The Fugitivities, стр. 72
Jonah anticipated the evening playing out much like the one before it, with Miguel paying him little to no attention. But when he arrived for a table, he noticed that Oscar and especially Miguel were in noticeably good spirits. Miguel tapped his fingers to the music playing from a little Toshiba stereo, his hostility all but evaporated.
“Ah, muchacho. Good, good, you are here. Tonight we celebrate the feast of Saint James, the patron saint of the Basque people. I make piperrada y bacalao. Muy rico.” Don Miguel led Jonah to the same table he had eaten at the night before, only this time, without prompting, he returned with a bottle of Uruguayan Tannat, a wine made from an Uruguayan red grape, as he explained while pouring a generous glass. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, before returning to his hawkish perch at the lectern. A bark broke through the music and a whimpering short-haired wiener dog came waddling over the tiles to Miguel.
“Garufa!” he said. “Go say hello to the guest!”
When the dog refused, Miguel grabbed the Tannat and walked back to Jonah’s table, coaxing Garufa to follow by patting on his thigh. To Jonah’s surprise, Miguel took a seat, grabbed himself an unused glass from the table and, filling it, took a pleasured sip. Neither of them spoke. Jonah turned to look back at the photographs on the wall, many of which showed Miguel and Oscar on ports with cities spread out behind them. He came across a portrait of Miguel with Oscar’s arm over his shoulder, the two of them dressed in overly heavy coats with the wintry skyline of New York in the background.
“So, tell me about your time in New York,” Jonah said.
“Ah yes. The Big…Apple. Well, it came about as a result of our both doing a tour in the Merchant Marines,” said Miguel, whose decent English now sounded tweaked with a James Cagney-like nasal snarl. “It’s how we met, traveling the world together. I would say we’ve known all the major ports of the world. Buenos Aires, of course; Sydney; Singapore; Shanghai; up to New York; over to Dublin; down to Bilbao—the best of all; down even more to Cape Town, which is on the same latitudinal line as Montevideo, you know.”
“Why was Bilbao your favorite?” asked Jonah.
“Have you been to the Basque country? It’s beautiful for the people, an unconquered tribe. It’s where Oscar and I…well, let us say that it has become like an adopted home. We have since been back many times.”
Miguel waved his hands at the flag and jersey Jonah had noticed earlier. “That’s the jersey for the Athletic Bilbao. Oscar is a big fan, as is Garufa. Aren’t you, Garufa?”
Miguel reached down to give the dog a scratch. Jonah noticed that Garufa’s collar was in Athletic Bilbao colors.
Oscar came out of the kitchen with the piping hot peppers, set them down, and poured himself a glass of Tannat. “A break now until the next guests arrive,” he said, glancing at the door. But no one showed up.
Miguel put in a new CD and returned to the table to pour himself another glass of wine. The restaurateurs listened to the aching voice of the tango singer, and at times joined their voices to his song, gazing into each other’s eyes with wonder and an insider’s deep satisfaction.
“Who is this?” Jonah asked.
“Carlos Gardel. Uruguay’s greatest.”
Miguel pointed at a sepia-toned photograph of a man who looked like a South American Humphrey Bogart.
“I thought tango was Argentinian,” Jonah said.
“What? Absolutely not!” Miguel hissed. “The Argentines are always claiming things that are not theirs. They even think Gardel is Argentine.” Miguel gave Jonah an icy glare. “It’s as if all good things that develop here must be taken from us. All our beautiful men leave for Buenos Aires, all our writers and artists leave for Paris, all our riches leave for foreign accounts in Switzerland or Brazil or up north. We were once the richest nation in South America until those Tupamaro bastards came along and ruined everything. And now this country is being run—into the ground, if you ask me, by those crooks.”
“Now, come on, Miguelito, you’re getting all upset over nothing.”
“No! I won’t calm down!”
No one spoke for a moment, and Jonah realized that Gardel was no longer singing. His music had been replaced by a song in a language he didn’t recognize.
“What’s this playing now?”
“Ah,” said Oscar. “This is Evert Taube.”
“What language is Señor Taube singing in?”
“Swedish,” said a female voice. Standing in the entranceway was the woman from the theater, the woman from the previous evening.
“Señora Aussaresses, que bueno verte!” Oscar leapt up to kiss her hand and welcome her.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt the conversation with your guest,” she said in soft, French-accented English.
“Not at all,” said Oscar, also switching to English. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
Miguel was at the table, pouring her a glass of Tannat. Evert Taube’s lilting sea-captain Swedish sounded out like a bard’s tale, full of roving wanderers and unhappy endings.
“Señora Aussaresses, this is…eh…” Oscar paused. “You know, I don’t think I’ve asked for your name, muchacho.”
Jonah stood up and extended his hand, which she took gently. “Jonah.”
“These gentlemen call me Madame Aussaresses, but you can call me Laura.”
“Jonah is here from New York City,” said Oscar with a boastful note.
“I have always wanted to visit that city. I was once in a relationship with a man from New York, but that was a long time ago in another place. Now I live in Montevideo.”
It was Laura. C’est pas possible.
He had whispered it softly to himself, but she had picked it up immediately.
“Ah, but how are you speaking French?” she demanded to know.
“I’m actually from Paris,” said Jonah.
She gave Jonah a look that he