Page 8 of It Takes Three To Tango

But now I hear him loud and clear.

Don’t sit and mourn for me, Con. Don’t waste your best years being alone. You have a big heart, find someone to share it with. You deserve love, to be loved.

He’s wrong, of course. He was my love and there will never be another. But perhaps sitting alone every night isn’t healthy. Have I wasted my best years? I haven’t thought of them as wasted, but maybe I can at least spend some time with other people. Tonight, as I drift off to sleep, I feel a tingle of anticipation at the prospect of seeing them again tomorrow.

The warmth of the sun kissing the skin on my back wakes me. I’m sprawled face down on the bed, the sheet barely covering my nakedness. I’m surprised I even managed to undress myself. I was so weary last night when I returned, having walked back up the hill to my aunt’s house. I wasn’t in any state to work out the public transport system, and my phone battery had died, so I couldn’t call for an Uber.

I lie still for a while, enjoying the gentle warmth seeping into me before opening my eyes. When I blink them open, I can see it’s late. I haven’t fully adjusted to European times yet, so I feel groggy. It’s definitely that andnotthe amount of wine I consumed last night. Surprisingly good wine, though between the bar owner and the writer, I feel like I was the one who knew the least. I’ve been brought up to know and appreciate wine—enough to be able to pick the best wines at a restaurant rather than the most expensive, which is the trap those wishing to show they have money fall into—but itdoesn’t hold a specific interest for me. In my family, it’s used to denote status. Find the hidden gems on a wine list, and you attract the notice of the sommelier. Get his respect and you get the respect of the waiters too. My father always asserts that it helps you get good tables at short notice in the best restaurants. Personally, I think they’re just scared of him and what he could do if they didn’t accommodate him. But none of that matters to me as I haven’t the money to eat at that class of restaurant. My father sending me here because I’m expendable is not far from the truth, though I hate to admit it. Being a tango dancer doesn’t make much money, not even enough to live on. I might not have joined the family business, but I am still a part of them and must abide by their rules. I’m allowed to indulge in my passion for dancing, and in return, my father pays for my apartment and gives me an allowance. In short, my father owns my ass.

I’d like to say, not in a literal sense, but in a way that’s not true either.

I remember the day I told my father I was gay. I don’t think it came as a big surprise to him, but he just gave me one of his long sighs, as if it was just another way I’d deliberately disappointed him, and told me I was not to bring scandal to the family. I understood the threat behind his words. Do anything that affects the business, and I’d be cut off from the family. I like my apartment and I like my life, so I make sure I don’t. So yeah, my father owns my ass. But here in Barcelona, I have more freedom. I’m not so easily recognisable and I could have some fun. Nothing serious, though, that’s not an option for me. Imagine some poor guy having to meet my father? I can just picture his sneer of disapproval, since whoever I chose would never meet his expectations. If they did, then they wouldn’t be with me. Urgh, that’s fine. I’m used to it, but Iamgoing to have a good time.

The need for coffee is what finally prompts me to leave thecomfort of my bed and get washed and dressed. I find Juana busy preparing lunch in the huge kitchen. She cheerily waves me away from the coffee machine and insists on making me a cup. I’d soon discovered it was better to let her have her own way, though it’s an amazing kitchen and I’d love to indulge my other passion—for cooking— in it.

She hands me a steaming cup with a smile and a simple statement. “She’s on the terrace.”

That my aunt is well enough to be out of bed explains Juana’s good mood, and I make my way through the vast house and out to the sunny terrace. I stand on the threshold between the cool interior of what could be described as a ballroom—though that seems like an antiquated term—and the large, sunny, white-stone terrace. It’s late spring and warm enough not to need a sweater. My aunt is on a lounger, half under a linden tree, its broad leaves supplying shade. At first, I think she’s asleep. Her eyes are closed and shaded by a wide-brimmed sun hat, but when I approach, they flicker open, and she gives me a thin smile.

“There you are, my dear.” She reaches a hand out to me. It’s instinctive. As a dancer and a singer, she’s used to being a star—the centre of attention. She behaves the same even if her audience is only her great nephew. I take it and give it a gentle squeeze before lightly touching it to my lips. Her smile widens as if she’s just received her due.

I warmed to her almost immediately when I arrived. I’d anticipated that it would be awkward having a stranger, albeit a family member, drop in on her at short notice, but it’s been nothing like that. When I arrived quite late in the evening,she was reclining on a chaise longue in a richly decorated room lined with dark wood panels and velvet drapes.

“Come here, my dear,” she’d said as if we hadn’t just met for the first time, but were old acquaintances. “Let me see who my nephew has sent.” I was a little surprised she expected me. She tipped her head back to look up at me before smiling. It was an encouraging smile, though tinged with a little sadness. “You look very much like her, you know.”

“Like who?”

“Your grandmother. She was a beautiful woman, and she turned many heads. She was my best friend, and we used to go dancing together. She could have turned professional like me, but she only had eyes for my brother and wanted to settle down instead.”

I hadn’t known my grandmother had danced. I hadn’t known her well at all, as she passed when I was still young, but I’d always wondered why I had no interest in business and only wanted to dance. I’ve felt most of my life that I was the anomaly in the family, except for my great aunt Estrella who had left Argentina for Spain decades ago.

“I dance too, Great Aunt,” I replied.

“Auntie, please. The ‘great’ makes me feel so old.” I didn’t point out to her that I was the youngest of my siblings, and my father didn’t marry young, so at ninety-one she was probably old enough to be a great-great-aunt.

“Auntie,” I repeated, and she smiled.

“Of course you dance. I noticed as soon as you walked into the room. I can always tell a dancer,” she said so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t help laughing. Suddenly, this visit had started to look like it might not be as much of a chore as I thought it would be.

I release her hand and look down at her. She has more colour than in the previous days when I’ve seen her; she looks stronger. When I’d asked her what was wrong with her, all I’d received was an enigmatic, “My dear, I’m ninety-one. Life ails me.”

“You look well today, Auntie,” I say, sitting on an adjacent lounger.

“I take each day as it comes,” she says. “But tell me, did you have fun last night? Juana said you went out.”

No secrets in this house, then. Or it could be that nothing ever happens, so I am of interest to them. Probably a bit of both.

“I found a tango bar. La Casa de Valery. Do you know it?”

She shakes her head. “I used to know all the places, but it’s been a while since I was in society.” Her gaze slips past me as if she’s revisiting the past, but she doesn’t dwell there long. “Did you dance?”

“I did a little.” I give a little shrug.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

It’s only been a few days, barely a week, but she’s right. I’ve danced every day since I discovered the tango as a teenager. I love nothing better than to lose myself in the fluidity of the movements and the music. Not dancing has made me hyper-aware of my body and it feels odd, somehow different, like I’m living in someone else’s skin. I could say all that to her, but as I look at my aunt, I realise that she too would’ve danced every day, and she probably hasn’t danced for several years. It would seem cruel to tell her my woes. Her expression tells me she already knows the answer to her question.

“How do you manage?” I whisper, thinking that growing old doesn’t have much going for it.

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