“Sometimes a city dances with its own shadow.”
Evening falls over San Telmo. In a small bar, a bandoneón sounds, slow and melancholic. I sit at a wooden table, a glass of Malbec in my hand, and watch as couples move across the floor. Their steps are not just a dance but also the echo of generations who left their stories behind here. Stories without words expressed in subtle sensuality, which never becomes erotic, but testifies to an intimate longing.
Next to me sits a woman, her eyes dark, her voice determined. “Tango is not a dance,” she says with the accent that is so typical of the city of the ‘good airs.’ “It is a conversation between two people who know they will lose each other again soon.” “It is a game of seduction, yes, even falling in love, but it never lasts longer than a song.” She laughs as if she wants to reveal something about herself with her words. Or perhaps in that way she wants to summarize her city. Buenos Aires as a mirror of melancholy, of closeness that is always temporary.
Suddenly, she stands up and pulls me off my chair. She wraps her leg around me. Je danst met mij Caballero. Before I know it, I’m gliding across the dance floor. My feet, unaccustomed to dancing the tango, let themselves be guided by the passionate steps of the woman with the dark eyes. As if the tango had been flowing through my veins for centuries.
Suddenly, the music stops. The musicians take a break. How long did the dance last? A few minutes, half an hour? Did I even dance? I hear her talking about the history of the city, about her Italian ancestors who made the long crossing. How they were down in the ship, in a cramped space, filled with dread, wondering if they would survive the journey. “Here is the proof that they made it,” she laughs, as she clinks her wine glass against mine.
The chatter of the bar patrons sounds like a runaway choir. But suddenly, it is silent. “Everything in life is an echo of longing and nostalgia,” she whispers in my ear. “Everything is an echo, even the silence. “I listen and feel her words like a tango I have already danced — but never forgotten.
The tango plays again, the carafe of red wine empties, and I feel how Buenos Aires has not only given me a fantastic evening but also held up a mirror of melancholy, like a tango that never ends.
“Sometimes a city is not a place, but a rhythm that keeps following us.”
