Page 2 of It Takes Three To Tango

You’re so boring Rafe, all you ever do is work.

“A regular tourist then,” he says and takes a drag on his cigarette.

I feel like he’s mocking me slightly, or at least dismissing me, and I blurt out,“Not really. I’ve been here a week and haven’t seen anything yet.” Now I just sound like a fool. He doesn’t respond, just continues to regard me with a curious expression. The seconds stretch and I feel it might be one of those moments where he’s deliberately leaving a silence for me to fill. Well, I’m not going to just prattle out anything to embarrass myself. I need to change the subject.

I take a sip of the rum, allowing it to slip down smoothly instead of burning my throat. It occurs to me I’m accepting after-hours hospitality from a guy and I don’t even know his name.

I read the sign behind the bar: La Casa de Valery. Valery’s House.

“Are you Valery?”

His expression shifts, almost like someone has flicked a dimmer switch.

He picks up his lighter, turning it over and over in his fingers. He takes another long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly with a sigh.

“Valery was my husband. He was my world.”

Damn, I’ve gone from not wanting to embarrass myself to making him uncomfortable. I really am bad at this, being in company.

Another puff of his cigarette.

“I loved him and would’ve followed him to the ends of the earth. In the end, I just had to follow him here.”

“You’re not from Barcelona?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m from Gran Canaria. Valery went there for a holiday.” His face softens and his eyes are far away, in a bygone time. “I hardly left his side for the month he was there; I was besotted, and so was he. When he returned, I came with him.”

He gestures round the bar with his hand, careless of where ash is falling.

“This was his dream, to have a bar. It was all he talked about. We spent a long time saving up for it. But he never got to see it.”

He picks up his glass and downs the rest in one gulp, his eyes dark and brimming with a deep hurt.

“What happened?” My voice croaks, and I take a gulp, forgetting to sip. I swallow past the burn.

“He got sick... cancer. Three months. That’s all we had... three months.” Bitterness laces his words. “I watched him turn to dust in front of my eyes.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. It’s the usual thing to say, but I know it won’t touch the side of his grief. His mouth forms a tight line as if he’s heard it a million times and it brings no relief.

“It took me a year to finish saving up, to open this place. To realise his dream. All of it, it’s for him.”

He sits back, his face expressionless, like telling his story has wiped him clean of emotion.

I look round at the bar, seeing it as the tribute it is, seeing the effort that’s gone into making it a vibrant and lively place.

“I think that’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

When I look at him again, the bottomless sadness is back.

I yawn, tiredness catching up with me. He stands.

“I should lock up. It’s late.”

I understand my dismissal, but I don’t have the energy to be annoyed. I can see he wants to be alone.

I say goodnight and take my leave.

It only occurs to me, back in my hotel room as I get undressed for bed, that I still don’t know his name.

---