Luna Tango (3 page)

Needing a distraction, Dani's gaze fell to the files strewn across the coffee table. Averting her eyes, she studied the faded blue cornices, the perfect symmetry of the arched windows, the chandelier with missing crystals. The building held a rustic charm, not unlike Carlos. Somewhere, beneath the gruff exterior, lay hundreds of stories that would remain buried forever. Perhaps she and Carlos were more alike than she thought.

She stared at the files again, their magnetic pull impossible to resist. With the toe of her red shoe, she nudged the folder and a handful of black and white photos slid across the table and on to the floor.

‘Oh dear, we can't have these lying around. They could get damaged or lost.' She leant forwards, opened the file and dropped the photos into it. Stealing a glance at the closed office door and hearing the water splashing, Dani quickly flicked through the pile. They were only historical images, not top-secret plans to take over the world, after all. What harm could she do?

Photographs from last century flashed before her. Moustached men in suits and women in low-cut dresses with full skirts clung to each other in seductive poses. Her ears hummed with tango music and muffled conversations from long ago. She gently shuffled the matte photos with yellowed and tattered edges, conscious of the history that lay in her hands. These original images were no doubt invaluable, so why would Carlos be so careless as to leave them lying about?

Her mind drifted to her own stack of photos back at the hotel room. For years, Dani had collected images of her mother and hidden them from her grandma, because mentioning tango in their house had been banned the day Iris deserted the family. Pretending tango didn't exist had been an easy task as no one wanted a reminder of the dance that stole her mother, but as Dani grew, so did the desire to understand her mother's actions. The breakup with Adam had been the catalyst that propelled Dani to gain answers about Iris; how could Dani have a relationship with anyone if she didn't understand herself or her own family? Adam had sent her to Argentina out of guilt for his idiotic actions that led to their breakup, so who was she to say no?

Refusing to drag herself across the hot coals of her personal pain again, Dani flipped through a few more photos until a couple that looked like a father and daughter caught her attention. The dark-eyed man sat on a chair, his expression serious and stern. Behind him stood a young woman with hands draped casually across his shoulders. Her light curly hair was pulled back in a loose bun and ample cleavage spilled from the neckline of the dress that hugged her curves. The woman's upturned nose and sparkling eyes hinted at her free spirit. She seemed familiar, but then again, Dani got this feeling with many people. She wondered if this would be a blessing or a curse with feature writing.

The door clicked open and a hollow feeling exploded in her chest. Looking up, she found Carlos leaning against the doorway, eyebrows knitted and arms crossed tightly. Despite his angry pose and scowl, an air of sexiness hung around him, accentuated by his dark, slicked back hair.

‘What are you doing?' he growled and limped to the sofa.

‘These were just lying here and—'

He snatched the photo and busied himself stacking the files.

‘You journalists are all the same. Why can you not leave things alone?'

‘Carlos, I'm sorry. I—'

‘No excuses! If you cannot respect my privacy we cannot work together.'

Her heart raced. ‘Carlos, I apologise. I shouldn't have touched the photos. They're just so lovely and ... I'm really sorry. It was a rookie mistake.' She had nothing to lose by admitting her journalistic virginity, as she'd most likely blown her chances anyway.

His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to the side. ‘This is your first assignment?'

‘Yes.'

‘I could not tell. You are stubborn, like the journalists with many years' experience. Perhaps you will do well at this profession.'

‘I won't have any profession if I don't come through with the goods.'

Carlos stared at her long enough for her to feel uncomfortable and start fidgeting.

‘No.'

‘No what?' This was exasperating.

‘No, I am not helping you. Your chance is gone. Even if you are a new journalist, you should know that looking at the things of people is not polite.'

‘I'm sorry, Carlos. Really, I am. But if I don't write these stories my career will be over before it's started. No one thinks I'm cut out for this job and—'

‘You are desperate.'

‘I am.' Grovelling had never appealed but given the circumstances ...

‘Maybe I will forgive you. Just this once.'

‘Thank you.' Dani let out a long breath, unaware she'd been holding it in. She sensed his forgiveness was because he saw an opportunity to mould a rookie journalist to his way of thinking.
I'd like to see him try
.

‘Can I ask a question?'

He tucked the file under his arm. ‘You have not learned dance steps so you do not get to ask questions.'

‘Yes, you're right but how about you give me a question in advance and I'll do two new dance steps before I ask another one?' It was a cheeky proposal and she had no idea if he'd go for it.

‘Like a loan?'

‘Yeah. Something like that.'

‘I will charge interest.'

‘Uh ...' She nodded, unsure as to whether agreeing would be a smart move.

‘Know this: I do not trust you.'

‘Fair enough. You have reason to doubt me but I promise you, I meant no harm and I am truly sorry.'

He nodded his head. ‘One question only. Then you and me, we go to the dancing. I will work out your interest later.'

She was out on a limb, feet dangling high above ground, waiting for the branch to snap. The only way to fix her faux pas was to agree to his terms, whatever they ended up being.

‘Okay.' Pointing at the photo on the top of his pile, she asked, ‘Who is the young woman and old man?'

He glanced at the image and froze. His eyes didn't meet hers. ‘Why do you want to know?'

‘She has me intrigued.'

‘Ask me another question.'

‘This is the only question I have.' She contemplated batting her eyelashes but refused to resort to such tactics. She doubted it would work on Carlos as he probably had lines of women willing to overlook his less-than affable personality because he was so ridiculously handsome.

‘I will answer, but we speak of this only once.'

‘Deal.' She waited but he didn't open his mouth. ‘And?'

‘He is Eduardo Canziani, Argentina's greatest tango composer and singer. She is Louisa Gilchrist, his muse. She killed him because she had another lover. They escaped the country and were never found. End of story.'

For Dani, though, it felt like just the beginning.

1953 – Louisa

Standing in the empty, high-ceilinged hallway, Louisa Gilchrist pressed her ear against the wooden door of the music room. The silver tray laden with delicate china and a steaming teapot balanced precariously in her hands but she couldn't pull herself away from the crisp notes of the bandoneón flying through the cracks of the door. Louisa closed her eyes and pictured Roberto Vega's fingers running across the seventy buttons of the concertina-like instrument, his passion pouring into every note.

Using her elbow to push the brass handle down and nudge open the door, Louisa entered the room quietly. Roberto's eyes were closed, lost in the moment, his lean body swaying gently with the cadence. His mentor, Eduardo Canziani, sat on a velvet chair with a high back and wings, his fingers forming a pyramid as he studied his protégé's performance.

No one paid attention when she placed the tray on the oak desk, ensuring she didn't rattle the china. Louisa took time to pour the tea into the cup, soaking in every note and enjoying the caress of Roberto's music.

‘Eduardo, your tea,' she whispered.

‘Shh.' He waved his hand and she placed the cup of tea on the table beside him. Tears dropped from his cheeks and on to his starched collar but he didn't notice. It never failed to surprise Louisa how Roberto's music had such an effect on people, including his tough mentor. Offering Eduardo a napkin, she gestured for him to wipe away the tears but instead he turned and glared at her with steely eyes.

Louisa bit her lip, waiting for the onslaught.

‘What is this?' he growled, grabbing the napkin and throwing it on the floor.

‘I thought—'

The music halted the second she spoke. Roberto gripped the bandoneón on his knees, and studied her with dark, worried eyes.

‘That does not mean you can stop!' Eduardo angled a stubby finger at Roberto. ‘Go to the beginning!' He thumped the table with his fist and made the crockery on the tray rattle. ‘Louisa! Pass me the ...' Eduardo flicked his wrist at a pile of papers on the desk. ‘The ... the ...' He kept waving as a bright red rash rushed across his face. ‘Pass me that!'

‘The sheet music?' she asked and handed it to him.

‘Yes! Of course!' He snatched it and sifted through the papers.

She took this as her cue to leave and scurried through the door, not daring to look at Roberto. Rushing down the hall, she stopped to straighten the jasmine that had fallen to the side of a vase. A warm hand grabbed hers and she looked up to find Eduardo, his eyes downcast.

‘I am sorry, Louisa.' His voice held genuine remorse.

‘Thank you, but apologies aren't going to fix this. It's getting worse, isn't it? This forgetting names of simple things?'

‘Yes.' He withdrew his hand and leant heavily on the table. ‘I don't know what to do.'

‘Go see a doctor.'

‘No.' He shook his head vehemently.

‘Eduardo,' she gently rubbed his back, ‘you need to see a professional. I can only help you so much. People are going to notice soon enough.'

‘No, they won't.'

‘They will, and you know it. It's not a failing. It's life. It's horrible and cruel and unfair that dementia has hit you but we have to come to terms with this. You need professionals to help you.'

‘I will not do it. You're all I need.'

‘I'll assist as much as possible, but I can't do it alone. Maybe if Roberto knew—'

‘No!' He hit the wall with his fist.

‘But—'

‘No! No one but you will ever know.' Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘I'm aware this is a burden and it's unfair of me to expect you to take this on but I trust you more than anyone.' He lowered his voice and drew his bushy eyebrows together. ‘Maybe you should leave. It's not like we're in love, is it? I'm asking you to do wifely duties yet we're not ….'

Louisa shook her head, having lost count of how many times they'd had this conversation. ‘I won't go. I'll never forgive my grandmother for what she did to my grandfather. The nursing home killed him, not the dementia. He should have been with family; we could have given him a much better life.'

‘You were only a child. You couldn't have done a thing.'

‘But I can help you, although I can't do it alone. Please, Eduardo, at least go and see a doctor. Maybe there's a treatment—'

‘We will see, all right?'

She nodded, aware he had no intention of doing as she suggested. Eduardo squeezed her hand and ambled to the music room, slamming the door behind him. She hovered in the hall, waiting to hear him take his frustration out on Roberto but nothing eventuated. Thankful Eduardo had his emotions under control again, she padded down the passage, glancing at the gilded frames that contained photos of her and Eduardo with Argentina's elite: film director Lucas Demare, tango musician Astor Piazzolla, and myriad football legends. Each and every one of those people adored Eduardo Canziani and he and Louisa were always the first to be invited to social functions and intimate dinner parties. People revelled in his jovial manner, oblivious that his private world was crashing in on him. He couldn't pretend forever, but for as long as he wanted to try, she'd support him. She owed him that much.

Louisa entered the kitchen and set about preparing Eduardo's supper. How different her life was from when she was in Britain, but World War Two had changed many lives, including hers. She could never have imagined that her parents would need to send her to a home for children in Wales to escape the London Blitz, and she certainly never thought her parents would die in those bombings, leaving her an orphan at age thirteen. As soon as the war finished four years later, she'd taken the money her parents had hidden and fled to Argentina, determined to find her only living relatives, rumoured to be in Gaiman, on the Atlantic coast. After months of searching, she'd returned to Buenos Aires, destitute, lonely and with an uncertain future. Louisa could never have predicted meeting Eduardo in a bar or that the moment would alter her life forever. She'd welcomed his friendship and had made it clear that was all he'd ever have, yet she still couldn't understand why he'd chosen to pluck her from the slums of La Boca when other women in the bar had been prettier, funnier or more intelligent. Maybe Eduardo had focused on Louisa because she was so young and innocent—a lost lamb who could barely speak Spanish. It didn't take long for him to become her family and since then, she'd never forgotten his kindness.

Breaking the crusty bread and arranging it on a wooden platter, she sliced a lemon and dropped it into a jug of iced water. Her mind whirred from past to present, still in awe of Eduardo and his ability to hide his illness. Everyone thought his forgetfulness was due to his creative genius and they had been right, until recently. So far Eduardo had been able to mask the symptoms with Louisa's help. It broke her heart that this disease had hit him early and, instead of looking forward to twenty or thirty years of creating more brilliance, his life would diminish and the world would lose the greatest tango composer in history.