A fiction, based on a real-life tanguero
As the cortina sounds, he hovers near the DJ table, shifting from foot to foot, and then takes a couple of tentative steps in that direction, ending at a respectful distance, the furthest point from which he can crane his neck to read the playlist. His eyes are twinkling; his eyebrows rise a little; he bites his bottom lip and wiggles his jaw playfully from side to side. He looks like a hungry man who has been handed the carte du jour and is delighted to find that all his favourite dishes are on the menu. He stands up straighter, his eyes scanning the room, as the violins begin to play a light rising melody in their upper register, punctuated between phrases by ripples from the piano. His fingers rapidly ascend a piano made of nothing. Por un beso de amor, diddle diddle dee diddle diddle dee, he sings, like a friendly warm-up act for Ortiz, filling in for the singer who is still off stage, sipping his whisky, smoothing the gel through his hair.
Out on the dance floor, a tall angular man in a jauntily-perched hat and red-and-black shoes holds his left arm up high and wears an expression of frowning concentration as he presses a tiny woman in a high-slit skirt against his scratchy-looking jacket. Another man is crossing the dance floor with awkward, stiff steps until he stands in front of a table of women and, bowing slightly with antiquated courtesy, holds out a hand, palm up, inclining his head. Several people linger by the buffet table, carefully spooning heavily viscous hummus and babaganoush onto sagging paper plates. Out on the floor, a couple take several shuffling steps and then the man lifts his arm to let his partner twirl, smilingly, beneath it. A man in jeans seems to be whispering into his partner’s ear and she is smiling and nodding as they travel around the floor in a sequence of walking steps and ocho cortados, like a couple absorbed in conversation during the less scenic part of a long road trip, the leader resembling an experienced driver relying on procedural memory, his thoughts elsewhere, without any conscious awareness of his hands on the wheel, his feet on the pedals, his fingers flicking on an indicator light as he turns a corner. Another man is experimenting with all the different angles two bodies can form in relation to each other — precariously-leaning 45 degree volcadas; the convex banana curves of female hips in a colgada; the precise right angles of legs intersecting each other in ganchos. As he stands hesitating for a moment, his partner helpfully offers a new possibility, unexpectedly lifting her leg and wrapping it around his at thigh level with a cheeky smile.
The lonely leader’s eyes are searching. He sees me and inclines his head a touch. I circle my two fingers around each other horizontally in the air. Later. I don’t feel like waltzing. I need a more melancholy music. My lips are stained with wine, a darker purple in the triangle of the cupid’s bow where I gnawed off the top layer of skin. My eyes are still puffy and there is a congested feeling between the brows. I can’t believe this has happened again. That, once again, I am alone. That it’s all over: that I will no longer be walking along the street, looking in shop windows; or sitting in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, reading; or waiting for coffee to percolate; or holding the embrace for a few seconds at the end of a tango — no longer be doing those things and suddenly, unexpectedly, feel his lips pressed against mine in a spontaneous kiss.
And then I see the lonely leader, darting a glance at no one in particular, shrugging slightly in amusement at himself, taking up his place in the ronda. His arms lift and encircle an invisible partner, his fingers curling around her ghost hand. His eyes turn soft and focus inwards. He looks tenderly at her as his feet entwine in an enrosque, letting her circle him, this partner of his imagination, catching her foot gently in a careful barrida. He is smiling broadly now as Biagi’s feverish fingers hammer out the melody, his right hand insistently repeating a single high note many times. His feet take teeny tiny steps in a rapid, circular corrida, as if sharing a joke with the mustachioed pianist. He is not dancing alone. He is dancing with his companions: thirteen dead musicians and an imaginary woman. I feel ashamed. When the next tanda begins, I catch his eye and give him my most inviting look. And, as he crooks an arm for me to hold and leads me out onto the floor I attempt to tease him about the ideal partner he had for that Biagi tanda and how well she danced. He laughs. “Well”, he says, “it seemed a shame to waste that great music. The music was playing and, well, I thought, why not dance to it?”
