Page 4 of It Takes Three To Tango

Before I continue exploring the city, I snap a photo and send it to my sister, knowing exactly the reaction it’ll get. I’m rewarded with a message of her outrage within a few seconds. That I can no longer be at my sister’s beck and call is one of the few kicks I’m likely to get out of this whole assignment. I can’t be her unpaid childminder if I’m thousands of miles away. I love my nieces, but that’s not the problem. It’s the way my sister always drops those duties on me when she knowsI’m not teaching, as if I don’t have anything else in my life except to be there for her.

I open a browser on my phone and look up gay bars and clubs, discovering a whole area in the Eixample district, cutely called Gaixample. That’s definitely somewhere for me to visit another night, maybe find a hookup or two. After all, no one said I couldn’t have any fun while I’m here, so I fully intend to. Things are looking up. For now, though, I decide to explore the old town some more, heading past the Cathedral and the Picasso Museum, making a note to come back another day. I follow the ancient winding streets, enjoying the old buildings and quiet reverence past the Basílica de Santa Maria del Mar, Our Lady of the Sea. I stand for a while, staring at its gothic beauty.

Music catches my attention. I can’t mistake the sound of the bandoneón—tango music. It is unexpected, as flamenco music is more common in Spain. Tango is infused in my soul, and the familiar sound of it creates a wave of longing to be at home, to be dancing and teaching. Like a magnet, my body is pulled towards the source of the music. It’s coming from a small bar, set away from the main streets and down a cool alleyway. La Casa de Valery. . . sounds intriguing. When I enter, a sense of rightness settles over me. Standing at the bar, I look around, and it’s easy to see why—I could be back home in Buenos Aires. The bar isn’t big, but larger than it looks from its unassuming outside. A long bar runs along one wall and there are at least a dozen tables and chairs. To one side is a dance floor with enough room for several couples to dance comfortably. The lower half of the walls are all wood-panelled, and the upper half is painted cream but covered in an eclectic mix of paintings and photographs, all tango related.

It has a timeless quality, almost as if it could have beentransported out of Argentina and dropped into Spain a century ago. What’s more surprising is that it’s busy. Nearly all the tables are occupied, and the dance floor already has a few couples. The music is provided by a bandoneón player, a violinist, a flautist, and a guitar player. An upright piano is pushed against one wall of the dance floor but is not currently being played.

There’s a small unoccupied table close to the dancers, so I take a seat and watch them. I think of the lessons I had to cancel and the two club owners I’ve let down at short notice by being here. I hope there’s a job for me when I return home. Not that my father views it as a proper job, which is really why I was the one chosen, the one member of the family who could be spared. It doesn’t take long before I’m itching to get up and dance.

I watch as one of the couples sits back at their table. The woman doesn’t look like she’s ready to stop, but the guy is paying her no attention. On a whim, I stand and ask her to dance. She smiles like a vixen at her partner, who looks daggers at her for a minute, but she pays him no heed and eagerly steps onto the dance floor.

Maria, I learn, is probably nearly twice my age, very elegant, and a good dancer.

“Your partner has nothing to fear from me,” I tell her and she laughs.

“I know, but it won’t hurt for him to stew for a little while.” She smiles, and the next time we pass the table, she draws just a little closer to me. The guy is practically apoplectic, so after the song finishes, I take her back to her seat. I don’t want to be in the middle of an argument or risk the wrath of her bullish partner.

I need a drink, so I place my order and sit back at my table. The music starts up again, and this time the guy withthe guitar sings. I relax, content to people-watch for a while. My eyes are drawn to a photograph on the wall behind the bar. It’s a picture taken of a happy-looking couple on a beach. I recognise one of the guys as the singer in the tango group, but I don’t see the other one. He looks older now than in the photo, and the joyful, carefree look is gone. His dark brows seem drawn, weighed down like life is a difficult weight to bear. Strangely, it suits him, almost more than the joyous look from the photo. It adds a gravitas to his handsome, dark face. But what strikes me the most about him is his voice. It’s deep and reverberates in my bones. It makes me want to move, want to dance. He sometimes closes his eyes and then the song takes on a more soulful air. More than once, he flicks his eyes across the room, and I follow his gaze to where a guy is reading a book. The man is gorgeous. He’s definitelynotSpanish, his skin is too pale, but it’s perfect for his light brown hair. He’s wearing gold-rimmed glasses, which give him a scholarly air. Yes, he’s definitely rocking the sexy professor look. If he notices the attention on him, he doesn’t look up or acknowledge it. He seems completely oblivious to what’s going on around him. I envy him his focus and his beauty. With the singer’s rich tones coursing through my body, I make my way over to the handsome stranger. When I get closer, I see the book he is reading is English, though the author was Spanish.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask, speaking English, reasoning that unless he is trying to improve his language skills, he’s English.

It takes him a second to notice my presence and that I’ve spoken.

“Hmm?” He blinks a couple of times—he obviously hadn’t heard me. I almost feel sorry for disturbing him, but it was worth it to have his light brown, almost gold eyes on me.

“Would you like to dance?” I repeat.

His brow knits together for a second, and he answers with a frown. “I’m . . . err, straight.”

The unexpected answer makes me snort.

“Cariño! I asked if you wanted to dance with me, not if you wanted to fuck me!”

“Oh shit! Sorry!” I blurt, wishing the earth could actually open up and swallow me. My cheeks burn and I’m sure I’m a horrendous puce colour. “I didn’t mean it like that. I?—”

WhatdidI mean? It dawns on me that my first reaction was to think the guy was hitting on me. Have I just been homophobic? Damn, I hope not, because I’m not, in any way. But I don’t know many gay people and there are certainly none among my close friends, not that I have many of those either. I don’t even know if the guy is gay. It’s not like he has a neon sign above his head. I messed up talking to people yesterday, and today doesn’t look any better. Maybe I should’ve stayed in my hotel room. But I like it here, I find it calming, though I’m trying to not catch the eye of the owner. I’m still embarrassed about yesterday.

Luckily, the guy looks amused rather than upset.

“I... I’ve never been asked to dance before,” I finish.

“Really? Now that does surprise me,” he chuckles.

“Look, I’m sorry I was rude. Please let me buy you a drink?” I feel it’s the least I can do.

He flashes a brilliant smile and sits down at my table. “Well, if you insist.” I signal to the waitress and order a bottle of wine.

I pour him a glass and he takes a large swallow. Then he looks at me with an appraising air. “That isgoodwine. Apology accepted.”

“You sound surprised,” I laugh.

“That you know good wine?” He frowns slightly. “I guess I am a little. I’m sorry, too.”

“Apology accepted.” I raise my glass, and he matches me, both of us taking another drink. “I once wrote a book that centred around the wine industry, so I did a lot of research and a lot of wine tasting.”

“You’re a writer? How exciting.” His eyes sparkle.

“Not really. It’s a lot of looking at a blank screen, wondering how to get the words in your head to form into recognisable and coherent squiggles.”

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