Tango (8 page)

The music and dancing stopped abruptly, conversation with it. Everyone stood as the presidential party entered in silence. Carlos Calvaros was more colourfully uniformed than in the market and
wore more decorations. He looked slimly and smilingly perfect but for the threatened indiscipline of his mouth. There was about half a dozen with him, all officers, among them Manuel Herrera and
two portly men whose uniforms were more sober. It was a few moments before William recognised the Russian insignia; he had never seen Russians before.

El Lizard led the party to their tables, his expression unchanged and his head projected nearly a foot before his body. When the band struck up the national anthem the presidential party stood
to attention and saluted in the Russian, or Nazi, style. The anthem-lasted six minutes and there was palpable relief when it finished.

The president waved his non-saluting arm. ‘Please – continue.’

Everyone sat, the band struck up again, conversation resumed, but no one danced. William faced the presidential party across the empty floor. Without wanting to, he caught Manuel’s eye.
Manuel inclined his head and said something to the president, who looked across with raised eyebrows and smiled. The two plump Russians stared.

‘Now you can dance with Maria,’ Ricardo whispered.

William shook his head. ‘Not on an empty floor in front of them.’ He turned back to Ricardo. ‘Perhaps you should dance? You do it so well.’

‘I know. It would give them great pleasure to see me dance. But it is not me they have come to see. They want samba.’

‘Can’t you samba?’

‘Not in this way. Wait.’

There was a roll of drums and the lights were dimmed, except those on stage. The drums stopped, paused, and began again with a fast samba rhythm. It was throbbing insistent music, like a fast
stream that swirled, tumbled, convoluted and turned back on itself while rushing onward, ever onward. It was the kind of music William usually resisted but now he could feel his stomach
tighten.

The back-stage curtains parted and first one girl, then another, then another entered dancing. Soon there was a dozen of them spread across the stage and off it, flowing down the steps on either
side on to the dance floor. They were the girls William had seen earlier, all now in their long tight dresses with slits up the sides and frilly tops. Their samba, little more than a shuffle of the
feet and a motion of the hips, was mesmeric. Holding their arms high, they shimmered over stage and floor. Led by Carlos, people started clapping rhythmically. Gradually the girls sorted themselves
into two vibrating lines which led down the sides of the floor and focused on the stage. William could see neither Theresa nor Ines. He sat at the edge of the floor, his head very close to the
pullulating hips of the nearest dancer. Ricardo was still talking.

There was a drum crescendo and then silence. One of the Russians shouted something. Carlos smiled politely at him and turned back to the stage. Manuel sat unsmiling but the other officers all
acknowledged the Russian. The silence continued.

‘Come on,’ said Ricardo. His words carried and one or two of the presidential party looked across. The dancer next to William shifted on her feet and her tight dress rustled. Like
all the others, she wore a carnation at the point where the slit in her skirt exposed her stocking top. Ricardo nudged William, indicating that he should stretch forward and take it.

The silence was tense and was becoming oppressive when the drummer began again, very slowly, very softly, a gentle suggestive momentum. The curtains parted and Theresa and Ines samba’d
slowly on to the stage. Ines wore shimmering white and Theresa a tight-fitting black dress that flared out from her hips. Each danced down one line of girls, who themselves began gyrating again on
the spot. Both were stunning and flamboyant but Theresa, to William’s eye, gave the impression of something extra, something hidden, something kept back. Her eyes were veiled by black gauze,
leaving only her lips visible. Her movements were hardly more than suggestions. The essence seemed to be not in the movements themselves but in something between and behind, a kind of latent
prolonged explosion, imminent, hinted at, not quite occurring.

When they reached the end of the lines they began leading the other girls back and round, then across and through each other. The drum tempo increased and the rest of the band joined in. The
girls seemed to be going anywhere and everywhere, to no pattern but to an irresistible rhythm. They coalesced, separated, circled, came together, all the time shuffling, advancing, hesitating,
withdrawing in seamless liquid movement. William kept making himself look away from Theresa but each time his eyes came back to her. It was as when he had first noticed her – she was too
blatantly attractive, she ought not to be real. As the pace of the dance increased she moved even less, her feet just inching forward, her lips slightly parted, her outstretched arms quite still,
her hips in hypnotic coaxial rotation.

After another crescendo, the dance ceased. The girls stood as they were, all smiling, surrounded now by clapping, whistling and whooping. The president stood to clap and soon everyone was
standing. Carlos and his party walked among the girls, talking and smiling. The band began a sedate cha-cha and dancing restarted. Carlos danced with Theresa, one of the Russians with Ines. The
Russian was not as tall as Ines and stood indignantly upright. Herrera remained at the table. William looked to see whether Ricardo would dance, but he was saying something to Maria, possibly his
apologies since he then, with a quick grin at William, got up and selected one of the dancers.

The president and Theresa were in the middle of the floor, a wide space around them. Carlos talked all the time. Theresa was attentive and smiling, her movements graciously confined to his.
William did not want to look at them. Ines was firing salvoes of delight at her Russian, who was either more than usually clumsy or slightly the worse for drink. Several times he made as if to come
closer and missed, like a ship in heavy seas. Ricardo performed around a slim mulatto, repeatedly spinning her or himself and then basking again in her wide admiring gaze. Manuel sat smoking a
cigar. William again inadvertently caught his eye. Manuel smiled and let the smoke seep from his mouth.

William supposed he should go over and talk to him; that was what Box would want. Box would no doubt say that Willaim’s aim for the evening should now be a conversation with Carlos, not
– as at the begining – simply seeing Theresa. The aim would be best achieved by talking to Manuel, so as to be at the table when the president returned. Perhaps Theresa would be there,
on her way to Carlos’s bed, and he could strengthen his claim to her acquaintance with a view to making use of her later. Box would be well pleased with such an evening’s work. The
thought of it depressed William. He wanted to talk to Theresa but not to anyone else. It was time he got back to Sally.

‘Wooding.’

The tone was instantly reminiscent of school. Carlos stood before him, holding Theresa’s hand. He looked pleased with himself.

‘I understand you are helpful with cars. Can you be helpful on the dance floor? It would not do for the president to be seen dancing all evening with the same lady, however much he might
wish to’ – his lips slackened into a smile – ‘and so I wonder if you would take care of her for a while? I must talk to my boring guests. Please deliver her to me when you
have finished. She knows how to dance, I can guarantee that.’ He gave Theresa’s hand to William, bowed slightly and walked back to his table.

William kept hold of Theresa’s hand. He could see her eyes through the veil but not their expression.

‘Do you really want to dance?’ he asked.

‘You must not think about what I want. I don’t.’

‘We don’t have to dance.’

‘We do.’

She led him on to the floor and began a gentle cha-cha. They danced with each other very carefully. William could remember the steps so long as he did not think about them.

‘I’m sorry if you’ve been forced into this,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry about me.’ Her lips parted in a quick smile. ‘I like to dance with you, William.’

‘But also I mean – all the rest. I don’t want to be in your way.’

‘You are not in my way.’

‘I suppose not.’ He was seized by a spasm of resentment. ‘It’s your big chance, tonight, I know. To be the mistress of the president is . . .’

‘Much money.’

They touched fingertip to fingertip as she turned under his arm. Her movements matched his. Not by the smallest flourish did she betray how much better she was, but to his fingertips she felt
cold and detached.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Please understand’ – her lips were set firm and she paused while she turned away from him – ‘it is not
my
big chance. It is not for me.’

Most of the president’s party were now back at their table, smoking cigars and surveying the dancers with complacent propriety. The president said something and they all laughed. The
Russian was still cavorting with Ines, who gave the appearance of enjoying herself hugely even when he staggered and she had to support him. The president pointed his cigar at them and said
something else. His companions laughed again. Nearby, Ricardo was executing increasingly flamboyant manoeuvres around his smiling mulatto. At the end of each he would kick one leg in the air and
spin on the other. William looked across for Maria, Ricardo’s companion. She was talking to others at his table, her back to the dance-floor.

The cha-cha stopped. William stood back so that Theresa could leave the floor. The band began a tango.

‘You can tango?’ she asked.

‘I used to.’

They clasped each other, joined from knee to breast-bone. A friendly dance, his instructor in London had called it. She pressed herself confidently against him but was so light in her movements
that it was as if he had only his own to think about. They went through the smooth – staccato, slow – quick steps with an ease he did not think he had.

‘Are you sure Carlos won’t mind?’ he asked.

She was looking back over his shoulder, her head turned away from the direction of dance. ‘Perhaps it is good for him to mind a little. You dance well.’

‘I think that’s you.’

‘No, you are better than most, even most here.’

‘I love the tango.’

‘So do I. Anyway, I don’t mind if he minds.’

‘Why are you doing it – you know, with him?’

‘Not for myself.’

‘Why do it, then, unless you are compelled? You could just refuse.’ Box, he thought, would not have approved.

‘I am not compelled. I am determined.’ Her lips set firmly again.

The floor was less crowded than before but there were still too many for a proper tango. William kept having to hold back and at one point seemed unable to get away from Ricardo. Each way he
turned, the floor was blocked by Ricardo’s exotic steps which came closer to gymnastics than to any normal dance. The mulatto girl looked either entranced or dazed. Twice they nearly collided
with Ines and her Russian, who continued to lurch around the floor. Ines’s face was creased into a wide, fixed smile. Out of context, it would have been impossible to tell whether she was
laughing or screaming.

William did not see what started the fight but it seemed that Ricardo had cannoned into either the Russian or Ines. Ines was suddenly sitting on the floor with very nearly the same expression,
her legs splayed and her dress off her shoulder. She looked like big ugly doll thrown down by a child. The Russian, a burly man with a crew-cut and a grizzled face, had pulled Ricardo down by the
hair with one hand and with his other was slapping Ricardo’s face. He shouted as he slapped, pushing and pulling Ricardo backwards and forwards across the floor. No sound came from
Ricardo.

Theresa went to Ines. William started to follow but hesitated. He felt he should help Ricardo somehow. The floor was quickly filled with uniformed men and he was jostled to one side. A woman
screamed. His glasses were dislodged and for a moment he couldn’t see what was happening. He could still hear the shouting and slapping. Trying to get round the side, he was pushed back
against the table and half fell amongst some chairs, including the one which had his duffel-coat. He picked up the coat with a vague intention of saving it and pushed on round the floor.

Soldiers had their backs to him. He tried to peer over but was pushed back. Then the soldiers parted and he saw Ricardo on his side on the floor, his head in his arms, his knees doubled up.
There was blood on his hands and on the floor. The Russian was kicking him.

William shouted, ‘Stop! Leave him!’ in English. One or two of the soldiers looked round, but the Russian went on kicking. Small grunting and snuffling noises came from Ricardo.
William couldn’t get near enough. He shouted again, this time in Spanish, and looked for someone to help but the soldiers were all laughing. He swung his coat back and threw it, intending it
to fall between the Russian and Ricardo like a towel in a boxing-ring. He swung it hard and only as he did so remembered the hammer in the pocket. The coat left his hand with surprising velocity
and struck the Russian in the face, flopping over his shoulders. The Russian pushed it off him and stood, blinking. A trickle of blood came from his nose.

For a second or two no one moved. Through the soldiers on the other side of Ricardo, William glimpsed Carlos still sitting at his table, pale and staring. He felt someone grab him by the arms.
For a few moments he was pushed and pulled, then abruptly released. Manuel Herrera stood before him, cigar in one hand and William’s hammer in the other.

‘An unusual instrument to bring to a dance,
Señor
Wooding,’ he said. ‘I wonder what your wife would think.’

William didn’t remember having told Manuel he was married. ‘It was her suggestion. I had to repair something.’

Manuel did not smile. ‘Of course. There is usually something to repair at dances.’ He indicated Ricardo with his cigar. ‘Bodies, for instance. But not with hammers. You have
injured a senior representative of a friendly power. Perhaps you have caused an international incident. A serious matter.’