Los Tangueros

by Pattie M. Wells

Zanetto considered himself lucky, in many ways, to have landed a two-year contract to lay tile in Buenos Aires. There had been no work at all in Trieste.

And, of course, there were the Fascisti.

In Buenos Aires, at least, he would save enough money to marry Cici.

He missed Trieste with its strong Bora wind off the Adriatic. He missed his friends at the Caffè San Marco, the poetry readings on Monday nights; he had not yet summoned the courage to read his own work, but, with two years of greater effort....

He missed his brother, Luigi, and his wife, Angelina, even if she was still angry that he’d stubbed her toe while waltzing with her at the Masquerade Ball.

Cici had tried to persuade him to stay. She was not ready to have him leave her. She wanted more fun together. She hoped they would take dance lessons at Patrizia’s Dance Academy. Upon his return, Zanetto planned to impress her with his skill in the tango.

La entrada
From behind, Zanetto felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled around to see a man in his early thirties with black hair parted down the middle, short in the back and sides, with long locks falling onto his forehead. His eyes were cyan blue. He was thin but strong-looking, tall for a Porteño, about five-nine, with light skin and large teeth. He wore a red silk shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a thick gold herringbone bracelet. His pinstriped pleated black trousers had wide cuffs. His shoes were two-toned, black and white. The tip of a linen handkerchief rose out of his pocket to reveal the initials CG in red embroidery.

The man waved a long cigar, weaving a circle of smoke that carried a faint scent of cherry almond. “Amigo, my name is Carlos. Did I hear you say that you were looking for the Café Tortoni?”

Zanetto stood up. “Gracias, yes. The consul from Chile, Neruda, the poet, is reading there tomorrow!”

Zanetto stepped back, trying to create a polite distance; Carlos took a stride closer. “It’s a few miles from here. The best way is to flag down a colectivo at the Plaza Dorrego.”

Zanetto pressed his palms together, brought them to his chest, and bowed.

“Thank you, amigo!” He sat down again.

Carlos leaned forward to see what Zanetto was writing. “Are you writing a carta de amor? I apologize, a love letter?” He winked.

Zanetto turned the page over. “No, no, no, it is my poema del tango.”

Grinning deep dimples, Carlos bragged, “Aha, I am a tango aficionado, one might even say, a tanguero. There is a tango practica this afternoon at El Viejo Almacén. It is fantastic. Really! What are your plans?”

Zanetto squinted. “A tango practica?”

“The best tango practice in San Telmo. You will see. Why don’t we meet there? It’s at the corner of Humberta and Defensa, next to the little antique store called Los Angelitos.”

They shook hands. Zanetto felt his hand disappear inside the other man’s large hand. Carlos’s eyes seemed to pierce through Zanetto, leaving him momentarily breathless.

La cruzada
The Lorca Tile Company had put Zanetto up in a spartan room with a single bed tucked tight with brown sheets topped with a striped Indian blanket and a lumpy pillow. A rickety wood table and chair, a bureau, an oval mirror, and a small armoire took up all the space in the room. Zanetto liked it. Especially, the way the window opened out toward the street. Honking colectivos, street musicians playing pan flutes, and the aroma of burned chilies blew in on the balmy wind.

Zanetto pulled the crucifix out from under his shirt. He cradled it in his palm as he thought about the promise he’d made to his mother: Attend church once a week and go to confession. Normally, he didn’t confess much inside the confessional. Debauchery bothlured and repulsed him. Sometimes, he wondered if the devil had followed him to Argentina. He hoped for salvation through art. He imagined that poetry, music, and dance would save his soul.

Zanetto’s Grandma Bruna had told him that Art lives in the heart of the soul. Catholic nuns had raised her at the Church of San Giovanni near Duino. The mother superior had taken her in like one of her own. She told Bruna, The devil’s plan is foiled by hard work, even art work. Idleness, she said, is the root of all evil. Growing up, Zanetto heard this repeatedly.

On the bureau, a rolled-up El Diario de San Telmo revealed the date, April 1, 1933. The idea of spending his 23rd birthday alone had troubled Zanetto; now he was going to meet Pablo Neruda. He hoped to show him his poem, “Blue Tango.”

Zanetto hung a rose quartz rosary on the edge of the mirror to remind him to pray. Looking into the mirror, he frowned at his image. His face was thin, his jawn nondescript. Long curly eyelashes rimmed his hazel eyes. Thin, wavy hair brushed back from his sallow complexion revealed a too-long neck. His mouth might have suited a Cupid.

Fortunately, the current style of tailoring diminished his delicateness. Before he left for Buenos Aires, his father had told the family seamstress, Argia, to make a suit for Zanetto. She chose a midnight blue wool tweed with strands of white and gray. With shoulder pads and wadding, it also sported a peaked lapel framing a V-shaped chest with four buttons—they added breadth and created the façade of an impressive torso.

Zanetto relished being a dandy. On this warm afternoon, he left his suit in the armoire and chose his bottle green blazer, cream linen slacks, and a plaid cotton shirt. He grabbed his Borsalino fedora from the bedpost.