23750932750

S.E.C.R.E.T., I’d never be sitting in the middle of a plaza across from the Casa Rosada watching old
men—wearing well-made tweed coats—playing chess, while nearby couples caressed each other in
the sun.
I walked the neighborhoods from Recoleta to Palermo, from San Telmo to Boca, scouring secondhand
shops, finding out who their suppliers were and how they priced goods. First thing I noticed in a
city of tall, thin brunettes with aquiline noses (some inherited, most purchased) is that my curvy
”Americanness” stood out. Nothing I tried on in the vintage stores fit, which left some of the shop
girls more mortified than I was.
“Lo siento, señora,” said the tiny, nervous proprietor of a beautifully curated vintage store near the
Recoleta cemetery. At another store I couldn’t do up a pencil skirt.
“My darling,” said a kind, elderly store clerk in his perfect English. He’d sensed my funk while
cashing out a set of tea towels and a linen tablecloth. “Do not let your body make you sad. It is a good
body.”
Thanking him, I left, carefully navigating the narrow sidewalks with the other pedestrians, trying
unsuccessfully to act like a local as I tripped over the potholes while ogling the gargoyles and
cupolas on some of the more stunning buildings.
In La Boca, eating sweet alfajores and sipping mate, a kind of tea, I watched an elderly couple
dancing a slow public tango. He was a few inches shorter than her and twice as small, and she was
wearing too much makeup for daytime. But these oddities made them more attractive, more
compelling. Their dance was achingly intimate, the way they performed for a crowd of strangers
gathering in the square at dusk. I was moved nearly to tears by the music, and the expressions of pain
and love on their faces. If she could be so vulnerable in front of so many people, in broad daylight,
what the hell was I afraid of? Maybe that was true generosity. Giving of yourself, just as you are, for
the sake of a dance.
That night I actually needed Ernesto’s proffered hand to help me out of the back seat of the limo and to
unravel the mass of red feathers surrounding my tango dress. I was not at all surprised that the dress
fit perfectly, but I was shocked at how flattering it was. The bodice encased me snugly, my breasts
spilling over the top. Below the dropped waist, the dress tufted into a mass of feathers that floated
down to my calves. I felt like a goddess emerging from a scarlet ocean.
“Gracias.”
“Por nada,” he said, bowing again. “You look … lindísima in that dress, Señorita Dauphine.”
I gave Ernesto a nervous smile and glanced down the narrow alley towards the tango club’s neon
entrance. Very few people were on this secluded street at midnight.
“I meet you right here … after?”
He motioned me forward with his white-gloved hands. I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay. As I inched
closer to the mournful, lilting music wafting out of the dark club, a kind-faced doorman, also gloved,
opened a gap in the velvet curtains hanging in the entrance.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Dauphine.”
Oh dear. I ducked inside, feeling faint. A dozen couples turned to look my way, as though they had
been expecting me. I was led around the tiny tables to a banquette against the far wall. As I took my
seat, a sprightly waitress wearing a white tutu and black-and-white-striped stockings dropped a pink
drink in front of me.