by Victoria Fox
The following day she found work in a pizza bar on the square. It was a casual affair, waiting tables as she had done in Mendoza, and she slotted in quickly. It paid enough for her to extend her stay at the hostel while she found somewhere permanent to live.
Daniel sent notice, via Cristian, that the farm had been sold. She searched his missive for a shade of affection or clue of regret but there was nothing. Calida let the news wash over her in a thick, sad wave, leaving her breathless before rinsing her clean. Her home was gone. It belonged in the past. She found it too painful to think of the land and the horses, so she didn’t. Too painful to think of Daniel, so she didn’t.
She bundled the note in a drawer and closed it.
It was a friendly gang at the pizza place and Calida was open enough to secure their trust but not so much as to give herself away. She protected her story as if she were a fugitive, which in a way she was. The girl who had left Patagonia was not the same as the one who donned a cap and uniform every day for work, who drifted up and down San Telmo market on a Sunday, who visited the Recoleta Cemetery with her camera, photographing pre-Raphaelite angels in states of contemplation, who ate bife de chorizo at her favourite steakhouse and drank beer in the bustling plaza.
Early March, a small apartment in Belgrano came up on a six-month lease. She moved in straight away. It felt good to have her own space again.
One night, out by herself and ambling down Honduras, an eager queue of people caught her eye. The line trailed outside a tall stone building, strewn with climbing plants that soared to a ladder of delicate, twisting balconies.
The café name was emblazoned above its arched entrance in red Vaudeville letters: EL ANTIGUO SALÓN. Everyone had heard of Antiguo, the ultimate porteño café. Built in the nineteenth century, it had been home to the creative thinkers of the age; writers, artists, and philosophers gathered here to sip Fernet and smoke cigarros.
Calida crossed the avenue just as the grand doors opened and the line trickled inside. Fascinated, she followed them in. The salon was a dimly lit cavern of gleaming circular tables, chequered floors, and a ceiling embroidered with trompe l’oeil skylights. The walls were covered with framed paintings and snapshots of the Antiguo set through the decades. Calida ordered a café cortado. Waiters in starched cream aprons rushed to take orders and a jazz record played fuzzily. She could have stayed for hours, but the popularity of the place meant there was already a chain forming and she ought to ask for the cheque. The waiter laid it down with a flourish.
‘Not staying for tango?’ he asked.
She must have looked blank, because he smiled and said:
‘Through the back.’ The waiter nodded towards the rear of the room, where a thick, scarlet curtain was pulled. The curtain seemed to pulse, a vital, breathing thing, calling her. ‘Rodrigo Torres is dancing tonight. Show starts in ten.’
A middle-aged woman wearing masses of gold jewellery crossed the floor, flicked open the curtain and disappeared behind it. The material parted for a moment before shivering back into place. Calida stood and went towards it. The rest of El Antiguo Salón receded around her, the conversation lulling to mute, until there was nothing but her tread, one foot in front of the other, and the curtain coming closer.
She peeled it open, was struck by a smell of old leather and musk, some citrusy aroma draped over years of cigarette smoke, and stepped inside.
It took moments for her eyes to adjust. A girl was flitting between glass-topped tables, lighting candles in jars that flickered orange and gold. A shaft of white funnelled on to the empty, black stage, like a divine message spilling through clouds.
Calida took a chair, and waited.
Slowly, the room filled. Calida kept seeing the gold-jewellery woman, at one moment vanishing backstage and the next greeting customers. Above her own table was a picture of a young girl with her hair in a plait, mid-tango, her elbow at a sharp angle and her head turned, and her leg stretched behind her in that classic, sensual pose. Calida decided it was the same person. She wondered if the woman still danced.
A steward came to collect money and the lights went out, making that pool of white almost blinding. A reverential hush descended. Calida was mesmerised.
The music began. Spiky, seductive rhythms heralded the arrival of the dancers with such urgency that Calida felt the need to sit up straight. When the pair strode onstage and she saw him—Rodrigo Torres, the man they had come to witness—she breathed in so sharply that a woman on the next table turned and caught her eye.
Rodrigo Torres was a vision. His silhouette was neat as an artist’s outline, the way he moved more liquid than flesh and bone. He wore tailored black trousers and a white shirt buttoned halfway up his chest, his hair oiled and his hips winding. Fluently he led the dance, steps stroking the floor and caressing that surface in the way he might caress a concubine, his feet hooking and licking and kicking up invisible dust. Never was there more than a sliver between the dancers, the heat and hunger almost too intimate to watch. Raw sexuality pounded off their bodies, as real and unstoppable as the tempo. Calida was spellbound. Watching him, a strange, hot tingling rippled between her legs. I want to do that, she thought. I want to do it with you.
Teresita’s voice came at her, telling her she couldn’t. She shouldn’t even try.
How monstrous it had been to see her twin at that premiere, glittering and wicked. How cruel it was that one path should lead to gold and the other to dust.
I can do whatever the hell I want.
The next night Calida came back, and the next, and the next. She discovered that Rodrigo Torres performed at El Antiguo for a week every month. Each time she grew more addicted to his performance; it sated her like water and filled her like a hot meal and it did something else to her, too. When she got home after a night watching Rodrigo she touched herself in bed, her fingers working beneath the sheets until she arched her neck and shuddered to climax, her hips raised, panting and fevered.
Think of all the things he could teach me …
Beneath Rodrigo’s touch, she could become as bold as Teresita. She could learn the ways of her body, the ways of pleasure, all those things she had never felt worthy of. Rodrigo was nothing like Daniel: there was no risk, no danger.
She started taking her camera. Then she could steal Rodrigo home with her, even if he was caught in motion like a moth on a pin. But the images were far from static: Calida was stunned at how much movement they conveyed. Rodrigo was fierce as a bull yet tender as a lover, as he bathed in a lake of light. She examined the sexy, earnest concentration on his face. These were the best pictures she had ever taken.
One evening, the woman in the gold jewellery stopped her.
‘What are you doing?’ She snatched the camera from Calida’s grip. The show had ended, the crowd filtering out. ‘It is forbidden to take photographs in here.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Calida reached to claim it back. The woman scrutinised her. She had piercing eyes and was wearing a shawl around her shoulders. At her throat was a pink gem that reminded Calida of the grapes she had picked on Cristian’s farm. It looked edible.
‘Do you work for De Tanturri?’ the woman asked suspiciously.
‘I don’t know what that is.’
The green eyes narrowed. After a pause she granted, ‘All right, I believe you,’ and passed back the camera. ‘Though I’m not sure why. De Tanturri is our rival. They are always spying on us, seeing how we do things and trying to steal our clients.’
‘I can’t imagine anywhere rivalling this place.’ Calida couldn’t resist saying his name. ‘I mean, Rodrigo … he’s incredible …’
The woman’s expression softened. ‘Ah,’ she said, understanding. ‘I see.’
‘Oh, no,’ Calida was quick to clarify, ‘I don’t just take pictures of him …’
Then, suddenly, she had an idea. Her photographs were miles better than the ones on the wall. ‘Here.’ She dug into her bag and withdrew a stack. ‘Look.’
The woman took som
e time flicking through the images.
‘These are good,’ she said. ‘Son muy buenos.’ She regarded Calida differently this time. ‘I am Paola Ortiz,’ she said. ‘Manager of this place.’
Calida gestured to the picture on the wall. ‘Is this you?’
Paola’s expression became wistful. ‘A long time ago.’
‘You were a brilliant dancer. I can tell.’
‘I was a young girl, then. Flying to the stars.’
She took a chance and said: ‘A bit like me.’
‘Oh?’
‘One day I might even reach them—if someone gives me a shot.’
Paola smiled. ‘What is it you want?’ she asked.
Calida lifted her chin. ‘A job.’
It was a paid evening slot, once a week. Calida captured the dancers’ movements, the drama and poise of the ritual, fluid and sharp and always irresistible. Once the photos were developed, Paola, with much admiration, selected the best. These were framed and put on sale in the tango hall—where they stayed for all of half an hour. Each time, Calida’s pictures sold out. She couldn’t think why she hadn’t considered it before. She was good at this; she could make a living from it. Probably because she’d never imagined making a living. Her life had been the estancia … but that was gone now.
A month passed before she approached Paola again. She’d had the idea of taking the audience’s portraits; gifts or souvenirs to carry home at the end of a show. Her suggestion was welcomed, and coincided with Paola introducing Friday night beginners’ dance classes, and soon enough Calida was spending all her time outside the pizza café either at El Antiguo or developing her pictures. It wasn’t long before her work was fed into the famous salon gallery; the very one she had sat and admired not twelve weeks before. She thought of Diego, and knew he’d be proud.
‘Adios, De Tanturri!’ Paola sang as she counted up the club’s takings.
Calida lived for the nights when Rodrigo was back. He danced at other clubs in town, but Paola liked to proclaim that his heart belonged to this place. Taking the ultimate portrait of him, the one that captured him absolutely, obsessed Calida. Nobody saw the flaws she did in her pictures—the angle of Rodrigo’s head, slightly too low, or the shadow on his cheekbone, a touch too deep—but she came to know her subject’s face as thoroughly as her own. Everything about him pulled her.
Teresita would like him.
That thought enticed her. The notion that Rodrigo had never met her twin—nobody here had, and thus had nothing against which to compare—was thrilling. For the first time, Calida was unique. There was only one of her. Her sister would never meet Rodrigo: she’d never be able to ruin him for Calida in the way she’d ruined Daniel. But the thought of her liking him, that invisible competition, drove her on.
You think I can’t be with a man like Rodrigo? Think again.
One evening she stayed late, slowly and deliberately packing her kit, and listening out for his movements. Finally, he emerged from his dressing room.
Just as she’d planned, they collided on their way out. The scent of his body was dizzying. White teeth sparkled in a deep-tan face.
‘Hello,’ said Rodrigo Torres. ‘So you are the photographer.’
Calida nodded. Rodrigo’s stare burned into her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Calida.’
Lightly, he touched her arm. A shiver travelled up to her collarbone.
‘Well, Calida …’ His voice was deep and commanding. ‘You must have passion in your soul to love the tango this much. I see you out there every night.’
Rodrigo put a thumb to her chin and lifted it. The gesture was achingly intimate. ‘I see passion in your eyes,’ he said, ‘and I like it.’
Calida returned his stare. She fought the urge to go weak, to surrender to her nerves. But she stood strong. As strong as him. She was passionate, all right.
‘What do you like?’ Rodrigo asked, so quiet it was almost a whisper.
‘I’d like to do what you do,’ she said.
21
London
Tess closed her textbook—American Political History: A Concise Encyclopaedia—and yawned. She reached over the bed for a cigarette and speculated on how any tome over eight hundred pages long could possibly call itself concise.
Final exams were hurtling towards her at breakneck speed. After a year of neglecting her studies, giving attitude to les professeurs and generally not bothering with school (Madame Hébert had insinuated that if it weren’t for la réputation de sa famille she would already have been expelled), she had to play catch up if she stood any chance of passing. Personally she couldn’t give a crap if she did or not, but Emily Chilcott had been swotting like mad and Tess refused to give her the satisfaction.
Blowing out smoke, she lay back on the pillows. Ordinarily she could count the seconds before Simone’s tread ascended the stairs and a sharp voice cawed, ‘Put that damn thing out!’ But, today, Simone was otherwise occupied. She and Brian were attending a restaurant opening in Marble Arch and so she was busy with stylists.
Instead, another stomp of footsteps approached. Tess was stubbing out her Marlboro when the door slammed open. Simone had removed the lock at the start of the holidays. The other day, Tess had found a glossy in Simone’s bedroom, open on an article entitled YOUR TEENAGER AND YOU. Item one on a list of ‘Ways to bond with your child’ was ‘Remove barriers. Banish secrets. Open your door—and theirs.’
Emily Chilcott swept in. Her pastel-pink cut-off boasted a smooth, tanned belly, pierced with a diamond stud. At Tess’s dresser, she began ransacking jewellery.
‘Looking for something?’ asked Tess.
‘You shouldn’t smoke in here,’ carped Emily. ‘I’ll tell Simone.’
‘She knows anyway.’
‘Because you’re such a grown-up now …’ Emily smiled meanly. ‘Right?’
Tess decided her time at Sainte-Marthe had at least served some purpose. It had taught her all she needed to know about survival among bitches—and that with a little ingenuity and a lot of balls she could climb the greasy pole of social hierarchy as well as anyone else, wherever she’d come from. Simone liked to spout off about education but, as far as Tess was concerned, that was all the education she needed.
All the same, she couldn’t wait to get away from Emily and London. She was done with Europe; she wanted America. She didn’t intend to be like Lysander, inexplicably shackled to the mansion and raiding the family coffers despite failing to do any work of his own. Lysander talked about his plans to go abroad and pursue a career in landscape gardening, but so far nothing had come of it. Lysander talked well about a lot of things, Tess noticed, but did little about converting them into action.
‘It’s a waste of time, all that,’ commented Emily breezily.
At first Tess thought she was referring to Lysander. ‘What?’
‘Books. Exams. Getting grades. Simone’s got other plans.’
Tess enjoyed the note of resentment in her voice. ‘Maybe. But it’s my life.’
Emily snorted. ‘Bullshit. You’ll do whatever she says. You’re her pet, don’t you realise?’ How quickly a note became a symphony. ‘You’ll get everything. All this crap about how much Simone wants a daughter, blah-di-fucking-blah, and here I am all along and she never fucking notices because I don’t fucking count. She’ll make a star of you, Tess. But when I asked for acting lessons? When I told her I’d go to that junket thingy when you were away?’ She honked a laugh out of her nose. ‘Fat chance.’
‘You don’t need her permission.’
‘Bullshit I don’t. She’s beyond the law. I’ll never get anywhere in this or any other town. All it takes is a call and I’m dead meat. After all, I’m not her daughter.’
Tess shrugged. ‘Neither am I.’
‘You’d better not let her hear you say that.’ But Emily’s tone had waned and she regarded Tess now with a tentative solidarity. ‘Get on the wrong side of that witch and you’ve had it.
Look at my dad. He might as well have his balls in storage.’
Tess smiled at this because she’d never heard Emily speak like this before. In fact, she’d never heard Emily speak at all without slagging her off.
‘He’s no help, but then what did I expect?’ Emily sat next to her. ‘I’ve always wanted to be an actress, and Dad’s, like, “One day, honey, soon.” He’s like a fucking dog on a chain when it comes to that bitch. Maybe she’s holding the BJs to ransom.’
Tess knew what it was like to dream of riches and celebrity. Before, they had represented escape. Now, they represented vengeance. She needed them.
‘You think you know half of what’s coming?’ Emily sulked. ‘You think going to a party or two qualifies you as a celebrity? Wait until you get to Hollywood and some fit A-lister’s screwing you in a bath full of Cristal and you’re high off your tits and you’re crapping hundred-dollar bills and then tell me it isn’t the most extreme, thrilling, fucked-up-bloody-amazing ride of your life. Dad got me a movie when I was twelve, some dumb thing about an alien dog. It was shit but it was enough to give me a taste. I know it’s the life I want.’ Emily reached for the pack of cigarettes and flicked two out. She switched the light and caught them both at once. She passed one to Tess.
Tess took it. The girls smoked in silence. Vera called up that supper was served and Emily ground hers out and made for the door, their confidence broken.
‘So there’s this thing called Facebook,’ Emily told Tess the following week. ‘All my girls are on it. It’s a way to connect with people, see what they’re doing, who’s dating who, that kind of thing.’ They sat in front of Brian’s Mac. ‘Here. It’s easy. Sign up.’
Tess began typing her name.
‘No, you idiot! Not your real name, duh.’
‘What, then?’
Emily typed in TITTY MCSHITTY and giggled behind her hand, before Tess smacked her and told her not to be a dick. She corrected it. ‘How about this?’
‘Tessa Chilcott,’ Tess read. ‘But no one’s going to know it’s me.’