Heart of Tango by Elia Barceló Read Free Book Online Page B

their doors and windows as we paraded past.
    Beatrice’s brother was waiting for us at the corner with his mandolin, ready to escort us to the church singing all the traditional wedding songs from his home village.
    Papá smiled at me and gave a little squeeze to my hand on his arm. Despite everything that happened Afterward, which I could not have even imagined at the time, I will always remember him like that: smiling, proud, happy. Happy after so many setbacks, so manybitter sorrows. It has all been worth it for this, I remember thinking, and I think it must have been my first thought that morning because from the moment I opened my eyes I hadn’t had time for anything else, not even for fully comprehending what it was that I was about to do. The Italian girls had shown up early, before the first light of dawn, and were sharing a coffee with me in the kitchen before starting to comb my hair and dress me when Papá ran out of his room to “make himself presentable”. Only later did we realize with guilty laughter that we should have been fasting before communion, and we finally agreed among ourselves that coffee was, after all, nothing more than water with a bit of flavouring. But I was taken aback at not having thought of it, and I couldn’t help imagining what Grandmother Begoña would have said if she had found out: that I was a bad Christian and that it would bring us bad luck. So I begged Our Lady of the Forsaken for forgiveness and promised to make confession as soon as I could.
    The memory of that man’s eyes hadn’t let me sleep peacefully all night, and they were still with me, but not fully formed. It was as if they were inside me, watching the same things I saw: the lilies in my bouquet, the smiles on the women neighborss, the newly swept street, the big, dark birds that circled lazily over our heads and then suddenly took off flying as if in fear from the peeling bells of the church of San Juan Evangelista.
    The entrance of the church was packed. I had no idea so many people knew us. Or maybe all weddings are like that. The onlywedding I had seen was María Esther’s, but she had married in the city, a more exclusive setting. This was La Boca, and everything that happened here was everybody’s business.
    By the time we reached the entrance my legs were trembling and Papá had to support me for an instant.
    â€œDizzy?” he asked.
    I shook my head and forced myself to smile.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, darling, are you afraid?”
    For a moment I couldn’t decide whether to tell the truth or to make light of the matter. In the end I nodded yes.
    â€œThat’s normal, sweet. It’ll all be over soon.”
    I still don’t understand how I managed to utter the words, but right there, standing steps away from the crowd that awaited us at the church door, men smoking cigarettes, women waving their fans, I whispered softly to him, “Papá, why didn’t you ever ask me if I wanted to marry El Rojo?”
    All color drained instantly from his face. He stared into my eyes and gulped—I know he did, because twice I saw his Adam’s apple move up and down, up and down. The aroma of the lilies enveloped us like a warm cloud. Sweat was starting to drip down our temples. Papá raised my veil delicately with one hand, took his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped my face with it as gently as could be, then dried his own face and put the handkerchief away.
    â€œDon’t you want to?” he finally asked.
    It was not the time to argue. Everyone was watching us. TheItalian girls, who had gone on ahead, were making signs from the church door as if to hurry us along.
    â€œIt isn’t that, Papá,” I said, more and more flustered. “Yes. Of course I do. Yes, but—I don’t know—it would have been nice if someone had asked me.”
    â€œDidn’t
he
ask you?”
    I bit my lips and foolishly shook my