hair darker in school in the hopes of distinguishing herself. But here she felt revered. Why? Simply for being European, already she was placed in a higher echelon.
Her first encounters in Argentina were lucky ones, or so she thought at the time. The initial connection was made through her landlady to a guy, now in his fifties, whom the womanâs daughter used to date. The guy had a right-wing TV talk show, one of the most popular in the country. Isolde didnât entirely grasp the heavily right-wing connotations of his commentary, nor would she have particularly cared, but the guy was famous. He invited her to barbecues at his country house. She was let in on the secret of that crowd. The famous right-wing talk-show host, always seen publicly in the company of a famous actress, and not least known for his misogynist jokes, was actually gay. He had a young beautiful lover the age of his own son. The two boys lived in his house, shared meals with him, each had a room with a DVD player and powerful speakers. Isolde felt one of the elect to be privy to this secret. She tried to relish in her rapid, unpredictable insider status. But the truth was that, when she was among these people, in this walled-in property outside the city, eating the famous Argentine barbecue, nothing touched her soul. She soon realized that it was a false piste. Where she wanted to be was with the cocktail crowd.
She backtracked, refused some of the country invitations. Though sheâd started a flirt with the talk-show hostâs son, she dropped this too. There was a whole cocktail circuit. Isolde spent many lonely nights, knowing there was a cocktail party somewhere and not having anyone to go with or not being sure that she could get in. Sometimes she got dressed up and went anyway. She could almost always get in with her face and clothes alone. All the same, she would feel terribly exposed as she stepped out of the cab and up to the door. When no cocktail event was materializing, she went to modern dance performances or concerts. Everything, as sheâd mentioned, was so cheap.
She soon met a French girl her age who was secretive and would sometimes tell her where an event was and sometimes not. The French girl had her own agenda, to be the most sought-after foreigner in Buenos Aires. Though the French card among Argentines could never really failâthe model for the upper-class Argentine woman is French, for the Argentine man, BritishâIsolde, with her goldenness, was competition.
In the cocktail set, circulating is key. On the other hand, given this very fact, the eloquence of absence cannot be overlooked. Isolde was not so good with the eloquence of absence. She had no patience with being alone. She was savvy enough to know it should be tried. She would try it and couldnât bear it, would dress hastily and go out. The French girl, Isoldeâs nemesis, was much more savvy. She could abstain. Evening upon evening would go by and she wouldnât appear. The thirst for her would grow, more and more eyes trained on the door. Isolde would see the longing eyes. She noticed these things. Sheâd vow to herself next time to abstain, but the next time would come around and she would be there.
Moreover, Isolde was healthily lusty. Within the upper-class circuit was a skein of brothers and cousins. While at the college sheâd gone to, sleeping with one or another person was considered quite normal, she had no idea how small this world was. One night, after plenty of champagne, she slept with a guy after a party. Immediately, the word got out. It was actually the other brother sheâd been interested in, Lucio, but now he backed away. Or rather, he still let her approach him, but now had a little smirk on his face whenever her name was discussed. She soon understood that she had tarnished herself. Sheâd lived in Austria and London, had traveled throughout Europe. Yet it didnât matter. She was in this small circle
Her first encounters in Argentina were lucky ones, or so she thought at the time. The initial connection was made through her landlady to a guy, now in his fifties, whom the womanâs daughter used to date. The guy had a right-wing TV talk show, one of the most popular in the country. Isolde didnât entirely grasp the heavily right-wing connotations of his commentary, nor would she have particularly cared, but the guy was famous. He invited her to barbecues at his country house. She was let in on the secret of that crowd. The famous right-wing talk-show host, always seen publicly in the company of a famous actress, and not least known for his misogynist jokes, was actually gay. He had a young beautiful lover the age of his own son. The two boys lived in his house, shared meals with him, each had a room with a DVD player and powerful speakers. Isolde felt one of the elect to be privy to this secret. She tried to relish in her rapid, unpredictable insider status. But the truth was that, when she was among these people, in this walled-in property outside the city, eating the famous Argentine barbecue, nothing touched her soul. She soon realized that it was a false piste. Where she wanted to be was with the cocktail crowd.
She backtracked, refused some of the country invitations. Though sheâd started a flirt with the talk-show hostâs son, she dropped this too. There was a whole cocktail circuit. Isolde spent many lonely nights, knowing there was a cocktail party somewhere and not having anyone to go with or not being sure that she could get in. Sometimes she got dressed up and went anyway. She could almost always get in with her face and clothes alone. All the same, she would feel terribly exposed as she stepped out of the cab and up to the door. When no cocktail event was materializing, she went to modern dance performances or concerts. Everything, as sheâd mentioned, was so cheap.
She soon met a French girl her age who was secretive and would sometimes tell her where an event was and sometimes not. The French girl had her own agenda, to be the most sought-after foreigner in Buenos Aires. Though the French card among Argentines could never really failâthe model for the upper-class Argentine woman is French, for the Argentine man, BritishâIsolde, with her goldenness, was competition.
In the cocktail set, circulating is key. On the other hand, given this very fact, the eloquence of absence cannot be overlooked. Isolde was not so good with the eloquence of absence. She had no patience with being alone. She was savvy enough to know it should be tried. She would try it and couldnât bear it, would dress hastily and go out. The French girl, Isoldeâs nemesis, was much more savvy. She could abstain. Evening upon evening would go by and she wouldnât appear. The thirst for her would grow, more and more eyes trained on the door. Isolde would see the longing eyes. She noticed these things. Sheâd vow to herself next time to abstain, but the next time would come around and she would be there.
Moreover, Isolde was healthily lusty. Within the upper-class circuit was a skein of brothers and cousins. While at the college sheâd gone to, sleeping with one or another person was considered quite normal, she had no idea how small this world was. One night, after plenty of champagne, she slept with a guy after a party. Immediately, the word got out. It was actually the other brother sheâd been interested in, Lucio, but now he backed away. Or rather, he still let her approach him, but now had a little smirk on his face whenever her name was discussed. She soon understood that she had tarnished herself. Sheâd lived in Austria and London, had traveled throughout Europe. Yet it didnât matter. She was in this small circle
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