Tango night

Por: Luis Augusto Quimper

Ilustración: Fernanda Vegas

Last Sunday I went to La Tanguería, a tango dance room located in a little curvy street, near the Koekelberg Basilica. I had never been there before, I didn’t even know of its existence. I only dance when I’m under pressure, or drunk, but I never dance tango, of course not: I have my limits, my red lines, as some say. I went there to meet up with Tereza —like that, with a ‘’Z’’— a Bulgarian girl from Burgas who I met at a corporate event. She is in Brussels once again and texted me through WhatsApp to let me know. I very rarely go out on Sunday nights, but I’m at a low point. There’s a reason why she texted me, I told myself, and I imagined things that any healthy man of my age shouldn’t let pass.

We agreed on meeting there, at La Tanguería, because she obviously dances tango, and goes there each time she comes here. «No, you don’t have to dance, Luciano», she tried to calm me down, and added that there’s always people in there just making company to others, watching or listening to the music. «You won’t get bored, you can drink, or even eat something too». «Deal —I told her—, I’ll see you there».

From the outside, La Tanguería looks like a typical family house —three floors, flat, but tall, big windows; just like the rest of the houses around that area of Brussels—, however, I felt like a kid going into a teenager dancing party in Piura, my hometown in the north of Peru, as if the owners took out the furniture so the guests could dance. There was a couple of women sitting behind a table at the door. One of them was Argentinian.

- I don’t know of any Peruvian guy that dances tango —she told me.

- I won’t be the first one, señora.

She charged me five euros, the escort fee. «You can’t dance», she clarified, unnecessarily. I bought two chicken empanadas, a can of Estella and then went into the hall looking for the Bulgarian babe.

At the bottom of the hall there were three or four musicians, wearing orange shirts, playing tango, of course, what else could it be? I don’t recall hearing that song before, but when it comes to tango I know as much as I know about wild orchids. The accordion —bandoneon, Tereza corrected me afterwards— was played by a woman wearing a gaucho hat. There were up to ten couples spinning around in the dining room. Nobody seemed younger than I. It took me one minute to identify Tereza: a guy had her body very close to his. She had a triple low bun and was wearing a bright black dress with open back. I thought about the Azúcar Moreno sisters when they were young and I told myself that I had made the right call going there. The Bulgarian girl smiled at me when she saw me, pointed at the free seats next to one of the walls and made signs to let me know she would come by soon. I felt butterflies in my stomach —a bit lower, in fact— and came to big thoughts.

Once the song finished, Tereza came straight to where I was and greeted me with two kisses close to my mouth; at least that’s how it seemed to me. I bought sparkling water and some bread with cheese for her. The Argentinian woman winked approvingly at me when I paid: the Gods are by your side, Luciano, I told myself.

- I would like to dance a couple of times more, would you mind waiting for me, Luciano?

- No problem, Terezita; there’s no hurry at all —I lied.

The same guy she was dancing with appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a black jacket and shirt, red tie and a grey-haired moustache. He asked me in French if I could let him dance with Tereza. I told him yes, in Spanish, although I would have preferred to tell him no. The guy smiled at me and took the Slavic girl to the hall’s center. His apologetic smile seemed fake to me, but I didn’t get upset: go easy, old dog, that fish already has its frying pan.

The relaxing environment, the view of the couples spinning around, the two beers I‘d already drunk, and, above all, the music, made me feel relaxed, positive, four inches taller. After two or three tangos, Tereza came back and told me we could leave now.

- How about we go and drink something at St. Catherine Square? I know a couple of cool pubs around there —I told her what I had already prepared for that moment.

- Hmmm —she sighed, made a pause and also made me fear the worst—. I’m a bit tired to be honest, Luciano. Why don’t we go to my aparthotel instead? I have a Martini bottle and some snacks —she proposed, as if we had known each other for ages, as if we danced tango every Sunday.

I tried to say yes, of course, but instead I made an incomprehensive sound from my mouth, some sort of mooing along with affirmative movements with my head. Tereza changed her dancing shoes, we picked up our coats at the lobby and went out. She grabbed my arm in the street and a scream bounced inside my head: you will score tonight, Champ!

- Do you know how to do massages, Luciano? —said Terezita unexpectedly, when we were inside the car.

- Massages? —I turned down the music to make sure I didn’t mishear what she said.

- Yes, massages, I like massages after dancing, they help me sleep much better.

I made my best effort to show a face that didn’t reveal what I was actually thinking and said yes to her, of course I do, «I like doing massages, I have a lot of experience in that matter» I assured her. Yes, I lied, once again, but for a good cause. «Great», she said. Great, I thought, extraordinary, fantastic, nobody will believe this.

We arrived at the aparthotel paid by her company which is within the European neighborhood, near the Schuman roundabout. I saw something in the face of the receptionist woman that I didn’t like —a sarcastic smile, maybe?— yet I didn’t pay much attention to it. While being in the elevator, I assessed if it was the right moment to launch the first approach, but instead decided to wait for the Martini: after one or two drinks, things go out more naturally, more fluid. Furthermore, if she was the one who proposed to go to her hotel and receive a massage, the odds of failure were nonexistent, zero, comma, zero percent. An experienced guy like you, Luciano, read the signs, doesn’t rush, but manage timings instead.

Tereza served the drinks, peeled off two tangerines, pulled out walnuts and hazelnuts from a cloth bag, cut up some cheese, placed everything in a plate and we sat side by side on the sofa. The trees from Parc du Cinquantenaire could be seen by the window, the illuminated Triumphal Arches further beyond, and also the Military History and Car museum buildings. Terezita confessed to me that she has been vegan ever since her twenties, she obtained proteins from vegetable stews and dried fruit. I listened to her very carefully, asked questions, nodded many times: there’s no better listener for a woman than a man with a clear target. We talked about Bulgaria, work, tango. I grabbed her hand to warm up. There was no resistance at all. She didn’t know that Carlos Gardel was born in France, nor that he died in an aircraft accident in Colombia. That was the only information I had regarding tango.

After finishing her Martini, Terezita suddenly got up and went into the bathroom. When she came back I noticed that she had changed her clothes: she had a short-sleeved pink shirt with a Minnie Mouse design in the chest, and a baggy short of the same color. She also had an oil flask on her hand. A quick analysis of the situation unveiled that her two jugs were released from her bra. Another good sign, I concluded.

- Massage time, Luciano —she said, and handed me the flask.

Until then I was convinced that the massage thing was another tango, a euphemism, something like the happy ending sauna baths in Peru. I was mistaken, yet there was no reason to be worried about: doing a massage couldn’t be so complicated, more likely a new experience, something to tell my friends about next time I paid a visit to my country. The other thing, the vaccine, the Peruvian vaccine, would be applied to her later, as easy as saying two plus two makes four.

Terezita extended the sofa, pulled out a sheet, placed it over the daybed and proceeded to lay there, upside down. I watched her for a few seconds, a Slavic landscape opening up before my eyes. You are a winner, Luciano, a champion, I told myself. I brought a chair, put oil in my hands and started off with the left arm extended towards me by the Bulgarian girl.

In the beginning, I felt a bit ridiculous to be honest, but that concern came straight out of my head as soon as I placed my fingers over the legs of Terezita: no fat underneath the tanned skin by the Black Sea, hard, firm and healthy muscles with great blood circulation. I asked her with a low voice if she frequented the gym. To what she whispered that she had spinning classes three times a week. I felt some unshaved hairs by the calves, I didn’t like that much, so I moved up to the thighs zone. Put more oil in my hands for better results, use an extra hand in that zone. I rubbed the low part of her buttocks many times, there were no panties in sight, I couldn’t feel any by tact either: green light, clear road, man. Terezita whispered something that I didn’t quite understand, but it didn’t sound as a protest, so I kept working over that area. I felt some warmth in my ears. Then, I placed a cushion under her stomach, there was no reaction against that either, so I raised the Minnie Mouse shirt a little bit to keep going with the massage at her back. I could see and feel the beginning of her breasts. You will have them in your hands soon enough, champ, gripped between your fingers, I screamed inside my head once again.

After some minutes of rubbing and squeezing I told myself that the ideal temperature had already been reached for the Bulgarian girl to pay for the massage service provided, that the time to release the beast, which was throwing headers down there against my underwear as a sign of protest, had come. I pulled my shirt off and unfasten my pants. I bent over and kissed her neck, her little ears. At the same time, I tried to act the fool and placed my hands on the forefront area, filling them with her breasts. In an independent act —yes, out of my control— my index and thumb fingers closed upon her nipples and started a circular movement. That same circular movement had a disastrous effect for my interests: as if she was waking up from a dream, Terezita straightened herself, left the sofa, adjusted her clothes, her hair. Smiled at me, thanked me for the massage, said that I did it very well and pointed towards the door with her gaze. She wasn’t upset or offended at all, on the contrary, she had a gentle look at her eyes and a loose smile. At first, I thought she was joking, a Bulgarian joke surely, a little cultural difference: we would actually move on to the bed so we could be more comfortable. I hugged her, tried to kiss her neck, make her come to senses, damn, but those were shots in the dark. “Terezita” gave me a short hug along with two or three pats on the back. Those damn pats had the immediate effect of deflating everything that was previously inflated in me. The woman reached for the wardrobe, unhooked my coat and gave it to me by stretching out her arm.

- Thanks a lot, you are very good at doing massages, Peruanito —she said right before closing the door in my face.

That was it. I closed the buttons of my shirt in the corridor, adjusted my belt. Passed by the hotel lobby with my red ears and greasy hands. I swear the receptionist witch was laughing inside.