El Beso

It is already three o’clock in the morning. The shadows leave their contours on the wall. She sat on an old chair, taking her dancing shoes off (yes, these ones, black with white peas – she bought them when they just met) rubbing her tired feet. Three o’clock. And only rare rain drops are knocking the roof from time to time (it was raining before, and only these drops are still watching the night). The windows are still dark. She is trying to catch any tiny sound. The muffled tango melody is singing behind one of the windows in the neighboring house.

She is carefully placing the shoes onto the table, gently touching the leather of the heels. She is closing her eyes.

Where was it? They were dancing at El Beso for the first time. Too many people are attending milongas there, especially around two o’clock in the morning. There were vary-aged men with sparkling eyes…or, may be with the yearning or avidity in their eyes. They were peering numerously at milongeros in the middle of the dance floor, considering women who sited at the tables and waited to be chosen. Both men and women were looking for the dance partner or avoiding nighty lonelessness. It’s the night from Saturday onto Sunday. It’s time when you don’t want to be alone.

It’s hard to move around “El Beso” at a quarter after two. All tables are occupied. The women sit on a left side, and the men – are on the right. All of them are dressed up. Not necessarily in wealthy but for sure, in elegant attire. “Will you catch up my stare? Will you nod? Do you agree to dance with me? Si?”

He is very tall. Has a short haircut, dark eyes, straight sharp nose and sharpened chin. She is catching his gaze. “Si, Senior.” She is going towards him: posture, smile, embrace. She is wearing the hills, but he is taller anyway.

He is confidently leading her, which makes easy for her to follow him. She has a feeling they’re dancing for many years already. They are milongeros, and their embrace is like a sculpture of their arms’ lines. They even don’t need to adjust to the style of each other, and their bodies are balanced…He is dancing in silence, and only his dark eyes are carefully studying her. Or, may be not her. His sight is wandering somewhere behind her head. They’re moving in first dance without a word. Then he smiles.

- Cómo Te Llama?*

And then he would order Champagne for her and coffee – for himself. They would dance again and again, chatting polite conversations, and it would seem to her that she is something more than just a perfect dance partner for him. Los milongeros. She closed her eyes…

Three years passed.

They never saw each other during the day time. Only in the evenings, in the famous and slightly seedy El Beso she knew and was looking for him. And whenever their gazes were meeting, she was making a light nod “Si”, and then danced, danced and danced, following a beauty of the music, feeling their embrace and his hands, catching their glimpse in the mirror wall, melting in the lights’ blinks in semidarkness of the hall.

He didn’t show up last night. First, she was sitting and waiting and then moved to dance floor. She was dancing with this one, always wearing a grey suit. He was solidly built and had a square jaw of the military man. He was clumsily leading her but with such strength, as very often a self-confident person will act. The smell of his eau-de-Cologne was too strong. She was almost breathless and looked at him stealthily, with a slight smile, forgetting to answer his questions. But she danced, danced and danced, like she was looking for defense in her tango-dance from… the non-appearance of her man.

She opened her eyes. The watch just beat five o’clock. The tango faded away in the neighboring building. The dawn was lighting the room.

Buenos Aires – New York, May-August, 2009