　this　Moody　history；　the　portenos　survived　and；　perhaps；　even　flourished；　for　it　is　said　that　every　Argentine　heart　beats　most　strongly　for　myth；　and　myth　cannot　exist　save　as　a　balm　against　pain　and　suffering。
　But　myth　was　too　often　illusion。　And　the　truth　of　illusion…　me　truth　that　no　porteno　can　truly　face…is　that　no　matter　how　dazzling　its　exterior　may　be；　there　is　nothing　inside。
　Tori　knew　this；　knew　the　portenos　almost　as　well　as　they　knew　themselves。　Thus　she　was　fortable　here　in　their　city；　strolling　down　their　wide　boulevards；　sunbathing　amid　cocoa　flesh　on　their　beaches；　surrounded　by　their　aura　of　failure　and　by　then…very　real　sensuality　and　sense　of　style。
　These　people　carried　their　pain　as　she　did…deep　inside　them…　though　often　through　the　chic　facade　in　which　they　had　wrapped　themselves　she　could　discern　the　stench　of　their　desperation。
　Tori　lifted　her　arm；　ordered　another　hot　chocolate；　the　richest；　thickest　in　the　world。　With　it；　she　knew；　would　e　a　silver　tray　of　small　sweets；　an　array　as　heady；　as　opulent　as　the　smoldering　stares　of　the　chantas　who　came　to　the　cafes　with　their　thistresses　to　while　away　an　hour　or　two　between　bouts　under　the　sheets。
　A　small　breeze；　redolent　of　this　city's　peculiar　perfume；　stirred　the　long　branches　of　the　jacarandas；　and　Tori　felt　the　caress　of　their　tears　patter　across　her　shoulders；　the　excess　water　of　these　beautiful　semi…succulent　trees。
　The　chantas…Buenos　Aires'　wheeler…dealers…interested　Tori　most　of　all。　She　had　even　allowed　one　or　two　to　seduce　her　now　and　again；　but　in　the　end　they　had　found　her　too　much　even　for　them；　disconcerted　by　her　habit　of　watching　them　intently　during　the　most　intimate　throes　of　sexual　congress。
　〃What　are　you　doing？〃　they　would　ask　her　at　those　moments。　〃This　is　a　time　for　release；　not　concentration。〃
　They　did　not　understand…and　she　would　not　tell　them…that　for　her　sex　with　them　was　to　be　observed；　that　by　doing　so　she　could　pierce　their　chic　shells；　feel　the　texture　of　their　shame　and　hurt；　paring　it　with　her　own。　This　concentration　that　so　puzzled　them　was　to　her　as　sweet　and　richly　flavored　as　was　her　hot　chocolate　at　the　Cafe　la　Biela。
　But　this　〃strangeness；〃　as　the　chantas　called　it；　was　hardly　the　only　reason　they　held　her　in　awe。　They　had　heard　stories　that　she　had　climbed　barefoot　the　massive　Iguazu　Falls　six　hundred　miles　to　the　northeast；　had；　in　fact；　helped　the　male　members　of　her　party　when　their　strength　flagged　or　they　were　in　trouble。　They　had　heard　she　was　courageous；　indefatigable…　which　was；　after　all；　why　they　sought　to　seduce　her。
　In　her　strangeness…the　enigma　of　such　brute　strength　and　stamina　in　a　female…the　chantas　sought　answers　to　the　mysteries　that　obsessed　them：　who　were　they；　where　did　they　e　from；　why　were　they　such　failures？
　Tori　sipped　her　chocolate；　consumed　a　sweet　in　one　voracious　bite。　Somewhere；　along　the　Avenida　Quintana；　a　man　played　a　bandoneon；　squeezing　out　a　typical　tango　melody；　infused　with　the　bittersweet　essences　of　Latin　macho；　unrequited　love；　and　blood　vengeance。
　The　Avenida　Quintana；　filled　with　swaggering　portenos　and　cliques　of　rabid　Japanese　tourists；　was　one　of　the　main　streets　of　the　swank　residential　Recoleta　district。　The　Recoleta　had　been　born　near　the　end　of　the　last　century　due　to　a　plague　of　yellow　fever　in　the　city's　southern　districts　that　caused　the　aristocracy　to　move　north。　Years　ago；　when　me　Recoleta　was　home　to　slaughterhouses；　its　streets　ran　red　with　the　blood　of　cattle　during　the　heavy　winter　rains。　Now　winter　brought　only　melancholy；　and　a　gathering　sense　of　dissolution。　Then；　Buenos　Aires　was　to　be　avoided。
　By　the　time　she　had　finished　her　second　cup　of　hot　chocolate；　Tori　decided　it　was　time　to　go。　The　sun　was　low　in　the　sly；　turning　the　Recoleta's　blocky　white　high　rises　the　color　of　blood　oranges。　Blue　shadows　lay　in　the　street　like　the　dead；　or　unwanted　reminders　of'　'the　disappeared〃…those　people　taken　by　the　military　in　its　zeal　to　ferret　out　a　group　of　young　radical　terrorists。　In　those　days…the　seventies…　to　be　a　teacher；　a　union　member；　or　merely　to　be　known　as　an　intellectual；　was　to　risk　being　drawn　into　el　proceso；　a　trial　without　either　lawyer　or　jury；　it　was　to　risk　being　〃disappeared。〃
　Her　thoughts　turning　by　moments　more　and　more　morbid；　Tori　gathered　up　her　purse　and　small　shopping　bag。　But　before　she　could　rise；　she　saw　Estilo。　He　was　a　German…Argentine　chanta；　one　of　the　few　who　had　sought　out　her　pany　but　not　her　bed。　He　was　different　in　other　ways；　as　well。　He　was　a　square…jawed　man　in　his　early　fifties　with　long　steel…gray；　slicked…back　hair；　a　patrician　mustache；　and　a　sense　of　style　no　full…blooded　German　ever　had。　his　manner　was　often　brusque；　but　he　told　the　truth　more　often　than　other　chantas；　and　for　this　Tori　forgave　him　everything。
　Estilo　made　his　way　toward　her　table。　He　was　smiling；　surprised　and　happy　to　see　her。　He　had　with　him　a　younger　man；　slim…hipped；　wide…shouldered。　The　man；　handsome；　with　the　rugged　outdoorsy　face　of　an　estanciero…a　rancher…was　most　likely　in　his　mid…thirties；　roughly　the　same　age　as　Tori。　He　was