I was told:

In this club the place for you to sit is close to the counter, on the left side, not far from the cash register; have yourself a glass of wine, but don't order anything hard–it's not proper for women–and don't drink beer because beer makes you want to pee and a lady mustn't pee. A fellow in this barrio is supposed to have walked out on his girlfriend the day he saw her coming out of the bathroom. His explanation, it seems, was: "I thought of her as pure spirit, an angel." The girlfriend ended up "dressing saints," an expression which in this barrio still carries an echo of unmarried and lonely, something strongly disapproved of. In women, of course. They told me.

I live alone and don't mind it the rest of the week, but on Saturdays I like to have company, to be held tight. Which is the reason I tango.

When I was learning, I gave it all I had, with the high heels and tight skirt slit up the side. Now, I even take the famous rubber bands with me in my handbag all the time which, if I were a tennis player, would be the equivalent of carrying around a racquet wherever I went, only much less bother. I keep them in my handbag and when I'm on a line in the bank or waiting at some office, I'll be absentmindedly rubbing my fingers over them. I don't know, but I guess it may be a consolation to imagine I'm tangoing right then instead of having to wait around till some snotty flunky gets good and ready to attend to me.

I know that no matter what time it is there will always be a club open some place in the city where they’re dancing in the darkness, where you can’t tell if it’s day or night, in case anybody cared, and the rubber bands are for holding your street shoes, stretched all out of shape from the trotting around and looking for work, up tight against the instep.

But on a Saturday night, work is the last thing a girl is looking for.  And, sitting at a table near the counter, as I was told, I wait.  The counter is the key spot in this club–it was impressed on me–where men have a chance to size you up on their way to the john.  Having to go is no problem for them. They push open the swinging door, we get a blast of ammonia, and they come out relieved and ready to continue dancing.

Now, I’m able to tell when I’ll get a partner.  And which one it will be.  I catch the barely perceptible nod, the signal that I’ve been picked.  I recognize the invitation and if I want to accept, I smile and let him stretch out his hand.  We stop at the edge of the dance floor and stand there facing one another, letting ourselves tense up, letting the concertina swell till we’re at the bursting point and, then, on an unexpected chord his arm encircles my waist and we step out.

If it’s a milonga we skim straight ahead, sailing with the wind, and if it’s a tango, we dip. Our feet never entangle because he's so expert at signaling the steps to me, fingering my back. When a new variation with unfamiliar figures comes up, I'll improvise, and click just right, sometimes. I let one foot fly, dip to the left, separating my legs no more than the least bit needed, he steps out with elegance, and I follow. Sometimes, I'll stop and hold when he presses on my spine ever so lightly with his middle finger. "I put the woman in neutral," the teacher would say, and I'd freeze in the middle of the step to let him go through his arabesque.

I really learned, milked it dry, as the saying goes. It all amounts to a taking of stances on the man's part, suggesting something else. That's the tango. And it's so beautiful you end up accepting.

My name is Sandra, but in these places I prefer being called Sonia, maybe to help me hang in. Actually, not many ask, or give, names, or talk at all. Some men will smile to themselves, though, as they listen to that inner music they dance to, which isn't always pure nostalgia. The women will laugh, too, and they'll smile. I laugh when I keep getting picked for dance after dance (and we'll stand in the middle of the floor, not talking, smiling sometimes, as we wait for the next number), laugh because that tango music is sizzling up out of the floor through the soles of our feet, vibrating us and pulling us along.

I love the tango. And so, also the one transmitting the codes for the figures to me through his finger, dancing me.

I don't care if I have to walk home the thirty blocks or so. Some Saturdays, I'll spend even my bus fare in the club and I don't care. Some Saturdays there's a sound of trumpets, celestial, let's call it, that knifes through the concertinas, and I levitate. I fly. Some Saturdays, my shoes stay on without rubber bands, of their own accord. It's worth it. The rest of the week goes by in the same humdrum way, and I'll hear the usual moronic bouquets a woman gets tossed at her on the street, those head-on compliments that seem so crude in comparison to the sidling of the tango.

And so, in the here and now, almost up against the counter so as to be able to take in the whole picture, I look over the older cavaliers and give one of them a smile. They are the best dancers. Let's see which of them takes me up. I get a reaction from the left side, part way behind a column. Such a slight nod that for a second it seemed almost as though he was going to lean his head over to listen to his shoulder. I like him. I like him. I flash him a real smile and not until then does he stand up and approach. You can't expect him to be forward. None of them here would risk getting turned down to his face and then have to walk back to his place with shame past the smirks of the others. This one knows he's landed me and loses no time in coming over but, now, close up, I don't fancy him so much anymore, considering his age and that self-satisfied air about him.

It would violate club etiquette for me to ignore him. I stand up, he leads me to a corner of the dance floor off to the side, where he speaks to me! Not like one a while ago, who spoke only to excuse himself for not speaking to me, because "I come here to dance, not to make talk," and never opened his mouth again. Not this one. He starts out with a general remark and it's almost too much to bear. "You know, dona," he says, "it looks like the crisis is getting worse," and I tell him that yes, I know, I sure as hell do, only not in those words, I'm Sonia and refined, and I say, "Yes, frightening," but he doesn't give me a chance to elaborate because he's already got me in a tight grip all set to step out on the next measure. This one's not going to let me down, I reassure myself, surrendering, mum.

It's a tango, the kind that's pure essence, a oneness with the universe. I can do the same hook steps I watched the woman in the knit dress doing, the chubby one who's having such a good time, flinging her neatly turned calves about so gracefully that one forgets the rest of her overblown anatomy. I dance thinking of that fat woman in the green knitted dress–the color of hope, they say–of the satisfaction dancing gives her, a replica, or maybe a reflection, of the satisfaction she must have gotten out of her knitting a great big dress for her great body, and the anticipated pleasure of showing it off, dancing. I can't knit like her or even dance as well, but at this moment, by some miracle, I do.

And when the piece is over and he goes back to discussing the crisis, I listen, wide-eyed, not answering, and let him go on to say:

"And have you any idea of the price they're asking for a hotel room these days? I’m a widower and live with my two boys.  I used to be able to invite a lady to a restaurant and then take her to the roost.  Now, all I can do is ask the lady if she has an apartment, and if it’s centrally located.  For my part, I can manage the roast chicken and bottle of wine."

I remember those flying feet–mine–those arabesques.  I have in mind the fat woman, so happy with her happy man, to the point where I begin to have a feeling that I could really consider going in for knitting.

"I don’t have an apartment," I let him know, "but I do have a room in a pension that’s clean and near the center. And I have dishes, silverware, and a couple of those tall, green wine glasses."

"Green? They’re for white wine."

"Yes, white."

"Sorry, but I don’t touch white wine."

And without anything further, we separated.