His gaze is intense; dark, deep eyes staring steadily under heavy black eyebrows. His dark hair, black with a touch of silver, lies in limpid waves glistened under the lamp light. He wears a simple loose white shirt, unbuttoned just so, and tailored black pants that end in ebony shoes of soft leather.
He clutches the blond woman to him, her long ringlets brushing his cheek. Her camisole, a flimsy black chinoiserie, hangs loosely from her ivory shoulders and reveals most of her back. As they move, her diaphanous white skirt amplifies the swaying movements of her hips, and teases shadows of flimsy lingerie underneath.
They dance, alone in a crowd, across the smooth stone floor. They dance without words, without choreography, led only by his instinct, by his feel for the music. They dance the Tango.
It is Friday night in ritzy Barrancas. The nearby streets are lined with exclusive apartment towers, second tier embassies (Austria, Turkey, Vietnam, Hungary), and the noble townhouses of the mildly wealthy. But here in the worn park, the Victorian iron band shell with the polished marble floor – the Glorietta – has been converted into a much more democratic community Milonga.
A hunchbacked man with prominent teeth and thick glasses has set up a sound system and settles down to play the instantly-recognizable heavy beats of tango music. A tall skinny woman in black jeans and a tight pink t-shirt has just squeegeed what might be last night’s vomit from a corner of the black and white floor and is now setting out tiny plastic stools around the periphery. As the dancers arrive, they are greeted by a blond, rouged woman of indeterminate age, in a flouncy paisley skirt. She holds up a donation can, asking 5 pesos ($1.25).
Most of those who climb the steps onto the band shell are in their 60s and 70s and arrive alone. They seem out of place in this ritzy neighbourhood. The men are clad in simple, short sleeved shirts and comfortable pants – the types who would hang out in the local tavern and watch the futbol game over a beer. I’m surprised to see so many of them here. One gent tries to explain the attraction for him. “It’s like a drug” he says. “Once you hold a woman in your arms like this, and guide her around the floor, you can’t get enough of it”. And before I can ask a question, he’s off to dance with a blond woman a foot taller than he is.
The women, with their hair teased and highlighted and make-up applied with a heavy hand, with their clothes a little too tight, or short, or low cut, seem slightly déclassé. The woman with the diaphanous skirt should probably be wearing a slip. The woman who keeps smiling at me and finally asks me to dance might be more comfortable in a dress a few sizes larger.
Tango was born in the brothels of the waterfront La Boca neighbourhood, sibling to the Argentine slang called Lunfado. It was originally danced only by men and cannot shake off its lowly origins.
A woman in a severely masculine haircut and pants has wandered up onto the Glorietta and sits on the stool beside mine. She leans over and in a half whisper, confides “my son would kill me if he knew I’d come here to tango. These women, they are just…”. She doesn’t finish her sentence and slips away minutes later.
As the light fades, and more people arrive, I see younger dancers on the floor, many of them gliding by silently in the arms of men or women old enough to be their grandparents. The footwork is intricate and individual, improvised to the sensuous music. Every 2 or 3 songs, following an unwritten rule, the partners change. Requests and acceptance are made with glances and raised eyebrows. Few words are exchanged.
As the dark night approaches, I turn away and head home for dinner. The Glorietta has taken on a warm glow in the lamplight. The sensuous, swirling couples on the raise platform are a self-contained little world; Tango set apart from the modern bustle of the urban park.
A fleshy woman packed into a black satin dress, closes her eyes, and tilts her unlikely auburn head back slightly, lost in the dance. He pulls her close, his intense gaze fixed on a distant mystery. With sweeping movements, he glides her across the floor, stopping, rotating her back and forth with strong arms, stopping again to lift one of her feet with his, then continuing the glide. The other couples each lost in their own sensual dance, move in different rhythms, different speeds, different thoughts. Different but together in the Tango.
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He clutches the blond woman to him, her long ringlets brushing his cheek. Her camisole, a flimsy black chinoiserie, hangs loosely from her ivory shoulders and reveals most of her back. As they move, her diaphanous white skirt amplifies the swaying movements of her hips, and teases shadows of flimsy lingerie underneath.
They dance, alone in a crowd, across the smooth stone floor. They dance without words, without choreography, led only by his instinct, by his feel for the music. They dance the Tango.
It is Friday night in ritzy Barrancas. The nearby streets are lined with exclusive apartment towers, second tier embassies (Austria, Turkey, Vietnam, Hungary), and the noble townhouses of the mildly wealthy. But here in the worn park, the Victorian iron band shell with the polished marble floor – the Glorietta – has been converted into a much more democratic community Milonga.
A hunchbacked man with prominent teeth and thick glasses has set up a sound system and settles down to play the instantly-recognizable heavy beats of tango music. A tall skinny woman in black jeans and a tight pink t-shirt has just squeegeed what might be last night’s vomit from a corner of the black and white floor and is now setting out tiny plastic stools around the periphery. As the dancers arrive, they are greeted by a blond, rouged woman of indeterminate age, in a flouncy paisley skirt. She holds up a donation can, asking 5 pesos ($1.25).
Most of those who climb the steps onto the band shell are in their 60s and 70s and arrive alone. They seem out of place in this ritzy neighbourhood. The men are clad in simple, short sleeved shirts and comfortable pants – the types who would hang out in the local tavern and watch the futbol game over a beer. I’m surprised to see so many of them here. One gent tries to explain the attraction for him. “It’s like a drug” he says. “Once you hold a woman in your arms like this, and guide her around the floor, you can’t get enough of it”. And before I can ask a question, he’s off to dance with a blond woman a foot taller than he is.
The women, with their hair teased and highlighted and make-up applied with a heavy hand, with their clothes a little too tight, or short, or low cut, seem slightly déclassé. The woman with the diaphanous skirt should probably be wearing a slip. The woman who keeps smiling at me and finally asks me to dance might be more comfortable in a dress a few sizes larger.
Tango was born in the brothels of the waterfront La Boca neighbourhood, sibling to the Argentine slang called Lunfado. It was originally danced only by men and cannot shake off its lowly origins.
A woman in a severely masculine haircut and pants has wandered up onto the Glorietta and sits on the stool beside mine. She leans over and in a half whisper, confides “my son would kill me if he knew I’d come here to tango. These women, they are just…”. She doesn’t finish her sentence and slips away minutes later.
As the light fades, and more people arrive, I see younger dancers on the floor, many of them gliding by silently in the arms of men or women old enough to be their grandparents. The footwork is intricate and individual, improvised to the sensuous music. Every 2 or 3 songs, following an unwritten rule, the partners change. Requests and acceptance are made with glances and raised eyebrows. Few words are exchanged.
As the dark night approaches, I turn away and head home for dinner. The Glorietta has taken on a warm glow in the lamplight. The sensuous, swirling couples on the raise platform are a self-contained little world; Tango set apart from the modern bustle of the urban park.
A fleshy woman packed into a black satin dress, closes her eyes, and tilts her unlikely auburn head back slightly, lost in the dance. He pulls her close, his intense gaze fixed on a distant mystery. With sweeping movements, he glides her across the floor, stopping, rotating her back and forth with strong arms, stopping again to lift one of her feet with his, then continuing the glide. The other couples each lost in their own sensual dance, move in different rhythms, different speeds, different thoughts. Different but together in the Tango.
-30-
