20. Julieta
Chapter twenty
Julieta
“I found us a table over here if that works?” He points to a small round one. It’s close enough to the dance floor to watch other couples dance, but not so close that we’re in it.
We spent the hour before doing the practica, standard practice where I worked on getting used to a quicker, more improvisational technique.
“This is great, thanks.”
“Would you like some wine?” he asks. “Or are you trying to take it easy, party animal?”
This makes me chuckle, something looser, as I answer, “I’ll just take a cup of water.”
“You got it. I’ll be right back,” he smiles.
He walks through the crowd easily, like he’s familiar with all of this. People call his name, and he stops to give each person a greeting: a kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a hug. They look so happy to see him. He gets caught up in animated conversation, and there’s something so comforting about it. About how embedded he is in it, how he knows the language and the customs, how they’ve welcomed him, too.
Older couples are standing around the dance floor, and the tango DJ is setting things up. The house lights are dim, and spotlights in muted red light up the space, making for something more intimate. Long tablecloths cover tables around the dance floor, streamers of fabric are loosely draped and hanging from the ceiling.
The music begins and the dance floor immediately fills like a flood. I’ve got a close seat, and the view is nostalgic. It’s incredible, wondrous that I get to be here, too. My eyes don’t leave the floor, or the dancers’ feet. Everybody has their own style, I notice. Everybody has their own version of magic.
This feels like home. A home I didn’t know I’d ever feel again.
Logan returns with a glass of wine and a cup of water, setting them on the table gently.
“Sorry it took me a bit. I got sidetracked by some regulars.”
“That’s okay. They looked happy to see you.”
“It’s been a while,” he admits, then takes a sip of his wine. “Let me know when you want to go out on the floor.”
“Soon. Let me get my bearings first.”
An older man walks past our table, doing a double take, and I recognize him immediately as Javier, an old family friend.
“Julieta! Que haces acá?” he asks in a playful tone. It must come as a shock to see me here.
I can only laugh in response, as he leans down to give me kisses on my cheeks in greeting. “Vine a bailar,” I tell him casually. Of course , I’m here to dance tango at the milonga on a Saturday night.
“Que bueno!” He turns to look at who he must assume is my date and stills.
“Logan? Cómo estás?” He shakes his hand, a genuine smile on his face.
“Re bien, Javier.” Logan answers. “Cómo te va?” Yeah, that Spanish is still hot.
Javier looks between us, thinking who knows what, then turns to me. “Y tus viejos cómo están?” Javier asks me, inquiring about my parents.
“Bien, bien. Todos bien.” I feel like a bobblehead with how much I’m nodding and smiling in this conversation.
He looks at Logan again, and I almost feel the words build up, the way I’m going to talk my way out of this. Defend it, deny it, whichever. But Logan just smiles at him, talking briefly about classes and tango and people I don’t know. A whole community of people that I know nothing of. It should be awkward, like I’d rather sink in my seat, except that there is a literal seat at the table for me here. I get to be here as much as everyone else, and it’s something I never quite realized I was missing. Soon enough, the conversation wraps up, and Javier says his goodbyes.
“Chau, Logan. Nos vemos. Chau, linda.” He leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek, then walks over to a woman and offers his hand to dance.
“You know Javier?” I ask.
He nods. “He’s big in the tango community.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” I say. “He’s an old family friend. My parents met him at night school when they were learning English.”
“I love that,” he says warmly. “How about we dance now?”
“I would love to,” I answer. “Oh wait, you’re supposed to make eye contact, and I have to hold it and nod.”
He laughs as he gets up from his seat, holding his hand out for me to take. I take it immediately.
The floor is crowded, but couples are keeping everything moving, and keeping their moves contained. Suddenly, thrown into the middle of it, my nerves decide to make a new appearance.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“It’s just you and me, Julie. Just you and me here. Nobody else matters.”
But I notice Javier on the outskirts. Friends about his age chatting, friends that maybe knew my grandmother and in turn may know me, and I just feel silly. Like I’m a poor excuse for a replacement, like I didn’t deserve to get these shoes let alone dance with them.
So, while I would love to think that nobody else matters, right now, in my mind, in my line of sight, everybody does.
“Stay with me, Julie,” he says right in my ear. “Take one deep breath.” My body complies, almost frustratingly quickly. “Good, now take another one.”
This one I pull from deep down within me, hoping to summon some of my grandmother’s bravery, hoping to find some of my own.
“You,” he whispers almost definitively, squeezing my hand, inching me closer to him. “And me.”
And maybe it’s the breathing, or the calm way he speaks to me. The way my body just molds to his in comfort and familiarity, this dancing position like muscle memory. Or maybe, I think, this is all I need right now.
You and me.
And the tanda begins.