A fiction
She shifted weight onto her left leg, letting her trochanter jut out to one side, holding the bulb of the wine glass cupped in a hammock of fingers. “You went all the way down there and you didn’t travel around, see anything else of the country?” he asked. “You just went there for the tango? For a whole year?” She nodded, with a tight smile and raised eyebrows. “Well”, he said, “I’m going to get another drink. Can I get you anything? No?” Left alone for a moment, she lifted her torso, straightened her posture, balanced all her weight over her left leg and let her right foot, in its thick sock, trace a large semi-circle on the shiny wooden floorboards and then began to turn, upper body first, checking how far her back could twist with her hip bones still pointing straight ahead and then turning 360°, a top-down spiral, her wine sloshing slightly in the glass. She lifted it to her lips and then thought better of it and took only the tiniest, communion-sized sip. She needed to pace herself, not get drunk — just in case. She had brought them, after all — just in case. There they were, dangling among the black wool coats, the chunky scarves, the padded nylon quilting of her parents’ Barbour jackets, twin bulges of cloth, like misshapen, vaguely obscene exotic fruits or deformed bats, the sharp points of their heels unexpectedly poking guests’ hands as they rummaged among their clothes.
Half an hour later, she stole a sneaky glance at the time display on her iPhone. If she slipped out now, she could make it, be there for the last hour, an hour segmented into five tandas. And she had done her duty, surely, well, done the minimum, at least. Her lip salve was greasily imprinted on a dozen cheeks; presents had been unwrapped and admired, the crinkles of wrapping paper smoothed out and the givers hugged; a million questions about Buenos Aires answered and enquiries made after children, jobs, PhD theses, boyfriends. Now, the guacamole was turning from green to khaki; people were lifting one wine bottle after another, peering to see which one still held liquid; braving the cold of the balcony once again for a second fag break. She stuffed her feet quickly into boots, rummaged frantically until she found her own black pea coat beneath all its identical fellows, pulled on the scratchy wool hat, opened the door carefully and was free. A female Bilbo Baggins, with the twin satin pouches of tango shoes slung over her shoulders like a knapsack.
She walked fast, past the elegantly curved terraces, past the groups of teenagers spilling out of pubs, tottering in their heels on the cobbles, voices self-consciously loud — still young enough to be trying out phrases for their sound, hearing themselves in their heads as they spoke. She walked along the ridge of an ancient volcano and crossed a swampy loch drained centuries earlier. Her route led back in time, past tall grey tenements crowded together, over a bridge across a ravine of buildings, past an execution yard and, finally, into a dark wood-panelled room. It had taken longer than she had calculated. There were only forty minutes to go. She found a free chair and piled it with her discarded coat, hat, gloves. And then, in a cramped toilet stall, she awkwardly peeled off sweaters, boots, jeans and finally her silk thermal vest and long johns and then tugged her jeans back on, smoothed her sleeveless satin top over her belly and walked awkwardly back to her chair, boots dangling from one hand, jumper and balled-up long johns tucked in the crook of the other elbow. Her naked toes felt numb and icy in her strappy sandals. She sat down and covered them with her scarf to keep them warm and then, thinking better of it, stood up and hovered near her chair, eyes scanning the room anxiously. She was here to dance and she wanted to dance now.
Every man in the place was either dancing or engaged in conversation. She searched in vain for an available pair of eyes and then, finally, spotted what she had been hoping for — a favourite partner. He was standing surveying the dance floor with a noncommittal expression, but the very upright stance of someone who might, at least, be open to the idea of dancing. She craned her head towards him, not because it was necessary but in order to signal even more clearly, should he look in her direction, her wish to dance with him. But, just as she thought he might be turning towards her, her view was interrupted by a lanky brunette in jeans and a tiny backless top. She watched as the woman approached, touched his arm, lightly kissed the air in the general vicinity of his cheek, as they chatted their way through two lovely Donato tracks and an incongruous snatch of Queen’s “Under Pressure”, and then fell silent for a minute or two until the man turned to her and mouthed something, gesturing to the floor just as a new tanda began.
As they exited the floor twelve precious minutes of the dwindling supply later, she hesitated for a moment and then strode over to him, feigning a confidence she didn’t feel. “Er, hello”, she said with an unintentionally rising inflection which made it seem like a question. “Hello!” he said, leaning in to brush dry lips against her cheek and patting her upper back a couple of times. “How’ve you been keeping?” “Well, very well — and you?” “Me too”, he said, and flashed her a smile accompanied by a tiny nod which seemed to be less an affirmation than a gestural punctuation mark, a signal that now they had satisfactorily completed all social conversational requirements. And, suddenly, she could not think of a single thing to say or a single reason for being there. She hovered, patting down strands of hair that were still dancing lightly around her face like balloon strings, static-filled from being pressed down under a woollen hat, tiny individual hairs clinging to her lip salve and frustratingly difficult to locate and remove with groping fingers. Her arms, in her sleeveless top, were goosebumpy from the chill, but, if she went to get her jumper, she would definitely miss her chance of dancing. She looked at him hopefully with little timid sideways glances. “It’s my birthday today, actually”, she suddenly blurted out, her voice sounding thin and high pitched with neediness even to her own ears. “Very Happy Birthday!” he said heartily. There was a pause. She bit her bottom lip. And then, stroking her back again with a valedictory firmness, he said “It’s great to see you” and wandered away.
“Last tanda!” shouted the DJ. A lanky guy shuffled towards her, hunching and dropping his shoulders in the universal posture of the tall but timid. She shook her head and said a polite “no, thanks” to his request. Everyone else was pairing up, boyfriends and girlfriends finding each other for this final set, a few lone women already sitting unstrapping their ankles from their tango heels. She gathered her clothes up together in a big unwieldly bundle and made a beeline for the toilets. A sock slid from the ball of clothes and slithered to the floor and she left it there, gathering dust, to collect later. It was time to change back from Superman to Clark Kent. Or had it been, this evening, the other way round?
image: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-31JJkWl2VF0/TVXa9thBTHI/AAAAAAAAADI/DhOxXJC2Hv0/s1600/tango-ii.jpg
