The Tectonics of Lightning

When the rains come, we are soaked, but the urgent sounds of El choclo float off the porch through the drops, and we laugh at ourselves. We have no shoes, and the sand lets us pivot effortlessly. Our bodies become slick against each other, and the thunder makes the very air shake.

The threads of lightning strike again and again a place on the tiny island just beyond the reef. The daggers of light tear open the black of the night. It is as though two tectonic plates of the night sky move apart in a blink to show the light of day that is just behind the darkness. Instantly, as though showing us something we shouldn't see, the plates move back together, and it is night once more.

As the song fades away, we hear a crackling coming from the water. Lightning makes daylight for an instant. It is not crackling; it is the applause of six surfers who have been watching us dance.

'They are crazy,' says La Porteña. 'They are floating between two metal jetties.'

I look at her, and we both laugh. We are ourselves standing exposed to the weather, the only upright beings on the long white shore. We are like lightning rods, and the electricity in the air makes my hair light even though it is soaked.

I call to El Suave, who is at the phonograph, and he knows instinctively what we need.

And as the quick step of the milonga Baldosa floja rolls down through the tempest to us, we clasp each other close and feel the heat of each other's body through our wet clothes.

Lightning? It only expresses what we all feel.

mi vida está en la milonga

my life is in the milonga

The Unspoken Rings

El Generoso gathers La Fidele into his close embrace, and they silently glide into Julio Sosa's En este tarde gris. The milonga this evening seems to be taking a break, and they are alone on the dance floor. Light catches on a lifted glass from the tiny bar in the corner. Laughter from the dark fringes of the small room buffs the lonely edges of the song.

... apiádate de mi dolor,

que estoy cansada de llorarte,

sufrir y esperarte

y hablar siempre a solas

con mi corazón.

... take pity on my sadness,

I am tired of crying for you,

suffering and waiting for you

and always talking all by myself

with my heart.

La Fidele accepts the invitation to the deep volcada and the little space that is between them melts, flesh on flesh, and she turns her eyes as he looks down at her, and their glance is a net. El Generoso looks quickly away at their outstretched arms, following her black silk all the way to her pale hand. On her third finger is a set of wedding rings.

On this gray evening, the song ends, and the voice trails off, the bandoneon quiets. El Generoso takes the left hand of La Fidele to lead her back to her chair. He feels the set of wedding rings that is also on this hand.

As she turns to thank him, El Generoso raises both of her hands and kisses each to let her know that he knows. She smiles and is glad.

In the way of tango, he will never ask, and she will never explain.

The Joyous Birth of Sorrow

Tango is the only dance that began in pain, not in joy.

Waltz of Hearts

The DJ is playing still another tango waltz, and I am suddenly interested in pouring water into my plastic cup. I am so tired of Dos corazones that I eye the door of the milonga, open to the night and the only haven from this endlessly old-fashioned music.

El Perdido moves so quickly that I don't see him until he cuts me off at the door.

'Dance with me,' he says with his melting smile, and I put my cup of water down and turn my back on the door. I put my young hand in his, and he leads me to the edge of the floor where dancers are already swaying with the rhythm of this vals. He is 70 but strong and experienced. And, in the usual way of tango, that is all I know about him.

I follow his first step, and I am instantly lost in the hypnotic swing of this song.

When he asks for close embrace, it is natural to move my arm up his. Our chests meet, and we dance as one.

Como el fuego que envuelve el estío,

como nube que abraza otra nube,

así son tu cariño y el mío

que se funden en un solo ideal.

As the fire that wraps the summertime,

As the cloud that embraces another cloud,

Thus is your affection and mine

that fuses itself in one single ideal.

The gentle voice of Rosanna Falasca dies away, and El Perdido and I stop in the middle of the floor. He does not draw away, and I feel his chest shake. I pull away, and his eyes are closed.

My hand is at his cheek, and it comes away wet.

'My wife and I loved to waltz,' says El Perdido. 'We were married 52 years, and I loved every day of it, and I miss her.'

He is loosening his embrace and about to retreat to the shadows beyond reach of the fairy lights of the dance floor. I put the hands of El Perdido back into place.

'Ask them to play it again,' I say.