Behind this modestly pretty wood, glass and metal door is the place which probably has the best feng shui of any of the places where I have danced in this city, with its soaringly high skylight above a deep well of air, afloat with strange giant rosy bird-like lamps on stalks; the large wooden-framed mirror; the statue of the Chinese Buddha, discreetly watching from his niche, in chubby cross-legged serenity.
But will there be dancing? I worry, as I pick my way through the crowds, shoe bag dangling from my shoulder, cheek-kissing my way through to the kitchen with many a cry of ¡Tanto tiempo! ¿Cómo andás? Un gusto verte, che.† The dance floor is an inviting wine-dark sea under this soft lighting, but it is scattered with people with wine-dark wine in ridged plastic cups in their hands. At ground level, a motley assortment of flip-flops, espadrilles and ugly sport sandals meets my gaze.
Glass of wine in hand, I hover awkwardly, as I am a party pooper by nature: a self-sabotaging bundle of shyness coupled with a compensatory tendency to voice every thought without prior mental censorship. I am a mongrel: a large docile drooly and licky dog cross-bred with a tiny terrier with a loud piercing yap. (Parties always bring out my self-analytical side). I prefer to keep to the sidelines of the once bitten.
But now our hostess is circling the room, dangling a pair of low-heeled black strappy tango sandals invitingly in front of our noses. I spot my friend Doglover perched on a stair. “C’mon, let’s start the dancing going”, I suggest. And when I open my eyes at the end of our first tango, I see a floor miraculously free of bystanders and already pleasantly cosy with half a dozen other couples. And, by the time the Beatles cortina sounds, it’s definite. The party has turned into a milonga.
And now I am in my element. Swimming in the tango sea. The atmosphere is only mildly warm and humid, much cooler than outside on the sultry, odorous Palermo street. Most of my partners are smooth of step and refreshingly dry of brow and armpit. Some strange law of tango seems to keep the dance floor at optimum occupancy throughout the evening: cosy but not crowded.
I watch the DJ at work. He casts a practised eye over the dance floor like a slender golden retriever sniffing the air; frowns in slight concentration, then squints myopically at the computer, bobbing back and forth like a nodding dog on a car dashboard, trying to find the optimum focal length for eyes bereft of their reading glasses, before he types in individual tracks with a clumsy two fingers, setting up each tanda from scratch and then rapidly looking around for a dance partner (I strategically position myself near enough to be the chosen one on several occasions).
And perhaps it is just my imagination — since we are friends in real life — but this DJ seems to anticipate my every musical desire. Because how does he know that I want to dance a Fresedo tanda right now? And what a nice idea to juxtapose those clammy, histrionic Varelas with this refreshingly punchy set of no-nonsense D’Arienzos! With enormous self-restraint, I manage to keep the number of big hugs I give him over the course of the evening down in the single digits. Just.
And, soon, very soon, it seems, the pale sunlight of a summer morning is streaming down through the skylight. Two guests are cradling guitars and playing chacareras with a last burst of energy. I am relaxing on the sofa, sipping up the dregs of a glass of Malbec and watching the beautiful scene. Faces are radiant from the natural light and the infectious joie de vivre expressed in the swingy rhythms of this folk music; arms raised in the happy expansive gestures of the dance; fingers clicking.
After eight hours of tango, it is like throwing open the windows of a sick room, letting in the sunshine and fresh air. Everything has changed to its opposite: day replacing night; country replacing city; guitars replacing bandoneons; live musicians replacing dead ones; human beings replacing the impersonal machinery of computers and speakers; bare feet replacing stiletto heels; joyful exuberance replacing intensity and concentration. The moon which ruled our night in spirit relinquishes its place to the bright, hot, strong sunshine of a porteño summer’s morning.
PS For those who may be unfamiliar with chacarera, here is a sample:
†Long time no see! How are you? It’s good to see you.
