Free Perla by Carolina de Robertis Page B

the city. Ever since I was a child, walking through Buenos Aires in my thick winter coat with Mamá’s hand firmly on mine, I had heard a strange voice in the city. It was subtle and unpredictable, as thin as a fairy’s wing, and all it would say was psshhh, psshhh, you —and then I would turn and look around the sidewalk, across the street, but no one would have opened their mouth or tried to meet my eye. The strangers around me would look bored or busy or distracted, gazes averted, and I would wonder whether my father was right, whether I was, in fact, a little crazy—or whether I was hearing the voice of the city itself, a disembodied sound that sprang from the mesh of all other sounds, from the cars and constantfootsteps, the private lives through open windows, the creak of ornate doors, the glad moan of sunlight, the hum of humidity, the twisted whispers of crumbling walls, all combining into something neither human nor inhuman, neither real nor imagined. My mother would keep leading me as though nothing had happened, maintaining a brisk pace, focused on our destination rather than our surroundings. And I would wonder what would happen if I broke from Mamá’s hand and followed the voice, pursued it around the corner and down the block, into alleys and out of them and around more turns until I knew I was alone in the great maze of the city, sublimely lost, wandering on cobbles and asphalt toward something for which I had no words. I never did it, I was always too afraid, Mamá’s gloved hand a steady anchor—but still I wondered. Could a voice like that lead me to a place where I’d belong? Even now, as a grown woman, part of me listened for the fluid voice of the city. I did not hear it. I walked. The streets smelled of bread and gasoline, gutters and coffee, stone and age and sadness. The summer air was humid and it didn’t look like rain.
    I walked into a bar, a regular spot, and scanned the tables from the doorway. My friends weren’t there. A couple of men near the back looked up and tried to meet my eye. I didn’t look at them and didn’t sit down. I knew the bartender, who grinned at me and raised his hand in greeting—Perla, he said, smiling—but I turned and left and walked on. I would have liked to see my friends, but it was probably for the best that I failed to find them; I was always the confidante, the mature one, the shoulder to lean on when drunk or in pain, and my friends had grown so accustomed to my composure that any other face became invisible. You can lean on Perla. Talk to Perla, she’ll understand. I looked generous to people, with so much room for tending to their problems, but people rarely saw the power it gave me, the shield from scrutiny, Perla Who Has the Answers, Perla Who Can Help You, Perla Without Problems of Her Own. How I liked to see myself through the eyes of a grateful friend. How strong I seemed, floatingabove the earth with all its human tangles. Not at all like a girl who feels out of place in her own home. And they appreciated me, called me kind for it, Leticia with her constant love troubles, Marisol with her hard-drinking mother, Anita with the faltering grades and the childhood rapes that continued to haunt her dreams. They needed me, and I needed to feel needed—a perfect symbiotic fit. These were the friendships I had chosen, the ties I’d formed, with girls who wanted to be listened to, grateful for a friend who demanded no attention in return. But tonight I would not be able to sustain the act; the façade would surely break and burden my relationships with more weight than they had been designed to bear. I was lost tonight, the cage lay broken, even my mother’s rules lay shattered on the ground, always neaten your clothes before you leave the house, always think before you speak, always make sure your hair is in place , so thoroughly drilled into me, so familiar and now so savagely abandoned, my mouth was capable of anything, my hair was surely a