Tango: The Glories of Romance (Buenos Aires/a short story)

Tango: The Glories of Romance
(Buenos Aires/a short story) 4-30-2007


Had he told her what was on his mind, she would surely not have been grateful. He believed what she said, that she was in love with him, even though he was trying at times. They were in love, and watching a show, a Tango show, at ‘Restaurant 36,’ in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Three couples were doing the Tango (an artful alluring dance that was brought over from immigrants from Europe around the turn of the 20th century, a combination of several dance steps put together, it was of course then refined to what it is today).
Manuel—looked at Brazil with wanting eyes. He did not dare to ask for want he had on his mind (he figured he’d get it later) even the wine didn’t force it out of him, and uncounted beers, slowly does it, he told himself, if anything he felt painfully sober. For these four hours in the bar-restaurant and show house. He had figured he was either in love with her, or in lust perhaps, with her, so he told himself anyhow, at the age as theirs, it goes hand in hand, one might conclude.
‘Why,’ he asked himself, sitting at the table, watching the Tango show, ‘why had he not come to some conclusion sooner?’ They were on a vacation (kind of) the first one they had ever taken together, from Lima they took a plane, and were to spend a week in Buenos Aires, kind an overdo pre engagement vacation, although they were not engaged either. They had been friends since early on in primary school, and throughout high school, at which time one might have concluded they were sweethearts and friends, but she never did anything with him, he was seldom around. And for some reason, now he was pressing her to get married, both 25-years old. If anything, she was used to him, familiar might be a better choice of words, she didn’t know him as well as he knew her.
His blood was boiling. This new intensity she seemed to give him was evidence he figured, that she was the one and only. He had dated many girls, but it was Brazil who he compared them with, and they all fell short of his expectations of course. He was a thief by profession, but she didn’t know it. If anything, she was oblivious to it, and unknowingly teaching him what a man is, or suppose to be, which he was becoming not becoming, but pretending to be, the result of her tutoring, which she took from observation of her father was at best annoying.
“Manual,” she said, “I am so glad you are not one of the many thieves in Buenos Aires, or Lima, not one of the many, but you seem like a man, like my father, who has lived to a high degree of integrity.”
Manual, didn’t quit understand that simply statement to be taken as a word of praise, he didn’t really see her point. But said nothing to spoil the moment, I guess, he told himself, it was kind words, she respected him. But why did she put ‘man’ involved with this. I mean, he felt like a man, I guess, he looked like a man, but now she implied, all this looking, and feeling were not the ingredients that make a man. What exactly did, he didn’t know. This bothered him.
“And what is that,” he asked.
“What is what?” replied Brazil.
“What is it that makes a man a man, according to you?”
She hesitated a minute, not because she could not answer his question, only that such a question came out of his mouth. Those kind of questions are from people that are offended, and how could he be offended, I mean, this was evident, if he was a man, and had man qualities, he would not have to ask her what she thought they were, he would, and should know.
“God knows a man has only himself, and good works to offer, he should influence those around him, influence is the quality of leadership, and all men should have this; it is a God given gift. Man is supposed to lead in a household, how can he lead if he does not take this God given gift from God seriously. A man doesn’t take from the weak, not like a thief, who tries to take from another he knows he can. But he is a soldier of sorts. He does not laugh at someone’s tears, or a child hurt while playing, he has passion between them.” (She had remembered at that moment what her father had told her, “…not all males, old or not, can define a man, because they are not men, although they look like them, feel like a man, because they are mature physically, but that is not the ingredients that make men.” In addition, her father once old her, “I was hungry, very hungry, living in Seattle, Washington, and I saw a boy selling candy at night, going from house to house, and I was going to rob him, but I couldn’t, and the reason being, it is not what a man would do. The boy was perhaps 12-years old, and I was twenty, it would have set a trend for the rest of my life, that it was ok to so such things. I would starve to death before I’d rob from another, what does not belong to me. If God can feed the sparrows, he will surely feed me.”)
“Ludicrous,” came out from under his lips; she could see that he could not see this squarely. And for a moment he despised her (it showed on his face, and she saw it). ‘
It would seem he did not appreciate her honesty, and her insight. He stared at her, at her unique awareness. How lovely she looked her excellence, her soft hair falling over her forehead; her shinning like crystal eyes, her completion—polished like ivory. He was caught between his wit and her truth.
She started to think he never gives advice, like papa said, or would say, ‘why?’ and add, ‘perhaps it is in conflict with his lifestyle, so this was surfacing.’ She really didn’t know his other side, the side that gratified him to keep secretes, and her father once said, ‘secrets are for those whom wish to hide the truth, they come out sooner or later, and usually later with men trying to become whom they are not to hogtie a woman to them; you see, they become the person they think you want them to be, not whom they really are; embarrassing as it may be, when the truth comes, it is usually too late for the woman. You see, a man cannot play the roll of a man forever, if he is more than what he claims to be.’


It happened to be, Manual ran into an old friend of his, “Adelmo, how are you, how you been?” Adelmo was with one of the Tango girls, that was on stage a few minutes ago. They both looked under the weather, boozed up, half drunk.
“Whatever is he doing so drunk?” came out of Brazil’s mouth. “Who is he to you?” She added. (She also remembered what her father told her: ‘…be watchful for whom the man you date, hangs out with, it is usually they are like two peas in a pod, so do not be deceived, if your date tries to avoid them, it is for sure….’)
“Lord, it’s been long since we’ve worked together….” he said accidentally. Had he had a chance to retrieve those words, those simply words, he would have.
“Work—what kind of work?” she asked.
“Does it really matter?” he sharply said.
“It doesn’t anymore,” she said, listening to her instincts, “I just assumed it might.”
Having discovered Manual to have a new or different nature than what was displaced up to this point, and him assuming, they were stuck together in the city, he was being a little careless with showing his true character.
She stood up, informed Manual she needed to go to the bathroom, and she did just that (as he carefully watched her go through the door), but on her way out of the bathroom (Manual was busy talking to his friend, as she predicted), there was a door at the other end of the building, she walked right past the pool tables in the back room, where several young bucks checked her out, but she kept on walking pas them out onto the sidewalk, and flagged down a taxi, and told him—“To the airport,” leaving her cloths and the few items she had brought along where they lay in the hotel room, and caught the next flight back to Lima.

The Hermit’s Ghostly Dilemma (a short story)

[The Hermit’s Ghostly Dilemma] Josh O’Hara lived a solitary life in the thick of a northern wooded area in Minnesota, near the town-let called Webster. He lived there most all his life, and when his father and mother passed on, he remained there. The family was somewhat known in Webster as the Hermit family, respectfully. I had met him once hunting for deer. I crossed his property. He lived in a little shack of a house, three rooms is all, and a tank of natural gas outside his hut, in the back, used for heating, and other things. I saw the opened door, as I come upon the shack, and then looking in, into the shack, I heard a voice in a nearby room, and asked:
“Is all well and fine in there?”
The voice called out, thanking me for my concern, and told me: he was physically well, but mentally he was having dreadful nightmares. In addition, he heard voices, saw shapes of faces in the middle of the night, overnight. He was having a hard time sleeping. He said there were legions of shapes all around his house each night. It was hard to fathom and to be frank I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Three months had gone by since I had my first nightmare,” he cried and whimpered in distress, adding, “…just thinking about it happening again, thinking about going through it another night is worse than going through it, living it.” Furthermore, he explained, he was dreaming the dead were coming for him, as well as seeing them wide awake waiting for him.

We sat down, around his small table, and I sat back on his wobbly wooden chair, and tried to comfort him. But I couldn’t remain the night, some thirty-miles away was my motel room, and some colleagues, that were to meet me, and we’d go out to a nearby bar and grill for a few drinks, conversation, and call it a night, so I explained to him. We were together a while longer, then I bid him farewell, and good luck, and suggested he pray a bit and surely all would be well by morning. He was more cheerful when I left, surely a lonely man caught in his own dilemma, alone in the woods with sounds that sounded like voices, and shadows that looked like shapes or ghosts. It all made sense to me, the mind can conjure up many illusions.
That night at the bar, I told my friends from St. Paul, Minnesota about the hermit I had met, and gave details on his delusions (so I thought); adding, “…he perhaps needs sleep more than anything else.” Well, all of us decided after the bar closed at 11:30 PM, to mosey on up to his shack. The moon was bright, with a few gray clouds overhead, seeping across it, and we had all most a full tank of gas, and I knew the way to the shack, it was not all that difficult to find, and as I said, we had some light out in this pitch dark countryside covered with towering trees and all.
(At this point and time, Josh O’Hara, was asleep, his bronze face sideways on his pillow, on his small iron looking bed, one the Army, I remembered, used back when I was in the Army in the ‘70s. We were very quiet, He, Josh woke up suddenly, looked at us, “Oh…!” he said, “you again…and you brought friends!” He wiped his eyes, as if to focus, then covering them again, saying, “they are out there waiting, I seen they walked by the window, in my nightmare, and just now—the window….” He pointed, and repeated. I think he was trying to weight what was reality and dream. He coved his face with his hands, and pouted.

“Stay here,” Josh cried, “when I see them again, I’ll tell you, point them out to you!”
We all pulled up chairs and sat around Josh’s table, drank coffee he had heated up on his gas stove, as he went back to his iron bed to rest, but couldn’t sleep, and got back up again, perhaps ten-minutes later, and lit a cigarette, after circling, pacing the floor and table, he sat with us as we played cards, poker for pennies, he didn’t play he just sat, perhaps he couldn’t concentrate I thought at the time. On his face I noticed relief though, and so we, he and my friends leaned back, and unnoticing, we all fell to sleep.
“Sins,” said Josh finely, waking us up, “I must tell you the whole story lest you find yourself in the thickness, without reason. I once loved a girl from town, her name was Susie Henderson. I loved her and so did that city slicker, John Weber. A crystal beauty, her skin shinned, we went to the same school, and when we were kids, we promised each other we’d wed someday, but Weber changed all that. The rich man from college came back to town, from the big city, and promised her everything, she had saved herself or him, not me, as we had once planned, and it was him at the end. I knew talking would not do any good, in saving her from heartache; he got her pregnant, and left her. She committed suicide, and I, I took it upon myself to even things up, I helped him with his suicide, I had him play Russian roulette, you know, the game where you pull the trigger of the gun, hoping it will stop at the empty chambers in the gun. Well he pulled the trigger, and the first pull was his last. Of course I had the shotgun aimed at him all the time. His parents were too late to save him, and the police simply accepted it as a grieving suicide case. But nothing is ever so easy is it, that was thirty-years ago. His father and mother died, and so did Susie’s, and most of their relatives on both sides, the last of the relatives, Weber’s brother, died three months ago. All died, all dead, all but me. And each night they try to smite me, but I wake up and time and shoo them away. This happens over, and over and over…night after night!”

Josh stopped for a moment, caught his breath, looked back out the window, and said “And so you see, I am in a ghostly dilemma. Can they really hurt me, I don’t know.”
We all listened to Josh attentively, listened to him gravely, his voice seemed afar, his eyes dreamy, his sprit almost broken, his mind confused, and all this new information changed things a bit. A strange story indeed it was, I thought. He was the recipient of murdering ghosts, wanting revenge, and I wasn’t sure of what to say, for the ghosts evidently wanted atonement for his misdeed. And perhaps, his family and Susie’s wanted to protect him, and all were fighting around his home, for it was the center of a three family dilemma—and familiar to all. A feud you could say, and he believed they wanted him dead to rest in peace, he was the last of the feuding you could say, the last link in a long and enduring chain of events.
Well, we watched for the evil ghosts, and none showed up, so in the morning we suggested he moved on back to town, or the cities, St. Paul, or Minneapolis, for we needed to move on, get on back home to go to work. It was Sunday morning, and Monday comes quick. None of us caught a deer but we had this story to tell of course.
Josh, was in his fifties, thanked me for my advise, as we left, but the following weekend, I went back up to his shack in the woods, to see how he was doing—; he was on my mind all week. I found his house was crushed to the ground, smashed to smithereens, and so I went directly in to Webster Township to find out what took place. The local sheriff told me, there evidently was a storm in the woods, or bears, all though there was none in town, and the trees had fallen on the house, and killed him. Lo and behold I thought what an odd occurrence. He couldn’t explain it fully, nor did he try.