Tango

by Alan Judd

  ‘Not yet,’ said Theresa.

  ‘After tonight, then?’

  ‘It’s not certain.’

  There was a chorus of good-natured disbelief.

  When the hand was clean she took Wiliam to the room where the four-piece band was playing a rumba. Three couples were dancing. More couples and a number of single women sat at tables at the side.

  Theresa led him to a separate table. ‘You can wait a while?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They will bring you a drink. I cannot talk now. I will come and talk later.’

  More people came in. Men asked some of the girls to dance and after a while he noticed that there seemed to be a high turnover in girls. Some were danced with once only, others for several dances, others disappeared with the men. More couples came and stayed together, then more men and girls who came and danced and went. William assumed they were prostitutes but couldn’t be sure. It was true that some held the eye for a fraction longer than normal, but perhaps that was because he was doing the same. It was true, too, that some had a knowing look but then almost all women were entitled to that, so far as he was concerned. Being married had taught him little. He and Sally had gone out with each other in the usual way but after the initial excitement had worn off they had got engaged instead of finishing, at the very time they had become bored with each other. It had added excitement, progress, focus to the relationship.

  He had been grateful to her for marrying him and afterwards had begun to love her. He didn’t know whether she really loved him. She used to say she did, and there were times when he thought she must, but most of the time – and especially now – she seemed to accept his being there in the simple unreflecting way in which she might have accepted a brother. By being careful with each other, they got on well enough.

  A waiter appeared with a tray and a tall glass. He gave a glacial smile and put the glass very precisely on William’s table. The drink had ice and lemon in it and was very cold.

  More people came. A cha-cha caused a crowded floor. The dancers smiled, talking and swinging their hips ostentatiously. William sipped his drink, resenting the grace of the slim-hipped men; they were disagreeably feline. The women, more generously hipped, danced with a rhythm which involved little movement, depending for its effectiveness on the time between movements. He realised he was staring rather fixedly only when he noticed the guitar-player doing the same. The man was sitting upright except for his head which projected forward to an unnatural degree. He had an expression of concentrated gloom. It was impossible to tell whether he was focusing on what he saw, or saw nothing. His long fingers wandered expertly across the strings. The dancers laughed and swung their hips. William permitted one foot to tap.

  An infusion of yet more people on to the floor, a crowd who had come in together, raised the tempo and temperature. William was still staring at the staring guitarist when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You do not have to be a spectator. Here even un Inglés who is married can enjoy himself.’ Ricardo smiled.

  William stood quickly as if caught out. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Ricardo laughed. ‘I should ask you that question. I have come to dance. But you?’ He held up his hand. ‘You have come for Ines and Theresa?’

  ‘No, not just that, I was helping—’

  ‘Do not worry, you are not the only man who comes for this reason.’ He turned to a girl at his side. ‘Maria, this is William. He is my very English partner.’

  Maria was small, pretty and dark. They shook hands and William moved his duffel-coat from one of the free chairs. The hammer clonked against the table. ‘Won’t you sit down? There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘Yes, but first we will dance. We are with others but we will all join you and you can dance with Maria.’ Ricardo smiled again. ‘Then you need not feel guilty. You look very married tonight, William.’

  William smiled back. ‘I am.’

  For Ricardo dancing was an exhibition, his partner a necessary prop. He curled and cavorted, swayed and swung, taking up more room than anyone else. It was a good exhibition, energetic and graceful, but vitiated by being a performance. He danced as if before a mirror and William soon wearied of watching. Instead he watched Maria, who at least was trying to dance with her partner, her movements modest but responsive. William’s attention was again distracted by the guitarist, whose stare was fixed in its concentration or vacuity.

  When the cha-cha finished another table was pulled alongside, more chairs gathered, drinks ordered. Ricardo’s companions were boisterous with each other and elaborately polite and uninterested with William. Ricardo continued to call him his ‘English partner’, implying inferior status. Maria smiled and was quiet. William exchanged smiles with her but did not speak. The music and the clamour of rapid simultaneous conversations strained his Spanish.

  Ricardo lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. ‘Does your wife know you are here?’

  ‘Of course, yes. I came to help Theresa start her car. I told her.’

  ‘Of course, yes, to start her car.’ Ricardo smiled. ‘Does Theresa know you are married?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, no, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, anyway; it’s not like that.’

  Ricardo put his hand on William’s shoulder again. ‘Maybe you forgot to mention it, yes? It has slipped your mind. But William, I have news for you: you have competition for that woman.’

  ‘I’m not in competition for her.’

  ‘Big competition. From the president himself. He is coming here tonight. If he likes her, he will take her as his mistress. It is her big chance.’

  ‘Good for her.’

  He tried to sound nonchalant. No doubt this was what Box would call an opportunity. It was important not to show too much interest. He looked around. ‘Who owns this place?’

  Ricardo pointed to the staring guitarist. ‘He does. He is a very rich man who never spends anything unless it is to earn something. Your predecessor, Señor Wicks, used to make arrangements with him. The best girls are here.’

  ‘Does he always play the guitar?’

  ‘When he wishes. It is a hobby for him. And the girls here, they are examined medically and have to audition just to work. They cannot come in off the street. He is a very strict man. He is famous for his money and his principles.’

  ‘Does he always stare like that?’

  ‘Always. He is famous for it. He is known as una lagarta – in English, El Lizard.’

  ‘How do you know the president is coming?’

  ‘Ines told me.’

  ‘You know Ines?’ It seemed that everyone knew everyone in this city.

  Ricardo grinned. ‘Of course.’

  There was a growing sense of expectancy. More people crowded in, the curtain was drawn back to reveal the further width of the stage, extra tables were set out. El Lizard gave his guitar to another man and went off with a uniformed man who wore white gloves. William recognised some of the girls he had seen in the dressing-room. They were taller than most women and wore long shimmering dresses with slits up the sides. They moved through the dancers with regal disdain, concerning themselves with preparations on stage or with each other or with the white-gloved supervisor. William could see neither Ines nor Theresa.

  The music and dancing stopped abruptly, conversation with it. Everyone stood as the presidential party entered in silence. Carlos Calvaros was more colourfully uniformed than in the market and wore more decorations. He looked slimly and smilingly perfect but for the threatened indiscipline of his mouth. There was about half a dozen with him, all officers, among them Manuel Herrera and two portly men whose uniforms were more sober. It was a few moments before William recognised the Russian insignia; he had never seen Russians before.

  El Lizard led the party to their tables, his expression unchanged and his head projected nearly a foot before his body. When the band struck up the national anthem the presidential party stood to attention and saluted in the Russian, or Na
zi, style. The anthem-lasted six minutes and there was palpable relief when it finished.

  The president waved his non-saluting arm. ‘Please – continue.’

  Everyone sat, the band struck up again, conversation resumed, but no one danced. William faced the presidential party across the empty floor. Without wanting to, he caught Manuel’s eye. Manuel inclined his head and said something to the president, who looked across with raised eyebrows and smiled. The two plump Russians stared.

  ‘Now you can dance with Maria,’ Ricardo whispered.

  William shook his head. ‘Not on an empty floor in front of them.’ He turned back to Ricardo. ‘Perhaps you should dance? You do it so well.’

  ‘I know. It would give them great pleasure to see me dance. But it is not me they have come to see. They want samba.’

  ‘Can’t you samba?’

  ‘Not in this way. Wait.’

  There was a roll of drums and the lights were dimmed, except those on stage. The drums stopped, paused, and began again with a fast samba rhythm. It was throbbing insistent music, like a fast stream that swirled, tumbled, convoluted and turned back on itself while rushing onward, ever onward. It was the kind of music William usually resisted but now he could feel his stomach tighten.

  The back-stage curtains parted and first one girl, then another, then another entered dancing. Soon there was a dozen of them spread across the stage and off it, flowing down the steps on either side on to the dance floor. They were the girls William had seen earlier, all now in their long tight dresses with slits up the sides and frilly tops. Their samba, little more than a shuffle of the feet and a motion of the hips, was mesmeric. Holding their arms high, they shimmered over stage and floor. Led by Carlos, people started clapping rhythmically. Gradually the girls sorted themselves into two vibrating lines which led down the sides of the floor and focused on the stage. William could see neither Theresa nor Ines. He sat at the edge of the floor, his head very close to the pullulating hips of the nearest dancer. Ricardo was still talking.

  There was a drum crescendo and then silence. One of the Russians shouted something. Carlos smiled politely at him and turned back to the stage. Manuel sat unsmiling but the other officers all acknowledged the Russian. The silence continued.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ricardo. His words carried and one or two of the presidential party looked across. The dancer next to William shifted on her feet and her tight dress rustled. Like all the others, she wore a carnation at the point where the slit in her skirt exposed her stocking top. Ricardo nudged William, indicating that he should stretch forward and take it.

  The silence was tense and was becoming oppressive when the drummer began again, very slowly, very softly, a gentle suggestive momentum. The curtains parted and Theresa and Ines samba’d slowly on to the stage. Ines wore shimmering white and Theresa a tight-fitting black dress that flared out from her hips. Each danced down one line of girls, who themselves began gyrating again on the spot. Both were stunning and flamboyant but Theresa, to William’s eye, gave the impression of something extra, something hidden, something kept back. Her eyes were veiled by black gauze, leaving only her lips visible. Her movements were hardly more than suggestions. The essence seemed to be not in the movements themselves but in something between and behind, a kind of latent prolonged explosion, imminent, hinted at, not quite occurring.

  When they reached the end of the lines they began leading the other girls back and round, then across and through each other. The drum tempo increased and the rest of the band joined in. The girls seemed to be going anywhere and everywhere, to no pattern but to an irresistible rhythm. They coalesced, separated, circled, came together, all the time shuffling, advancing, hesitating, withdrawing in seamless liquid movement. William kept making himself look away from Theresa but each time his eyes came back to her. It was as when he had first noticed her – she was too blatantly attractive, she ought not to be real. As the pace of the dance increased she moved even less, her feet just inching forward, her lips slightly parted, her outstretched arms quite still, her hips in hypnotic coaxial rotation.

  After another crescendo, the dance ceased. The girls stood as they were, all smiling, surrounded now by clapping, whistling and whooping. The president stood to clap and soon everyone was standing. Carlos and his party walked among the girls, talking and smiling. The band began a sedate cha-cha and dancing restarted. Carlos danced with Theresa, one of the Russians with Ines. The Russian was not as tall as Ines and stood indignantly upright. Herrera remained at the table. William looked to see whether Ricardo would dance, but he was saying something to Maria, possibly his apologies since he then, with a quick grin at William, got up and selected one of the dancers.

  The president and Theresa were in the middle of the floor, a wide space around them. Carlos talked all the time. Theresa was attentive and smiling, her movements graciously confined to his. William did not want to look at them. Ines was firing salvoes of delight at her Russian, who was either more than usually clumsy or slightly the worse for drink. Several times he made as if to come closer and missed, like a ship in heavy seas. Ricardo performed around a slim mulatto, repeatedly spinning her or himself and then basking again in her wide admiring gaze. Manuel sat smoking a cigar. William again inadvertently caught his eye. Manuel smiled and let the smoke seep from his mouth.

  William supposed he should go over and talk to him; that was what Box would want. Box would no doubt say that Willaim’s aim for the evening should now be a conversation with Carlos, not – as at the begining – simply seeing Theresa. The aim would be best achieved by talking to Manuel, so as to be at the table when the president returned. Perhaps Theresa would be there, on her way to Carlos’s bed, and he could strengthen his claim to her acquaintance with a view to making use of her later. Box would be well pleased with such an evening’s work. The thought of it depressed William. He wanted to talk to Theresa but not to anyone else. It was time he got back to Sally.

  ‘Wooding.’

  The tone was instantly reminiscent of school. Carlos stood before him, holding Theresa’s hand. He looked pleased with himself.

  ‘I understand you are helpful with cars. Can you be helpful on the dance floor? It would not do for the president to be seen dancing all evening with the same lady, however much he might wish to’ – his lips slackened into a smile – ‘and so I wonder if you would take care of her for a while? I must talk to my boring guests. Please deliver her to me when you have finished. She knows how to dance, I can guarantee that.’ He gave Theresa’s hand to William, bowed slightly and walked back to his table.

  William kept hold of Theresa’s hand. He could see her eyes through the veil but not their expression.

  ‘Do you really want to dance?’ he asked.

  ‘You must not think about what I want. I don’t.’

  ‘We don’t have to dance.’

  ‘We do.’

  She led him on to the floor and began a gentle cha-cha. They danced with each other very carefully. William could remember the steps so long as he did not think about them.

  ‘I’m sorry if you’ve been forced into this,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ Her lips parted in a quick smile. ‘I like to dance with you, William.’

  ‘But also I mean – all the rest. I don’t want to be in your way.’

  ‘You are not in my way.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He was seized by a spasm of resentment. ‘It’s your big chance, tonight, I know. To be the mistress of the president is . . .’

  ‘Much money.’

  They touched fingertip to fingertip as she turned under his arm. Her movements matched his. Not by the smallest flourish did she betray how much better she was, but to his fingertips she felt cold and detached.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Please understand’ – her lips were set firm and she paused while she turned away from him – ‘it is not my big chance. It is not for me.’

&
nbsp; Most of the president’s party were now back at their table, smoking cigars and surveying the dancers with complacent propriety. The president said something and they all laughed. The Russian was still cavorting with Ines, who gave the appearance of enjoying herself hugely even when he staggered and she had to support him. The president pointed his cigar at them and said something else. His companions laughed again. Nearby, Ricardo was executing increasingly flamboyant manoeuvres around his smiling mulatto. At the end of each he would kick one leg in the air and spin on the other. William looked across for Maria, Ricardo’s companion. She was talking to others at his table, her back to the dance-floor.

  The cha-cha stopped. William stood back so that Theresa could leave the floor. The band began a tango.

  ‘You can tango?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to.’

  They clasped each other, joined from knee to breast-bone. A friendly dance, his instructor in London had called it. She pressed herself confidently against him but was so light in her movements that it was as if he had only his own to think about. They went through the smooth – staccato, slow – quick steps with an ease he did not think he had.

  ‘Are you sure Carlos won’t mind?’ he asked.

  She was looking back over his shoulder, her head turned away from the direction of dance. ‘Perhaps it is good for him to mind a little. You dance well.’

  ‘I think that’s you.’

  ‘No, you are better than most, even most here.’

  ‘I love the tango.’

  ‘So do I. Anyway, I don’t mind if he minds.’

  ‘Why are you doing it – you know, with him?’

  ‘Not for myself.’

  ‘Why do it, then, unless you are compelled? You could just refuse.’ Box, he thought, would not have approved.

  ‘I am not compelled. I am determined.’ Her lips set firmly again.

  The floor was less crowded than before but there were still too many for a proper tango. William kept having to hold back and at one point seemed unable to get away from Ricardo. Each way he turned, the floor was blocked by Ricardo’s exotic steps which came closer to gymnastics than to any normal dance. The mulatto girl looked either entranced or dazed. Twice they nearly collided with Ines and her Russian, who continued to lurch around the floor. Ines’s face was creased into a wide, fixed smile. Out of context, it would have been impossible to tell whether she was laughing or screaming.