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Amigo,
I have to tell you something. The best thing would be if you were here and I could actually tell you this, but letters are all we have for the time being and I have to share. So here goes. Keep quiet and read.
Her name’s Nina, and she’s Czech. She’s gorgeous, something like Olga, that Russian girl who was a year behind us in high school, but much classier. We met at the agency that arranges one or two-day treks to the nearby volcano, Pacaya. We were both waiting in the queue for the agent to finish with a large group of Germans. There were aerial photos of the volcano hanging on the wall behind her, but no matter how hard I tried to look at them, I couldn’t. My eyes were drawn to her over and over again, devouring another detail each time. The snub nose. The Greta Garbo eyebrows. The section of statuesque white neck (sorry for the poetic language, but after examining it up close, I can tell you that her neck really is a masterpiece). And the weird thing was that she had her eye on me too. To this day, I don’t understand what she saw in me, but it looks like there’s a type of girl whose taste runs to overgrown Israeli guys with messy hair. Anyway, she looked at me and I looked at her, and the longer we had to wait, the longer and more openly we looked at each other. Then, when I’m in the middle of trying to figure out how to translate all the opening lines I know into English, the door to the agency suddenly opens and a skinny guy in ripped jeans walks in, sits down next to my future wife and starts talking to her in some strange language. I don’t believe it, I muttered to myself, I have such shitty luck. When I finally find a girl who does it for me, she’s with someone? I got up and started pacing around the room, nervous out of my mind. Back and forth, back and forth.
Excuse me, are you also interested in the trip to Pacaya? her asshole, Jew-hating boyfriend asked me in English.
Yes, I said curtly.
When?
Tomorrow. You too?
We started talking. Muchillero small talk in English. Turns out they’re Czech. Turns out they’ve been travelling for two months already. They did Ecuador and Peru, and now they’d cut over to Guatemala, like me. True, not many Czechs travel. The Czechs don’t have money. Their economy’s down the toilet. But ever since they were kids, he and his sister had this crazy thing about Indians, and they worked their asses off for five years so they could travel. His sister?!! Now that I looked at them, there really was a resemblance. Something about the nose. Then I worked up the courage and asked her, how are you enjoying the trip? She doesn’t know English, her brother apologised for her, just Czech and Russian. He’ll translate my question for her. She gave a long answer and looked into my eyes during her whole speech.
Before he could translate, the agent called us to the counter. The three of us signed up for the next day’s group and set a time to meet later for dinner at the only restaurant in town.
When I got to the restaurant, shaved and wearing the only unstained shirt I had, she was sitting alone at a table. In English, I asked her where her brother was, and she spread her hands to the sides as if to say, ‘I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded interesting.’ I pointed to the empty chair next to her and made half a circle with my hand to mean ‘Where?’ Aah … She looked relieved. She rested her cheek in her palm. He was probably sleeping.
On the one hand, I was glad. No one would keep us from creating a romantic atmosphere. On the other hand, how can there be a romantic atmosphere if we can’t talk? The waitress came over. Nina ordered the huge salad that was pictured on the menu and I ordered churrasco, which is a cheap, local combo of meat, rice, beans, bananas and avocado.
When the waitress left, we stared at the tablecloth and laughed in embarrassment. Turns out that we both thought the situation was funny (and on top of all of Nina’s great qualities, she also has dimples). After we calmed down, she caught my eye and then, for a long while, she just didn’t let me avoid her look. She hypnotised me into that blue-grey lake until I forgot we were sitting in a restaurant and there were dozens of people around us, and for a minute I thought we were the only two people in the world, and also (you’ll probably think I’m crazy) that I was swimming. I had a real physical sensation of swimming and almost started making paddling movements in the middle of the restaurant. When I felt like I was starting to drown, I shifted my eyes.
Before I could feel embarrassed, she pulled her Walkman out of her bag, put the earphones gently over my ears — lightly grazing my cheeks — and pressed the play button. Classical music filled my head, actually something light, with sprightly flutes and triangles and an overactive trombone. Dvorak, she said, pointing to the Walkman. Dvorak, I said, nodding slightly, as if I’d known Dvorak since I was a kid. I had the feeling she’d given me that Dvorak to hear not only because it was pretty, but also to let me know — without words — what she was feeling. So I leaned down and pulled out my Discman with a flourish. I looked through my CDs for one that would suit the occasion, and finally picked Machina’s ‘Children’s Story’: ‘The prince is in love with a golden-haired princess’. I’d never have the balls to play a song like that for an Israeli girl on a first date, but with a Czech girl, in a different country, what could happen? She listened, and the second time the chorus rang out, she hummed along with it in gibberish.
Meanwhile, the waitress came over with our food. And you know, bro, how I eat (‘Like a disturbed child with no co-ordination.’ That’s how Noa described it, right?) To cut a long story short, I pulled out my best manners. I didn’t stick my elbows into the sauce. I cut the meat slowly with my knife like a boy in a British boarding-school. But I must have got a little carried away, because after we’d been eating quietly for a few minutes, she burst into semi-asthmatic laughter and imitated me eating, so serious and focused on my mission. Then I imitated her, the way she took a little taste of each kind of vegetable but didn’t actually eat anything. And that’s how we started a lively dialogue with our hands, our thumbs, our eyes, our eyebrows, our necks and our intuition. What can I tell you, Marcel Marceau is Louis de Funès compared to what went on there. The funniest thing was that at some point, during one of the breaks, I looked around and saw that we were the most talkative couple in the restaurant. The other four couples — two locals and two tourists — sat across from each other without talking and looked up at the ceiling or stared at the menu, bored.
Later, we walked to my room. On the way, we ate burnt corn on sticks, even though The Lonely Planet doesn’t recommend it. While we waited for them to heat the corn, she rubbed her hands together, so I gave her my coat to wear (chivalry, an international language). In return, she gave me a wet kiss on the cheek and wound her hand around my waist after we finished eating and started walking again.
About what actually happened in my room, I have only one thing to say: I’m speechless.
We’ve been together since then, six nights already. And I’m not bored even for a minute. What would Yossi Chersonski say (if Nina and I were a performance and he was reviewing us)? ‘Original? Yes. Suitable for everyone? Questionable.’ I have no idea how long it can last, this ‘no words necessary’ thing (remember how they used to write that under drawings in the newspaper?). All I know is that two of my biggest screw-ups in love, including Adi, were because of words spoken at the wrong time, and that this quiet lets me listen to Nina more than I’ve ever listened to any other woman I’ve been with. I listen to her nostrils (when they get a little wider, it means she wants me), her dimples (there are sad dimples and happy dimples, and I’ve learned to tell the difference). I listen to her walk, to her sudden stops. And I always listen to her inner music.