Tango for One

J.B.POLK

When Eamonn O’Brien first visited Las Pampas, he said it looked and smelled like an Irish bog. Rose, his daughter, was not surprised by his comment, since, for as long as she could remember, her father had always compared some aspect of their life in Argentina to the vestiges—half-remembered, half-imagined—of his childhood on the Emerald Isle. Eamonn’s past had never completely relinquished its hold on him, and he passed it on to his daughter like a cherished family heirloom with little monetary value, but one that she was supposed to safeguard at all costs.

It could be argued that the O’Briens had forfeited their claim to Irish identity through a generation of self-imposed exile. Yet Eamonn, a man who defied convention at every turn, believed that what truly defined a person was not their place of residence but the time they spent cherishing and upholding traditions. For him, there was a clear distinction between physical location and ethnic heritage, and he was determined to keep his roots alive no matter where life took him.

Like many other Irishmen of his age, Eamonn had left his homeland in search of a better life. He consistently chose the less-traveled paths, and after hopping from Mexico to Panama and from there to Bolivia, he finally settled in Argentina. He made a modest living from tea imports. It wasn’t much, he admitted—just enough to get by and maintain a respectable status in the émigré community. However, for Rose, he wanted more. Much more! In his eyes, and as if by osmosis, in hers too, his daughter deserved better than the average girl. After all, she had so much to offer—herself!

That’s why her engagement to Carlos Antonelli received Eamonn’s approval and blessing. It was a perfect match in the eyes of the Buenos Aires beau monde, and Rose became the object of universal envy for having snatched the city’s most desirable bachelor.

Mild-mannered and courteous, Carlos Antonelli was the epitome of classic Latin American charm. He was lean and of average height, with black hair that he slicked back with brilliantine, following the fashion of the day. Educated abroad, he spoke French like a native Parisian, and his English exuded a charming Oxford lilt.

Apart from good looks, Carlos possessed another asset that made him a coveted catch: Las Pampas, thousands of hectares of undulating pastures, melting into an unreachable horizon. It was rumored that crossing from one end of the Antonelli property to another would require a week of horseback riding. Rose never confirmed the claim, and she spent the first year of her marriage within a mile of the main house.

The first Antonelli to set foot on Argentine soil was Laurence, a Swiss who pined for the picturesque gingerbread chalets of his homeland in the Alps, and who had an architect brought in from Europe to design his house in a similar style. The servants’ quarters were located close to the main building, but the gauchos’ huts, the Las Pampas cowboys, stood more than a mile away. It took Rose quite some time to get to know the world of the gauchos, and her first impression was a fusion of smells: wet hide, horses’ sweat, and steaming manure.

Although Carlos was too polite to prohibit anything outright, interacting with the staff, let alone the bad-mannered gauchos, was frowned upon. And while he was hardly a prude, he didn’t want Rose to get involved with people he deemed unsuitable for a landlord’s wife. There was a clear border between the social circles, and an Antonelli woman such as Rose was expected to remain inside her own.

It took her the entire first winter to understand what her father meant by Las Pampas’ stagnancy. After the wild Buenos Aires life with its movie theaters, motor vehicles, foxtrot, and chic clothing courtesy of Chanel and Helena Rubinstein, the estate appeared soulless and drab.

Utterly besotted, Carlos tried to alleviate some of the boredom engulfing his wife like a black fog. He’d seen the same frustration take hold of his mother’s and, presumably, his grandmother’s lives before that. He encouraged Rose to remodel the house to her liking, and she realized that what she thought was magnificent upkeep of the furniture, rugs, and tapestry was nothing more than the efforts of other Antonelli women who, bored to tears, tried to escape the monotony by redecorating the house on multiple occasions.

She tried everything from ordering Eileen Grey chairs and ostentatious marble-topped tables to swapping satin draperies for damasks, bringing in objets d’art from Dresden, and acquiring a grand piano from Madrid. Trunks and cartons labeled “fragile” and containing beautifully crafted hand-painted ceramics arrived from the capital. She dutifully oversaw their unpacking and meticulously arranged each item in its designated spot. But she was only pursuing a hobby, barely sufficient to alleviate the interminably long stretch of idle hours before her.

There were days when tears of despair welled up in her heart, and she burst into a fit of wrath, determined to disrupt the orderly harmony of her magnificent but monotonous home. She mooched around, spilling ash from her cigarette holder straight on the hardwood floor or pounding Wagner on the piano—the cacophony of sounds drawing servants from the kitchen and her husband from his study.

The drabness of the people around her, coupled with the unchanging surroundings, filled her with gloom. She knew some people liked routines and the company of their thoughts, but not her! She loathed inactivity and looked forward to exciting upheavals that would break up the predictability of days, weeks, and months. Whether it poured or the sun shone through the curdled clouds, nothing ever changed in Las Pampas. There were too many hours to occupy with meaningless reading, rearranging misplaced items, or writing letters to friends who lived thrilling lives in the capital.

Eamonn wrote regularly, and his letters penned between hectic engagements only added to her misery. She ripped them to shreds and, like a child whose favorite doll had been taken away, vented her rage on her husband.

Carlos, with the patience of a man accustomed to Las Pampas’ hypnotic effect, promised trips to Buenos Aires, mornings filled with shopping sprees, afternoon visits to the cinema to see the latest Pola Negri flick, and evenings of shimmy and Charleston. But not just yet! Not until the calving season was over, the newborn calves were strong enough to survive on their own, and the wagons with grain were shipped to Europe.

If spring’s approach brought any changes, they were too subtle for Rose to perceive. But, unable to bear her husband’s lethargy any longer, she ignored his warnings and decided to leave the confines of the living room to see if there was any life out there beyond her house. She requested a gentle mare and headed off through the pastures, which lacked even the smallest distinguishing feature: a tree, a boulder, or a river to break up the monotony of the surface.

After approximately fifteen minutes, she welcomed the appearance of the disordered constellation of shacks and directed the horse to some broken troughs. Water spurted from a rusted pump as black piglets shoved their snouts into piles of decomposing straw, half-covered in puddles.

Then she saw him—bare from the waist up, his chest overgrown with a tangle of black hair, muscles bulging beneath the bronze skin, rippling with each movement. He splashed cold water under his armpits with abandon, confident he was alone. Lost in the self-caress, he seemed to relish the intimate gestures.

She tugged firmly on the reins, forcing the horse to rear. The gaucho’s hands stopped in midair, triggered by the animal’s neigh. His gaze, reserved for prize-winning cattle, fixed on her, sending a shudder down her spine as the black pools of his pupils pierced through.

He walked toward her with a quick, assured gait. The horse reared again, almost knocking her to the ground as she tried to steer it back toward Las Pampas. He grasped the bridle and calmed the terrified animal. Drops of water glistened on his body and his black, curly hair. Despite his recent ablutions, he was close enough for her to smell his sweat. She struggled to remove the harness from his hands, but he was too strong, and the horse, recognizing a dominant mind, remained anchored to the ground.

“Let go,” she whispered.

His lips parted in a mocking smile, revealing white, monolithic teeth.

“Let go, I said!” She yelled this time.

He kept holding the leather straps. His volcanic passion, which other males she knew lacked, captivated her. She couldn’t find it in Carlos, who moved in a classy but slightly effeminate way and had soft, salon-like manners. But she knew it existed. She’d seen it the night she’d sneaked into a dark, steamy café on the banks of the River Plate without her father’s consent or knowledge. There, she’d recognized the same effervescence in the angular movements of a tango dancer—dressed entirely in black, his hair falling across his brow in a wild, untamed manner. His passion had left an indelible mark on Rose’s memory, fueling her desire to seek out that same fiery spirit in the man who would later become her life partner.

Upon witnessing the performer’s initial movement, she immediately felt a surge of raw energy as he embraced his partner with an almost scandalous intimacy, spinning her around and over until it appeared as though she were gasping for air. How she had wished then to be in the dancer’s grasp, divining his every move, swirl, and pressure of his hand on her waist, dancing with precision to the alluring lament of the accordion!

Now, she recognized the same traits in the half-naked gaucho, and a spark of shame flashed through her.

“I’ll tell my husband,” she stammered.

He ignored her, his gaze roving up and down her body.

“You’ll be back,” he whispered hoarsely, flashing one final smile before releasing the reins.

The horse, no longer confined, bucked. She raced away, digging her heels into the mare’s flanks and feeling the gaucho’s eyes sear into her back.

As always, Carlos was sitting on the porch with an open book in his lap, seeking intellectual betterment. He greeted her with a smile, and she grinned back insincerely.

“Enjoyed your ride?” he asked.

She nodded but remained silent, afraid that one sound would unseal her lips and unleash a stream of words she would later regret.

As she entered the house, he returned to his book. The new, unused furniture rattled. She longed to throw vases off mantelpieces and scratch deep grooves in the dark skeleton of the piano, whose highly polished surface projected the gaucho’s image.

She tossed and turned in bed at night, unable to forget him. Carlos, clad in gray silk pajamas, snored softly beside her. He slept the same way he lived: with a remarkable economy of movement without violence or passion. The contrast between his peaceful slumber and her turbulent thoughts kept her awake until the early hours of the morning.

A letter from her father arrived the next day, announcing his impending return to Ireland.

“I’m getting old, and as I know you’ve found happiness in Las Pampas, all I want is to spend the rest of my days in my homeland,” he wrote.

At breakfast, she watched Carlos nibbling daintily on buttered toast, pouring dark, fragrant Earl Grey into her and his cups, and wiping his mouth clean with languid gestures. She felt repulsed, despite his apparent elegance. His righteousness and god-awful decency in everything he did enrage her. She yearned for him to bite into the bread lustily, slurp the tea, spill it on the pristine tablecloth, then take her in his arms and kiss her so hard her lips would blister.

As soon as they finished eating, she saddled the horse and rode towards the gauchos’ huts. She approached cautiously, knowing that her restraint would not last. With each meter, she shed inhibitions like a feral beast, unfettered for the first time. She wasn’t entirely free yet; her jail, the sprawling Las Pampas, loomed close behind.

Dressed in a dark, crinkled shirt with a yellow bandanna around his throat, the man stood and waited. They exchanged glances; she was near the horse, and he had his back against one of the shacks. He didn’t move, leaving the decision to come closer in her hands. She resisted, fighting the last vestiges of her dignity, but desire took over. Captivated by his mocking stare, Rose led the horse through the peat-brown mud.

There was no one nearby. Even the pigs had vanished. The gaucho remained still, luring her nearer until she stood beside him, close enough to inhale his savage scent again. She removed her gloves and stretched her arm toward him. She took one more step, and their bodies collided. Only then did he make a leisurely movement, engulfing her waist and neutralizing the last semblance of her decorum. She pressed her face against his chest, inhaling the pungent aroma of sweat. She felt the hardness of his palms, callused by rawhide lassoes, and the biting force of farm tools through her silk blouse. She let herself get pleasure from his touch. Nothing about him was soft, yet she liked the rough efficiency with which he unbuttoned her top. He’d struck a chord in her that Carlos didn’t know existed, let alone knew how to play.

Suddenly, his roving hands stopped. He pushed her aside.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “The boys will be back soon.”

He walked away, leaving her clothes in disarray and her emotions blazing.

She wanted to scream all the way to Las Pampas. The horse flinched under her vicious lash and frothed at the mouth. The longing that had remained dormant, repressed by the conventions she’d been molded into, nearly knocked her heart out of her chest.

She stayed in her bedroom all day, disregarding Carlos’s gentle invitation to join him for tea.

“Come out, darling,” he coaxed. “The cook has made brioches with fresh butter. The way you like them.”

But again, he accepted defeat stoically and left her to her own devices without a word of reproach. She wanted him to yell at her, to crumble, for once, the wall of bovine inertia he had cordoned himself off with, but she knew he wouldn’t. To him, rapture and violence were foreign concepts. He was not, and would never be, an active participant in the drama of life but a mere spectator—unresponsive and detached. The boundaries he set for himself—or rather, the ones set for him by his upbringing—were impenetrable.

The night dragged on, and in her insomniac pacing, she ticked off the hours till dawn. She could think of nothing but the gaucho’s rough hands on her skin. After breakfast, she galloped towards the familiar huts and the waiting man, racing the wind.

She was surprised and disappointed to find him surrounded by men wearing similar clothes—coarse shirts, faded pants with leather patches, and boots spattered with mud. They whispered to one another as they watched her approach.

With more resolution than she felt, she stepped closer. Words caught in her throat like toast crumbs.

“I…I need to talk to you,” she muttered.

The gaucho thoughtfully stroked his chin.

“Guys, the boss’s wife wants me. It wouldn’t be polite to keep her waiting, would it?”

They laughed in unison.

He took her elbow and led her to the closest hut, with his friends whispering behind their backs.

It was dark inside. She saw two iron beds with messy blankets, no sheets, and clothes and boots scattered on the floor. A light spear pierced the window’s filthy panes. The wooden floor creaked, answering the tread of their footfalls.

The man’s hot breath tickled her nape as he blew away a few renegade hair tendrils. Without any tenderness, he made her sit on the bed looming above her, boring into her with deep black eyes. Like a sandcastle built on the beach, her resistance crumbled under his intense gaze grain by grain, leaving her feeling powerless and vulnerable.

Visions and sounds of the tango swirled in her mind as she sank into his embrace. She pretended she was back in the dark, steamy café on the River Plate’s banks, dancing to an accordion’s pulsating throb. She was the dancing partner now, sensing every twist, every turn, and every pressure of his hand on her waist as she lay in the performer’s embrace.

Before losing herself entirely in her imagination, her last rational thought was that she couldn’t turn back. But why should she, though? For as much as she hated clichés, she crossed her Rubicon and accessed what she most needed in life.