My Biggest Lie by Luke Brown

at each other, Aleman, Hernán and I, more articulate and less stressful than our attempts to use each other’s languages. And Arturo translated when he could be bothered (and perhaps changed much to wind me up). He played the role of a pretty bimbo very much to his own advantage; I was beginning to see there was a sharp humour and cunning behind his ingenuousness.
    Having to translate for me was ruining their dynamic so I told them to carry on with things while I tried to write my novel in the corner – but not before I’d placed an order with him for a hundred pesos’ worth of cocaine, a small amount of sterling that made a shockingly large amount of cocaine five times the strength of what we had back home.
    I found this out just before the gig started. It was ten, the venue was half full, and some very attractive women were embracing members of the band. Arturo had pulled me into the toilets and handed me a small white pebble wrapped in a snipped-off corner from a carrier bag. He swiftly unwrapped a separate pebble of his own and delivered two key scoops to each of his nostrils. That was how he always did it, without any of the careful ceremony and portioning favoured by the English. He loaded it up again and held it out to my own nose. I sniffed it up.
    And then he was on stage, pogoing with a big grin as Las Gatitas Negres began their English-sounding indie-rock. Arturo hit thumping bass lines over Aleman’s crashing symbals and Hernán sang Kurt Cobain-style vocals over them in a mixture of English and Spargentine.The coke arrived and immediately made me bilingual. ‘ ¿Que tal? ’ I said to the girl next to me. She smiled and said lots of things very quickly. ‘ Lo siento, no hablo Castellano. ¿Hablas Inglés? ’ I said. ‘Oh, yes, you speak lovely English,’ I said. ‘No, I can’t hear you either,’ I said, and then we stopped speaking, not before, I thought, a certain rapport had been established.
    Between songs I shouted fluent Spanish at the girl next to me, which made her giggle and answer in English. Her name was Ana-Maria. She was a fashion student and worked in a clothes shop on the Avenida del Libertador. She spoke good English, enough to understand me when I spoke clearly and slowly, and so chatting her up proceeded with much less pace than it might in England when I had a package of cocaine in my wallet. But that was nice. I was too frantic at the best of times. At one point, I swear I am telling the truth, she said to me, ‘I like your style.’
    I wonder if I have sufficiently emphasised what a vain man I am, like any sensible man should be who isn’t blessed with the good looks of a Brad Pitt or the absence of a libido. Women have eyes too, even if they’re not as foolishly, sensually imbalanced as us. There’s no sense in squandering our slight advantage by not being able to dress ourselves. Knowing how to dress themselves is one of the reasons why women are indubitably, objectively, more attractive than men, whatever one’s sexual preference. It’s easy for me to say this, I know: my taste being mostly for the straightforward. The guys I liked, like Arturo, I liked because they were as pretty as girls. I liked that they weren’t girls too, but if they hadn’t been girlish I wouldn’t have noticed the opportunity for transgression, wouldn’t have lusted for it. Pretty boys were the exception that proved the rule. And I would accept any kind ofattention. I was susceptible to flattery. I tried hard for it. I was still slim and fit from cycling and playing football. I spent money on suits, shirts, shoes. I aspired to be a tart and I was pleased she had noticed. I liked women who cared about these things, who thought surfaces were deep. You could run your fingers over a surface.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I said. I was having a great time. Later, I asked her if she knew Arturo.
    â€˜Oh, yes, I know