A Lucky Guy

I met Laura during that period, while I was in such an exalted state of mind. She was strolling with a friend in Plaza Brazil, and Davidchik and I first saw them from behind.

Plaza Brazil, a city square with tall, ancient oak trees and gravel-covered walks in an old and rundown section of Santiago that had outlived prior glory, was a popular destination for us on Sunday evenings: we went there to pick up girls. The Plaza was a bit out of our comfort zone—Davidchik and I spent most of our time in the city’s high section—but we believed that, given the rather relaxed mores of the low section’s more modest residents, we had a better chance of scoring there. We drove to the Plaza—in his or my father’s car, of course—which, we figured, would impress the heck out of the local prospects.

The Plaza was almost empty. A cold breeze blew steadily from the east, and fog diffused the lamplights along the walkways into gray streaks of light shooting off in indefinite directions.

"Let’s approach them," said Davidchik upon seeing the two girls, nudging me with an elbow. "I’ll take the shorter one."

Half a head shorter than the other girl, she had rounded hips, short but substantial legs and a vivacious demeanor. She appeared to be doing all the talking, which she accentuated with quick gestures of her hands, and walked in tiny steps, almost running, in an effort to keep up with her companion’s pace. It was her vivaciousness, no doubt, that had caught Davidchik’s attention.

The taller girl was delicate and slender, with straight black hair down to the middle of her back. She wore a red hip-length jacket with a hood hanging in back and a plaid skirt underneath. She had a long, elegant neck and held her head high, and moved in a measured manner, as if between steps she floated in the air for an instant or two. She kept her hands tucked in her pockets.

"No problem with me," I said, as I sensed an attractive gracefulness in her.

Davidchik and I had developed a precise routine for approaching girls. He introduced me—"Hi, girls, can I take a moment of your time to introduce my friend? This is Gabriel, he goes to the Universidad Catolica"—and then I introduced him—"This is David," (I wouldn’t dare call him Davidchik, the Yiddish version of his name that all his friends used), "and he studies architecture at the Universidad de Chile." We figured it would earn us points to let them know right off the bat that we were university students. Soon enough we would bring up the fact that we were driving a car, too.

This routine met with mixed results. Some girls laughed and responded, and we were able to initiate a conversation. Some got very indignant to be approached in what they considered to be such a vulgar manner and would have nothing to do with us. When this happened, Davidchik kept on talking, trying to ingratiate himself. As for myself, I just wanted to run away as quickly as I could.