by Lewis Shiner
«I do. I like to make things. And when you get a program to run and watch it come to life…it’s very satisfying.»
«Do you make anything besides programs?»
«Food. I’m an okay cook.»
«This is a good sign.»
«And furniture. I like to work with wood.»
She seemed excited by that, said she loved to go to flea markets and estate sales, that all her furniture was antique, though not all of it was in good shape. «You will have to come fix it for me sometime.»
She was easy to talk to—except for the weird, forbidden zones. She was careful not to speak too fast or use a lot of slang, having quickly and accurately sized up my Spanish skills. She was a good listener and animated when she talked, bubbling over with energy.
We talked through an entire tanda and then she said, «Here is what I would like. There are a couple of friends here who have been trying to catch my eye and I really should dance with them. And then I would like to dance another tanda with you and then I must go home. Do you think that sounds reasonable?»
«Completely.» I squeezed her hand, which was still holding mine, and got up. I felt dizzy. I went back to my table and drank some agua con gas and danced a tanda with an older woman who had been sitting out much of the night. She was unhappy about that, and not terribly happy with me as a partner, as I couldn’t seem to do much with her. I sat out the next tanda of milongas and then Elena was ready for me.
We danced to a set of Anibal Troilo, complex, rhythmic, with lush strings. I let myself get lost in the intensity of the music, the heat of her body, the sound of her breath. As long as she was in my arms, I had no trouble convincing myself that she felt the same way I did.
*
Afterward she said, «Beto, if I ask you something, will you just say yes or no and not ask me any questions?»
«Okay.»
«Will you walk me downstairs and stay with me until I get a cab?»
«Of course. I’m tired too. I’ll just get my things.»
«Thank you.»
I changed my shoes and left enough pesos on the table to cover my water and a tip. Elena was ready by the time I got to her table, and I knew there were men watching me, wondering how I had landed a woman like her. If only, I thought.
She took my arm as we walked down the marble stairs, gossiping about the characters that showed up at the famous milongas—like the elderly couple who had a set of ballroom-style choreographed moves that they would do over and over in the opening hour of the dance, while there was room enough to get away with it. I’d seen them the year before and remembered their spins and pirouettes. Elena’s laughter felt forced and I remembered that she’d said no questions.
At the bottom of the stairs, my glance went automatically into the confitería and I froze. The tall, sharp-faced man with the limp sat drinking a cup of coffee at one of the tables.
«Keep walking,» Elena said quietly.
We went out onto Suipacha, a narrow street squeezed between office blocks. My shirt was completely soaked with sweat and the night air was cold and damp-smelling.
«That man,» I said. «He was at El Beso too.»
A Radio Taxi waited at the curb and Elena waved to get the driver’s attention. He switched off his LIBRE light and reached to open the back door for her.
Elena turned to me. «I know.»
«Is he dangerous?» My head began to hurt, the bad way, behind my right eye.
«I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m safe for now. Thank you.»
«Elena…»
«I know. This is not fair. Call me tomorrow. At noon, okay? We’ll talk.»
«Okay.»
Then she was in my arms. It was not a tango abrazo, it was a kiss, the real thing, on the mouth. I don’t know how long it lasted. Not terribly long, certainly not long enough. Her lips were open, warm and soft, I smelled her perfume, musky now from dancing, I felt her tongue flick gently against mine and then she was running for the cab. «Chau, Beto,» she called, and laughed, genuinely this time. «Chau, Beto, mi Betito.»
She got in, and just before she closed the door, the smile dropped away again and her eyes burned into mine and she mouthed the word «gracias,» and then she shut the door and the cab shot away.
*
I considered going back into the confitería and confronting the man, asking him what he wanted. It was more than self-preservation that stopped me. Elena had some idea of what was going on, which made it a bad idea to meddle until I knew more.
And my head was seriously hurting, for the first time since I’d left the States.
Another cab had already pulled up. I got in and said, «San Telmo, por favor. Humberto Primo con Tacuari.»
I still felt her lips on mine.
*
I ate some fruit and showered and did some stretches and yoga to help the head. It was important not to panic because the headache was back. Panic would make it worse. Better to accept it with a certain bitter sense of inevitability and keep going.
It was after 4 a.m. I set the alarm for 11:30 and went to bed.
The headaches had started the night after the job ultimatum. I woke in the night with a shooting pain in my head, but managed to get back to sleep. That went on another night or two, then I woke up one morning and the headache was still there. It felt like a hot poker jammed into my right eye.
Within a week it was so bad that I had to leave work and lie down in the darkness of my bedroom and call Lauren to take me to the hospital.
When she got to the apartment she did a few preliminary tests: had me squeeze her thumbs, tugged on my feet, looked into my eyes with a flashlight. There was no indication of a stroke, so she packed me off to Durham Regional, where they X-rayed my sinuses and my chest, did CAT scans and MRIs, and couldn’t find anything wrong. The consulting neurologist diagnosed “men’s cluster headaches,” a migraine-like mystery ailment, even though he admitted I didn’t fit the symptoms.
It was a typical hospital nightmare. I never got more than a few minutes’ sleep at a time; the experimental meal plan delivered food late or cold or not at all; my IV infiltrated the surrounding tissue and pumped my arm up to twice its size. I went in on a Thursday night and on Friday they ran tests. By Saturday I was a complete wreck.
That was when they gave me oxygen and Imitrex, the recommended treatment for cluster headaches, which sent me into a full scale panic attack.
People had told me they would rather be in a car wreck or an earthquake than have another panic attack. I had no idea what they meant until that moment. I was hyperventilating, shaking, vomiting, claustrophobic, pacing frantically around the room. I ended up screaming at the nurse until he gave me Ativan to bring me down. If the window had opened, I would have jumped through it.
It was a life-changing experience. Once I calmed down, I saw that what the Imitrex had unleashed was different only in intensity, but not in kind, from feelings I had been holding in all my life, holding in since my parents’ divorce and those long, lonely, cross-country trips. The symptoms suddenly seemed obvious: the need for control that had made Lauren complain about my inflexibility, the day job where I built small, structured worlds on the computer, the aching, constant fear when I’d spent five months on unemployment in 2002 before I landed the job with Universal. The physical discomfort I felt in roller coasters or in heavy traffic, the islands of order I had created in the chaos of Lauren’s clothes and books and papers and CDs.
I made them let me out of the hospital on Sunday, against Lauren’s advice. She took me back to my apartment and I slept around the clock, then made a series of appointments with acupuncturists and chiropractors and massage therapists. For the first week, when I couldn’t drive myself, I had to take taxis. Lauren refused to help, telling me I needed to stick with the neurologist until he found something that worked.
I saw then how far we’d grown apart and how slim the chances were that we would ever reconcile. Hospitals and western medicine were her life and her p
arents’ lives before that. I was so traumatized that I couldn’t let myself think about the possibility of going into a hospital again.
Within two weeks I was able to go back to work part time. My various therapists had worked out a “perfect storm” scenario of bad diet, bad posture, repetitive motion from my mouse and keyboard, and stress from the separation and pending relocation, all of which had collected in my upper back, where it inflamed the occipital nerve that went up over the top of my head and into my right eye.
In headache land, you constantly rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. I was at nine when I went into the hospital. The night after La Confitería Ideal I peaked at five and was down to three by bedtime.
It helped that I knew what it was and that I’d beaten it before. What helped the most was the prospect of answers from Elena and the memory of her kiss.
*
In the morning my headache had faded until it was more threat than reality. I ate and brushed my teeth and counted the minutes until I could call Elena.
I waited until 12:15 because too strict a punctuality is not polite in Buenos Aires. I dialed quickly, hands trembling, and as I listened to the phone buzz on the other end, I wondered how it was possible to stand this kind of constant suspense, not knowing whether she would answer, not knowing what to expect.
It was her voice mail. I said, «Elena, it’s Beto. Call me when you can.» I took too long to find the next thing to say and her phone cut me off.
I went to the bedroom to make the bed. The window was open on an airshaft where I heard the kids downstairs yelling. I had barely started when the phone rang.
«¿Hola?»
«Beto, I’m sorry, I never answer the phone when it rings, I should have told you that. So how are you? What a beautiful day it is. Was it wonderful last night?»
«Yes,» I said, «Yes, it was wonderful last night.»
«Well, so here I am. Is this a good time for you? Do you want to talk?»
«Yes, I want to talk very much. But I would rather do it face to face.»
She hesitated. I let the silence go on rather than back down. Finally she said, «Okay. Yes. We can do that. You said you live in San Telmo, no? We could walk around. I think Orquesta Tipica Imperial is playing on the street.»
«I would love that,» I said.
«Where should we meet?»
«If you’re taking the Subte you should come here. I’m right by the San Juan station.» I gave her the address. «Just ring and I’ll come down.»
«Perfecto,» she said.
It was one of the things I loved about Buenos Aires. In Buenos Aires, things aren’t just okay. They’re perfect.
*
She wore jeans, a rugby shirt with green horizontal stripes, a pink baseball cap, and big sunglasses. She hugged and kissed me, and even in that quick kiss there was a tenderness that turned me inside out.
She held my hand as we walked down Humberto Primo. It took concentration because the sidewalks were narrow and, like all the sidewalks in the older parts of town, dogs had crapped on them, an average of once per block. Our tango skills helped.
The spring had intoxicated her. The temperature was in the 70s and she’d pushed her sleeves up past her elbows. The first leaves were out on the few slender trees, invisible birds sang, and a few lacy clouds streaked the sky. The neighborhood was in the process of gentrification, the old two and three story stucco and stone buildings being sold to overseas investors and retrofitted for the tango tourist subculture. There were flowers and ivy on the balconies and music playing through open windows.
At the bottom of the three-block incline was Calle Peru and the first of the crowds. Once inside the plaza it was shoulder to shoulder, belly to back. Tourists from all over the world pushed past visitors from all over Argentina and locals from all over the city. Elena moved closer and slipped her arm around my waist.
At the outer edge of the square I saw a Peruvian silversmith that I knew. He was in his twenties, with black hair to his collar and a high-necked black sweater with a zipper. I angled us toward him and said, «Hola, Dani, it’s Beto.»
«Beto!» He hopped down from the wall and hugged me, then looked hesitantly at Elena.
«I’m separated now,» I told him. «This is my friend Elena.»
He reached across to shake her hand, then asked how I was doing. I gave him the short version, while Elena looked at the jewelry spread out on his blanket.
«These are beautiful,» she said, fascinated.
«They’re really special,» I said. «Nobody else does work like this.»
The pieces were made of silver or alpaca alloy wire twisted into rosettes and complex asymmetrical patterns, usually with a crystal or cabochon at the heart. She held up a pendant centered around a rough cut piece of turquoise. «This is wonderful. How much is it?»
Dani quoted her a price that I knew was much too low. He threaded a chain through it and offered her a mirror. I saw the longing in her eyes.
«Let me get it for you.»
«Beto, no, you can’t possibly—»
«You have no idea,» I told her, «how happy it would make me.»
She left it on and as we walked away she stopped me and kissed me, slowly and sweetly, both hands on my face. «Thank you, Beto. You have very talented friends.»
We turned right and went up the steps into the square itself. A loud, distorted D’Arienzo tango told me that my luck was holding and Don Güicho was in the middle of a performance. We wormed our way toward the front of the audience.
The moves were showier than anything he would ever teach me, yet more graceful than any other show tango I’d seen. Part of it was the ecstatic look on his face, part of it was the gentility of it. His tango was about displaying his partner rather than dominating her, and Brisa, in tourist-ready costume of black slit skirt, fishnets, and red bustier, made quite a display. He ended with her arched backward across his left arm, and Elena and I joined in the applause.
As he brought around an old felt hat for donations, I reached out to drop a two-peso note in it. «Beto!» he said, and wrapped me in an abrazo. I introduced Elena and he looked at me again, this time with theatrical admiration. «You’ve been keeping secrets from me. What a beauty!» He asked Elena, «I’ve seen you, no? Maybe at Salon Canning? Do you dance?»
She blushed and looked at her feet, so I answered for her. «Like a dream.»
«Once the crowd goes, come over and say hello to Brisa. She’ll be unhappy with me if you don’t.»
He continued his rounds and Elena gave me a crooked smile. «So, was that supposed to impress me?»
I shrugged and failed to look repentant.
«Well, it did,» she said. She hugged me, and with her head in my chest she said, «How do you know the famous Don Güicho?»
«He’s my teacher.»
«Ah. That explains a lot, actually.»
We walked over to the trees to say hello to Brisa, who was excited to see me. I felt ridiculously pleased at the way my home court advantage was paying off.
«Are you coming to the milonga tonight?» Don Güicho asked. Every week that the weather permitted, he hosted an open air milonga after the flea market broke up. «It’s going to be a beautiful night for it.»
«I don’t know what I’m doing tonight,» I said, careful not to look at Elena. «We’ll have to see.»
After a few minutes we walked on. «I’m afraid if I admire anything else, you’ll buy it for me,» Elena said.
«No more presents, I promise.» I stopped her and held her by both hands. «I wanted you to have the necklace because you clearly loved it and because my friend Dani made it. And because…people who believe those things say that turquoise is good for the throat, uh, chakra, in English.»
«It’s the same in Spanish.»
«They say the throat chakra is what helps you to speak the truth.»
I had apparently blindsided her. Tears came up in her eyes so fast that they surprised both of us. I took a clean handkerchief out o
f my back pocket and handed it to her. «I like a man who always has a clean handkerchief,» she joked as she dabbed at her eyes. «He’s good to have at a chacarera.»
The chacarera is a folk dance that they sometimes do at milongas. The men wave handkerchiefs and clap rhythmically and stomp their feet in zapateos as they circle their partners. Don Güicho loved it and sometimes did it in the square. Elena fluttered the handkerchief at me and the very pathos of it made me smile.
«So,» she said, «I will tell you some truth.»
*
We strolled past the rows of vendors, Elena looking down, arms folded protectively across her chest. I touched her back now and then to guide her.
«There’s only so much I’m willing to say, I told you that,» she said.
«I understand.»
«Until this past fall, I lived with my parents. I was on my own after college for a few years, but I never, you know, got into a really serious relationship. So I moved back home. I was saving money, they liked my being there, I had my own entrance to the house and I could come and go as I wanted. My father is…he’s a man of very strong principles, or so he always told my mother and me. He’s a director at Citibank, very rich, very powerful. He is also very Catholic, very conservative, and he was very strict with me, growing up. And continued to be, even after I was grown. Like, for example, he was very upset that I wanted to dance tango. Beto, I’m sorry, can I have the handkerchief again?»
«Keep it,» I said.
«I learned something about him, something he’d done, that he’d never told me. This is the part I can’t tell you about. It was bad, really bad. I moved into an apartment. I quit my job at the bank and took the first thing I could get, which was the job at the shoe store.
«I didn’t tell him or my mother where I was going. I got new credit cards and a new phone. I didn’t change my name because that would be a lie, and because of what he did, I can’t stand liars.»
It took her a few seconds to collect herself. «So it wouldn’t be hard for him to find me. And then a few weeks ago I noticed that man that you saw last night.»