Standing before the bleak gate, I saw no sign nor heard noise that would betray a hint of commotion within. Without, the night held in its airs a sort of agitated yet limp festivity: behind me, in an inner court crowned by a fountain, young men and women wandered vaguely, stirred into Brownian motion by spirits and sexual tension.
The ghost of sensual grace lingered there all the while enveloping the columns that held the balconies above me suspended in the burdened air. The shadows of those pillars, hence, resembled the svelte figure of the Flamenco dancer that had infused so much presence into the then quiet plaza. The towering terrace above took me under its wing, shielded me from the unnatural light of street lamps, and muffled the sound of senseless murmurs. I extended a night-cloaked hand and hissed a call.
The ghost of sensual grace lingered there all the while enveloping the columns that held the balconies above me suspended in the burdened air. The shadows of those pillars, hence, resembled the svelte figure of the Flamenco dancer that had infused so much presence into the then quiet plaza. The towering terrace above took me under its wing, shielded me from the unnatural light of street lamps, and muffled the sound of senseless murmurs. I extended a night-cloaked hand and hissed a call.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The hive replied with a buzz. The door gave way to cautiously curious fingertips. Within, a stony staircase rose like smoke, ethereal rock. Step by step, the stairs breathed me upwards to the light, like a moth. Out it streamed from the threshold, solidifying not only the stairwell but also the sense of music. The warm, textured sounds slid along the walls and floor, perspiring into my shoes. Like grit it was, hot sand stinging my feet, giving me agony for each instant stood still, bound by boots of Spanish leather.
I strode through, past the oaken door, past mirrors and fedoras, past Gauchos and Catalanes. I stepped into the royal chamber, where the Tangueros moved and spoke the tongue of turning bodies, shaking to the Milonga's beat like bees. The tiled floor, whose flowery regularity scented each tread taken, extended but a handful feet in each direction. A box of sardines where a dozen couples slid like fish past one another and past an impromptu audience waiting for their turn to enter the play.
I lost little time, instead losing myself in the communal embrace, letting the pleasantly poisoned music sting deep into my ear.
Twice.
Thrice.
The hive replied with a buzz. The door gave way to cautiously curious fingertips. Within, a stony staircase rose like smoke, ethereal rock. Step by step, the stairs breathed me upwards to the light, like a moth. Out it streamed from the threshold, solidifying not only the stairwell but also the sense of music. The warm, textured sounds slid along the walls and floor, perspiring into my shoes. Like grit it was, hot sand stinging my feet, giving me agony for each instant stood still, bound by boots of Spanish leather.
I strode through, past the oaken door, past mirrors and fedoras, past Gauchos and Catalanes. I stepped into the royal chamber, where the Tangueros moved and spoke the tongue of turning bodies, shaking to the Milonga's beat like bees. The tiled floor, whose flowery regularity scented each tread taken, extended but a handful feet in each direction. A box of sardines where a dozen couples slid like fish past one another and past an impromptu audience waiting for their turn to enter the play.
I lost little time, instead losing myself in the communal embrace, letting the pleasantly poisoned music sting deep into my ear.
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