Heart of Tango by Elia Barceló Page A

dance in public with a man who wasn’t her husband, even if she wanted to.
    So I got together with Malena, a lively brunette who drew stares from every man in the room. Thanks to her, half a dozen elegant cafés hired us. But it was only my body dancing. My soul, or the bit of soul still left to me after I lost Natalia, would take to the air whenever the tango started, flying me far, far away, to a dark, fragrant, velvety place, where she was waiting for me, holding out her hand for me, her eyes half closed and a hint of a smile on her lips.
    That’s how I always imagined her, I don’t know why: wearing black dancing clothes, hair done up in a chignon with a tortoise-shell comb, leaning against the jamb of a door that opened one way on to the milonga and the other on to a nighttime garden, waiting for me. The image was so clear, so intense, it seemed like a childhood memory. An impossible memory from a past that had never taken place. That’s why, sometimes, when I was trying to motivate myself, I’d pretend it was maybe a memory of the future, of what life had in store for me, even if things were going against me for now.
    One night at Salón Peracca, during the break, a guy came up to me. I’d seen him all evening, leaning against a column with a notebook in his hands, and I’d noticed him a few nights earlier at La Puñalada. At first I thought he might be a fellow newspaperman, but soon I realized, from the way he was watching us dance, that he had to be in some other line of work.
    â€œSeñor Monteleone?” he asked.
    â€œThe same.”
    â€œI have a proposal to make you. May I buy you a drink?”
    We went to the bar, sizing each other up. Me, my stomach in a knot, thinking he must be some sort of agent who wanted to hire us; he, smiling and at peace, leading me to guess that his proposal wouldn’t signify much of a change in my life.
    â€œMy name is Nicanor Urías. I am a painter.”
    We ordered two glasses of gin. The guy must have noticed mypuzzlement, because he quickly added, “I would like to paint a series of portraits on the subject of the tango, and you caught my eye. I would like you to model for me. I will pay you well, if you are willing to pose a few times in my
atelier
. As for the hours, whatever is most convenient for you.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œA hundred pesos for five sessions. If it takes more sessions, thirty pesos each.”
    The guy had to be off his rocker. My flat cost me forty-five a month. If this wasn’t a con, I’d just solved three months of rent.
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œBecause I like you.” He saw me recoil and hurriedly said, “Don’t get me wrong,
compadre
, I’m not one of those. What I like is your shape, that chiseled face, your stare, your expression, do you know what I mean? I’ve never seen anyone who embodies the spirit of the tango as you do.”
    â€œDon’t you also need a woman?” I asked, thinking of Natalia and how handy it would be for her to make that kind of dough, never needing to know that it had come to her through me.
    â€œI already have one in mind, but thanks.” From the way he glanced at Malena, I guessed that he thought I was talking about her and that, for whatever reason, she wasn’t right for him. Though when I saw her at that moment, following the painter’s eyes, I also realized that, although Malena was what we called a lioness in my district—a real woman, as the Gallegos would say—she wasn’tthe spirit of the tango, in his words. The spirit of the tango was Natalia, and suddenly I didn’t want him to know it.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œAgreed.”
    We shook hands, finished our drinks, and he gave me his address. Then the break ended and I found myself once more on the dance floor, my body turned to tango, my soul far, far away.
    W hen I came home from church after the funeral and shut myself up alone in the