Hold Me Tight and Tango Me Home (17 page)

“I had gone to buy a pack of gum,” I said. “If I had headed straight in, we wouldn’t have met. And as your adventure adviser, I suggest that you climb a mountain in South America.”

“I’ll think about that,” he said.

From what I knew about AA, most people there had hit rock bottom. They’d lost everything — job, family, and home. They were left to wallow in the mire of shame and self-disgust, then had to pick themselves back up and crawl out of the hole. From this void, people can be reborn into a better life than what they ever imagined. Divorce also feels like hitting rock bottom: You are stuck in the nastiest, worst emotions a person can feel. You have to believe that things will get better and surrender to the fact that your life is going to be very different from how you imagined it. But this vital lesson doesn’t come easy, and maybe a tango-dancing sponsor was what I needed.

We studied our menus.

“So I guess the smart choice here is beef?” I mused.

“Usually a safe bet,” he said.

We ordered and then the lights dimmed, the music started, and the performers came out, the leader in a dark suit and the follower in a slinky red dress with a long slit that showed off her thigh. They danced the history of tango. It was provocative, with gestures that suggested flirtatious banter and the push and pull of seduction. They kicked and spun, then separated, but stayed connected; their steps were a call and response, a question and answer; and then a truce. The braggadocio turned to sadness and they danced closely, forehead to forehead, embracing each other as if their lives depended on it.

M
Y FRIENDS AND
fellow wedding guests Nola and Siobhan had arrived in Buenos Aires for some sightseeing, late-night steak dinners, and wine drinking before we all left for the wedding in Montevideo. On Sunday morning Josh came by our guesthouse and escorted us to the antiques fair in San Telmo. We wandered among booths where hawkers displayed vintage chain-link purses, glass seltzer bottles in hues of blue and purple, cut-crystal lamps, ornate vases, silver jewelry, mirrors in gilded frames, tango records, and huge dusters made of ostrich feathers. Between the wares, performers danced the tango, with hats set out for tips. We all wanted to peruse different tables at different paces, so we agreed to split up and meet up later in the day.

Josh and I stayed together and watched raven-haired beauties in red dresses dance with brown-eyed men in white shirts and black pants. I had to be dragged from the group of men squeezing their bandoneóns.

“I need an empanada,” I said.

“Come on,” Josh said. “I know a place.”

We made our way through the crowds until we found the small storefront that smelled of baking bread.

“All I have is a big bill,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll pay,” Josh said.

“Thank you,” I said and kissed his cheek.

“What have I gotten myself into?” he answered.

We ordered empanadas made with gorgonzola cheese, and the man put them on a wood paddle and slid them into the oven. Josh ate his quickly and I wasn’t quite finished when he
said, “I’m going to have to go. I have a meeting. But I wanted to tell you something. You hurt my feelings the other night.”

“Why?” I asked.

“When you got into the cab and rode away, you didn’t look back,” he said.

“Well, I’m glad you mentioned that,” I answered. “Because I would have just bellied up to the empanada bar. Now I’m going to look back.”

He laughed, kissed me quickly, and started walking down the street. I stepped outside and yelled, “See, I’m looking.”

He just waved his arm, refusing to turn his head.

The previous night, just before I had gotten out of the cab, he’d kissed my cheek and said, “Good night, beautiful.” Despite all the de rigueur stares and whistles and comments that Argentinean men directed at women walking down the streets, this casual comment seemed flip and untrue. I felt bruised by it, as though Josh had lied to me or said something he thought he should say that was clearly an untruth. So I hadn’t turned as the taxi drove off.

Whenever I looked in the mirror, I saw only my imperfections — the crow’s feet around my eyes, the sun spot on a cheek, the slight crevices forming in my upper lip, the small gaps between my teeth. Of course my husband wanted to be with another woman. Since he wasn’t around to tell me why he fell out of love with me, I had been searching for reasons on my face and body.

After I finished eating, I wandered the marketplace until I
came to a display of photographs of tango dancers. These were the equivalent of a picture of the Statue of Liberty for tourists in New York, but still I wanted to get one or two for my apartment. Many showed people striking dramatic poses in the middle of the street, the men’s hair slicked back and the women’s pulled tightly in a bun. Even the clothes and cityscape were fraught with drama and passion: fishnet stockings, stilettos, the narrow, shaded streets of Buenos Aires.

I selected one that showed a couple in a close embrace. They seemed to be at home; their features were backlit by a large window, so only their silhouettes could be seen. They stood just inches apart, the connection between them palpable. The second one was of a couple posing at Confitería Ideal. They looked glamorous, nothing like my cabeceros with their scratchy, bearded cheeks and the scent of their worn wool clothing.

I then dug out my notepad and headed to Lugar Gay, a guesthouse that catered exclusively to men, located right off the central plaza. I was going to watch the afternoon tango lessons and conduct a few interviews for my article. The door opened to a spiral staircase that wound its way up to a comfortable sitting room. A handsome young man wearing a white tank top greeted me. He introduced himself as Javier and offered to make me a coffee.

“Water would be great,” I said. “What’s your job here?”

“
Chico de la casa
,” he said. He handed me a cold glass of water.

“The houseboy, huh?” I asked. “Can women stay here?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “If it were up to me you could. But it’s not allowed.”

I looked up and noticed a print of a famous photograph hanging in the hallway. It was a black-and-white vintage shot of hundreds of men in the tango embrace. Javier introduced me to Arturo, an architect who taught the history of architecture at a university in Buenos Aires and gave tours of the city to guests staying at Lugar Gay. Arturo was short, with broad shoulders and a kind, earnest face. I liked him immediately. We sat in the living room while he told me about the photo and the neighborhood.

Along with La Boca, San Telmo was one of two southern areas of the city that claimed to be the birthplace of tango. Home to Buenos Aires’s aristocrats during the time known as
epoca de las rosas
, San Telmo flourished for ten years, until yellow fever swept through it in the late 1800s. The wealthy, afraid of disease, left the southern part of the city. This flight left a lot of empty mansions, which were divided into small flats for newly arriving immigrants.

“There were so many more men than women arriving here that they had to dance together,” Arturo said. “Most of the women who danced tango back then were prostitutes.” He explained that although the white slave trade started around 1890, the biggest trafficker, the Zwi Migdal Society, was founded in 1906. Members of this organization of Jewish gangsters would travel through Eastern Europe in search of girls. When they found young women in shtetels, many of them living in poverty
and in fear of anti-Semitic pogroms, the girls readily accepted their proposals of marriage and the opportunity for a better life in Argentina. The young women packed their bags, expecting domestic happiness in Buenos Aires. Instead, they found themselves being forced to work the brothels. These Yiddish-speaking prostitutes were known as Polacas.

I asked Arturo what happened to the Africans in Argentina. At one point, in the 1700s, they made up almost 50 percent of the population. Now if you saw a person of color in Buenos Aires, you could bet he or she was a visitor.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “That’s a really shadowy part of our history. When the European immigration peaked in the 1880s, the people in power wanted a white country and sold the blacks, shipped them away, or sent them to fight the border wars with Brazil. There’s still a strong African culture in Uruguay, so some historians think they were merely transported across the Río de la Plata. During carnival over there, you can still see the Candombe, the Afro-Uruguayan drummers and dancers. Believe it or not, some scholars claim that this is the precursor to the tango.”

We walked back through the guesthouse, paused at the photo, and looked at the smiling men clutching each other. I thanked Arturo for the interview, and Javier showed me to the rooftop, where a tango lesson was taking place. We wound our way through an area filled with chaise longues. Handsome men sunbathed naked.

“You sure I can’t stay here?” I joked with Javier.

“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “House rules.”

The lesson had already started, and I sat on the side and watched. As usual, some dancers were more advanced than others. The teacher walked with a particularly erect back, snapping his fingers to the beat. A pair of men, who I assumed were a couple because they sort of resembled each other, followed him with serious expressions; an Asian man walked with a slight smile; a large, blond dancer, who probably hailed from northern Europe or Australia, stepped with his arms stiff at his side. A few didn’t know tango but seemed to have a strong physical awareness and corrected themselves easily, while others had to be shown a technique over and over. Boyfriends bickered; strangers were more polite to each other. All in all not so different from the hetero crowd.

The existence of this place was very significant in terms of Argentina’s history. The country’s long-standing dictatorship, which lasted until 1983, considered anything different subversive. Though there were no formal laws discriminating against homosexuals, an Edict Against Public Dancing punished any proprietor who “allowed men to dance together.” This law was enforced until about 1995. Individuals who were arrested could be held by police for up to thirty days and fined.

Arturo had told me that since the economic crisis of 2001, Argentina has been trying to lure gay travelers to Buenos Aires. A gay tourist map highlighted guesthouses and queer bars, and sales presentations were made at gay travel symposiums. In 2002 the city council passed a measure recognizing same-sex
civil unions and extending health insurance and pension rights to same-sex partners. Now Buenos Aires rivals Rio de Janeiro as
the
place to go for gay men.

When the tango lesson ended, I caught up with the teacher for a brief interview. Marcos was known as the man who started gay tango. Peter had told me all about him. Marcos, who had danced for the Broadway musical
Forever Tango
, told me that gay tango wasn’t a deliberate movement; it just happened.

“One night I was dancing with a man,” he said. “Then the next time, another couple of gay men joined us. And so on. Now we have lessons and a milonga. Can I help you with anything else?” he asked. He was packing up his dance shoes.

I had a moment when I could have blurted out, “Peter really likes you.” But I wasn’t entirely sure who Peter had slept with and pissed off, so I figured that tossing his name around might not be a good idea. I just tucked away my notebook, and Javier showed me out.

The antiques fair had ended, and the streets were empty except for strewn paper and other debris. The frenzy had passed, and soon the plaza would go back to being a place where young couples met to hold hands and kiss, the elderly gathered to argue politics and soccer, and the antiques, the tango, the history of the well-worn ports would lie dormant until Sunday came around again.

A tango class was in progress in the small studio just off the garden at my pension. The couples worked on steps as the music floated over the silhouettes of broad tropical leaves clustered
against the stone walls. While waiting for Josh, I sat outside in the shadows of the palm fronds and thought about my fantasy, the one in which I’d visually erased my husband and then was walking down a hallway toward a patio where I danced tango in the arms of a man who loved me. Actuality, of course, fell short of my fantasy. Josh didn’t love me, and he certainly was not going to dance a life-changing tango. But he was perfect for right then.

I heard the bell ring, the manager let Josh in, and as he entered the garden, he said, “Sorry I’m late. The subway stalled for a dog on the track.”

We left for a nearby restaurant. Although the food and wine in Buenos Aires are excellent and inexpensive, the service is so slow that even a casual dinner can be a four-hour affair. As well, people don’t eat until very late, so while we waited I passed from hungry to cranky to an almost giddy state by the time any food made it to our table. All the while, Josh and I joked about the service.

“Do you think she heard us when we ordered the water?” Josh asked.

“Hard to say,” I answered. “Have we ordered food yet? We might need to start stalking her. I think I saw her go into the back.”

“Bread, even just a piece of bread,” he begged.

The trendy restaurant in the “Soho” part of the city grew increasingly crowded and noisy. We finally hailed the waitress and cajoled her into taking our order. We decided on two types of
steaks that we’d share. Looking around the crowded room, Josh asked me, “Do you ever take yourself out to dinner? Just go to a restaurant like this and sit alone?”

“No,” I said. “It’s a social thing for me. I eat lunch out by myself sometimes, but I always sit at counters and read.”

“My sponsor made me do that as an exercise,” he said. “He told me that I needed to go sit at a table by myself in a crowded restaurant until I realized I had everything I needed within myself.”

“I’d rather just eat at home and contemplate that,” I said.

“Well, we’ll have to work on that,” Josh said. “Why do you think I should climb a mountain?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It changes you. I did it in Peru and then again in Northern California. They were very different experiences. I suffered so much in Peru. My head pounded, my legs shook. At base camp I couldn’t sleep or eat, from the altitude. All around us the air was filled with the rumblings of glaciers calving, and the smell of ice surrounded our tents. But when we descended and the air thickened, I have never been so grateful for oxygen and green grass. I guess that’s one of the lessons of mountain climbing: gratitude. And the harder you push yourself, the more you learn how much suffering you can take. It’s always more than you imagined.”