The Gods of Tango: A Novel
Page 37
But all of that would come later.
Now, at Dante’s death, she washed the body herself and clothed it so that no one would discover the secret her beloved had carried all his life, following his instructions to the letter. Only you, Dante had told her, more times than was necessary, if I go first I don’t want anyone to see me but you. I see you, you bastard, Rosa thought as she sponged the wrinkled body, I see you, all of you, this corner and that curve, that flap of skin that was so taut when we were young, I watched it pucker and stretch over the years and after all this time I still want to touch it, how could you leave me, selfish brute, you should have bought a coffin with room for two. She lay her head down on Dante’s naked chest and closed her eyes, as if that could lock the tears in. It could not. When the sobs subsided, a strange feeling settled over her, a vast and preternatural calm, and she rubbed the tears into Dante’s skin and finished her task with steady hands.
By the time the doctor arrived, the corpse was dressed and laid out in its coffin. Rosa had taken care of everything: neatly groomed hair, hands clasped gently over a crisp tuxedo, the bow tie perfectly straight, a letter from Dante on the kitchen table, requesting that his remains go undisturbed. The doctor, a good friend of Rosa and Dante’s who’d seen them through two decades of winter flus, was happy to confirm the cause of death without violating the unusual wishes of the deceased. The funeral was crowded with well-wishers from the tango world, their neighborhood, from all of Montevideo, and all of them agreed that Dante made a good-looking dead man. How about that, Dante? Rosa thought at the corpse as the coffin lid closed for the last time with a tidy click like the clasp of an instrument case. Just what you wanted.
The corpse remained silent.
But silence, Rosa thought an hour later as she watched the coffin sink into its tomb, is a kind of music too. It was a clear cold day, the sky so blue it might be outlawed any moment for its beauty. Music is composed of silence too, and now her Dante was wrapped up in a shroud of it, I did that, Dante, I wove the shroud for you. Go home, querido. You should have stayed longer, I want four hundred years with you and more, but fine, all right, you can go and I’ll stay here, not four hundred years but for however long this aging body lets me, and while I’m here I’ll remember everything that’s wrapped in there with you and won’t ever be spoken—the shape of you, what we did, what we made, our songs and you bastard you sweet bastard how we sang them, how we laughed at the Fates, wildly, madly, as if the world were ours, what a sound, Dante, can you still hear it?
Acknowledgments
Huge thanks—I mean truly roaring waves of thanks—to all the people and institutions named below:
In Italy: the staff of the Rhegium Julii Prize—especially Giuseppe Casile, Josephine Condemi, and Mario Musolino—for their marvelous hospitality in Reggio Calabria, including that unforgettable trip to Scylla. Domenico Chieffallo, historian of Italian migration to the Americas, for so generously opening his home and sharing his books. My relatives in Salerno and Prepezzano, for opening their arms and lives to me, for everywhere they took me, for their exuberant support of my research: Alfredo and Rosanna Grimaldi; Alessandro and Nicola Grimaldi; Giuseppe, Stella, and Mariolino Grimaldi; Liana Basso; and all their partners and children.
In Uruguay, where I lived for a year and a half while writing this book: the Fulbright Commission, for opening doors to my wife and, by extension, our whole family. Patricia Vargas at Fulbright, for her grace and unflagging support. Gabi Renzi and Zara Cañiza for their generosity, their profound friendship, and the many revelations over mate. Tomás Olivera Chirimini, who is a living, breathing encyclopedia of Afro-Uruguayan and Afro-Argentinean history, as well as a remarkable man. Alejandro Giussi, my violin teacher, whose passion for tango history is matched only by his generosity in sharing it. Mario Gulla, violinist for the band El Club de Tobi, for his time and his deep insights into his instrument. Darío González Galeano, for the best private tango dance lessons a girl with two left feet could ever ask for. Sergio Ortuño and Patricia Fernández of Triangulación Kultural, for their work, welcome, and vision. Ramón Farías, Jr., Ramón Farías, Sr., and Movimiento de Integración Afro Arachana for the invitation to the town of Melo. The National Library, for access to essential texts. My aunt Mary Marazzi for the unending love and support.
In Argentina: my cousins and aunts and uncles, who accompanied me on investigative expeditions, engaged in sprawling conversations, advised me, loved me, inspired me, and brought Buenos Aires to life in a thousand ways. Daniel Batlla, Diego Batlla, Guadalupe López Ocón, Ester María López Ocón, Mónica López Ocón, Claudio Batlla, Graciela Uribarri, Susana Rodríguez, Carlos Salatino, Héctor Bonafina (you are missed), Horacio Bonafina, Gabriela Bonafina, Lucía Salatino, Sebastián Batlla, Malena Batlla, Fernando Batlla, Cecilia López, Mariana Hilbert, Ricardo Dubatti, and all their partners and children.
In the United States: I am deeply thankful to the National Endowment for the Arts, for its generous support during the writing of this book. Marcelo de León, historian of unparalleled talent and generosity, for probing facts and sources. Malena Kuss, for being kind enough to contribute her vast musicological expertise. Susan McClary, for opening the world of musicology to me so many years ago. Shanna Lo Presti, for the many years of creative support and exchange. Jessica Strauss, for reading deeply and for sparking so much. Others who read drafts, or did other things that mattered: Joyce Thompson, Luna Han, Alex Bratkievich, Micheline Aharonian Marcom, Laleh Khadivi, Margaret Benson Thompson, Pablo Palomino, Mũthoni Kiarie, Ed Ntiri, Jenesha de Rivera, Aya de León, and Joan Lester. And, of course, for so many reasons, my U.S. extended family, including Ceci De Robertis; Alex, Meg, Maia, and Henry De Robertis; Margo Edwards; John Harris (you are missed); and Carlos and Yvette Aldama.
In France: my aunt Cristina De Robertis, for her wonderful support, and for the inspiring work she and her husband, Henri Pascal, do on behalf of ríoplatense culture and a better world. Alfredo De Robertis, for everything he’s shown me about music, Buenos Aires, love, and the human soul.
In the world of publishing: Victoria Sanders, my beloved and peerless agent, as well as Chris Kepner and Bernadette Baker-Baughman for the miracles they work behind the scenes. Chandler Crawford, foreign agent, doer of many amazing things. My editor at Knopf, Carole Baron, for the sheer joy of our collaboration, and for her wisdom, skill, and generosity. Sonny Mehta, for his steadfast support. Kathy Zuckerman, Brittany Morrongiello, Ruth Reisner, Lexy Bloom, and Jaime de Pablos, for everything they do. All my international publishers, to whom I owe a great debt—particularly Susanne Kiesow and Julia Schade at Fischer Verlag, in Germany; Kjersti Herland Johnsen, Anne Iversen, Trygve Arlind, and Vebjørn Rogne at Schibsted Forlag, in Norway; and Elisabetta Migliavada and Francesca Rodella at Garzanti, in Italy.
In the historical ether: I am indebted to many, many authors and texts, particularly Juan Carlos Cáceres’s Tango negro and Francisco Canaro’s Mis memorias: mis bodas de oro con el tango. I am also indebted to Billy Tipton, jazz musician, for passing as a man for fifty years, and to his biographer, Diane Wood Middlebrook, for giving his story an eloquent voice. I bow humbly to Azucena Maizani, early tango singer, whose ground-breaking drag performances have been denied their place in tango history for too long (a taste can be found at www.youtube.com/watch?v=WJPfhwJur5k). And I also bow to all the musicians who made the tango what it is today through their sweat and passion and invention, in the Old Guard and before that, in the mysterious decades when the tango first formed. Many of these tangueros’ names are lost in time, but their contribution to world culture endures.
Finally, home. My two children, Rafael and Luciana, teach and inspire me every day. And if it weren’t for Pamela Harris, my first reader, soulmate, co-conspirator in matters large and small, this book would simply not exist. Gracias.
A Note About the Author
Carolina De Robertis is the internationally best-selling author of two previous novels, Perla and The Invisibl
e Mountain (a Best Book of 2009 according to the San Francisco Chronicle; O, The Oprah Magazine; and Booklist), and the recipient of Italy’s Rhegium Julii Prize and a 2012 fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Her books have been translated into sixteen languages. Her fiction and literary translations have appeared in Granta, Zoetrope: All-Story, and The Virginia Quarterly Review, among other publications. De Robertis grew up in a Uruguayan family that immigrated to England, Switzerland, and the United States. She lives in Oakland, California.
An A.A. Knopf Reading Group Guide
The Gods of Tango
by Carolina De Robertis
The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group’s discussion of The Gods of Tango, the mesmerizing new novel from award-winning author Carolina De Robertis.
Discussion Questions
1. The author presents three quotes in the epigraph to this novel. What does each mean, and how do they play off one another?
2. The initial scene shows Dante dying, before jumping back many years. How does this influence your interpretation of what follows?
3. On this page, Leda’s grandfather offers some advice: “All it takes is for your enemies to join forces with your unlucky stars and then suddenly there you are, encircled, nowhere to run, and what is there left for you to do? I’ll tell you what’s left, a simple choice. Either you can die right there or you can flee to another land and start a new life with nothing but your skin and what’s inside of it.” What scene, or scenes, is this foreshadowing? How does this advice relate to the underlying themes of the book?
4. Why does Leda’s father stop playing the violin after Cora’s suicide?
5. Mount Vesuvius is an emotional as well as a physical landmark for Leda. What does it represent?
6. Although this is clearly Leda’s story, at several points in the novel De Robertis shifts to another character’s point of view—for instance, Fausta’s as she and Leda are preparing to disembark in Argentina. What purpose does this serve?
7. Why doesn’t Leda go back to Italy as soon as she can? Do you think she might have found happiness if she had?
8. When Leda hears the old man playing the tango, she has an emotional response: “The sound ensnared her. It invaded her bones, urged her blood. She didn’t know herself; it now occurred to her that she knew nothing, nothing, nothing about the world, could not have known a thing when she didn’t know the world contained this sensation, such sound, such wakefulness, a melody as rich as night.” (this page) Why does the music move her so much?
9. In De Robertis’s hands, the tango is almost a character. Can you think of other types of music that might merit similar treatment?
10. Have you ever seen the tango performed? Did you know anything about its origins and history—how it started from an amalgamation of immigrant voices and musical styles, and that it was first performed in courtyards and brothels? What similarities does the history of tango have to the American blues, if any?
11. What does Leda’s cross-dressing indicate about the plight of women in the early part of the twentieth century? Compare that to contemporary gender-driven mores.
12. What is the significance of Kyrie eleison, “Lord have mercy,” which Cora hums in one of her bouts of public madness? Why does that episode loom so large for Leda?
13. What prompts Leda to abandon her gig at Il Sasso for Santiago?
14. More than once, De Robertis mentions that in Argentina nicknames, once assigned, are nearly impossible to shake. Why does Dante intentionally use Santiago’s given name?
15. On this page, Carmen and Dante discuss freedom. “ ‘Money doesn’t free a woman,’ ” Carmen says. What does? Which women are free in The Gods of Tango?
16. Carmen names her club Cabaret Leteo, after the river in the underworld from which people drink to forget. “ ‘Forgetting is joy,’ ” Carmen says. Why does she believe this?
17. As a man, Santiago has more freedom than any woman, although his grandfather was a slave. What role does race play in the novel?
18. Rosa puts on a man’s suit to perform, but she never expects anyone to treat her like a man. How is her theatricality different from Leda’s secretive approach? Who is more brave?
19. Does Carmen’s reaction when she discovers Dante’s secret surprise you? What did you expect to happen?
20. Why did the people of Alazzano castigate Cora and not her father?
21. Compare Alma, Carmen, and Rosa. Other than Dante, what do they have in common? How are they different?
22. What does the story Fausta tells her son, about the brother and sister who repopulate the world, mean?
23. Why does Dante accept Miriam as his daughter?
24. Leda’s cousin Cora haunts the novel. Why does Dante call for her, not Rosa, at his moment of death?
25. Junot Díaz calls Carolina De Robertis “an extraordinarily courageous writer.” Do you agree? What other writers would you compare her to?
Suggested Reading
Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad
Donna Woolfolk Cross, Pope Joan
Kimberly Cutter, The Maid: A Novel of Joan of Arc
Kathryn Harrison, Joan of Arc: A Life Transfigured
Nadia Hashimi, The Pearl That Broke Its Shell
Oscar Hijuelos, The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love
Sarah Waters, The Night Watch