The Mirror of Sway

The colgadas are difficult to learn, and the balance of the forces between the man and woman as they move does not come. They stumble and fall apart.

'Ah, yes,' says La Luna and stops the practice to show. 'The woman follows the man, eh?, but the man also follows the woman.'

She calls for music, and her partner settles them into place as the strains of the instruments fill the tiny milonga and take hold. The eyes of La Luna close in a patient ecstasy, and her arm molds itself to her partner's shoulders. As the body of La Luna sways, her partner echoes and opposes the movement in his own body. They are a perfect counterbalance.

They make each other antigravitational.

The Sidewalk Memory of Cumparsita

It is late in this night of remembrance, and Dark Eyes commands the stereo. Only a few couples still dance in this early morning of tango, and their tastes delightedly devolve into the scratchy wavering of the Vieja cumparsita.

At the first notes, someone laughs at the abundant familiarity of the song. The dancers show off, and shadows of quick boleos and sweeping colgadas are thrown onto the walls of the tiny dim ballroom.

'This was the first song I ever danced to,' says Dark Eyes. 'Buenos Aires. The woman was generous. With her, I could do anything.' The song comes to its end ... también me dejó He sighs. 'Sometimes I am compelled to play this song.'

The Passing Life of the Abandoned Bandoneón

The yard sale is in the stony drive beside a trailer. The weeds are breaking through, and everything that was once inside the trailer is emptied onto the hard, bright gravel. Broken figures of courtiers, old license plates, dark clothes of wool, bits of paper, things with too many sequins crowd the card tables. Three old men sit under a tree, and in the only shade of a 90-degree day lies one object by itself.

The case is worn, and the ivory on the buttons is nearly worn away. The folds of its body are like parchment, but inside are still imprisoned the cries of so many La que murió en París.

The bandoneón is ignored by the people walking by, and the old men only say that they used to hear it late at night when everyone had gone to bed, and the old man who lived in the trailer used to get it out.

"He said playing it was like holding a woman in his arms - jumping, lively and noisy," says one of the men, and all three laugh.