It seems almost impossible for me to accept that 22 years
ago I decided to finally learn the Argentine tango that my parents had
mastered. I learned to dance efficiently (no more than that) with an Argentine
tango instructor Carlos Loyola.
Part of the fun of dancing the Argentine version of the
tango is that the man is in charge. As far as I reckon, the only other
amusement in which man may not have any competition is fly fishing.
In tango the man leads and the woman has to be ready to
anticipate but still lag behind. She is
almost in a constant stage of unbalance.
Besides having to dance very close to the woman (an
absolute must or you are not dancing it correctly) I had the pleasure of
sharing tango with women who dressed to the teeth in elegance that you would
not find in line dancing. I remember three women in particular. When I danced
with them nobody noticed my humdrum efficiency. They were much too busy
watching my partners (two were very tall) who wore tight dresses with slits on
the side. While those two had elegance in spades, Zanna Downes had it in all
suits.
Downes had a stare that could almost make you
uncomfortable. At that point you would look down and admire the most beautiful
legs I have ever seen (I will include my mother and my Rosemary’s legs!).
I made sure to arrive early at the Polish Hall on Fraser
Street as one of the highlights of the evening was to watch Downes arrive and
change to her tango shoes. In her usual fishnets she was a sight to give me a
possible cardiac arrest.
After getting to know this English woman well enough I
took my chances and asked her to pose for me. This she did. In my imagination I
saw her as the perfect James Bond incarnation of Miss Moneypenny.
In the next few days I will do my best to find her again
and tell her how glad I am for the memory I have of her and of those legs.
Soy un alma desnuda en estos versos…
Soy un
alma desnuda en estos versos,
Alma
desnuda que angustiada y sola
Va
dejando sus pétalos dispersos.
Alma que
puede ser una amapola,
Que
puede ser un lirio, una violeta,
Un
peñasco, una selva y una ola.
Alma que
como el viento vaga inquieta
Y ruge
cuando está sobre los mares,
Y duerme
dulcemente en una grieta.
Alma que
adora sobre sus altares,
Dioses
que no se bajan a cegarla;
Alma que
no conoce valladares.
Alma que
fuera fácil dominarla
Con sólo
un corazón que se partiera
Para en
su sangre cálida regarla.
Alma que
cuando está en la primavera
Dice al
invierno que demora: vuelve,
Caiga tu
nieve sobre la pradera.
Alma que
cuando nieva se disuelve
En
tristezas, clamando por las rosas
con que
la primavera nos envuelve.
Alma que
a ratos suelta mariposas
A campo
abierto, sin fijar distancia,
Y les
dice: libad sobre las cosas.
Alma que
ha de morir de una fragancia
De un
suspiro, de un verso en que se ruega,
Sin
perder, a poderlo, su elegancia.
Alma que
nada sabe y todo niega
Y
negando lo bueno el bien propicia
Porque
es negando como más se entrega.
Alma que
suele haber como delicia
Palpar
las almas, despreciar la huella,
Y sentir
en la mano una caricia.
Alma que
siempre disconforme de ella,
Como los
vientos vaga, corre y gira;
Alma que
sangra y sin cesar delira
Por ser
el buque en marcha de la estrella.