Heart of Tango by Elia Barceló Read Free Book Online

while I was here drying my hair in the courtyard?
    Feeling foolish and a bit guilty, I started picturing how the day before my wedding might have gone if things had been different—if we had still been living in Valencia, if my mother hadn’t died, if I were about to marry a man like the fellow in the shop.
    I would have woken up then in a house full of women, listening to the comings and goings of maids while Mamá sipped chocolate with me and talked about all the things that needed to bedone. I wouldn’t have had to step near the kitchen, for Grandfather would have asked Remedios to take care of all the baking, and someone else would have been in charge of decorating the hall for the party Afterward. We would have gone to the cathedral at mid-morning, to give thanks to God and to watch over the floral arrangements . . .
    The church! I had completely forgotten that I needed to go to church at six that afternoon to confess. But, dear Lord, what was I going to confess? That I had enjoyed my bath? That I had wasted time thinking about vain and impossible things? That I was dreaming about the wedding dance and tango music? That I had imagined, though only for a moment, that the hands that would caress me on the day after my wedding might have been those of a man I had seen for scarcely one minute in the shadowy depths of the grocer’s shop? Could any of these things be sins?
    I kissed the medallion with the image of Our Lady of the Forsaken, patron saint of Valencia, that I had worn around my neck since First Communion, and without giving it another thought I went inside to finish getting everything ready.
    I left La Marina wearing my dancing clothes and my hat. My heart was beating at a frenzied pace. I gripped the guitar as if it were about to fly away and gulped at the night air, full of the seaside smells of stagnant water, oil from passing ships, and occasional whiffs of the jasmine and carnations that women grew here and there by the doors of their homes.
    I was nearly out of breath when I reached the Royal. There the boys were, smoking languidly and joking around as always. The lights of the café reflected off their pomaded hair, making them look like respectable gentlemen despite the musical instruments they carried and the party atmosphere wafting through the district. They had left their hats inside the Royal and were all wearing suits and bow ties. I noticed for the first time since I met them that I was the only one who didn’t wear a stylishly trim mustache. This frivolous detail made me feel different once more, as I had on so many other occasions in life. Different, odd, out ofplace. The only one for whom this was not a mere Saturday night lark.
    We all set off as a gang, debating what kind of program we should offer, the pros and cons of our favorite songs. I took little part in the discussion. My mind was off in other matters, and everything seemed fine to me so long as I could see her again.
    In a matter of minutes we were standing at the door to her house. We started tuning up before anyone had even looked out of the windows. Then Canaro lifted his bow, and we began the set with a lively little waltz that had been very popular the previous winter. A milonga followed, then a tango, the night’s first.
    By then there were men at all the neighborss’ doors applauding when each song ended, and a few women at the windows, half hidden behind the lowered blinds. But Natalia’s house remained dark, as if no-one there had noticed the serenade, or as if they had decided not to accept our humble tribute.
    I had to dry my hands on my trouser legs after each song. Mumbling in a low voice so that no-one could hear, I repeated her name like a prayer,
Natalia
,
Natalia
,
Natalia
, trying to make her get out of bed, come to the window and look at me, though it were for the last time.
    By the fifth piece, when our serenade was looking like a town dance and the neighborss had started to make