Judging a Tanguero/a by His/Her Appearance

Tina (of TinaTango) wrote a wonderful post about Dancing with a Legend. It reminded me of a something I experienced on my first trip to Buenos Aires.

I was beyond breathless with excitement (and quite honestly, just a little bit of dread), and completely clueless as to what to expect from the Tango scene there. Although I had by then been dancing for about 7 years, I was concerned I was not "good enough", since everyone reported how different dancing was there. Mercifully, that concern dissolved at my very first Buenos Aires milonga. I had even learned, very quickly, that the older gentlemen were indeed the ones to seek out, as they had the culture of tango woven into their very pores. After watching them dance (it wasn't hard to distinguish the real dancers from lonely old men seeking a "franelada") I almost always accepted dances from them, regardless of their age or height.

One night, at Viejo Correo, we arrived early and were seated at a choice spot near the edge of the dance floor. I was setting my things down and happened to look up directly across the room at what must have been the most ancient tanguero I'd ever seen. He skewered me with dark, piercing eyes, made darker and deeper by the shock of white hair still clinging to his head, and thinking it was his style of cabeceo, I nodded back. I thought I'd provoked a coronary in the poor man, who was quite visibly alarmed and shook his head, mouthing "no, no" as he did.

I was mortified. Poor old guy - I'd be the end of him yet! Then the woman seated at the table next to me explained that his name was Jose, he had stomach cancer and was dying, and he didn't know it.

"How can you not know you're dying!" I exclaimed. Apparently, his sister didn't want him to "know". In his day, the woman continued, he'd been one of the best dancers anywhere, but there was practically nothing left of him. He had not danced once in over 6 months. At that moment, I felt a gentle tapping on my shoulder and looked up to see Jose's deep dark eyes a few inches from mine.

"I'm so sorry!" he apologized, "I'd love to dance, but I'm too sick. I don't have the strength anymore", and then he pulled up a chair and sat next to me for a few minutes. This, as anyone can tell you, is highly irregular, so still being a relative newbie at the whole milonga scene, I wasn't quite sure what - if anything - I should say or do. I mean, after all, we had not been properly introduced, and I had not invited him to sit. But he was clearly a special person there and his sitting down with me appeared to be an anointment of sorts.

"Are you having fun?" he asked. I explained that I had only just arrived, and thought he'd be my first tanda, which he found highly amusing. He then proceeded to tell me how sick he'd been, having lost over 100 lbs. Even his dentures no longer fit. And despite his ravaged countenance, it was clear he'd been one heck of a charmer in his health. After his sad tale, he become my procurer of partners, plucking one excellent dancer after another out of the mob to take me out to dance, even though after my first turn around the floor it was no longer necessary, since I had been seen and was being sought out. Though he eventually returned to his table, I could feel him watching me all night - whether admiringly or protectively or longingly I could not say.

Later in the evening, when it became stiflingly uncomfortable at our original table, my friend and I discovered that the back of the room had large, mostly unoccupied tables, and was noticeably cooler and relatively smoke-free. We moved to a large table with two other couples, and just as we were settling in, Jose comes over and laughs:

"You chose to sit at my son's table". We all laughed and exchanged greetings, and Jose merrily joined us again, sitting next to me, and watching the couples as they swirled around the dance floor in their Tango trances. He'd grown very quiet and I thought he was tired. But when the next tanda began and it was a waltz, he turned to me and said:

"I'm going to do something that will leave my son with his mouth open". We all looked at him, especially his son. "Would you do me the honor of dancing a waltz with this old man?" I felt such a flood of emotions I could barely contain myself. Of all the lovely, wonderful dancers there, this gentleman had chosen a complete stranger - for some unfathomable reason - to share what may easily have been his last dance. Ever.

He stood and extended his hand, and I took it. Then I rose, and rose, and rose, towering as we both knew I would about 6 inches above him. He put his right arm gently on my waist, and I placed my left hand as gently as I could on his tiny shoulder, and we merged into the line of dance. Though he was a rather unsteady, it was quite obvious that he had once been a highly skilled and passionate dancer. Behind us, as we turned, I could see his son, and the rest of the table, sitting with their mouths open.

Although he was unable to finish the song, and we led each other back to the table, arm in arm, we had briefly shared something truly transcendental. Had I glanced passed him early in the evening because he was old and shriveled, I would have missed out on what has been one of the most poignant moments of my life.