Two to Tango (Nick Madrid)

by Peter Guttridge

  Otis left the floor and went into the back bar with his dance partner, a pretty young woman who I was pretty sure wasn't Conchita. More salsa came on.

  "You wanna dance this weeth me?"

  It was the woman who had been eying me up at the bar. She was tall and statuesque with long black hair tied in a plait down her back and large brown eyes. She was tapping her foot and looking at me coquettishly.

  I looked at the ferocious swirl of bodies, fast foot shuffling and heel stamping going on all around me.

  "I don't think it's exactly me," I said.

  "Sure eet is," she said, taking my hand and leading me onto the dance floor.

  There's something very sensual about salsa-it's almost impossible not to look sexy dancing it. Almost impossible. It's my long legs and arms you see. Dancing to British music I usually look like a drunken spider. Dancing this stuff if my hips had the rhythm the rest of my body didn't. It didn't help that I'm so supple from the yoga-it just made me rubber-legged.

  I laughed good-naturedly as the woman laughed at me-I'm used to it, unhappily. At the end of the dance she took me back to the bar. I was just about to offer her a drink when I saw her smile nervously at someone behind me. I looked round.

  A tall, slim man in an expensive suit was standing there.

  "Hey, iiomo rosso you dance with my girlfriend," he said.

  "No, thank you, I already have a dance partner."

  "You dance with my girlfriend," he said more fiercely and I realized he was referring to the woman I'd been partnering in the salsa.

  Hmmm. I could see where this was headed. Did I imagine the hush falling over the room?

  I could either fight or run. Aside from the fact I can't fight, I was working on the assumption that every man in Bogota was linked somehow to a drug cartel, that he was armed and very dangerous, that he was a callous killer.

  How to get out of this whilst maintaining my dignity-or, more to the point, my life? I wasn't sure my usual tactic-grovelling and pleading-would work here. In this country the bad guys cut off your hands and feet then beat you up for not getting out of their sight quickly enough.

  I glanced quickly down at my big feet-part of the problem with my dancing perhaps. Tony Hancock had once referred to his as anarchists of the body since he didn't seem to have control over them-but this wasn't perhaps the time to dwell on that.

  "Hi man, need a hand here," a familiar voice said from somewhere alongside me. It was Ralph.

  Seldom have I been happier to see an almost total stranger. The South American cupped his balls unconsciously and looked belligerently at the big yank. Ralph, standing easy, returned his gaze then said something in Spanish. The other guy said something back.

  They talked for about five minutes, both making gestures at me, the South American's hand straying down to his crotch to make regular adjustments. Finally the guy shrugged and walked away. The woman meekly followed.

  "What did you say to him?" I said.

  "Told him I was your nurse. That you had a mental age of eight."

  "That was pushing it wasn't it? He fell for that?"

  "He thought more like five. Now where the fuck has Otis got to? Jesus it is like looking after a bunch of children."

  I left whilst Ralph went over and removed Otis from the attentions of three or four amorous women of a certain age and a certain profession. I half walked, half ran back to the hotel. Bogota made me very nervous.

  When I woke up in the morning my red face wasn't much better. It looked very angry. I went along the corridor to Bridget's room. I saw a familiar figure turning the corner at the far end of the corridor.

  I knocked. A moment later Bridget, in her dressing gown, opened the door wide.

  "What have you forgot-oh it's you."

  "Did I just see Richard?" I said, walking past her into the room.

  "I don't know-did you?" She gestured at my face. "Who's doing the face painting?"

  "I thought you said he wasn't your type?"

  "I did, didn't l?"

  "You two have had sex?" I said, surprised that I felt odd about it.

  "We wheezed a little together yeah. More for the companionship than anything." She dropped into a chair by the window. "You have a problem with that?"

  "No, no," I said. suddenly embarrassed. Flustered I grabbed a brochure from the coffee table. It was in English and Spanish. I looked at it for a moment then at Bridget.

  "Why've you got a brochure for a plastic surgery clinic?"

  "Just something I picked up," she said airily. Too airily.

  "Bridget?" She shuffled in her seat. It was her turn to be embarrassed.

  "You get these everywhere," she said. "This is the country of drive-in plastic surgery. Way ahead on laser treatment for shortsightedness. They're nuts for it."

  "Presumably got the expertise giving Nazi war criminals new identities at the end of the Second WorldWar.They probably have templates. I'd like a Mengele, please, without the ears."

  I put the brochure down.

  "You're really considering plastic surgery?" I said. She shifted in her seat again. "Bloody hell, Bridget you're a bit young for that-you're only thirty-four aren't you?"

  "Give or take," Bridget said.

  "But what could you want doing?"

  "Well, nothing really, but I hate to miss a bargain"

  "Hang on-is this why you wanted to come to Colombia in the first place?"

  "No, of course not, I just thought while I was here-and anyway I haven't made my mind up."

  I had a sudden insight-they happen to me sometimesbased on her essentially devious nature.

  "You never were going to Cartagena were you? You were checking in somewhere incognito to have some stuff done."

  "So?" she said defensively.

  "But Bridget, you're beautiful!"

  "You should see my thighs. And look at this sagging jawline. And you should see my eyes without make-up. Not to mention the thread veins."

  "Exercise. More sleep. Less booze."

  "Exercise? I suppose you want me to do your yoga do you? Don't forget I've seen what you look like when you're doing it."

  I do this remarkable yoga-astanga vinyasa-that is very energetic, very sweaty. I get so hot I usually end up looking like a boiled sweet.

  Bridget had an aversion to exercise and was scathing about those who did it.

  "Anyway, I haven't done it. I backed out and came down the Amazon with you-and look where that got me"

  "So you're not going to have it done now?"

  "Don't think so."

  "You're coming on the tour?"

  "What's the schedule?"

  "There's a bit more time than on your usual rock tour.A couple of days in Bogota, couple in Lima, Cusco, then Macchu Picchu."

  "Think I'll hang out in Bogota a bit-maybe join you in Cusco."

  "You are going to do it then?"

  "Maybe," Bridget said awkwardly.

  She flushed a little.

  "I seem to be attracting younger men and well they like you to be in shape."

  "Richard's not fussy-he'll have any old boiler," I said without thinking.

  My ear was still ringing when I left Bridget. Richard had set it up for me to interview Otis over lunch. But when I got to the bar there was nobody there but Otis's girlfriend Conchita sitting with three other striking Latin American women.

  Bob Dylan was leaning over Conchita, taking a lingering look down her admittedly very exposed cleavage. At least it was a guy who looked just like Bob Dylan circa Highway 61 Revisited-long, wavy hair combed straight back, shades, the same hollow-cheeks.

  When I got closer I realized this guy was a good twenty five years older than Dylan would have been back then. However, I quickly realized the Dylan look was deliberate.

  "So," he was saying. "Little lady looks like she's stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues again."

  Conchita looked up at him. I was thinking that's just what this tour needs-a Dylan nut. He started to sing-ba
dly.

  "She makes love just like a woman but she breaks just like a little girl-" he suddenly resumed his speaking voice-"you see it right there, man does that dude know the innermost places of all our beings or what?"

  His accent was one of those phony mid-Atlantic ones British DJs used to favor before Cockney conquered all. I realized who he was-Benny, Otis's long ago bass player now playing percussion with the Fertile Lands. Since I knew he came from Stoke on Trent his drawl lacked a certain authenticity.

  "What you know about the way I make love?" Conchita hissed at him.

  "He's quoting," I said.

  "All I'm saying is you look like the sad-eyed lady of the lowlands to me. I was you I wouldn't put up with no shit from that Otis-I mean what is this-fourth time around?"

  "Is Blonde on Blonde the only album you know?" I said.

  Perry grinned-he obviously had fun doing this.

  "Just pledging my time to the little lady, though I know ma'am that most likely you'll go your way, I'll go mine."

  "You darn tootin' there, meester," Conchita said.

  "I'm just letting you know you got a tight connection to my heart," he said, winking at me. Okay, so he did know other albums.

  "Yeah?" said Conchita, a wicked smile on her face. She stuck a finger in the air, its long purple nail some half an inch long.

  "See this? Swivel on it why doncha?"

  Benny straightened and started to walk away.

  "Mighty kind offer, mighty kind," he said. "But I think I'll pass on that just now."

  I looked down at Conchita. I was willing to give odds on her in a ruckus with Bridget. I introduced myself.

  "Hi Nick, Otis is running a little late.These are my friends-a group of Latin American artists all exploring the traditional association of Latin America with the female body."

  "Is there a traditional association?" I said.

  "Sure thing-what do Westerners think of when they think of South America-half naked girls dancing in the carnival."

  Personally I thought of llamas but I didn't want to be misunderstood so I said nothing.

  "Beauty contests," Conchita went on. "We take beauty contests so seriously wars have been fought about them."

  I nodded, thinking about Bridget and her plastic surgery.

  "This is Cesar," Conchita said to me indicating a buxom woman in a mannish trouser suit. "She does a performance in which she invites the audience to eat a life-size body made of jelly. Stuffed with tropical fruit, presented on an operating table. Invited to eat your favorite parts until figure has disappeared."

  "How ... innovative."

  "You should try my wobbly bits," she said, giving me an up-from-under look.

  "Indeed." I smiled. "And what do you do?" I said to the next one, sounding alarmingly like Prince Charles trying to be at one with his people.

  "I have a three-day performance in which I go through the everyday cycle of waking, eating, and watching TV until it becomes a poetic ritual. I'm a living relic, creating an installation from the trace of my presence."

  "I'm sure you are."

  The final one wasArgentinian. Her performance consisted of filling a room with maize as a repayment of the Argentinian foreign debt to Margaret Thatcher.You see why I prefer movies?

  They left shortly after.

  "Otis is sleeping off his hangover. Why don't we start lunch and he can join us when he gets up?"

  Conchita led the way out onto the terrace. She was a beautiful woman and all the waiters were agog to see her. They gave us a table for three. When we were settled and had ordered our meals, I said:

  "Otis caused quite a lot of controversy with his remarks about you yesterday. How did you feel about him talking about you like that?"

  "He is a little boy-he likes to shock. I was not insulted. It was the men in my country who would like to be the ones in my bed-they were the ones who were insulted because they are jealous."

  "Interesting point of view," I said, bemused by her logic.

  The waiter came. She ordered in rapid Spanish.

  "What was that you ordered?"

  "Bull's testicles."

  There was silence that I felt the need to fill.

  "So you tried to cut off his,

  "His what-his pizzle?" She waved the knife in her hand absently in the air. "Sure-I grew up on a farm. By the age of twelve I know how to turn a stud stallion into a gelding."

  "Fancy," I said, squeezing my thighs together.

  "What are you doin', woman?" a voice said.

  I looked up. Otis loomed over me, an angry expression on his face. In his anger he had reverted to his Scottish accent. His face was flushed and his eyes were bulging and bloodshot. I couldn't help also noticing that he had shoulders like a bull and forearms like ham.

  She bridled at his tone.

  "Having lunch, what it look like?"

  "Who's he?" he said gesturing with his thumb without looking at me.

  "Er-" I said, not because I didn't know who I was but because I was surprised by his hostility. Conchita's eyes flashed.

  "My lover, of course, we're having a romantic meal together."

  "Er-" (That was me again.)

  "So I can fuckin' see," he said, loud enough for people at the other tables to turn and look our way.

  "Go fuck yourself why doncha?" Conchita piped up helpfully. "I have lunch with whoever I wan.You sleep all day, thass my problem?"

  He looked at me now but snarled at her.

  "Shut it, woman."

  I was sure he was going to hit me and I was trying to figure out how to get up from the table before he did so. Not to fight him, to defend myself. Or preferably to run like hell.

  "It's not how it seems-" I started to say.

  He held the palm of his hand up in front of my face in a stop right there gesture. His eyes bulged.

  "And you shut it too, you long streak of piss"

  I wanted to say I wasn't accustomed to being talked to like that. Sadly, it's not true. I'm always being talked to like that-the world seems to be full of belligerent men, most of whom take a dislike to me.

  Otis pulled the third chair out and sat down heavily. I clutched my dessert spoon more tightly.Well, no, I'd never heard of anyone successfully defending themselves from an angry gorilla with a piece of cutlery but I had few options.

  His big red hands, with their heavy scarring on the knuckles, were bunched into fists.

  I was temporarily distracted by wondering how he could play such delicate guitar-he often finger-picked in the classical way without using a plectrum-with such thick fingers. Only temporarily though.

  "I was supposed to be havinglunch withyou but you didn't show so Conchita offered to keep me company until you did show"

  "Yeah, Conchita would. She likes keeping company with nien-the more the merrier."

  It depressed me no end to discover that this guy who's music I loved was turning out to be such a pig. I hated his shitty attitude to women.

  And sometimes you've just got to make a stand against it. I looked at the way his muscles were bunched in his shoulders and biceps, at the rage in his face. Of course, my stand didn't have to be now.

  Unfortunately my mouth often tends to work independently of my brain.

  "You're an objectionable excuse for a man aren't you, you bullying fuck."

  I heard the words a split second before I realized they had issued from my mouth. I didn't catch his reply. But then the ringing in my ears, the clatter of my chair as it fell over backwards, and the crockery cascade off the table as I dragged the tablecloth with me drowned everything else out.

  I'd seen the Bogota national stadium on my way in from the airport. It gave me the chills because I associated sports stadia in South America with human rights violations, useful for herding together political dissidents and opponents of repressive regimes.

  The Bogota stadium was the place where in some future civil upheaval the Colombian opposition would be sequestered, tortured, then slaughtered.<
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  I looked across at Otis and Conchita sitting side by side in the back seat of the limo. All friends again.

  Otis hadn't knocked me out but he had sent me flying.When I struggled to my feet-still clutching my spoon, one part of my brain was amused to observe-Ralph had already appeared from nowhere and was standing over me.

  I looked beyond him to where Otis was still sitting at the table, a mirthless grin on his face.

  I got to my feet, shedding shards of crockery, and made a move towards him. Ralph blocked my way. My ears were ringing and the right side of my face felt both numb and hot. I made to go past Ralph.

  "Let me at him," I growled, "I'll fucking kill him."

  Ralph held me back-thank God. I mean I had to make a show of anger but I knew Otis could do me serious damage if I tried anything. So I said a couple of other tough guy things, struggled-but not too much-to get out of Ralph's grip.

  When he decided my honor had been salved Ralph raised an eyebrow at me and let me go. This guy knew me too well. I looked around. Waiters were hovering. The few other diners in the restaurant at that time of day were watching these mad foreigners with interest. Conchita merely sipped her drink, watching me through narrowed eyes.

  Otis's anger seemed to have dissipated when I resumed my seat.

  "A little slap across the face-didn't take much, did it, pal?" he commented matter of factly.

  "Yeah well I don't judge a man by how fast he is with his fists."

  "Oh yeah?" He leered. "How do you judge him then?" He grabbed his tackle. "By the size of his Johnson?"

  "You better hope not, Otis, or you in big trouble," Conchita said.

  Otis flashed a look at her but a moment later burst out laughing.

  Just then Richard arrived and calmed everybody down. He got Otis to apologize to me, which he did in a very winning way and then invited me to travel with Otis and Conchita out to the national stadium for the sound-check.

  Which is where I was headed now.

  I was sitting in one of the bucket seats facing back in the limo. The other was occupied by Otis's manager, Horace.

  I was quite enjoying the ride. I'd never been in a stretch lino before and certainly not one that was bomb proof. Ralph was sitting up front with a machine pistol in his lap.The driver was also armed.