1.
The scene was this: I was seated on the 6 train, checking my mascara in a compact, when a trio of teenage boys deposited a large boom box near my suede boots. One leaned down to click PLAY, and within seconds they began break-dancing to “Billie Jean,” launching themselves from metal poles and twirling on the floor of the sticky subway car. The oldest boy pointed to me whenever the song mentioned Billie Jean, clarifying to fellow commuters that I was not his lover. The repeated intrusion of a finger near my chest prevented me from stowing my compact or feigning aloofness.
Anyone other than you might incredulously wonder how I could recall this night so vividly. You, however, never doubted my photographic memory, perhaps because you realized how present I was with you at all times.
As “Billie Jean” faded, the teens collected donations and their stereo, then jangled off to an adjoining train car. While watching their backs recede, I noticed several passengers reading the January 2012 issue of New York magazine with your face on the cover. In a bold white font, THE RETURN OF A LEGEND overlaid your black wool turtleneck. The photo was flattering, but your aging, angular face exuded a zen serenity I knew to be counterfeit.
By this point, I’d become accustomed to seeing your face and name everywhere I turned—in newspapers, on trains, in bookstores, on TV, and forget the internet. Your web hits ranked in the 8.5 million range.
Days before, you’d emailed me that you were reading at NYU and asked if I was interested in a reserved seat. You suggested a date afterward at a martini bar. To mark the occasion, beneath my black down coat I was dressed in an oxblood wrap dress, houndstooth hosiery, and black boots. Five of my pulse points were dabbed with ylang-ylang perfume, and physically I’d never felt more radiant. When my reflection jagged across a smudged train window, I was agog over the newfound energy in my eyes, the emotional possibilities of my mouth. It seemed that finally my dream would be deferred no longer, that we were on the brink of happening. The tectonic plates of our relationship were shifting that night, but I had miscalculated the direction.
At the 33rd Street station, a sequined mariachi quartet bustled onto the train. They positioned themselves far from where I sat and began strumming “De Colores,” a song my grandmother and I had sung at night when we shared a bedroom. I wasn’t accustomed to hearing Mexican folk songs in this pocket of the city, and the lyrics evoked the dried-rose scent of my grandmother’s dusting powder.
After the last chord dissipated, my focus wandered back to your magazine cover. Your face, I figured, would end up between my legs by the end of the evening. The thrill dampened my underwear, forcing me to adjust my posture.
For the past several months, my imagination had successfully obscured my role in the fantasies I concocted of us. But the probability that we would be intimate that night was high. For the thirty hours leading up to that train ride, I’d been unable to focus on much else. It had been a while since I’d locked lips with anyone, so I reminded myself that I’d have to tilt my head and keep my tongue engaged.
As the train dropped down the grid from 23rd Street to 14th Street–Union Square, I inspected myself one final time in the circular compact, admiring the lava hue of my lipstick. I lifted my arms away from my torso to allow my perspiration to dry while searching through my phone for your last email.
The halogen platform lights vanished, and the train thundered down the track toward Astor Place.
CHILE: 2015
IT WAS A HUSHED SUNDAY AFTERNOON in Santiago. Fog rolled in outside my southward window. Bossa nova filled the living room, and my Siamese cat napped on the rug. I lay on the couch, and between lulling lyrics, my eyelids kissed closed. I had nowhere to be, so I intended to let myself drift.
As the vinyl record serenely spun on the credenza, a sharp trilling interrupted the song. I assumed at first that I was dreaming of a disturbance. The menacing noise continued until I realized it originated in another room. Soon I was upright and padding toward the kitchen island.
My head swayed with heaviness as I placed the phone to my ear. “Buenas tardes,” I mumbled.
On the other end, someone exhaled asthmatically but hesitated. “Uh, he-hello?” a man’s voice finally stammered.
My neck tensed. Who was calling from the United States?
“Is this Tatum Vega? My name is Jamal O’Dalingo. I’m an investigative journalist for The New York Times.”
Despite embracing the expat life, I still subscribed to the Times and read it nearly every morning. I couldn’t imagine why the US paper of record was contacting me, but I was now less inclined to hang up. This stranger also had a Mississippi or Alabama drawl, a charm I’d forgotten about while living below the equator.
“Go on,” I said. The sternness of my voice in English startled me.
“I’m contacting you because I’m looking into allegations against the writer M. Domínguez, a friend of yours—”
“You must be confused,” I interjected. “He and I aren’t even in touch, much less friends.”
“Maybe not anymore, but there’s plenty of photographic evidence online showing that you two were in contact for years.”
My gaze tumbled down the length of my gray lounge pants. My socked feet curled against the wood floor, and again I considered hanging up.
“What’s this about? Why are you contacting me?” I asked.
“A young woman has come forward with sexual abuse claims against M. Since she isn’t requesting anonymity, I can share with you that her name is María Luz Guerrero.”
“Oh,” I breathed, rattled by this information.
“I’m curious if you’d be willing to answer some questions.”
“I don’t think I even know this woman. I mean, surely I don’t,” I replied, still drowsy and ruffled to be having such a serious conversation in a language I had almost completely retired in South America.
My eyes wandered into my living room. My Siamese, the most noble of my three cats, now stood like a soldier facing me. The vinyl record abruptly reached its end. The needle lifted.
“I promise I won’t take much of your time. Just a few questions. What do you say, Ms. Vega?”
In that moment, the only thought I had wasn’t an answer at all. It was that I had a history of not liking myself in English. I had made so many mistakes in the language. What if I lapsed back into that version of myself?
Copyright © 2024 by Ursula Villarreal-Moura
