Last Tango in Argentina

Copyrighted by Patrick McDonnell 2021

The American Airlines flight was late. Hoover thought about the trip for the umpteenth time, looking at the note from his doctor, sighed, letting the past day's cares wash over him. Nothing to do now but enjoy the pause in his journey. Years of waiting had come to this; finally he was going to the land of the Gaucho and Tango. Better late than never he thought, looking at his fellow passengers. A mixed lot.

Some skiers who were seeking the slopes of Bariloche during the summer months, here, and the winter months, there. They looked so young and tanned, full of life, almost californiesque, as one of his patients used to say. Businessmen. Returning natives, darker, exuding that thing that South Americans have about them, a sense of style. She was a woman from New York with large breasts, eyeing all the men to see if she was noticed. A mammary augmentation victim of Argentinian doctors. He hoped he wouldn't be sitting next to her.

And he was. God forbid he wondered if she wouldn't whip them out to show him. She went on about how she was on her third time - under the knife - as if to prove she was a real woman. Her eyes were almost crossed, her lips were puckered, and to top it all she had wandering hands. He asked the stewardess if he could change seats once they were in the air. She looked at his companion with her conspicuous attributes and winked at him with understanding. Most probably a classical hysteric, perhaps with a touch Histrionic personality disorder.

An aisle seat forward was found sitting next to a man from Uruguay and his son. At last he found peace for the 11 hour flight; he took out the copy of a book he had just purchased. Abook called the Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. After reading it non stop for hours in the darkness he put it down with a sigh, wondering why it had come so late in his life. Such wisdom. Better late than never.

When the plane banked over the river Plata, his row mate turned to him to tell him that over there across the river was where he was from. Colonia de Sacramento. He wise cracked that when he was tired of the superior acting Argentinians he should come see real people, and he laughed saying, "have a good time in Good Air, senior."

Like all airports Buenos AIres was the same, the hustle and bustle of passengers arriving and leaving, finding family and friends then loading into taxis. The taxis smelled. He found out later most of them ran on butane gas to save money. A taxi driver held up a sign with his name, no doubt sent by his friend, and he was off to the city. He saw the New York woman one last time, sailing through the crowds of men who gawked calling out her name, or names. She was admired. Argentina was the capital of plastic surgery, even the president was supposed to have partaken. Young women were given their first surgery when they had their 15th birthday. It certainly made for a handsome bunch of people. As his clinical mind reminded him or of narcissists.

"You are going to the Villa Freud, yes, senior?" My taxi driver didn't wait for an answer embarking on a comparison of Lacanian phallocentric versus Freudian psychoanalyst. He would have made a great lecturer. Hoover extracted himself with difficulty, as the driver tried to give him the name of his therapist. Thank goodness his friend Arnaud was there to pay the bill, and take his luggage. "You have tasted the fruit of spreading the gospel of Freud amongst these heathen catholics. They think it will cure everything that plastic surgery can't." Arnaud suggests they walk to his hotel, as it would dispel the cobwebs left in his head from flying in an aluminum can for hours. He agreed. Hoover liked to take the pulse of a city on foot.Many bookstores, cafés and ice cream or Dulce de leche shops The banks had guards in armoured watch towers. Most people looked like they needed sustenance, which they got from sipping out of gordes refilled from thermoses. He mentioned this to Arnoud who laughed. "You have to taste Matté before you leave."

Children had their school bags on rollers instead of on their backs. Dog walkers abounded. Also bums, who Arnoud dismissed. "Probably someone who lost their job." Hoover noticed one man who was black from tip to toe, walking barefooted. It was caked on dirt he was aghast to find out. 'Cartunistas' were out early to pick up the city's slim pickings - Girls and boys and adults. Meanwhile Ferraris screeched around the streets.Buenos AIres reminded him of Paris, mixed with Madrid and London, with palm trees a la Miami. A mix of south and north. 

"Here we are! the Art hotel, like I told you in my message. A place you can rest." Arnaud boasted. "It is not a 'telos' but has the same privacy as one." Hoover had no idea what his Argentinian friend meant, but by the wink and glad handing it must be of a sexual nature. "Maybe you will visit Blacks while you are here?”

Hoover thanked him, then realized how exhausted he was. His reading of Paulo Coelho had taken it out of him. He begged off his friend's suggestion to take a cafe, arranging for him to come back at lunch time. He opened up his room finding it adequate, then he took out his medicine; he was soon fast asleep.

Hoover did not sleep well. In fact he found himself reliving the novel he had read, of a boy searching for the truth in the desert. Robbed, denied, tricked and falling in love with a beautiful woman, all troubled his dreams. The phrase "when you really want something to happen, the whole universe will conspire so that your wish comes true" kept recurring in his head. None the less he woke refreshed, and ready to eat. Time to face this new life he had embarked on. His new reality. At the front desk his friend had left a message telling him to meet him at the cafe La Biela.

Arriving at the café he found his friend sitting with a pretty young thing, his niece as it turned out, a medical student. The conversation was lighter because of her, not concentrating on professional matters, though the girl told him with admiration in her eyes, of reading the articles he had written. Hoover blushed with an unusual feeling of pride that he hadn't felt in years. Soon they were laughing, as they discussed the latest news on Argentina. He ended up drinking some delicious chocolate, the best he had ever tasted. Getting up to go to the lou, he found the men's room wth its walls festooned with telephone numbers of women and trannies willing to give services for a price. Well.

Back at the table he could see that uncle and niece had been conspiring. They soon proposed that she, Manuella, should be Hoover's guide for the afternoon. Well, why not? He had been hoping to see more of her. He got his wish. She took his arm and saying goodbye to Arnoud, who was off to see patients, she escorted Hoover to the door and down the street to the cemetery.

"This is a giant rubber tree. Don't you think it is so appropriate? Because of all the lovers who have come here..." She laughed at his embarrassment. It was a clear laugh, that meant no harm. She was having his goat. They soon were at the gates of Cementerio de la Recoleta. It was filled with the living and the defunct. It reminded Hoover of graveyards in New Orleans with little ornate houses squashed against each other. "You have to see Eva Perron's grave. But I prefer Zully Moreno. She was prettier."

The stood a moment amongst the bushes of flowers that were strewn around Eva's graveyard. "You Argentinians have a long memory." He said to her laconically.

"Yes, we do. We love the good and the bad in the same measure. But let us leave this morbid place, I want to show you my Buenos Aires."

And she did, dragging him to the pedestrian street of Florida. Except it wasn't pronounced that way. The accent was on the end of the word. Past boutiques and street tango dancers. They even visited the Plaza de Mayo, where the mothers of the 'disappeared' walked in protest in front of the Presidential palace, to remind people of the recent past. Manuella explained what they were doing and why. Argentina, under its silver smile, had a dark side. Manuela shivered then began to cry, making Hoover move to comfort her. "I must go home now. But tonight, we will meet at Cafe Tortoni to watch a Tango show where you will meet Borges."

As she walked away several men made catcalls at her. Later Hoover found out this was called piropos and was a sport amongst men. He felt embarrassed at this harassment, thinking of the photograph of a young American woman in Italy surrounded by a baying dog pack of men.

After he got back to his hotel, he fell into a profound sleep. No dreams. He woke up refreshed, feeling no pain.

If he was going to be escorted by an Argentinian beauty, he might as well be dressed for the occasion. He took out his tweed coat, and white scarf, his good pair of pants and his bespoke patent leather shoes. There, he thought to himself, you look like a Cervantes Lothario. He went down to reception and ordered a taxi for Tortoni. The receptionist gave him a smile and a thumbs up.

‍ 

He hadn't realized how long he had slept, through the late afternoon into the evening, but his friend was waiting with his wife and some other friends. No Manuela. Hoover felt a slight disappointment. His male ego was deflated. Soon they were eating and talking. Arnaud told him that this was how Porteños acted, sophisticated and civil. Arnaud asked if he had noticed Borges? "You see him in the corner over there, eternal looking out at the world with his blind eyes, just to keep us on our toes." Yes he had noticed the statue when he came in; laughing with his friend. Hoover remembered a question posed by Borges, citing it, "whether the writer writes the story, or it writes him."

"Yes, it is how we try to understand our patients, by listening to their stories, their fictions, that create their psyche."

The ladies didn't want to hear anymore shop talk, and soon were discussing fashion and politics that were changing as ever. Soon the lights dimmed and the show began. His Argentinian friends thought it was hilarious, the two tango dancers represented a bygone era, a folklore to be despised and ridiculed. Half way through the performance he felt a presence beside him; Manuella. She took his hands in hers telling him she was cold. When the lights came up she withdrew her hands.

He felt hot under the collar, he could feel the blood rushing to his face. He had to get up and made his way to the men's room, where he splashed cold water on his face. What was coming over him?

Back at the table the porteños were exchanging words in rapid Spanish. Arnaud tried to explain the reason. "We are talking about the Macho culture that exists here. It is represented by the Tango dance. Where the man commands. But the ladies are rebutting by saying they have the final word, to accept or not the man's invitation."

"What do you think Manuela? She is a tango dancer who has more authority than us elders."

The young woman became animated, her dark eyes flashing, " you miss the point. The man invites, of course, and the woman accepts but then he must accommodate her, she is the one who responds, she replies to his gestures, with her dancing."

She continued in the same vein, "This is just 'show tango' for tourists. You should come see real tango at a club tonight. Then you will see what I am talking about..."

Hoover replied, "But isn't it too late?" The Argentinians laughed, "The night is young, the clubs don't get started until 1 am."

His friend and wife begged off, citing an early morning meeting with clients, so he found himself sitting next to Manuella in a taxi, venturing out into the night. The tension between them was cracking in the cold Buenos Aires air. He hadn't taken an overcoat thinking it would be warm - the warmth of a southern clime (it snows every ten years or so). She was distant from him, sitting far from him. She had leaned into him when they boarded the taxi saying, "I don't want the driver to think I am a 'puta' and many speak or understand English." So Hoover looked out the window, noticing the night life was lively, stores open, children with parents walking around. It was livelier than even New York City. "How do you do it?" he asked, gesturing to the crowds. She laughed, answering, "Matté!" And the driver held up his gourd of the drink, smiling back at them. So he did speak English.

The club looked deserted, down an alley way, but for the lines of people who were arriving, separately or in couples or in groups, the women holding shoes in their hands or in bags. The men and women dressed up to 'the nines - for sixes and sevens.' "Pay the driver and come on."

Manuela was transformed, she undid her hair, letting it flow down her back. At some time during the ride she had applied lipstick. She even smelled different, more feral. Hoover was wondering what he had gotten himself into. He wasn't a dancer, even with his departed wife, he had been left footed. Well in for a penny in for a pound as the English say.

She was well known, as she made her way in, kisses and hugs were showered on her. Hoover felt like a lame duck. Until she held onto his arm, and then he felt as if he belonged. At least in appearance. "Pay here for the entrance, and pay for the coat check. Thank you Mr Hoover." He realized it was the first time she had used his name in a conversation.

"Now a table," she continued,"not too close nor far away." The band arrived and began to play and as they did, the crowd quieted, as if a funeral was going by. This was serious stuff. The first couple on the floor was an old man who had asked a young woman to dance. He was elegant. She was beautiful. She danced like an instrument in his arms, twisting and kicking. Gancho was the term he learned later for some of the kicks. Enganche, peirnazo, colgada, volcada... and more.

"He is so old," he remarked to be answered by her laughter.

"Here we say the best wine comes in old bottles." She gave him a meaningful look then turned away as if embarrassed.

Soon men were asking her to dance, and this continued for several dances. She was magnificent. He sat at the table nursing a drink, watching her. He thought he noticed a different style of dancing between her partners. The young men, without exception, were brusque. They tried to man handle her. The older men were more subtle, leading her along, letting her be herself. At least that was what his amateur eye discerned. That and the amount of flesh the women were showing. And the come f...k me shoes. Hoover was feeling tired, his eyes began to blink and soon he was asleep.

"Hoover! Doctor Hoover!" A voice recalled him back to reality. He was in a Milonga in Buenos Aires. It was his 'date' for the night who was waking him up. A beautiful young woman. Her voice was close to his ear. "You must wake up doctor," she laughed at his state of somilance asking him, "was my dancing that boring?"

She preferred a gourd of Matté for him to drink, which he tasted. He was repelled at its bitter taste at first. She leaned down over him and he was embarrassed to be so close to her. He could feel her heat. He could watch the drops of sweat that had gathered at the nape of her neck, like jewels. He was tempted to taste her sweat, then brought himself back to reality.

Suddenly the cigarette smoke, the dancers, the ambiance of the place was too much. He told her it would be better for him to go back to the hotel and not spoil the evening for her. She acquiesced.

"Shall I see you tomorrow, we can go to the Feria de Mataderos? yes?"

The next day, Saturday, he felt a splitting headache coming on. The drugs he was taking were already powerful painkillers, so he dare not take anything more. Maybe it was a reaction to the Herbe Matté? He decided to walk around the neighbourhood. It helped. Manuela had said something about a fair last night. That had a strange festiveness feeling that he didn't like. He hated crowds. Other questions came to mind. Why had she taken such a shine to him? A middle aged doctor of psychiatry? She was a medical student. Was that maybe why - professional courtesy - or as a favour to her uncle?

She walked in, looking none the worse for the wear. How did she do it? All night entertainment, and then working during the day? Manuela had a split skirt - culottes - on today, a leather jacket and what looked to be a cowboy hat. Very fetching, a diametric turn around from her suave sophistication last night.

"We are going to the place that made Buenos AIres famous all over the world; the stock yards. Argentinian meat is the best." She sat down on his bed, and looked at him closely. "Not feeling any after effects? I was worried."

In fact he felt fine. The headache had disappeared. He was looking forward to whatever adventures she was proposing. He would just have to deal with the crowds.

An hour later he regretted coming. Not that people weren't friendly. They were more 'normal' people, blue collar types. WIth the dancers weaving in and out of the crowds. He felt touched and jostled at each step. He had taken his expensive camera, that he also regretted.

As they penetrated a mass of people he felt hands go for his camera. Some stinking liquid was poured on him, and a helpful Citizen started to wiped him off. Emanuela cried out. "Parada!" followed by "police!". The hands disappeared, and Hoover found himself in a circle of men who were looking for trouble. Emanuela began to berate them, saying something about "Médico". The men Melted away, and the crowd returned to its peaceful bustle.

"What just happened?" Hoover asked. "Nada," she answered and took his hand to lead him to an adjacent street where horses were gathered. The crowds were thinner. They took their breath, resting.

"You were wonderful, Manuela. Back there."

"No doctor, it was you who stood up and put yourself as a barrier against them." And he suddenly remembered that he had. An instinct as old as man for a man to protect his woman. He hadn't realized what he was doing, the adrenalin rumbling in his ears, as he had moved to protect her.

He suddenly began to shake, from the aftershock. "Tu eres un hombre," she told him in Spanish. Feeling the strap of his camera, he realized that one of the attackers had tried to slice his camera loose. He didn't tell her.

It was an 'awe shucks that was nothing' moment for him. But he didn't feel that brave. She came over to him and took him in her arms. Holding him tight and pressing her head into his chest. They stayed that way for what seemed to him to be an eternity. Then she laughed, and asked, "want to taste some Argentinian bbq? Asado?"

They purchased some sausage, ate it with their hands while watching gauchos demonstrate their skills on a public street. These were the cowboys of the pampas not urban cowboys, riding on their mounts at break next speed to catch a ring. The masculinity of the moment must have had its effect on her.

"Let us go back to your room."  She whispered in his ear. "Now."

She was transformed during the taxi ride. Before she had been tranquil, a nice respectful young woman, now she was practically trying to tear off his clothes. taking his hand and placing on in her private parts. Hoover was trying to desist, which only drove her into more of a frenzy. He could barely pay the grinning taxi driver when they arrived at the hotel. Running up the stairs, undressing along the way.

Just when she was on him she discovered that he had failed to launch. She wailed at him, accusing him of being a masturbator - of spilling his seed. Finally she calmed down, and asked, "why?". And he showed her the bottles of cortisone.

"Shit, my ex boyfriend took this to build up his muscles and the same thing happened to him." Hoover was embarrassed, not wanting to tell her more. But she persisted. He showed her his oncologist's note.

Manuela asked, "how long do you have?"

Hoover lifted his shoulders in a shrug to show her didn't know.

They sat on his bed, and began to talk. She told him about her father who was a desaparecido; someone who was disappeared by the government for political reasons. He had been a doctor treating the poor. Her mother and her had to fend for themselves. She was not complaining - not looking for pity - just telling him the facts of her life. She had made it into medical school but had to work part time as a nurse in a cancer ward where she assisted the dying. Her uncle had told her about Hoover, and how he wanted to help him have one last fling. Because of America's involvement in the dirty war, she hated Americans, but she had met him, and felt he was a decent person. Her uncle had told her of his work, she had a change of heart. Knowing for the last few days had softened her heart. This had not been planned. Latin American woman had hot blood.

As she dressed she turned to him and said, "Tonight you are going to Black's club and you will have a good time. Tomorrow we may meet again. You will tell me if my prescription worked." She half laughed with a grimace, as she finished dressed. "Maybe Blacks will restore some of your vim and vigor."

He called her uncle to have a long conversation. And advice on Black's gentleman's club. What to wear and expect. When to go. He recommended starting by going to Hooters to get some sustenance, to build up his appetite. Arnuad dissuaded him from taking Viagra, as his body might not take it.

"Buena suerte" he told him and hung up.

Fortunately Black's club was in the Recoleta district not far from his hotel across from the Alvear Palace hotel, in a safe street. The door man smiled at him, despited the early hour and gestured to him to climb the stairs to heaven. Upstairs he entered into a room with a long bar with dozens of women just sitting. More were at tables. He took a seat, ordered an expensive drink and he waited. It didn't take long, he had women who came to sit across from him, beauties of all nationalities and shapes and forms. All fantastic. Some came as couples, offering him their 'services'. After a half hour of this parade of female pulchritude, he smiled, paid his drink and left. No wood.

As he left the door-man gave him a pamphlet offering services of trans- sexual lovers. He laughed at the thought. Why not? Not tonight Charlie.

He got back to his hotel, alone, and called up Arnaud again asking where he could go to get out of the city to see some nature. He suggested the peaceful town of Colonia across the Plata or Cataratas del Iguazú, a short flight towards Brazil. "You remember the film Mission?"

Finally he asked if Manuela might want to come along. Arnaud said he would ask her, but only if they had separate rooms at the hotel, to keep up appearances.

That night he slept soundly.

She met him for breakfast. She seemed cold, indifferent. Another side of her he hadn't seen before. She asked him, "did you go to Blacks?"

"Yes, but nothing happened."

"Nothing?

"I swear."

"If I was a man..."

He described the scene and each woman. It made her laugh. She realized he was telling the truth, and relaxed.

"We must get to the regional airport, it is a short flight. I visited years ago with my uncle and mother."

"One day I would like to meet her, she sounds like a strong woman."

She had packed a 'baise en Ville' and he had an overnight case. On the airplane they sat across the aisle from each other. He sat with an apparent member of a Korean travel group.This he found out immediately when he sat down and the man beside him asked him, "you are English, I am English teacher in Jeju Island Korea."

"Ah, the love island."

The man laughed, "so you know it?"

"Yes, and about the matriarchal society."

"Yes my mother was a diver. The men took care of children while she worked."

What then ensued was a long conversation about life on Jeju island, a subject Hoover had studied when he wrote a paper on matriarchal societies in the world. Now he had someone in the flesh who had experienced it. They exchanged e-mails. He had missed seeing the falls from the air except fields of crops that went on for acres.

"Uncle Arnaud booked us in the best hotel, we will be in walking distance of the falls."

They were, also they could hear them, a distant roaring. He also found himself in a tropical paradise, toucans and parakeets in abundance. Manuela wanted to go swimming in the hotel pool, he decided to explore. It was like Florida, more so, as the falls were surrounded by jungle. What a beautiful place, somewhere you would go on a honeymoon with the woman of your dreams, he thought. When he had reconnoitered enough he returned to the hotel pool to find her swimming.

He offered her a towel when she stepped out of the pool. She kissed him on the lips. A surprise.

"This is so wonderful, I wish I could live here forever."

Yes he thought, a million times yes. This moment is perfect. If only time could stand still. The falls in the distance, the perfect pool and rooms that awaited them with beds...

"Ouch! Something just bite me!" Hoover looked down and saw he was standing on an ant trail. If his eyes didn't trick him, they were fire ants. He had forgotten his EpiPen® at home. And with his allergies he risked going into anaphylactic shock and dying. The irony of it wasn't lost on him.

"Maybe they have Benadryl at the hotel tourist shop." Manuela suggested, all business.

They did, he took some and went to bed. She lay down beside him. As he drifted off, he heard someone say, "I think I am falling in love." and and an answer, "Yes, Pappi, I am too."Then nothing. The bliss of morpheus.

He was alone when he woke up. The loneliness of a man in a hotel room. Desolation. Emptiness. No hope. He knew what he had to do. End it. How to protect her?

He ordered room service on the balcony, and called her room. She was in. He invited her over. They talked, they had a good wine from Mendoza, the best red wine in the world. A steak that cut like butter that tasted natural. A fitting last meal. He suggested they go for a walk to the falls, the moon was shining. She was solicitous, worried about his bites. How was he feeling? Great. "I can walk for miles."

"When we get back to Buenos Aires, I want you to teach me how to tango. Would you please?"

"Of course Pappi, it will be my pleasure."

He took his camera out, wanting to take some last pictures. She wanted to get a wrap. When she was gone to her room, he emptied the bottle of Benadryl pills into his mouth and washed them down with the last of the Mendoza.

"This is so beautiful at night by moonlight," she uttered to him, as she hugged his arm. Her head on his shoulder, they stopped at a bench near the falls, to watch the mesmerizing movement of the water going over the edge. So close. It beckoned to him. He felt her hold on him as a tenuous restraint, one last human contact. One last love. "We always disappoint the ones we love." he thought woozily. A tiredness creeping up his legs. He had also taken all of his cortisone as well. They walked on. One last thing to do.

"Honey, I left my camera back at the bench, I don't feel I have the strength to go get it. Could you..."

"Of course Pappi, I won't be long." And she was gone. He watched her go. Not a bad image to keep in the brain, her hips swinging in the moonlight, her raven hair highlighted. Yes it was time to go.

He swung a leg over the railing. The water was just inches away. His fall was precipitous but quick.

Emanuela came back to find him gone. She called and called. then she realized what had happened. It struck her like a thunderbolt from heaven. She crumpled to the ground and she wet herself. Laying there for a while she cursed his name. "Why, why?" But she knew why, as an oncology nurse who had seen her patients reach for the morphine dosage, to seek oblivion from the pain.

Later, much later, she walked up to the hotel where uncle Arnaud waited for her.

"You knew, you bastards, you both knew what he was planning."

He let her flail at him hitting him on the chest, and crying till it was all gone.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"He wanted it that way." He took her in his arms, comforting her. "He decided yesterday to end it. He couldn't take the shame of dying like a dog in a hospital bed."

"I will take care of the police questions, and you know he left you something."

"I don't want to know!"

"Yes you do. He left you all his money. He had no children and his wife passed away years ago. You can finish your education, you don't have to work anymore."

"Nada, nada, nada." She replied, the grief she hadn't expect taking her over.

The end