I stand, waiting, gazing across a surreal world etched in silver and gray. Ragged clouds, like tattered funerary shrouds, partially obscure the visage of Selene, our moon goddess. Her light reflects a shimmering translucence on the rippled, mirror surface of the lake before which I stand. Pale fronds of mist roll across the water, beckoning to the trees of birch and willow to join them in gavotte among the wavelets that kiss the shingled beach. Only the plaintive hoot of an owl, a single mournful cry, disturbs the placid serenity and intensifies the loneliness I feel in my sojourn of solitude. Will this night, at last, bring solace to my torment?
I think back to an evening of long ago, a pavement café beside the bank of the River Seine where I first saw Catalina. I had set up my easel and paints to capture on canvas the carnelian and flame-orange Parisian sunset of early summer. Fewer auto-mobiles wheezed leaded vapors into the atmosphere above the streets of Paris during the early decades of the twentieth century, and sunsets were spectacular.
She sat with a group of students from Madame Bellvedier’s Finishing School for Genteel Young Ladies—the academy situated a short distance south of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. Her appearance seemed far removed from the fairer cast of her more lascivious companions who incited the café artists to distraction. Five of my fellows moved among the tables on that sultry evening. I raised my hand in greeting to one, a Pablo Picasso, who recently moved into the studio adjoining mine at Bateau-Lavoir.
Many of the poorer tyros, learning their craft in pigment and charcoal, frequented the bars and bistros on the bank of the Seine. They sought to sell their talent in exchange for a meal by offering to sketch or paint the portraits of the patrons. The young, giggling women teased them by offering to pose in erotic postures of semi-nudity, each one suggesting a scene more lewd and provocative than the previous.
The mademoiselle who had caught my attention appeared to distance herself from her more bawdy associates, and I felt little surprise when she excused herself from their company and sauntered across the esplanade to view my work. The click of her heels on the paving stones drew my attention from the pallet on which I was mixing colors. In an instant my intended subject of cloud and skyline was forgotten. Seeing her bathed in the sunset glow, I felt compelled to capture that wondrous moment in oils for eternity. Pose, she did, and not just that one time either. In the following months I captured the essence of her innocent beauty against a variety of settings around the city.
Originally from Buenos Aires, she resided in Paris with parents, her father being a high ranking Argentinean diplomat. Perhaps it started from her infatuation of being seen with an artist, dare I say, a good artist?—I had studied under the tutorship of Amedeo Modigliani shortly after his arrival from Venice. Catalina took it upon herself to promote my work among her friends at college, and guests at the soirees hosted by her mother, on every opportunity. Our relationship, during those months, flowered like a rose in the gardens of Versailles.
That first autumn, a new dance craze swept like a fire-storm through the bars and cafés of Paris. Having its origin in the country of her birth, Catalina performed the moves with the grace of a gazelle. I am certain her skill and erotic elegance fueled the explosive popularity of the Tango in this country.
During one of the sittings at my studio—I maintain ‘studio’ although it would probably be considered no more than a two-roomed apartment—she proposed to teach me the steps. She arrived in chauffeured embassy automobile the following afternoon, and instructed the fellow to set up a gramophone. Due to the limited availability of suitable musical recordings, we had only a copy of Carlos Gardel's song, Milonga Sentimental, to accompany her tuition. Whether it was the excellence of my teacher, or my natural instinct to appreciate the rhythm I am unsure, but we were soon two of the best known performers of the tango in Parisian society.
Sadly, it soon became clear to me that the amour between us was not in accord with the wishes of her parents. More and more, our clandestine trysts were conducted in secret, often beside the lake behind the chateau where her family resided. There, we would sit in romantic embrace among the shadows beneath the trees, whispering vows of servitude and forswearing our undying love whatever adversities our differences in upbringing should bestow on our happiness.
One such night in late May as I savored the seduction in her brown eyes, her papa discovered our romantic liaisons. He, being a military man, I doubt if I would have fared better in a fair fight, but the fact that he was accompanied by several underlings from the embassy made the outcome even more one sided. Making his displeasure clear in words pertaining to the inevitable termination of my life if I approached, again, within five kilometers of either Catalina or the chateau, he dragged his weeping daughter back toward the house. The henchmen then stressed the point with several vicious blows to my face and head before pitching me onto the streets.
I heard nothing more from my beloved for six weeks, until, in a letter delivered to my rooms by an embassy servant, she begged that I might find the courage to rendezvous with her on the night of three days forward. On that date, her nineteenth birthday, her parents had organized a celebration during which a public announcement would be made of her engagement and intent of marriage to Signor Romano de Silva, the son of one of the wealthiest men in South America.
The match was obviously made by her parents with no regard for the wishes of their daughter. I was devastated, but uncertain whether her intention was for a final farewell, or something more. I returned a letter in reply that a garrison of mounted cavalry would not prevent me from making the effort to see her, and suggested a time to meet at our regular haunt.
In the shadows cast by the trees encroaching to the water’s edge, I waited. Like tonight, a half moon gleamed as if some apparition floated beneath the black surface of the lake where only faint ripples disturbed the crystalline smoothness. Sounds of laughter and music drifted from the veranda of the chateau like the chatter of starlings, fluttering on the evening breeze, leaving no doubt of the carefree party atmosphere inside.
Ten minutes passed before a sylph like form flitted from the shadowy recess at the back of the house. I watched her progress beneath the trees until she emerged onto the beach a few paces from my secluded location. The silvery glow glittered in her dark eyes and her soft lips spread into a smile when I moved into the moonlight. We embraced, hugging without speaking, for words were unnecessary. The delicate allure of her perfume teased and taunted my senses as we kissed.
Attired in a gown of cream, silky texture, the skirt reaching almost to her ankle, she appeared, truly, to be an angel. A split at the side from hem to thigh allowed me a tantalizing glimpse of stocking clad leg, Two tortoiseshell combs held her long, ebony hair in a tight coil at the back of her slender neck, around which she had fastened a three-tier choker of pearls.
As we gazed into each others eyes, I was surprised to hear the orchestra break into a tune with a rhythm I knew so well, the Milonga Sentimental. The soft murmur of her voice was almost inaudible as she spoke. “In two days I am forced to obey the wishes of my parents to board a ship bound for Buenos Aires. I asked that the band play this now that we may dance one last tango together.”
I felt icy fingers of anguish clutching at my throat. I tried to speak, but she pressed a finger to my lips. With a faint shake of her head, she said, “Please, say nothing to spoil this moment. I swear that one day, if you have not forgotten me, I will return to this place that we may spend eternity together.”
She had no need to ask me twice. There seemed a futile hopelessness in my life as, almost in a daze, I led her into the first ‘el paseo’ or slow walk. In all the times we had danced together, I have never known her movements to appear so sexually explicit while we performed ‘el cruzado’ the scissors step, and then entwined our legs for the ‘la vigne’ the grape vine. The tempo of the dance increased as we whirled in the moonlight on that beach until the final steps when we dropped almost to our knees, with lips pressed together in the final kiss. I wish I could have held that kiss until the end of time, savoring the perfume of her skin, the warm sweet taste of her breath, but it was not to be.
A single slow hand clap brought the rush of reality back to my senses.
In horror I looked up to confront two male figures emerging from the shadows. The bearded face of the taller dressed in military uniform, I recognized at once as Catalina’s father. The other shorter but plumper figure, a younger man with sallow complexion, was immaculately dressed in black tuxedo over a white dress shirt. His receding hair was greased back over his scalp with a few wayward strands falling to the side and over his ear. I assumed this was the one she would marry. It was his hands from where the applause originated, yet his face was twisted into a sneer.
“Bravo, for someone foreign to our national dance, that was some performance.” His voice, weak and whining as his complexion, slurred the words. He continued, “Such a shame there will never be an encore.”
He reached out, grabbing Catalina by the arm. She stumbled as he pulled her from me. It was only then I saw the glint of moonlight on something metallic held in the hand of her father.
Catalina must have seen it at the same time. She screamed words that sounded like, “Papa! No!”
I tried to stand, but the world seemed to turn in slow motion as a flash of fire and sound of an explosion tore through the stillness. Something struck me in the chest like the kick from a race horse. I felt ribs shatter and flesh burn and a searing agony that continued for an eternity. My awareness felt as if it was curling up like a screaming fetus inside my body as breath was torn from my lungs.
Eventually the pain dissolved into nothing, blown away like dust in the moving stream of air from the lake. And then came a sudden realization that I was sprawled on my back in the shallow water. I saw the expression of horror on the face of my beloved, as she tore free from the grip of her captor. Her mouth was moving in agonized scream, yet I heard only silence. She knelt in the water beside me, lifting my shoulders and pressing my cheek against her breast. Thick blood oozed from the gaping hole in my chest staining the creamy silk of her dress to burgundy before eddying in swirls with the water of the lake.
The two men grabbed her, one on either arm, pulling her away. I stood up and watched as they dragged her back along the shore to the house.
It is difficult to imagine that almost sixty years have passed since that awful night. Whenever the half-moon rises in mid-summer, I am drawn to this spot from my shallow grave beneath the trees. Rotting fragments of clothing cling to the remains of mummified flesh hanging from my bones. So much, I wish a realization of the vows we made so long ago, yet in reality I am aware of the grotesque parody of death I have now become.
And what of my sweetheart from so long ago? If still alive, she would be approaching eighty years of age. I cannot think of her as the wrinkled, gray-haired crone she may have become. To me, she will remain the erotic dancer, my partner of that last tango so many years in the past. Would she even remember me after all this time?
I wait, enthralled with the silence of the night air. Never, in all the years I have been held to this place have I felt so close to my sweet Catalina, and then, a moment of surprise, as I hear those strains of music from the crumbling dilapidated walls of the derelict chateau, the same orchestra playing our song, Milonga Sentimental. I hear a whispered voice in my ear, “I asked that the band play, so we may dance one last tango together.”
Turning, I gaze on her almost satanically dark Latin beauty. Even in the darkness, she shines with radiant light. She appears not one day older than the last moment I saw her. Her eyes glisten with a mischievous gleam that I have never seen before, and her perfect mouth curls into a smile of unadulterated happiness. Can she not see me as the gruesome remains I have, in death, become? Evidently not; we kiss, her lips so warm, so alive, press against me. It is as if she breathes life into this decomposing form as we embrace.
There is no necessity for her to ask me twice. Our bodies begin to sway, then our feet to move in response to the rhythm. In the moonlit shadows, two specters now haunt the shore at the water’s edge of a lake on the outskirts of Paris as we dance our final, never ending, last tango.
Comments