by Lewis Shiner
I stayed bent over as long as possible, double-knotting my laces, putting my street shoes into my shoe bag. Eventually I had to sit up. The dancers glided by, inches away from us, and I gradually let my eyes focus. It had been, I suddenly realized, five months to the day since I’d seen her. I had worn the sharpness off every memory I had of her, going over them and over them in my mind. Would I even recognize her? I kept thinking I saw her in the crowd, then a second or third look, with my heart racing, would show me I was wrong.
At last the tanda ended with a few seconds of U2.
The floor cleared and a scratchy old Osvaldo Fresedo tango, “El irresistible,” started.
«Vamos, Beto,» Brisa said, standing up and pushing at me. I got to my feet, then looked to Don Güicho for permission, as was proper. He waved me away.
We stepped onto a dance floor that was already becoming congested and slowly found our embrace. She was a beautiful woman, she smelled good, she felt wonderful in my arms. It was tango, something I knew, more or less, how to do. The music was loud enough that it filled the moment and didn’t leave room for anything else.
At the end of the song Brisa gave me a contented smile. «Muy lindo, Beto. Very nice.» The tradition was small talk, nothing too heavy, so Brisa talked about her English class and the professor, who had a thick German accent. «And at eight in the morning, too,» she said. «There’s not enough coffee in the world.»
We danced again and she asked about my head, which was okay, all things considered. I told her about my new massage therapist and how she, too, had a German accent, which made Brisa laugh harder than it should have. I hadn’t thought that she would be nervous too.
After the next song she told me about her ne’er do well sister, who was back in Buenos Aires after a bad love affair in Paris. Then we danced once more and the tanda was over and we went back to the table.
I didn’t see Elena come in. The first I saw of her was when the next tanda started with a romantic Di Sarli tango called “El amamecer,” the dawn. She was dancing with Miguel Autrillo. He wore a dark suit and a bright blue dress shirt and he was very good, centered and light on his feet, tuned into the crowd, into the music, and into his partner. She had her eyes closed and a quiet smile on her face.
I found, to my surprise, that it hurt much more than I had imagined. In fact, I could not bear it.
«Sorry,» I said to Don Güicho and Brisa. I couldn’t see them for the stinging in my eyes. I was trying to smile and I suspected the effect was horrifying. «I can’t do this.»
I grabbed the bag with my street shoes and headed for the door as quickly as I could without injuring anyone. With luck, I thought, she would not have seen me.
I made it to the hall outside the club and then I heard her voice. «Beto?»
I took out my handkerchief as I turned around and pretended it was sweat I was wiping from my face. You can do this, I told myself. I tried another, gentler smile. «Hi, Elena.»
She was five feet away from me and she stopped there, uncertain of what came next. She wore a loose black cowl-neck sweater and a black skirt below her knees, black stockings and scuffed black heels. She looked like she’d lost some weight too. «I…I heard you were back.»
I nodded. «I don’t get out very much.»
«But, your feet—you can dance?»
«Yes. Not for hours at a time yet, but eventually…»
«Oh, thank God. I’m so glad to hear it.» Her smile was so pure that it blinded me.
«And you?» I said. «You’re okay?»
The smile flickered and turned into something more complicated. «Yes, I’m okay. Working at the shoe store. Dancing.»
I nodded. «Good,» I said. «That’s good.»
There was nothing safe left to say.
«Well,» I said.
«It was good to see you, Beto. I’m so glad you can dance.»
The moment was beyond awkward, into another new kind of pain. I was becoming a connoisseur. At least it was nearly over. «It was good to see you too,» I said, and she smiled sadly and slowly turned away.
And in that moment I saw that I was in danger of learning nothing from what I’d been through. That if I didn’t speak, I would no longer exist, that the job that Cesarino and his men had begun on me would be well and truly finished. I was fairly certain that she would not want to hear what I had to say and I understood that I couldn’t let that stop me.
«Elena,» I said.
She turned back.
«I love you,» I told her. «I have never stopped loving you for a second since the first time I danced with you. I don’t want to interfere with the life that you’ve made for yourself. I just need you to know that you’re the only thing in this world that I want.»
She stared at me like she didn’t quite understand what I was saying.
«I’m sorry,» I said. «I know you—»
She put both hands on the back of her neck, under her hair. I stopped talking because I didn’t know what she was doing. She slowly pulled a silver chain out through the neck of the sweater, and on it was the turquoise pendant I’d bought her that Sunday in Plaza Dorrego in what seemed like another century.
I looked in her eyes and I saw that she had been waiting, just like I had, too full of guilt and shame and fear to make the first move, both of us sinking deeper and deeper into a mutual despair of our own making.
«Beto, I beg of you. Please, please stand exactly where you are and wait for me. Will you?»
I nodded and she disappeared into the club. Di Sarli’s “A la gran muñeca” came on the loudspeakers, with its staccato strings and pounding piano. I had heard it in every tango class I’d taken on that first trip with Lauren and it was inseparable from my idea of tango and Buenos Aires. I felt myself to be in a weird suspension of time between one life and yet another new one, and I almost turned and fled down the stairs because I was afraid of it, afraid of having what I wanted, afraid that it might one day grow old and change again, and I wanted to always be there in that moment of expectation, waiting for Elena, listening to Di Sarli.
But then I saw her, carrying her jacket and her shoes, and in another few seconds I would be holding her and her hair would be in my face, smelling of vanilla and citrus, and then we would be in a taxi on our way to Confitería Ideal to dance on the marble floors under the crystal chandeliers.
I reached out my hand.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have taken a few liberties with historical fact here. As in my other novels, I hope it was in service of higher truth.
Marco Suarez is a fictional character, but Jorge Julio López is not. As of this writing, his kidnappers (and, doubtless, murderers) have not been identified, let alone punished.
The role of US corporations in some of the bloodiest repressions in Latin America is well known, but rarely discussed in the US. Universal Systems is a fictional creation; Ford Motor Company, CitiBank, ITT, United Fruit/Chiquita, and other corporations are not.
Osvaldo del Salvador and Emiliano Cesarino are fictional. Miguel Etchecolatz is not and the details of his trial are accurate to the best of my knowledge. Mateo is fictional, the montoneros are not, and my account of the massacre at Ezeiza airport is taken from published eyewitness reports.
*
My biggest debt of gratitude is to Orla Swift and Alicia Rico-Lazerowski. Orla, my partner in all things including dance, was the first to suggest we take tango lessons and then to suggest we vacation in Buenos Aires. She not only read the book in manuscript, but served as a sounding board and did everything she could to make more time for me to write. She is a wellspring of love and encouragement. Alicia, born and raised in Buenos Aires, is a wonderful tanguera as well as an astute reader. She gave me an invaluable critique of the first draft, resulting in a new title, a name change for the protagonist, many corrections to my “too Mexican” Spanish, and dozens of other vital repairs.
Other readers of various drafts provided huge help, including Jim Blaylock, Richard Butner, Ra
lph Earle, Mariana Fiorentino, Karen Joy Fowler, John Kessel, Gary McDonald, Georgene Russell, Carol Stevens, and Dave Stevens.
*
The list of people who have tried to teach me tango is long. I would particularly like to thank the following:
In Buenos Aires, Pedro “El Indio” Benevente, Osvaldo Cartery, and Alicia Pons; Mario De Camillis, José Garafalo, and Paula Ferrio; Dina Martinez; and Leticia Tulissi. Extra special thanks to Mario, who also made himself available for urgent questions in email.
In North Carolina, first and foremost, Tito Restucha, el maestro porteño; Gülden Özen, with love; and Jason Laughlin, the master technician. Of the touring pros, I owe the most to Ney Melo and Jennifer Bratt.
Other friends on the ground in Buenos Aires were enormously helpful, including Sergio Gaut vel Hartmann, Ethan Earle, and Roberto and Amalia Restucha. Thanks also to Luis Pestarini of La Biblioteca Nacional.
Gurpreet Hothi answered my many questions about Sikhism with patience, grace, and great clarity. For the record, Bahadur’s character was fully formed before I ever met Gurpreet and no resemblance between the two should be inferred.
My good friend Barry Harrington provided information about panic attacks while helping me through my own. Lesley Gaspar shared her experiences, read a late draft, and beat the drum for me.
For medical information, a reading of the manuscript, and many delightful tangos, I am indebted to Fran Meredith, MD. Fran also gave me a referral to John P. Miketa, DPM, who was a huge help with issues surrounding foot injuries and their rehabilitation.
Among the many books that I used for research, the following were especially important: The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, Nunca Más, edited by Ernesto Sabato, Lo Pasado Pensado by Felipe Pigna, and the 1963 KUBARK Counterintelligence Interrogation manual used by the CIA in Argentina.
For more about the history of blacks in Argentina, see Daniel Schávelzon’s Buenos Aires Negra. The underground complex that leads to Mateo’s hideout is based on Schávelzon’s Arqueolgía Histórica de Buenos Aires: Túneles y Construcciones Subterraneas.
Among the other valuable books that I consulted are: The Sikhs by Patwant Singh; Las Venas Abiertas de América Latina by Eduardo Galeano; La Dicatdura Militar 1976/1983 by Marcos Novaro and Vicente Palermo; At the Side of Torture Survivors edited by Sepp Graessner, MD, Norbert Gurris, and Christian Pross, MD; and Paper Tangos by Julie Taylor.
*
Once again, my bottomless gratitude to Subterranean Press: to publisher Bill Schafer for his unfailing faith in me and support for my work; to my dedicated proofreader, Jenny Crisp; to Gail Cross, for keeping a watchful eye on my fledgling design skills; and to Yanni Kuznia, who keeps everything on track.
GLOSSARY
abrazo “Embrace.” Can refer to the tango embrace, or to the hug and kiss on the cheek that acquaintances of both sexes give each other on meeting or parting, or to a romantic embrace.
agua con gas Sparkling mineral water.
apurate “Hurry up.”
bandoneón A cousin of the accordion and concertina found almost exclusively in Argentina, but not manufactured there. Technically a 72-button portable reed wind instrument, it is the defining sound of tango and considered one of the most difficult instruments in the world to master.
barbaro “Great!” or “Cool!” Usually an interjection.
beso “Kiss.” Can be the quick kiss on the cheek with an abrazo, or a romantic kiss. Members of the opposite sex will casually say «un beso» on the phone or in email as a farewell.
boleo From bolear, to knock a ball around. In tango, a low kick created when the leader pivots the follower with enough force to bring her free foot off the ground.
boludo More or less “idiot,” except that it’s mildly obscene. Obscene speech is more accepted in Latin America than in the US, but not universally.
caballero “Gentleman.” It also carries some of the weight of its historical meaning, which is “knight.”
cabeceo Literally a nod, but in tango, the non-verbal invitation that starts with the leader making eye contact, then tilting his head toward the dance floor.
cacerolazo A cacerola is a saucepan and the -azo suffix in this case indicates “a blow with.” This is a protest where people create a ferocious noise by banging on pots and pans and pieces of pipe.
calle “Street.”
cartoneros The name for the poor and homeless in Buenos Aires who go through the bags of trash that people set out on the sidewalk, pulling out the cardboard (cartón), cans, and other recyclables and selling them to recycling agencies.
chau The Argentine spelling of the Italian ciao, used only for “goodbye” and not for “hello.”
chiflado(a) “Crazy.”
claro Literally “clear,” used all the time to mean “right,” “sure,” “of course.”
club deportivo “Sporting club”—sort of a cross between a YMCA and a sports bar. The name took on sinister overtones after El Proceso because one of the worst detention centers was known by that name and was in the basement of a club deportivo at Avenida Paseo Colón and the airport highway.
colectivo The massive Buenos Aires city buses, which are cheap and convenient, though their routes can be confusing for out-of-towners. They travel at high speed on narrow streets and are a hazard for the unwary.
¿como no? Common expression meaning “of course” or “why not?”
cortina Literally “curtain,” a few seconds of (usually) instrumental music played between tandas, or sets, of tangos during which the dancers keep the same partners. Tango etiquette requires that you not dance to the cortina, but instead vacate the dance floor.
dale Literally “give it to me,” but in practice an all purpose expression meaning “okay,” “hurry up,” “let’s go,” “let’s see what you’ve got.” Pronounced DAH-lay.
dictadura “Dictatorship.” There have been many in Argentina, but when there’s no qualifier, people mean the dictatorship of el Proceso, 1976-1983.
Don Term of respect for a man, affixed to a first name, e.g., Don Juan. The feminine version is Doña, e.g., Doña Juana.
eje “Axis.” In dancing, the center you would spin around if you were a top. As with a top, if your axis is not straight up and down, you wobble.
empanadas The national dish of Argentina. A square sheet of pastry dough folded over any of a number of fillings, from ham and cheese to creamed corn, and baked in an oven until crisp. There are chains of fast food empanada stores competing with mom and pop bakeries, and even the bad empanadas are delicious.
encantado(a) Literally “enchanted,” but commonly used to mean “nice to meet you.” Typically said to the opposite sex; a woman would say «encantada» to a man.
ESMA La Escuela Superior de Mecánica de la Armada, the Navy Mechanics School. One of the most notorious detention centers during the dictatorship of 1976-83.
gancho Literally “the hook,” a tango move in which one dancer’s leg wraps around the other’s.
Gardel, Carlos The all-time Argentine superstar—tango singer, matinee idol, composer—who died at the height of his fame in a 1935 plane crash.
gracias “Thank you.” In Argentina, in response to a yes or no question, it means, “No, thank you.”
Güicho Nickname for Luis.
igualmente “Equally.” Used most often as a reply when someone says they’re glad (or enchanted) to meet you.
locutorio A shop lined with telephone booths where you can make long distance calls. More and more of them have desktop computers where you can get more-or-less high speed Internet service for a few pesos an hour.
medialunas Literally “half-moons.” Sweet-glazed crescent rolls, served at many of the same places that make empanadas. A breakfast favorite, especially after staying up all night dancing tango.
microcentro Midtown Buenos Aires, the area around the Obelisk. This is the central business district, the theater district, the main shopping district.
milonga A dance pa
rty, a dance step, and a variety of music. Essentially a quicker, more staccato form of tango, the milonga step is danced to milonga music, which has a strong habanera rhythm. The events where you go to dance tango are also called milongas, so you can dance a milonga to a milonga at a milonga.
milonguero viejo Literally “old milonga guy”—a term of respect for the old paunchy guys who show up at the milongas, usually in suits and open collared shirts, not doing anything especially fancy, but effortlessly right on the music.
ocho “Eight.” In tango, a figure where the follower pivots from one leg to the other, crossing back and forth in front of the leader.
ocho cortado A cut version of the ocho, a mainstay of the Buenos Aires style. Essentially a change of direction to the quick-quick-slow rhythm.
onze “Eleven.” Also El Once, an unofficial neighborhood of Buenos Aires. The name comes from the Once de Septiembre (September 11) railroad station, commemorating the date in 1852 when Buenos Aires began a secession from the rest of Argentina that lasted until 1880.
parada Literally a “stop,” a tango move where one dancer’s foot blocks the movement of his or her partner’s foot.
piropo Elaborate compliment from a man to a woman, often addressed to strangers, and often involving wordplay, e.g., «Such curves and me with no brakes.» This is a major indoor—and outdoor—sport in Latin America and the man wins if he gets a laugh, or any other response, from his target.
porteños What the people of Buenos Aires call themselves—the people of the port.
practica A formal tango practice session. Here, unlike at a milonga, it’s appropriate to stop and try a move over again, or make a suggestion to your partner, or ask the supervising teacher for help.
principiante “Beginner.” The first stage of tango apprenticeship.
proceso Literally “process,” but used most often as a proper noun to refer to el Proceso de Reorganización Nacional (the National Reorganization Process), the name the military junta of 1976-1983 used for itself.
