Kefira hopped onto her 'Duc' and made her way back to Ayres de Recoleta on Guido at 1980. She had just enough time to shower and dress before leaving for her dinner date. Following Fripo's advice, she used her GPS when talking to the taxista, so the driver would be less inclined to scam her. She arrived in front of La Baita, an upscale, yet family-style Italian restaurant, on Thames at 1603, in the Palermo district. She was only twenty-five minutes late when she arrived, and Fripo was just arriving as well.
Tasteful metalwork and glass overhead protected a solid oak door leading into a wide room filled with alternating red or white table cloths covering wood and stone inlaid tables. The atmosphere of rising and falling conversations amongst people on at least their third glass of wine pleased the ear. They entered together to find people sitting on the right and a large, floor-to-ceiling wine bar on the left. The man at the door spoke warmly to both of them, but addressed Fripo as an old friend, guiding the couple to a table upstairs near a window overlooking a small street filled either with Mediterranean white architecture, multi-colored storefront boutiques or grey stone structures, all topped off with lush green vines and trees. Most of the streets around Thames boasted tree-lined, overhanging green canopies that were a pleasure to see. Kefira nibbled a shrimp cocktail that had arrived with the waiter while Fripo was catching up with the owner. When Fripo's friend left, unable to resist a glance at her cleavage, Kefira started the conversation.
"This is what they call Viejo Palermo, isn't it?"
"Yes. This area is full of artists and has been 'gentrified', but I moved here before the dictatorship, when it was beautiful but rundown. It has the same feeling now as Soho in New York, don't you think?"
The waiter approached the table with a half bottle of white wine and two risottos decorated with leafy lettuce, accompanied by a basket of crusty white rolls sitting beside a bowl of olive oil.
"I hope you are hungry," said Fripo.
"Ravenous," said Kefira, as she tipped her wine glass in his direction and ran her tongue over her upper lip to recover any leftovers.
The pasta came next. It was decorated with chopped garlic and smothered with caramelized onions. Crushed walnuts and a hint of béchamel coated the wide noodles, topped with fresh parsley, served on a bed of lettuce. Ever attentive, the waiter appeared to top up their wine glasses. The second glass of wine started as they sampled the pasta. Kefira knew enough not to eat the whole plate of noodles. Fripo paused in the telling of a joke about a Jewish restaurant owner in New York as the waiter brought a full bottle of Argentinian red wine from Bodega y Vinedo Mauricio Lorca, called Inspirado Blend 2008.
"This wine is an excellent choice, selected for you by the owner. You will see that it goes down like liquid velvet. Enjoy your meal," he said with a flourishing twist of the wrist, preventing spillage as he finished pouring Kefira's glass. As a visitor to the country, the waiter asked her to do the honors with the wine. Kefira smiled widely and let the bouquet pass over her nose. Then she sipped a small amount of wine, sloshed it around in her mouth and swallowed, with a very appreciative nod to the waiter, never taking her eyes from Fripo. Her date blushed at all this attention, and the waiter, disappointed that he was unable to distract this strikingly attractive woman from her much older partner, busied himself with serving the thin sliced beef seared slightly and coated with pepper. When the waiter left, Fripo continued his joke.
"Anyway, this is indirectly a story about people learning the Tango Nuevo, which moves radically away from the Milonguero tradition. For me, this new change is not tango; these people are not learning tango, but perhaps I am too old to understand," said Fripo.
"Get back to the joke, the suspense is killing me," said Kefira, finishing her fourth glass of wine.
"Of course, of course. You see, the friend of the restaurant owner sits down and is served by a Chinese immigrant who remarkably speaks almost flawless Hebrew. The customer thanks the waiter and calls his friend over from the cash and asks him where he found an Asian who speaks such amazing Hebrew. The owner puts his fingers to his lips and looks around while saying: 'Not so loud, he thinks he's learning English.' "
The two of them laughed deeply at the joke. Kefira removed her foot from her shoe and ran her toe up Fripo's calf. They decided to have coffee at Fripo's house, about two blocks from the restaurant. As Fripo stood beside the cash register near the entrance, his friend said that the meal was on the house. Fripo protested, but his friend said, "Any man so lucky as to meet the same woman in two of her reincarnations during his one life is charmed. I haven't seen you laugh and smile like this for an age. What's that expression people say when something unforeseen occurs?" said the owner with a wink at Kefira.
Kefira reached over to hug the man and the two of them shouted, "Mazel tov!" Fripo shed one tear before throwing his arms around the two of them. They did a kind of Irish jig in circles, and everyone in the restaurant raised a glass and shouted encouragement. Kefira and Fripo strolled back to Fripo's condo.
"This evening was magic. I haven't felt this well for more than a year," said Fripo. Kefira slipped into his embrace and tasted his lips with her tongue. He pressed his tongue into her mouth and his hand reached down to her bottom. He tickled the material of her garment and breathed in her scent. Then he pulled himself away.
"As much as you tantalize me, I am not ready to open up the wounds that sleeping with the twin of my dead wife would precipitate. Please try to understand. You are ready to tango now. The complex figures you can learn from the Internet."
"It's been wonderful meeting you, Fripo."
A passing taxi stopped beside them, having been flagged down by Fripo with his free hand behind Kefira's back.
"Hasta luego," said the two of them in unison.
THREE TO TANGO
March , 2012
Kefira returned home again to shower and get dressed for an evening of tango. Later, she would take a taxi to Confitería Ideal, on Suipacha 384, just off Avenida Corrientes in the city center. The tango had been easier to pick up than she imagined it would be. She knew she was ready. She also knew she would not call Fripo to try to see him. Her mission took precedence over a dalliance; besides, he seemed too reticent late last evening.
The tango salon opened at about nine thirty in the evening. Kefira arrived around midnight. The marble staircases and hardwood wainscoting conveyed 19th century luxury, and like Buenos Aires' sidewalks, was a little chipped. People sat in rows around a decorative mosaic floor. The sound of tango filled the room.
Most clients sat alone so that they would be free to dance with anyone they chose. In fact, some couples actually sat on opposite sides of the hall by themselves in order to appear ready to dance with any partner. Women, pheasant-like, flounced and paraded in elaborate costumes completed by obligatory stiletto heels, while men languished indifferently, casting somewhat pompous glances towards potential partners, never venturing to ask a woman unless she had nodded her approval, thus protecting their easily bruised egos. Despite all this posturing, there was an air of elegance and pleasure in either watching or dancing in the umpteen-shaped, many-aged kaleidoscope of people in movement on the floor.
When Kefira entered, the music seemed to pause as all the men in the salon took a simultaneous deep breath. The women's eyes noted another competitor for the attentions of the men; some packed up and left, somehow knowing that the evening would now pass without anyone asking them to dance. Shafiq looked up, too. He was sitting on the far left edge of the hall so he could see everyone who entered without being noticed himself. His gaze mimicked a Bertolucci camera scan, slowly taking in her Chanel red on black sequined gown slit to the hip on the right. Then her cleavage startled him into a pause, the subtle smoothness of her rising and falling breasts connected to the regal, set back shape of her exposed shoulders and jet-black hair completed the lustful scrutiny. She sat close to him. As she bent down to remove her dancing shoes from a string tie-bag marked Narco Tango, Buenos Aires, her dress sli
pped down from her thigh, revealing the top of an old-fashioned garter snapped in lace frill to a shiny silver-toned nylon.
All the men at adjacent tables craned their necks, much to the chagrin of the partners of those that sat coupled. Her shoes were red with three black straps arching over the ankle, suggestive of legs tied together to the kinkier element in the crowd. She breathed in and glanced around as if oblivious to all the attention she was generating. Within minutes, a man with a military-looking posture received the first nod. It was a tandas of tango salon music reminiscent of the grand ballrooms of the 1940s. A tandas is a grouping of four similar songs in a row, punctuated at the end by a short pause, permitting partners to either continue or escape each other after every four songs; the composer was Carlos di Sarli. Kefira swept through the following hour of music, leaving most partners breathless both emotionally and physically. She seemed effortlessly able to match the ability of each leader and decorate even the most amateur dancer with diplomacy.
She had danced one hesitant tandas of fast milongas with Shafiq, but had not wanted to favor him despite his obvious ability and magnetism. As she took a break over espresso and agua minerale, she noticed some competition entering the room. A tall, redheaded woman with pearlescent skin and startlingly large, round, green eyes entered and sat with Shafiq. She was stunning in a black beaded gown that swirled around her slender legs and was split to the hip on her left side. Her heels were delicate filigreed green, exactly matching her eyes. She wore 1930s style beads trussed into her shoulder length hair and dangling over her forehead. The beads were deep green. She and Shafiq took center stage with their practiced looking yet spontaneous movements, but they did not sit together after the second tandas. Instead, the woman in the black gown approached Kefira and introduced herself.
"I saw you dancing before, from behind a pillar on the staircase. You are remarkably talented, and I might add, beautiful in that dress. May I sit?"
"You're too kind. Really, I am rather new to tango, but I am a professional dancer. Be my guest, I am Kefira," said Kefira, motioning grandly with an outward sloping twist of her sensuous arm and a twirl of her long fingers.
"My name is Michael."
"Excuse my directness, but isn't that a man's name?"
"I suppose it is, but it is not uncommon to name a strong looking female child Michael where I come from."
"And where is that?"
"Really, you can't guess looking at my eyes and hair!"
"The Emerald Isle?"
"You got it. And you?"
"California, via the Greek Islands."
"You sure don't move out there like what we call a Yank. It's a delightful name. Where does it come from? It doesn't sound Greek."
Kefira sensed a test, but didn't skip a beat. "It's a mixture of my father's favorite Russian yogurt and a nice sounding ending," said the Mossad agent.
"What is your dance?"
"I am a Middle Eastern specialist, but now I have moved to Latin dance because of demand in California. I rarely perform now. I spend my time teaching in LA."
This news somehow relieved Michael and she took a deep breath, sighing on the exhale. The waiter delivered two more coffees and two small bottles of bubbly water. He would not take money and gestured toward Shafiq in explanation. Shafiq nodded to them, and both Michael and Kefira shared an intimate bow in his direction.
"Do you dance with him often?" asked Kefira.
"Yes, I do. He is a very thoughtful leader and he listens to the music."
"How'd you meet him?"
"Actually, I first met him years ago through my brother. We ran into each other by chance here in Buenos Aires. He bought a business here, escorting foreign women on the dance floor, about a year ago. He also drives them to and from the dance halls, all for a hundred dollar fee per evening. He really is quite successful and, as you know, he can be very charming in an old-school way."
At that moment, a tall gentleman in a dark suit and sunglasses stepped up beside them. He nodded to Kefira, but extended his hand to Michael.
"Miss MacAuley, won't you do me the pleasure of this dance?"
As Michael got to her feet, she turned to face Kefira and asked, "Will you let me lead you on the floor later? We'll shock all of these stogy old machos."
Kefira gulped her affirmative answer and over-gestured a touch to the bare skin over her sequined gown.
"Me, darling," she said in a clear imitation of Marlene Dietrich.
"I like you more every minute," responded Michael breezily as she left for the floor.
Kefira danced a few more tandas and left without talking to Michael again, but found a card with her number on it in her purse when she searched for some money for the taxi. Her pulse quickened. Finally some luck, she thought as she climbed in and adjusted her dress to the chagrin and disappointed chuckle of the driver glancing at her thigh. Kefira went straight to a new hotel and registered with a different passport. As soon as she arrived, she sent a secure text to Zak.
"Team necessary. Join me at prearranged site. ASAP."
Kefira leaned into the turn while shifting her weight, her knees staying tightly glued against the gas tank. The effect on a normal side street defied even an expert rider's expectations. Duc, the name she affectionately called her bike, responded to her efforts in a practiced diagonal slant as Kefira's knee was inches from the asphalt on the left side and the motorcycle spun 180 degrees on its steel upper peg foot rests before she executed a lift and break onto her front wheel in a wheelie. The stunt left her directly in front of her new found friend, Michael MacAuley, Kefira's target's sister. Shafiq sat on his balcony, watching the display on the street. Michael got on the back of the bike after Kefira handed her a spare helmet. The two of them turned to look at the balcony before they waved and jerked into the street between passing cars.
Near Niceto Vega on Calle Armenia, Shafiq's apartment overlooked some brightly painted boutiques and a coffee shop. His disappointment was visceral, noticeable even from the ground up. He could not have imagined Kefira could read his lips as she looked at him. Two faced, he smiled widely and uttered under his breath, "Bint gaarbua," an insult meaning a small, jumping rodent. The Ducati, with two stunning women perched on it, launched into the sparse traffic on Armenia, leaving some of the men open mouthed and looking at each other in the coffee shop.
Over the sound of traffic and while weaving in and out, Michael and Kefira waxed more and more enthusiastic. They were discovering each other, Michael hugging her driver closer and closer as she became surer of herself.
"A friend of mine has a houseboat near Tigre. You want to visit for the day?" asked Michael.
"Sure. How'd we get there?"
"Stay by the water on your GPS. Keep right at the end of La Plata. It's on 195. You see it here," she said, touching the GPS screen open in front of Kefira, as they moved through the traffic and Kefira altered their course.
"What's the green space over there by the water?" asked Kefira.
"Parque de los Niños. We can go there another day. Let's get off the highway here. We can go all the way to Tigre near the water. It'll take longer, but it's really beautiful."
"Sounds great to me."
The sun was pleasant and a cool breeze coming from the Rio Plata both refreshed them and fanned the embers glowing between Kefira and Michael. Michael let her head drop sideways, inside her small helmet, on to Kefira's shoulder blade. Sun glinting on her teardrop glasses, she hugged Kefira. For the first time in her life, she felt safe. Even the haunting memories of her childhood in Ireland faded.
"You smell great. What's that fragrance?"
"It's a long story. I make it myself. I'll show you sometime. What're we looking for?"
"Calle Francisco B. Baratta. It's near the Club Navale San Fernando sul Río Tigre. She has a little slip there. We can stay as long as we like. I know where she keeps the keys to her houseboat. We should stop for groceries first. When I get you alone there I don't want to leave," said
Michael with a squeeze around Kefira's waist.
They pulled into a grocery store. Four children surrounded the Asian couple behind the counter; all of them were of school age. Michael and Kefira bought some cheese, starchy white bread, eggs, milk, mangoes, papaya, limes, peppers, and two large bottles of beer.
"All the basics are in the houseboat. My friend comes here often. We might even get to meet her in the next few days."
"Does she have a name?"
"I'll let her tell you, if she comes."
"You sure we don't need to bring coffee."
"We can drink mate."
"I still need coffee to get going in the morning. What's mate?"
"It's a kind of herbal tea. It took me a while to get used to it, but now I love it. I used to be an Irish Breakfast drinker. Now I hardly ever use it."
"I'm game for anything."
"I like the sound of that. Now go left here. I can see the sailing club so we are near. Look for Francisco Baratta. It's right near here."
"I don't like the look of those clouds. I thought this was the tropics," commented Kefira.
"It's the time of year. We could have some lousy weather now. Don't worry though, there's a great heater in the boat."
After winding around the area of the sailing club, they finally found the boat dock with the houseboat around dinnertime. It had not seen a paintbrush for some time. The structure was weathered teak and the covered part contained slanted, heavy-duty Plexiglas with wooden trim. It was large enough that getting on board did not disturb it.
"There's a gangway over there, on the other side of the wheelhouse. You really should roll your bike onto the deck and cover it with a tarp. Otherwise, I don't think it'd last the night around here."
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