All Roads Lead to Austen (34 page)

“That could be,
mi
amor
,” Cristina nodded. “But you know what Virginia Woolf said—who am I going to write about, if not myself? But now, I have to tell you. I didn't used to like Jane Austen.” She reached over and patted my knee affectionately as she made her point. “I was forced to read her too early. Austen really isn't for fourteen-year-olds, you know.”

The others agreed, and Teresa took that moment to thank me. “We wouldn't have all met each other if you hadn't organized this talk! And I really enjoyed reading this Austen novel.”

Hugo suddenly looked at his watch and winced. “We've been down here for almost three hours! My boss is going to kill me!”

Since everyone had met Ernesto on the way in and could see that he wouldn't hurt a fly, that set us all laughing.

“I want to take you all out to dinner,” I said. “No arguments on that! But please, let me get a picture first.”

Easier said than done. Cristina made a point about Russian novels that Hugo contested, and they were off. Getting everyone to look at the camera took numerous attempts because each time one of them would stop talking to smile and pose, the other would lean over and slip in a point about Dostoevsky or Pasternak or Solzhenitsyn, and I'd catch someone in profile, mouth open.

This struggle had everyone laughing again but finally, I got my shot. As Teresa, Susie, and Cristina gathered up their coats and scarves and books, Hugo put the chairs back where they belonged. Watching them so engaged in conversation, I experienced a sudden, intense swell of sadness.

Why sadness, when the group had gone so well? Because—after a year's worth of meeting enthusiastic booklovers, of hearing what readers thought about Austen's characters and plots and her distinctive talents, of watching readers draw endlessly fresh connections between their own lives and Austen's world—after a year's worth of finding new ways myself to look at Austen as I saw her through a kaleidoscope of distinctive perspectives—it dawned on me that this, finally, was it.

The last group was done.

***

I suggested a nice restaurant two blocks away. Hugo had to close the bookstore before he could join us, so I didn't want him to have to travel too far. But it was not to be. Teresa named a well-known
parrilla
or “grill” restaurant in a distant neighborhood, and since tearing into each other verbally had apparently put them in the mood for tearing into meat, the ladies outvoted me. Teresa wrote down the name and location for Hugo. I'd spent enough time around him to realize he was masking impatience when he saw the address.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said.

We piled into a taxi. Teresa and Cristina began talking about reading in French as I leaned back against the seat. I watched the lights of the city slip past outside the window and thought back to Paraguay. I'd loved meeting with the teachers in Asunción, but they so disliked Emma that it completely colored the discussion. Given that I'd learned one of my best “arrogant Argentinean” jokes from those young women, they'd probably have a good laugh to learn that, even though Hugo preferred Jane Fairfax, all of the readers in Buenos Aires felt quite at home with Austen's highbrow Emma.

One part of that evening's discussion, in particular, continued to resonate with me—Hugo's points about how the people of the village were the focus and the physical location, secondary. There's a word in Spanish that can't be fully translated:
pueblo
. No one word in English embraces every meaning that a Spanish speaker hears.
Pueblo
means “village,” but it also means “people.” When the Argentineans who adored Evita Perón referred to her as the “
protectora
del
pueblo
Argentino
,” they didn't mean she was out guarding people's houses with a twelve-gauge; they meant she had the people of the country in her heart. The place can't be separated from the people. People are what make a village (or a nation), not the houses and the fences, the hills and the fields.

Austen didn't know Spanish, but it's clear from her works that she knew, that she lived, a concept near and dear to the hearts of
latinos
and
latinas
. The landscapes of your life are the people around you. It's true, you need to know the physical geography of your village—which paths lead where, which bridge to avoid, which houses have dogs that bite. But if you
really
want to get around well, study the people. If you're Emma, you need to learn which matches will produce a stable marriage, according to the lay of the land. Harriet Smith with Mr. Martin works; Harriet Smith with Mr. Elton would produce a shaky matrimonial edifice. You need to learn who to trust. Any character in any Austen novel needs to learn to deal with obstacles that aren't going away, like the Mrs. Eltons of the world or the Wickhams or the Willoughbys or the Lady Catherine de Bourghs.

I'd mastered the bus routes in Puerto Vallarta and the metro system in Chile. I'd learned the grid of cobblestoned streets in Antigua and the riverside walks in Guayaquil. But navigating the social waters in every country I visited was always more complex. We don't know a place until we know the people, and that takes time, patience, and serious reading skills. If you're not willing to see people on their own terms, you'll wind up like Sir John Middleton, nattering on about hunting dogs, unable to imagine that people have interests and needs and desires—ways of seeing the world—that differ from your own.

If I'd heard someone at an academic conference give a talk on how place and people are intertwined in Austen's world, I would have nodded and thought, “Sure, I know that.” But sitting in that taxi, watching the driver weave adeptly through traffic in a city I had come to love for its beauty and energy and arrogance, listening to the singing
porteño
Spanish of the three women around me all talking at once, I thought:
pueblo
. Place. People.

***

After a twenty-minute ride we reached the restaurant. Hardwood surfaces dominated visually—varnished walls, heavily framed windows, thick wooden tables. Upscale-hunting-cabin seemed to be the theme. Several railed dining areas throughout the room were set above floor level and reached via short sets of stairs, which created a sense of intimacy for diners and divided up the enormous space. We got one of the raised areas, thanks to how few people were there. “Don't take that as a bad sign,” Teresa said as we were seated. “It's not even eight yet. That's very early for us.” Despite how heated the Austen discussion had gotten at times, there was clearly no ill will among the women, and we spent the hour before Hugo arrived gossiping about various things, including him.

“He's quite insightful,” Cristina smiled. “And clearly a lover of literature. That's worth a lot in a man. I get the feeling you like him. Am I right?”

“He's very interesting,” I admitted, “but I'm sort of already in a long-distance relationship with a man from Mexico. Diego was in my reading group there. He's a wonderful person, very sweet, very warm.”

The ladies eagerly interrupted each other with questions until Cristina raised her thin voice to cut through the talk. “Well, I don't see a ring on your finger,
mi
amor
. Until somebody puts one there, you're free to do as you like.” My inner feminist balked at the implied possession, but I knew she meant well so I kept my thoughts to myself. Susie smiled, and Teresa raised her wine glass in salute.

When Hugo arrived, we ordered meat and more meat, which we washed down with wine and more wine. The beauty of city living is that nobody had to drive. Hours later as we made our way out onto the street to hunt down taxis, I thanked everyone profusely for being in the group while they thanked me for meat and wine—and quality time with Austen.

Wine goes to my head very quickly, one of several reasons I typically stick with beer. Before I knew it, I was speeding away from the group with the vague sense that I'd made more promises for visits than I could possibly keep in the few days that remained of my trip.

***

Waking up the next day with a blazing headache sealed the deal. I was down for two days with some kind of superduper-hangover-bug. Since there was no accompanying fever, I kept from panicking about dengue. Still, I was left with only enough time in Buenos Aires to keep a lunch date I'd set with Nadine of JASBA and to spend one final evening out. Susie had invited Teresa and me to a dinner at her house. Cristina had invited me to a poetry reading. Hugo had invited me to go bookshopping.

I broke the Girls' Honor Code: I spent the evening with Hugo. But not before a lovely farewell lunch with Nadine, who reminded me yet again about my promise to write a piece on Austen for JASBA's newsletter.

“I have a little something for you, something I didn't want Mr. Dudgeon to see.” From her purse she pulled a broad, laminated bookmark with a digitally altered sketch of Jane Austen drinking
mate
, a South American drink similar to tea but stronger.
Mate
is an herb that you steep inside a distinctive container that's half thermos, half coffee mug, then sip through a metal straw. You can see Che Guevara enjoying it in the film adaptation of
The
Motorcycle
Diaries
. “A friend designed this for us, but we haven't shown Mr. Dudgeon yet,” Nadine said with a naughty little smile. “I'm afraid he doesn't find this kind of thing amusing, but I thought you would.”

Austen sipping
mate
—what a perfect souvenir of Argentina! I gave her a hug and promised not to tell on her.

After I made my apologies to Teresa, Susie, and Cristina by phone, I met Hugo in a café on Corrientes for one last book jaunt. Who knew how long it would be before I visited such a booklover's paradise again? I had already sent five boxes of books back to the States. I felt sure, though, there was room in my bags for a few more treasures.

And a good thing, too, because Hugo handed me a pretty little present as soon as I sat down: an attractive 1945 hardcopy edition of
La
Abadía de Northanger
.

“I want you to have this,” he said with a smile. “I should read it in English anyway next time.”

While some book dealers close by 7:00 p.m., many along Corrientes stay open as late as 10:00 p.m. or even 1:00 a.m. It was a pleasure to browse the stores with Hugo, block after block. There's no city in the United States that I know of where stores stay open so late to accommodate the crowds of lingering, well-dressed people like one finds in Buenos Aires at night. Numerous theaters lined the street as well, contributing to the flow of noisy, animated pedestrians.

Goodness knows I had enough editions of Austen already, but how could I turn down
Orgullo
y
Prejuicio
with a stylized painting of Lizzy and Darcy flying through the air in modern wedding clothes on the cover?

“That publishing house does school editions, rewritten and abridged,” Hugo pointed out. “That won't be useful for you.”

“I like the cover,” I smiled as I paid for it.

Next store. I also couldn't turn down
Persuasion
with a photo of a sultry blond who could have passed for a 1970s Bond girl, set against a bright red background.

“Oh please, no,” Hugo again attempted to intervene. “That publisher puts out appalling trash. That
can't
be a good translation.” When I met his eye and smiled again, he sighed and shrugged. “I get it. You like the cover.”

The only sour note in the evening hit when we got on to the subject of
Dark
Shadows
yet again, and Hugo lamented that Jonathan Frid, who'd played Barnabas Collins, wasn't alive to see the current revival of interest in the show. Panicked, I insisted that Frid had
not
died. Only a visit to the website
Dead
or
Alive
could settle this, and when we saw Internet proof that as of that moment, Barnabas lived, we heaved a simultaneous sigh of relief. What a pair of nerds! Then Hugo laughed—really laughed—for the first time since I'd met him, outside of the moments of merriment in the Austen group.

But linger as we might, we eventually found ourselves at the door of my hotel once more.

“Would you like to come up for a bit?” I asked before giving myself time to think about what I was doing. I wasn't necessarily inviting him into my bed, but we'd never had a bit of real privacy since we'd met.

He hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

I showed him some of the special books I was packing in my carry-on, among them a first edition of Manuel Puig's
The
Buenos
Aires
Affair
and an early edition of Eva Perón's strange autobiography,
La
Razón de mi Vida
. We talked books then fell silent. Hugo, seated on my bed, studied me for a long moment, his dark gaze intense and his handsome features, strained. He leaned forward—would he finally try to kiss me? He looked so desperately like he wanted to share something. Maybe I should jump in and kiss
him?
Then I thought of Diego and again wondered what I was up to. According to the ladies over dinner—no ring, no problem. But that wasn't my style. I assumed Diego was dating other people while waiting for me, but we did still have a plan see each other this fall, something I'd very much been looking forward to.

While these thoughts were racing through my head, god only knows what Hugo was thinking—but finally, he made the first move.

He told me how happy he'd been to meet me, how much he'd enjoyed being with me, and that he had my email address. Then he stood up and left.