Nada más

"No quiero nada, nada más
que no me dejes, frente a frente, con la vida."
Juan D'Arienzo and Luis Rubinstein

The hall was filled with music and life. Nothing more.

Everything within was part of those two axioms, the dim light had become a mere sound and the dance revealed itself the essence of living. She stood stoic as a pillar, a stance of serene readiness only softened by a faint, but blindingly honest smile. I embraced her at the edge of the floor and stepped onto the solidity of wood, away from a carpeted floor that could hold the weight of D'Arienzo's beat no more. As I stepped down I felt, more than realised, that something had changed, as if my mind had been left behind, unceremoniously tucked away inside the shoe bag. Within me remained feeling, and the dewy voice of Alberto Echagüe permeated me. Nothing more.

"Cuánta nieve habrá en mi vida
sin el fuego de tus ojos!
Y mi alma, ya perdida,
sangrando por la herida,
se dejará morir.
Y en la cruz de mis anhelos
llenaré de brumas mi alma,
morirá el azul del cielo,
sobre mi desvelo
viéndote partir."

Following the song's tale, I bled my soul onto the dance floor, but curiously it was not lost, but uplifted by the emotion of this curiously tragic song. In short, I danced as if I were in love. Nothing more.

Dancing with Gardel

"Volver,

con la frente marchita,

las nieves del tiempo

platearon mi sien.

Sentir,

que es un soplo la vida,

que veinte años no es nada..."

Carlos Gardel

"The Mute" sings better every day. Yet no-one dances when the Thrush of Buenos Aires calls. He's probably rolling in his grave, his elegance twisted by a feeling of unfairness. Some say it is a sign or respect to not dance to the dead man's baritone, yet is it not sacrilege to let his memory fade in the milongas where he was an accomplished dancer. Let us speak with him then, echo his words with our hearts, their beat reverberating softly between our feet and the earth beneath.

So let him return, his forehead wrinkled, his temples silvered by the snows of time.

And let us feel, for life is but a breath, twenty years a trifle...

Taut Tangos

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.

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.

The Dance of the Seven Seals

"Повторяется всё?.. Но на каждом шагу всё - иное.
Время кажется кругом, но всё-таки это - спираль.
Наши жизни как нити (а можеть быть, волосы?) Мойры,
Вплетены в плат узорный, растянутый в звёздную даль."
by Victor Rivas-Vicente


A half-moon precise scratches the night sky, the white of an eye in orbit, almost watching the shadowless streets beneath. In this silence of light, a Vixen raps her susurrant milonga on mossy grounds, the ivory of her tail alone resonating with the spy above. But even now, Luna sinks, ever closer to her cunning sister, ruddling to match her fur.

A Cricket drums out sonatas to his caged lovers in Firefly Street, recalling unforgettable moments that were forgotten, and more than that... remembering embraces never given, steps never taken together, warmth nor breath exchanged. His beating wings, trembling, stuttering as unsure lips, forming nonetheless their question to the faint stars: "are you vain enough to think you'll ever occupy my oblivion?"

Meanwhile, a Toad waits. A fair follower, tarrying the tango, his next stride a faithful leap, a flight of fancy into the moist heart of Nox. His presence, unseen yet sensed, directs the dance of petals, whose fall comes with spring. The tanda finished, he hides under a curtain, veiled from sight and feeling, only half-listening to the cadenced footfalls passing nigh his abode.

Further on, a Deer darts, frightened by the melodies of darkness. Confused by the layers upon layers of umbrae, swirling round one another, enveloping her tender feet, guiding them though murky waters. But her pace shreds the sound of night, leaving behind but cinder and ash, scintillating as the levanter rattles them. The southern wind whispers into her ears, pleading with each gentle kiss for her return, for one more dance.

A Swan dreams in the gelid night. Drenched feathers suspended her living weight upon the shroud of water, each vane a frivolous oar, flowing through countless beads of river, endless tears that dropped from the Cygnet's closed eyes. Joyful waters moved through the tips of her wings, sapped into the very essence of the bird. There, as yet another salty drop pried her lid open, she beheld two strangers stand, curious eyes trying to prize her nightly reveries from inky pupils.

Upon a blossom of spring snow, a Nightingale unwraps his voice, brow withered by fervour. His sharp song stabs the crepuscular sky, letting out shapeless cirri from its bloated belly. Their soft tendrils clasp and experience darkens their bods, until heaven's a stage where strati are merely players in a shadow theatre, their original selves hidden 'neath soggy masks. But the Nightingale knows it merely takes some tears to return to our true nature; that, and one drop of dew...

Within a high chamber awaits the seventh beast, Salomé, body veiled but passions borne sharp as claws, cleaving skin and carving flesh just as he embraces her. One step leads the next, curtains fall and the seals are broken, the threads that weave their tapestries unbind and flail about, searching for lifelines, their struggle drowned in her breath. The purls burn one by one within his neck, as her air ignites them, and soon he cannot but lose his head...