Last time: David leaves Tatiana on the dancefloor when his wife, Jessica, splits the club. He catches up with her and tries to explain that he couldn’t get out of dancing with Tatiana. It wasn’t his fault. Jessica is not appeased.
David scanned the titles. The new releases were all super hero stories or slasher flicks. He sighed. Those wouldn’t do. He needed a movie that would be an escape, but it had to be a quiet escape. Moreover, he didn’t want a painful love story. No need to muse on lovers’ foibles and failings. Sure enough, there’d be some jerky guy betraying his woman and before you know it Jessica’s head would start nodding up and down, she’d be mmm-hmm-ing and tsk-ing, and by the end of the film she would have worked herself up into a fresh little righteous rage, the drama corroborating all of her own theories. It would be a springboard into, “see how you are?” and he would be spending the rest of the evening asking, “what’d I do?” which of course would be answered easily and abundantly.
He found a glossy looking travel picture, an adventure set in Indonesia. That could be nice. What was a gamelan orchestra? The DVD jacket had pictures of dancers in costume. Jessica would like that. Maybe it would spark interest in a vacation alternative other than Argentina.
Those trips were becoming, well, predictable. Shoes, lessons, milongas, ripoffs. Complain about the commercialism, but meanwhile get infatuated with yet another (previously unknown but soon to achieve messianic reputation) old dancer who knows (once and for all) the true tango and (unlike the other times) is genuinely kind and sincere (honest). More shoes. Fete the codger (and his friends, hey what are you doing here, what a surprise) until you blow past this and next year’s vacation budgets in spite of the cheap peso. We did mention shoes, yes? Fall out with the teacher, suffer bitter humiliation and regret. Yes, he’s just like the rest of them after all, a smooth opportunist working the tourists. So sorry, honey, know just how you feel. Wish there were something I could do to make you feel better. Sure, we can head over to Le Belle Pied one more time to check out the six-inch heels with the leopard spots. Didn’t expect you to vamoose the country without the only remaining new style from this year that you haven’t already snatched up. Just a moment, counting your feet and doing the math. Requires some pretty fancy figuring, but yes a dimensional warp in a non-Euclidean Universe does squeeze fifteen pairs of shoes onto those singularities known as your feet. Anything to make you happy right now. Yes, honey, they’re a present from me.
David paid the DVD rental, left the video store, and walked up the avenue. He saw a sale on roses at the convenience store two blocks from home. Just the ticket. Roses would be a perfect prelude to his apology.
They say that the secret to tango is knowing how to walk. So true, so true. Taking his wife out dancing demanded the circumspection and delicacy of walking a minefield. One misstep and you could blow off a limb. In every milonga, his radar swept the room constantly for any blips that could set off Jessica’s jealosies and resentments. A night of serenity, dancing with the spouse, greeting friends, a trip home free from recriminations and accusations. These were the treasures awaiting the true Master of the Tango Walk. No one ever divulged that particular secret in all of those dance lessons. That Mystery was as holy and privileged as the secret handshake of the Freemasons.
David practiced his apology. Tatiana had been brazon in her advances about getting a dance when they were out at La Fortuna milonga. David should have begged off, saying that he had promised the next tanda to his wife. Don’t bring up that Jessica had been dancing like a truck all night while squirming in and out of his embrace and asking him repeatedly on the floor, “what did you change tonight, honey? You were dancing so well last week. What happened? Can’t we just dance like we used to?”
The secret to a successful marriage is to admit you are wrong, even when you are not. Especially when you’re not. In fact, peppering the marriage with twice-weekly self-immolations even when nothing is wrong is just a damn sensible maintenance plan, like changing the oil every 2,000 miles.
David returned home with the flowers and the DVD. He was penitant and rehearsed. He let himself in the apartment. It was dark. He turned on the foyer light and looked around. He went to the kitchen, turned on the light, and checked the magnet shaped like a tango couple on the refrigerator. There was a note from Jessica. It said, “Went to Crane Edwards Studio for Fernando’s class. Back late. Don’t wait up. Jessica.”
David read the note, folded it carefully, and dropped it in the trash. He looked at the roses. He dropped them in the trash, too.
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