The Argentina Rhodochrosite (16 page)

31

Ainsley had always imagined a Buenos
Aires tango salon to be stately and luxurious. Gold leaf design, rich oak decor, a crystal chandelier suspended above a parquet dance floor. Tuxedoed men with white teeth and broad shoulders slanted over slinky women in spangly red dresses. She pictured tango parlors as chic, expensive, and European.

Malevos was nothing like that. It was a hovel.

Located in the basement of a century-old building, the
milonga
looked like it had fallen into disrepair at least ninety years ago. Once-mighty cornices had weathered, cracked, and fallen off. Green weeds sprouted from little runnels of dirt that had collected in the edges of the ornamentations.

Ainsley followed Gabriel and his mother down into the moldy basement. At the front door, Valentina handed her coat to a check girl inside a long, narrow closet.

Gabriel noticed Ainsley’s hesitance. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s just… dirty.”

“Traditional tango halls always have been. Who do you think invented this? Thieves and criminals.”

A rule that held true for most of the best dances, Ainsley thought. She checked that the pockets of her coat were empty before handing it to the check girl. Then she kept a tight grasp on her purse as they moved inside.

The interior fulfilled the squalid promise of the exterior. A small band was warming up the songs on a stage at one end of the room. The dance floor was empty, its sour-yellow wooden planks scuffed from decades of dragged shoes. Around the dance floor was a motley collection of fifteen or so mismatched tables. Very few people had arrived yet.

Ainsley felt her eyes begin to water. The
milonga
had barely begun, and the room was already suffocated with a blue-gray smell of tobacco. Nearly a century of cigarette smoking had seeped into the walls.

Valentina swept through the tables, her arms out. It was a regal entrance to an empty room.

The woman chose a table near the stage, prime property, and Gabriel pulled out a chair. With a swish of her skirt, she lowered herself to the seat and fussed with her clothing, much like a hen fluffing its feathers before bedding down.

Then Gabriel pulled out a chair for Ainsley. The seat looked sticky. She used her handkerchief to wipe it down first.

A waiter came by and brought three Coca-Colas. The
milonga
was not even halfway filled yet. Ainsley looked at the other people, careful to keep her eyes glancing quickly. She found her foot tapping to the infectious swing of the band.

“It’s still early,” said Valentina. “Now is a good time for Ainsley to practice.”

Gabriel sipped his soda. He pretended not to hear.

“Gabriel,” his mother said.

“No, please, don’t ask me to give lessons,” he said. “I’m not that good. Plus if I dance with her they will think she is mine.”

His mother made a
pffft
sound. “Nobody is here yet. Just give her one dance so that she doesn’t embarrass herself with this man if he comes.”

He set the Coca-Cola down. “Fine,” he said. Then he turned to Ainsley. “You and I will now dance for the entertainment of my mother.”

“I do appreciate it,” said Ainsley.

Gabriel stood up and offered her a hand. She accepted, and he led her to the dance floor. “I’m no expert,” he said, “but one thing I know is that the man is supposed to lead.”

“Okay.”

“The man is everything. If the man doesn’t know what he is doing, the dance ends. Now, take my hand here and here.”

He guided Ainsley’s hands to the appropriate places: one on his hand, the other on his shoulder.

“Is that right?” she said.

“I don’t know. Maybe. What does my mother say?”

Ainsley looked over at Valentina questioningly. The woman nodded at her.

“She says it’s fine.”

“Okay. Now watch my feet. I know this part.” She focused on following his rhythm. Step one, step two: tango close. Step one, step two: tango close.

Ainsley screwed up her lips in concentration. The movements were harder than they seemed. Raised on a steady diet of American blues-rock, she had developed an ear that was used to steady, thudding, on-the-nose beats. But this tango rhythm was something else entirely, more like the off-kilter push-and-pull of a
mazurka
.

“Now,” said Gabriel, “we always walk around the center of the floor, to the left. Don’t hit anybody else. Don’t do anything flashy, no
boleos
, no
adornos
, no
enrosque
. Just keep the rhythm… and walk.”

Ainsley could definitely keep it simple. As for those other moves, she didn’t even know them, much less have the desire to attempt them.

By now, the band had picked up its pace. The small accordion, which Ainsley remembered was called a
bandoneon
, was being squeezed more quickly, the bass plucked more loudly, the piano keys struck more forcefully. There were no drums. In tango, you don’t need them.

Now more couples were trickling onto the creaky dance floor. Above their heads, a set of battered stagelights with colored gels reluctantly snapped on. Rings of red, blue, and green circles made slow kaleidoscopes around the dance floor. To Ainsley, it felt old-fashioned. These people partied like it was 1959.

Gabriel had been watching her closely. “You walk well,” he said. “That’s the most important part of tango.”

“That’s good to know.”

He nodded. “And another thing to know is that if you accept a dance from a man, you don’t dance only one song.”

“Why not?”

“It’s tradition. You have to dance three or four songs.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. It’s called a
tanda
. You’ll know when the
tanda
is over because the band will play something impossible to dance to.”

Ainsley had a tin ear and wasn’t sure that she could trust her own judgment about that.

The floor had become almost crowded now. Gabriel fluidly moved her around another slower couple, and then the song ended.

“That’s how you do it,” he said, shaking her hand. “An excellent start.”

“Thank you,” said Ainsley. “So now what?”

“You return to the table and wait for another man to ask you to dance.”

“You’re not coming?”

Gabriel shook his head. “If a man sees me at your table, they will assume we’re together, and you’ll never get asked. That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“One more thing. What is this man’s name?”

“Simón Fe. He’s from Villa 27.”

Gabriel pursed his lips, thinking. “If he is from a
villa
, you may need to be careful.”

“Will you be my lookout?”

“Of course. Why do you think I’m here tonight?”

“Because your mother told you to come,” said Ainsley. Then she playfully punched him in the shoulder. Something about Gabriel made him feel like the brother she’d never had.

He brushed off his shoulder. “Go back to the table. I’ll circulate and try to find him. Wait and watch for my signal.”

32

Ainsley returned to the table and
plopped down in the seat. Gabriel’s mother was watching her with a mixture of shrewdness and jealousy.

“You walk well,” said Valentina.

“Thank you.”

“Gabriel doesn’t,” she said. “He never had the passion.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, because he won’t be back to the table tonight.”

“I know,” said Valentina. “But he’ll give me a courtesy dance. He always does that. Otherwise he won’t eat dinner this week.”

Ainsley smiled and sipped from her glass of Coca-Cola. This
milonga
really felt like it was from another era, like a high school spring formal from half a century ago. There were many similarities. The men-will-be-men attitude, the hard-to-get women, the formal skirts, the square suits, the old lighting rig, the creaky floor, the feeling of a just-good-enough neighborhood place.

It wasn’t uncharming, but neither was it glamorous.

Valentina however, was feeling a bit more strongly. “This place is shit,” she announced.

“Why?”

“Look at those old men.”

The mother nodded at a table of elderly men. All were dressed respectfully, ice cubes melting in their untouched glasses of soda on the table.

Ainsley was confused. “What’s wrong with them?”

“One of them should’ve sent me a
cabaceo
by now.”

“Maybe they’re not interested.”

“No, those men are waiting for a young
turista
.” Her nose twitched. “I should have known this would happen here.”

“Well, I’m having a good time,” said Ainsley.

“Of course you are, it’s all new to you.” Then Valentina nodded towards a far corner. “Look over there carefully,” she said. “Look at those four men.”

Ainsley casually glanced behind her. A crew of older guys was kicking around in the shadows, smoking cigarettes. They wore the shifty facial expressions of those who’ve been marginalized. The most puzzling thing about them was their formal suits. They looked like the impeccably dressed criminals of old studio gangster movies.

“What about them?” said Ainsley.

“They are scum.”

“I don’t understand.”

Valentina sighed, as if explaining this phenomenon was a chore. “They’re taxi dancers.”

Ainsley had heard the phrase but didn’t know the meaning. “What’s a taxi dancer?”

Valentina leaned across the table. Her cleavage made a deep canyon below her wattled chin. “A taxi dancer has one purpose in life: to hook a
turista
. Dance with her. Sweep her off her feet. Make her fall in love. Make her come to Buenos Aires every month. Then…”

“Then what?”

“She helps him get a visa. To get out of Argentina.”

“So this happens a lot?”

Valentina nodded. “It has been going on for decades. The
turistas
don’t change. Our Argentine men cast a spell on foreign women.” She wagged a stern finger. “But it doesn’t work on us Argentine
women
.”

Ainsley understood her message. She’d definitely felt the tractor-beam allure from Ovidio, but had chalked it up to his celebrity. Maybe that charisma didn’t come from his money or fame, but from the
machismo
culture itself.

“Of course,” said Valentina, “the taxi dancer’s nightmare is that she decides to move to Buenos Aires to be with him. Because the
turista
doesn’t know that she is just one of many fishes on his hook.”

Ainsley finished her Coca-Cola and set down her empty glass. The dance floor was saturated with bodies now, a colorful swirl of black fabrics and red cheeks circling in a counter-clockwise pattern.

But nobody had asked Ainsley to dance. She could see Gabriel chatting with a couple of men, but he hadn’t given her any signs yet. She wondered if she ought to check out the goods, so to speak, while waiting for Gabriel’s signal.

That question resolved itself quickly. Her roving eye had landed upon a young man in a suit. And he was staring into her eyes.

Quickly she glanced away, but not quickly enough. Her suitor was moving through the bodies, across the room.

“Oh no,” said Ainsley.

“It was going to happen sooner or later,” said Valentina. “Did you look away?”

“Of course.”

She clucked. “These new assholes. Okay, listen. Just say yes to him. He’ll be good practice.”

The young man arrived and stood before Ainsley. His feet were planted wide, his pants a couple of sizes too big for him. He had a broad southern Italian nose with wide flared nostrils.

Ainsley folded her hands and kept her head down. She could hear him clearing his throat. Then the words finally came.

“Would you like to dance?” Her suitor’s voice was high and trembling.

“You’re the first
turista
he’s probably ever approached,” said Valentina.

“He can hear you,” said Ainsley.

“I don’t care if he hears me.” Valentina rolled a toothpick around her mouth and let her eyes work its way up and down the young man. “I’d like to give him the number of a good tailor when you’re finished with him.”

“Yes,
señora
,” he said. He was respectful. Then he repeated the question to Ainsley. “Would you like to dance?”

Ainsley felt as though she were fifteen years old again. “Yes,” she said.

He took her hand as she rose from her chair, then guided her to the dance floor. His hand settled onto her waist. It felt soft and beefy.

They began the simple tango walk. She moved lightly alongside him. He was staring into her eyes as though he was trying to read a message burned into the back of her skull. She couldn’t meet his gaze and stared at her feet instead.

They flew around the dance floor like that, in silence, Ainsley feeling his body twist slightly beneath his jacket, watching his knees constantly bent.

The music ended, and an audio skit came on the speakers. Ainsley knew that this was the end of the
tanda
. It had been quick.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

As Ainsley returned to her seat, she knew she’d done pretty well. She could feel the stares of the other men in the
milonga
. They’d been sussing her out, watching her to see if she could dance. Now the verdict had been delivered: she wasn’t an embarrassment. She was a low intermediate, right off the bat.

That meant it was open season on the
turista
.

She sat down, slightly breathless. “Now they’re watching you,” said Valentina. “You have the motion and the look. Fresh meat. They’ll want to teach you. Keep your eyes on me.”

Ainsley faced her. In her peripheral vision, she could see several men jostling for position within eyeshot. It was extremely flattering. This never would happen in the States. She could understand how a foreign woman, especially a middle-aged divorcee carrying a lifetime of romantic disappointment, could get hooked on this scene.

It was alluring to Ainsley too, but she reminded herself that she was here for a different purpose: to find Ovidio’s rhodochrosite necklace.

“Where is Gabriel?” asked Ainsley.

“He’s around somewhere,” said his mother. “He’s always been a good talker. People like him.”

Ainsley quickly surveyed the room. Pairs of dark eyes beneath darker eyebrows tried to grab her gaze. It felt like she was being pinned down by hundreds of optic lasers.

“I don’t see him,” she said.

“There,” said Valentina. “He’s pointing towards a man. Your man. That’s your Simón Fe. Turn around and look, quickly.”

Ainsley swiveled in her chair. Gabriel was watching her. He was standing with the gang of four black-suited men in the corner, the impeccably dressed criminal types that Valentina had spotted earlier.

And he was discreetly pointing, with four knuckles, to the man on his left.

The target swiveled and gazed towards the dance floor. He was tall and shaped like a snowman, with a large round gut and a smaller but equally round head. Two beady eyes were poked into the tanned skin of his face like raisins into cookie dough.

That was Simón Fe.

He caught Ainsley’s eyes. He nodded once. Ainsley found herself nodding back.

Then Simón Fe began walking across the floor.

Towards her.