Tango (7 page)

‘Well, not much less free than it ever was. People still hold protest demonstrations. There was one at the weekend.’

‘I thought that was a government rally.’

‘Maybe, but anyway . . .’ He was less confident now; he kept thinking of Manuel Herrera. ‘How does Max know all this?’

‘I don’t know. He just seems to know things.’

He searched for the car keys. He would take the company Datsun in case he needed to pull or push the lame Dodge. ‘Perhaps I should take some tools.’

‘Are there any?’

‘I don’t know.’

She found a hammer in one of the kitchen cupboards, a solid piece with a heavy head and claw. He put it in his duffel-coat pocket. ‘Might be better than nothing,’ he said, to
encourage himself.

He dithered over leaving. She seemed much better-humoured and he no longer wanted to go. The whole business was an uncomfortable mixture of the serious and the absurd. She kissed him, which she
hadn’t done for some time. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said.

Plaza San Marco was in the old part of the city, not far from his shop, an area of cobbled streets and large faded buildings. The darkness spawned a fine invisible rain and the wind flapped
William’s duffel-coat against his legs as he walked from the car, except where the hammer weighed it down. Theresa was already beside her Dodge, holding an umbrella and shivering beneath a
long dress and shawl.

‘There is no need, really, we don’t have to do this,’ she said straight away. ‘You can come in.’

‘No, no, it’s quite all right.’

‘Are you an expert with cars?’

‘It depends what’s wrong.’

She smiled. ‘I think you are not an expert.’

High heels made her as tall as him. She stood close while they talked, trying to shield them both with the small umbrella. Her bare arm was across her breast, clutching the shawl.

It was a while before he realised that the chrome handles on each side of the bonnet served instead of a bonnet catch. Propping one side open, he switched on the torch he had brought. The engine
looked massive and intractable.

‘I’ll have a look at the other side.’

The second side didn’t seem to open properly and he struggled for a time before realising he had to close the first. From the other side the engine seemed to be mainly metal pipes.
‘Try to start it.’

It gave a groan and expired. ‘Would you like to try?’ she asked.

There was some pleasing awkwardness with the umbrella as she got out to make way for him. Her dress rustled and she wore an arousing perfume – whether cheap or expensive he had no idea,
but it was obvious, which was how he liked it. He sat on the leather seats and contemplated the wooden dash-board. The ignition light was on but the key wouldn’t turn.

‘No, no, you press this.’ Her bare arm, which had a few dark hairs on it, reached across him.

He pressed the button marked S but nothing happened. He pulled the button marked C, presumably for choke, and again pressed S, again without result. He remembered his father’s countless
old cars. ‘Does it have a starting-handle?’

They found one in the boot. It was heavy and long. He had to get down on his knees in the wet road and struggle to slot it in. ‘Make sure the car’s out of gear.’ He was
impressed by how masterful he sounded. He tried to turn the handle. ‘Are you sure it isn’t in gear?’

‘Yes, quite sure.’

He tried again. It felt as if he were trying to rotate the whole car.

‘Shall I help you?’ she called.

‘No, no, it’s all right.’ He paused to regain control of his breathing and then put both hands on the handle, one on top of the other. He had learned from his father to grip
with thumb and fingers together rather than opposed in case the handle kicked back on firing. He remembered stories of broken thumbs and wrists. Straining with both hands, he had moved it nearly
half a turn when there was a violent cough. He was thrown sideways and left sitting in the road. The handle spun harmlessly in its socket. The car shook and spluttered, relapsed, then heaved itself
into life with a great clattering roar as the handle fell out. The back of his right hand started to hurt.

‘William, where are you?’ Theresa called above the noise. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ He wanted to get up elegantly and quickly, but couldn’t before she reached him. Water from her umbrella dripped on to his head.

‘William, your hand. You can’t be all right.’

There was a little blood. He got to his feet protesting that there was nothing wrong. He liked to hear her use his name.

She touched his arm. ‘Come inside and clean it. You must be poisoned.’

‘No. Okay.’

She led him to a house in the corner of the square. An unlit board outside announced that it was Maria’s Tango Club. Inside it seemed a mixture of club, bar, dance hall and
somebody’s house. The worn furnishings had once been good and the rooms were large, each giving on to another. In one was a bar, in another a band, in another tables and food. There were
drinkers of most ages, nearly all of whom greeted Theresa as she passed. William followed, feeling uncouth in his duffel-coat and holding his now aching hand as inconspicuously as possible. The
glances which fell upon Theresa flipped back on to him like branches that had parted before her. In a hall they passed a huge sofa on which seven or eight colourfully dressed and made-up girls were
sitting. They greeted Theresa in an uneven chorus.

She swept through, her shawl fluttering. They went down some stairs, past a noisome lavatory and into a dressing-room strewn with women’s clothes. Three or four women were in various
stages of dressing. None paid him any attention except Ines who, bulging through black underwear and stockings, was bent over looking in her handbag. She waved and smiled and said something about
his coat which he didn’t understand. The others looked at him. One, a thin woman in a long skin-tight red dress, was putting on lipstick before a mirror encircled by bulbs. She paused with
her mouth open and the stick at her lip, regarded him indifferently and carried on.

‘Here, come here,’ called Theresa. She was removing clothes from a pink wash-basin.

Trying to smile in a genial and unembarrassed manner, William picked his way between the garments on the floor. He knocked against a chair on which a tabby cat lay curled up on a skirt.

‘Take off your coat,’ Theresa said.

He did so slowly, hoping neither to make it bloody nor to let his eye be caught by the reflection of the other women in the mirror above the basin.

She took the coat. ‘It’s so heavy.’

‘That’s the hammer.’

‘A hammer? To mend my car?’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh, William.’

Some of the skin was torn and there was a slight swelling; it looked worse than it was. She wanted to bandage it but he said there was no need. When the water made it sting he pretended it
didn’t. Ines called loudly to know what had happened. One of the other women said Theresa was stupid to persist with such an absurd car now that she could afford a new one.

‘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.