Stepping into the low degrees of a Selknam night had Lisa McKenzie-McKenzie and Matt Pfarrer bundling inside heavy coats PDQ. He yanked his watch cap from a coat pocket and rolled it down his ears. Like any magician pulling a rabbit out of her tophat, McKenzie Squared jerked a trapper hat from somewhere then set it deeply upon her head. Had the flaps been any longer both would’ve draped her chest.

When they exhaled or spoke, their breath condensed.

Seeing her headgear, Pfarrer asked, “Is that your Sergeant Preston of the Yukon hat? Can dogsleds be far away?”

McKenzie Squared made a face. The kind that showed what she thought of his weary jibe.

Few deboarding passengers and chill further rushed the driver’s unloading from the bus luggage compartment. Any passengers thanking him spoke to his back as he hastily hopped into the vehicle’s warmth. A couple of others who’d made Selknam their terminus dispersed quickly. McKenzie Squared and Pfarrer slung bulky soft-sided bags over a shoulder. She knew where they were headed. He followed.

McKenzie Squared led them through weakly-lighted streets. So much so the illumination reminded him of gaslights. One lane eventually funneled this pair into habitation. A three-storey hotel. Or maybe a hostel.

If the place had a name, it escaped him.

Inside the underlit lobby, a bright streak of fluorescence flared along the reception desk. Upwards to 10 vacant cushioned seats sat reasonless around the space. Ornately-shaded lamps towered above these pieces of furniture if any guests got the urge to relax and read. Same with two couches which were bookended by the same sort of lamps. Otherwise, one needed a quite discerning eye to determine whether seat covers brown or deep purple.

They walked across soil-shaded planed wood floor planks to the check-in counter. Along the way, joviality escaped out of a room, the canteen presumably, off to the desk’s side. A little farther a wide staircase ought’ve let visitors hike onto the upper floors.

For the less motivated, behind two dull sliding copper doors operated an elevator. Instead of lighted floor numbers above the conveyance’s doorframe, a semicircle dial whose arrow would tick planta sótano, planta baja, then floors 1-3 in Roman numerals.

An unusual piquancy filled both travelers’ noses. McKenzie Squared spoke.

“Did I mention we also get full board here.”

A gold old-fashioned desk bell gleamed on the counter. McKenzie Squared let her bag splat then tapped the chime. This bright ring brought a speedy response. A woman emerged from around the corner from what indeed was the canteen. Her demeanor expressed joy in seeing them, whoever they were. After a moment, the receptionist recognized one of her arriving guests. She and McKenzie Squared traded pleasantries. Then the latter presented him. He liked her courtesy smile.

The receptionist stationed herself behind the desk. About half a foot shorter than the pair standing before her, Pfarrer guessed her creeping upon 50. Or slow walking after 50. The eyes enveloping them from below were set in a darkly complected unharried face. A fine natural camouflage which masked aging. Bangs filed into black lacquer lengths without coil dropped to her collar. Perhaps if the lobby’s ambient light brighter or reception’s illumination angled properly, auroras might’ve breezed across her hair.

Winter clothes concealed other markers like her figure.

Her fingers tapped across the keyboard which brightened its screen. As fields downloaded, Dominica, the clerk, referenced the project that had tasked McKenzie Squared and her Film Board Canada team earlier in the year. She did so in ear-pleasing Spanish.

“Now we finally get to enjoy the fruits of your labors, Lisa. To be made even sweeter by some of the local boys’ melodies. We all greatly anticipate both. Especially the music. The boys have been secretive. They either practice out of range or when most of us here are occupied elsewhere. Does that mean it’ll be good or bad?”

The trio chuckled. Dominica asked for their passports. She routinely imputed McKenzie Squared first. Returned it fast. His drew the receptionist’s interest.

Certainly, any scrutiny didn’t stem from his being black. At least not in Argentina.

His passport photo accurately portrayed him. Months under the Buenos Airean sun must’ve darkened his sienna. And, yes, more gray had crept through his scalp in the years since the picture taken. But his features remained those of a distinguished man who stayed reserved until comfortable with new acquaintances.

He wondered if it had surprised Dominica his being an American. Funny how that worked. Stateside he was “black” first. Rarely was he ever allowed to forget that. As if he could. Only afterwards was he “American.” That often grudgingly. On visits to Europe, Canada, Mexico, and Latin America, he was “American.” First and only. Didn’t even have to open his mouth. If any locals could, they’d beat him to the punch by talking to him in English.

And it was more than just the bowling shirts he fancied during warmer seasons. Pfarrer just gave off that vibe and “foreigners” absorbed it. Except in Uruguay. There, where plenty of residents initially mistook him for a Brasileño, he’d been addressed in enough Portuguese to almost make him consider acquiring the language.

Dominica spoke his surname. He confirmed it. She continued.

“¿Como un sacerdote?”

He was a step behind. His face must’ve shown it because glancing at McKenzie Squared’s probably matched his own befuddlement.

“Pfarrer,” Dominica repeated. “Priest?”

He caught up so quickly he almost tripped over himself. He acknowledged Dominica’s wordplay. She grinned saucily, returned his passport. McKenzie Squared anxiously waited to also get in the know. He explained.

“My last name. Pfarrer. German for priest.”

“Well,” his traveling companion said, “knowing your profession, I guess it apt then, eh.”

After giving them keys, again as in Rosario, heavy doorknockers which had been detached from doors, and before they mounted stairs to their accommodations, Dominica informed them of the establishment’s amenities. The canteen. Its breakfast, lunch, and dinner schedule. The location of the business hutch. There, several desktop computers and printers sat available – gratis.

Then, she announced both rooms had individual baths. She concluded by wishing the pair pleasant stays as well as being eager to see the movie Friday night.

Pfarrer tossed his bag in his room. Nothing fancy about anything between those four walls. He looked at the flatscreen and wondered what sort of programing Selknam might receive. A quick gander inside the closet revealed plenty of country-thick blankets. Just the things necessary just in case Antarctica encroached overnight.

Someone rapped upon his door. He opened to McKenzie Squared. She suggested since they had time, why not grab bites in the canteen. To him it sounded like a good deal.

Late as it was, only a few strangers who’d finished eating sat there. The woman behind the chafing dishes greeted both. She invited them to grab plates or bowls, utensils, and feel free to serve themselves.

A whiteboard propped on an easel by the entry listed the evening’s menu. Besides the expected offerings – beef, starch, vegetables, desserts, salads – guisado as well. Stew. The last probably issued the aroma that had engaged them upon entering. Stew it was then for both diners.

Meals ladled, they sat at a table. The canteen attendant dropped off a basket of rolls and asked their drink preferences. While she retrieved beverages, the guests started spooning as if they were famished.

Somehow while gorging, McKenzie Squared complimented the stew.

“This lamb is tasty,” she said.

That struck Pfarrer as odd. He broke off from his own chewing to look at the whiteboard. Perhaps he’d misread it the first time.

No. He hadn’t. Lamb (cordero) was not the stew’s defining ingredient. Goat (chivito) was.

Happily as McKenzie Squared stuffed her face, he saw no need to possibly make her record skip.

‘Sleeping dogs,’ Pfarrer thought blissfully. ‘Sleeping dogs.’

The next morning, Pfarrer awoke thoroughly relaxed. It wasn’t that he’d particularly exerted himself over the last day and a half. It was that the bus ride, the confinement, being cooped-up, snatched naps instead of sleep, sapped him. Solid hours of slumber in a Selknam bed revitalized him.

After showering though skipping a shave, he parted the room’s curtains to get a facile view of the day. As seen from his angle, this day at least began brighter than the whole journey from Puerto Asturias.

Bathed and further invigorated, Pfarrer considered knocking on McKenzie Squared’s door. Then he reconsidered. Wouldn’t she be the type already up and at ‘em? His feet walked him downstairs. If she were still on the premises, Pfarrer expected to see her in the canteen. Second or third cup of coffee in hand, from her mouth an accusatory, “Where have you been, Matthew lazy bones!?”

Morning, another clerk manned the receptionist desk. She didn’t skew much from Dominica. Floodlit by daylight through the lobby picture windows, last evening’s brown skin became olive. Straight hair still, black too, yes, though hers chopped into the bob of a helmet. Chocolaty or caramel irises surrounded well-depth pupils.

This clerk’s distinguished Mediterranean nose, like Dominica’s – both women who bore strong traits of predecessors who’d immigrated from Italy or Spain for these generational continuances in Argentina – thrust above lips ready to castigate, chastise, or offer cloying phrases. During his days in Selknam, Pfarrer would see no end of the above kind of women. Probably a higher percentage of such locals in Selknam than around Buenos Aires.

A warm sight kept him from immediately entering the canteen. Against a wall a mounted newspaper rack. The kind whose editions hung through poles on hooks. Last time he’d seen something so “ancient” was in a London pub, that during the waning years of the Thatcher Era.

Pfarrer wondered if this an affectation, the kind of “quirky thing” that ought to draw attention and mention from inveterate travelers always seeking the unusual to be reaped in unplumbed or under-plumbed destinations? Or was this news rack just a convenience maintained for guests curious about the locale. Visitors who knew real truly worthwhile tidbits were often too obscure to rate high on search engines’ results.

These would be found in local newspapers.

Pfarrer decided to “sift” through the region later. He finally obeyed his urge for coffee.

A decent crowd lounged in the canteen, mostly over the remnants of breakfast, lingering with another cup of coffee. Just a quick survey told him many of his fellow guests were the outdoorsy types. Their clothes and footwear weren’t for gallery tours – should Selknam somehow have been a remote arts Mecca a la Marfa. No, from their appearance and the conversation snatches heard, most of his fellow diners were to commune with nature trail by trail, step by step.

Here was where they were to be first fortified. Pfarrer cast further glances around the room. No McKenzie Squared. He presumed she got on the beat early. They would connect later.

The coffee was stronger than he liked, even diluted by milk and sugar. And horrors – the only medialunas left were all apricot! Manfully, he choked down four pastries and two coffees then launched himself into Selknam.

Unlike the evening before, his morning bundling wasn’t urgent. Coat buttoned up, watch cap unfurled, yes, but the cold to be staved off was less than arctic.

He surrendered his room key to the clerk.

Outside, broken clouds opened onto brilliant patches of blue. What surrounded Selknam surprised him. Where mankind no longer intruded, bare-limbed trees asserted crowded dominance. In distances above them peaks loomed with low snowlines.

Quitting the hotel, Pfarrer’s steps directed him into the commercial district. Approaching midmorning, little was open. Only a few pedestrians this time of day. All uniformly polite. Traffic, such as it was, consisted of several horsemen- and women wending their clopping beasts wherever.

It only seemed natural to wave at the riders. So, he did. Smiling, they returned his gesture.

Where commerce concentrated, Pfarrer window browsed. Selknam had a lot of outdoor/hiking wares stores, tack and ski shops.

If only he needed carabiners and pitons! Or a lead rope! Or ski bindings! If only! Alas, he didn’t.

He evaluated the several bars and restaurants seen. All closed, all seemingly exhaling from the previous night. These he judged tourist venues. Unless they worked in them, one shouldn’t have expected finding locals congregating inside spending any money.

One shop, though, earned his patronage. It reminded him of his go-to newsstands in Buenos Aires. Besides periodicals, tobacco, sweets, sodas, gum, postcards, it also sold packets of maté. Only thing missing was a portable radio tuned onto caustic talk radio or syrupy music. Foreigner as Pfarrer obviously was, his buying a few small bags of the national stimulant pleased the attendant. The stranger then further gained the salesman’s favor after buying a good dozen postcards and international stamps.

Pfarrer made sure his postcard purchases encompassed the arty to odd bracket. In a spare moment, he’d inscribe and address them to Stateside acquaintances.

A new friend bought, Pfarrer thought he’d again let his feet direct him minus any mental input when his handheld blurted. A quite chipper McKenzie Squared mildly interrogated him. He had no idea where he was. He simply answered, “Whatever passes for downtown here, I guess.”

She urged him to gain his bearings and rejoin her at the hotel. She added, “Chop-chop, Matthew!”

Pfarrer sim-sim-sala-bimmed his device. That drew a quizzical gander from the newsstand vendor. Dead reckoning led Pfarrer back to the hotel.

Seated loosely in the lobby, McKenzie Squared. She paged through some edition of a regional newspaper. As he saw, more out of killing idleness than seeking any nitty-gritty concerning Selknam. He sidled up to her, and asked, “Checking your lotto numbers?”

McKenzie Squared grinned crossly. She stood, walked to the rack, and lowered the newspaper pole on its hooks. This done, she buttoned up her coat, dumped the trapper hat on her head. He followed her outside without prompting. She spoke.

“I know it’s a cliché, but I slept like a log. I thought you might’ve been still snoozing when I finally woke up. You surprised me being gone already.”

He explained. “One of the questionable benefits of reaching certain ages. You need less sleep, but you take more naps. It seems to even out. Where are we going?”

“The theater,” McKenzie Squared said.

On the walk, Pfarrer noticed lower temperatures mottling McKenzie Squared’s cheeks. Same with the tip of her nose. He couldn’t remember any friends susceptible to this reaction to cold.

Steps took them away from habitation. Older, long lived-in residences decreased until trees formed a natural palisade demarcating the end of settled Selknam.

They trod upon a paved road lined by nearly naked old growth. The road curved into a glade. Entering, centered amid it, indeed, a former Orthodox church. One which had been repurposed into a cinema. Or as he was to learn from McKenzie Squared, the building also served as auditorium, music venue, and playhouse.

On their way, Pfarrer stated having walked past several outdoor adventure supply stores.

McKenzie Squared enlightened him.

“Selknam is a big stop on the ecotourist circuit. Sleepy now, but as you say, hopping when it’s warm. There’s more glampers around than you can throw an organic muffin at. Now, although quiet by comparison, the place still gets a decent number of visitors. Skiers mostly. Of the ‘unspoiled’ out of the way trails sort. I hear the powder is so pure it makes virgins looked soiled.

“Other than that, there’s forestry, fishing. Maybe even some mining, if you want to believe it. Here we are.”

As far as Orthodox churches went, this one during its prime had been a modest construction. Just one large golden onion dome and four junior bowls topping the edifice’s corners. Naturally the crosses had been removed from each. Exterior walls were whitewashed in oyster tints. Turquoise blue distinguished recesses and accents. Easy to assume the arched window frames once holding magnificent stained-glass tableaux gone with the congregation which had worshipped there. In their stead, clear panes.

A short flight of stairs climbed until feet flattened before stout wood doors. Pfarrer thought McKenzie Squared would need to unlock them. She simply pulled the portal open.

Offhandedly she said, “I made arrangements.”

Inside, morning light brightly washed the interior. What immediately struck Pfarrer was the floor’s rake. That certainly wasn’t part of the building’s initial design. The floor sloped downward before leveling into a pit. There, a black upright piano gleamed.

Three aisles, straight center, left angled, and right angled funneled towards the proscenium. The stage maybe rose half the height of the original floor. Short flights of stairs bookended the boards where at least one Russian Orthodox priest and his pulpit or perhaps even ambon had once loomed over a congregation.

Somewhere in what served as the theater lobby, McKenzie Squared took off her trapper hat. From what he saw the lid had done nothing to tame her curls. She used her hand as a brush as if that would restore any order to the natural unruliness of her hair.

The curving wall before descent must’ve held back SROs. Behind the concourse a short concession counter and a small cloakroom. Each shuttered now. Stairs further led up and away into the balcony. He knew that’s where a projection room crowded. McKenzie Squared also mentioned the flanking spaces above served as storage.

In one of them her Film Board Canada team had disinterred The Leopard Changes His Spots. That among other long-buried silent movies.

Against two parallel walls two green emergency exit signs pointed to las salidas de emergencias. Doors crashed out. They must’ve led onto stairs rising short flights onto level safety outside.

The same blackout material separating the foyer from the theater proper also would’ve blunted autumn June light had the main room’s windows curtains been drawn.

The vaulted ceiling above arced toward what had been Paradise. In decades since, whatever celestials gazed down had been replaced by quite earthly celebrities. None of whom Pfarrer recognized. The visitors defiled down the center aisle. Along the walk, Pfarrer noticed hodgepodge formed the theater seating. Easy to imagine this facility had at one time grabbed-bagged discarded seats from shuttered theaters. Laid out as the seats were, their upholstery met eyes in a kind of Piet Mondrian canvas. A couple of brown seats beside a few red ones, black ones between some blue ones next to rare yellow standouts.

Rows and rows of artful discordance. Made him wonder if this had been by abstract design or simple randomness.

McKenzie Squared and Pfarrer mounted the stage. By necessity the back of the house was compact. Good spacing between the side lights and top lights. Footlights were a perfect row of bottom teeth. There was next to no room between the flies. The scrims probably brushed them on ways up and down. As did the movie screen probably.

A parted gold and red brocade curtain stuffed both sides of the stage leading into the wings. The color scheme tickled his suspicions. Every theater curtain he remembered seeing could’ve borne designs across its face but the tones backing them were sedate. When had red ever been sedate? He wondered whether whoever had administered this facility at the time might’ve acquired this curtain as a Chinese theater’s castoff.

Looking up from the stage, the catwalk seemed narrow enough to have been a tightrope.

McKenzie Squared anticipated his thoughts. “When they put on live performances, I understand tents are set up out back for dressing rooms, and wardrobes and props. Didn’t get to see any of those when we were here working.”

Pfarrer again surveyed the theater. “This is neat. Of course, the question is how does an Orthodox church develop here? This must’ve been emergency history. What does anyone, especially any local, know about this place’s background?”

She strolled then stopped stage left. “Good question. We asked while working. Nobody could start giving any say-so until about the early 30s. Even then, the last Russian was already long gone. Apparently, someone picked up the abandoned building at a distress sale of some sort. No Russians showed up to counteroffer. Locals bought it. So, there you go.”

“Well,” he said walking slightly upstage of her, “since nobody knows anything, or claims to know nothing, this is fine fodder for an article. Don’t think I’ll have to research the bejeez with this one. Besides, it’ll be picaresque. Um, ‘uncovered Orthodox house of worship established by, uh, White Russian refugees escaping vengeful Bolsheviks.’ Maybe even Trotsky bent a knee here on the way to his destiny in Mexico City.”

She laughed. “Isn’t that a little fanciful?”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “It’s a

lot

fanciful! Besides, I noticed larch, birch, and aspen among what grows here. With the weather, hey, it’s not all that remote a possibility that White Russian refuges fresh off being hounded by bloodthirsty revolutionaries decided to bypass Paris or Shanghai for an edge of nowhere place reminding them of blinis and balalaikas and czarist Mother Russia.”

Grinning, McKenzie Squared gazed at him. Her face couldn’t settle on disbelief or wonderment. Finally, she replied.

“Is that the sort of chatter you unreel to captivate, or maybe even mesmerize, or what the hell, beguile, Florencia?”

He answered, “Being completely honest with you, no conversation of ours has ever dealt with Russia or Russians in any way.”

McKenzie Squared exaggerated her annoyance. She then leavened it, saying, “You know what I mean, wise guy.”

Pfarrer chuckled. “By you, I see it’s a little cold in this barn. This place must have kitchen facilities. Let’s brew up some maté and get your blood rushing. Because your blood boiling alone isn’t making the cut.”

She led them to the concession stand. Behind it among counters and cabinets, crammed a refrigerator, an electric stove, grill, and sink. No kettle, but Pfarrer found a sauce pan which he filled with water. Sizzling immediately rose from the burner but the water itself remained placid. Of course, one cabinet held glassware and cups. Two of the latter he washed out then dried with sheets off a paper towel roll. Afterwards, he pulled a packet of maté from a pocket. The dark ground crumbs he divided between two cups. As water heated, Pfarrer rummaged drawers for and found a spoon.

“It would’ve been too much like right to have a found some bombillas in here,” he said. “Thankfully we’re heathen foreigners so exactitude just doesn’t matter.”

He checked the pot. Water had started to boil.

Turning focus on McKenzie Squared, he said, “Now about Florencia.”

“Okay, Matthew,” she said, “let me admit your plainness has disarmed me somewhat. But I’m not distracted in the least. Or dissuaded at all.”

They both grinned. Pfarrer didn’t bother asking what specifically intrigued. Rather as their water began boiling sufficiently, he presented McKenzie Squared an overview of Florencia Cardinale which ought have erased any unsavory notions of the Porteña the Canadian might’ve reserved. After all, Florencia was a much younger woman gallivanting with a much older man. On its surface, who could ever regard such a pairing as a meeting of equals or melding of alike minds?

He took McKenzie Squared to his and Florencia’s post-dining decelerations. The talkative hour or so before they returned to his place, then to bed. During these tete-a-tete’s she could either be Romy Schneider or Monia Vitti. Strive as he might’ve Pfarrer could never have been her Alain Delon.

“Jean Gabin, maybe,” he said. “Never Alain Delon.”

His notion made McKenzie Squared laugh. Better, it further relaxed her. He checked the pot. Water boiled angrily. He turned off the burner and poured steam into cups. That done, he grabbed a spoon then mashed verdure against the containers’ bottoms. For a few moments he let these mixtures steep.

“If we had bombillas, we could sip through them,” Pfarrer said. “They’d strain most of the ground stuff. But we don’t. Watch you don’t drink too low. Don’t want chopped herbs stuck between your teeth.”

He suggested they take their beverages into the auditorium, there sit, and sip. Once again, McKenzie Squared proved herself a “trouper.” Remembering how maté had curled her tongue in Puerto Asturias, the Canadian did a good job of masking her distaste for it in Selknam.

Sitting slackly in seats from who knew where, he whisked them both back to Buenos Aires.

Seated in the city’s finer dining establishments, Florencia religiously divined those elevated traits of elect women, one of whom she hoped to become. Although she never commented openly at the tables, her expressions sometimes plainly registered approval or distaste of what she’d observed. There were times afterwards Pfarrer wanted to admonish Florencia’s occasional undisguised appraisals. But like her one evening dress, his never making her aware of his notice of it, he decided against possibly delivering any messages she might misconstrue. With an older woman, one who could’ve parsed constraint from criticism, he might’ve spoken out.

Florencia stood several long years away from that.

Taxi rides away from these elegant hours were smooth transitions. The restaurantes sat at fine addresses on opulent blocks. His short-term apartment overlooked a vibrant intersection. The princess would continue her dream seamlessly before reawakening to a jarring barrio pumpkin.

Streetlamps dampened all but the mightiest stars above.

Storefronts of closed boutiques and luxury shops glimmered with the sort of neon that could’ve lured passing possible customers “for tomorrow.” Cars did not race through these streets, but toured. The few pedestrians who ambled along these sidewalks were stylishly attired. They wore their insouciance lightly.

Rather than nightcaps in his place, they habitually crossed the street catercorner from it. Among the yearning structures, a hotel. Conveniently located for business travelers and tourists, this hostelry improved its enchantment through design and attention to service. All through the ground floor, art fixed on walls, masks mounted on stands as if they floated, and small statuary poised on pedestals could all stir notions; the day staff approached slavish.

Here Pfarrer had stayed a week during his first ever visit to Buenos Aires. If the eventual expense of long-term stays hadn’t dissuaded him financially, this hotel would’ve been his headquarters. Yet before crossing the street, there was a detour to perform.

He patronized two neighborhood newsstands.

Mornings, okay, sometimes early afternoons, he strolled to a stand-alone shack. After years of three-month visits, the newsie knew him by sight. Knew his preferences. They always had moments to chat pleasurably. The fellow a Millionarios’ hincha, Pfarrer too celebrated or commiserated his soccer (futbol) team’s results. In truth, though Pfarrer shared an “American’s” indifference to “the Beautiful Game,” if he must attend a spectacle, he preferred catching contests down at Boca’s “Chocolate Box.”

Home of the Millionarios’ rivals, the Boca Juniors.

On uniformly mild South Atlantic evenings that ended with Florencia, Pfarrer purchased at a newsstand in the opposite direction. It crowded a niche hewn into an office building. Spoken exchanges here ran on the short road to terse. Periodicals or sundries weren’t the goods sought. Cigarettes by the cartons were. As at the morning stop, the evening seller knew this customer’s preferences, brand and amounts.

Wares in hand, then he and Florencia would walk towards the objective. Despite not being a guest, Pfarrer nonetheless knew the doormen who rotated that shift. Seeing him, their smiles brightened more so than usual when a guest or prospective guest entered the building.

Of course, before conducting “business,” a few moments of soccer talk. Soccer fanaticism in Argentina made local newspapers sports sections the day’s most vital reading. Pfarrer seldom knew solidly of his side on these conversations. Yet thanks to cramming he came across as convincing. Good enough to fake it until he made it.

Man-talk exchanged and concluded, he presented the cigarettes to whichever doorman worked that evening. The gracious gifts led to gratitude. And acquiescence. Tobacco would be distributed to any working the lobster shift who needed to become blind and deaf.

The hotel bar closed and staff at reception thinned permitted liberties. Florencia would appraise the bar’s wine inventory. She’d select the vintage, naturally. The doorman would hand her the bottle, a corkscrew, if necessary, and two wine stems.

Thusly provisioned, the pair rode an elevator to the top floor. A suite was not their destination. Instead, an alcove leading to stairs letting onto the roof. Few guests knew about it or the vantage enjoyed from there. Three white aluminum tables with several white plastic seats circling them awaited the curious, the adventurous, or seekers of plein air mischief.

Soles of their shoes scuffed along the roofing material’s light aggregate. Other than a stray car horn or rare shouts of passersby, the city below them flowed past as a quiet current.

Most of the instances Pfarrer had taken Florencia – or any other Porteña – to this height seldom was any table occupied.

Their usual angle looked towards the city’s northeast. From there, the conurbano powdered itself chiaroscuro. Modern buildings were white as remained the ornate Art Nouveau towers that had survived razing for modernity. Domed turrets of the latter swarmed with elaborate high-relief sculptures or calligraphy. Weakened light from below hazed walls as surfaces rose upward. This also plunged top bevels and retreating contours of the decorative fixtures atop them into black.

The view bewitched Florencia. No, the view made her want to reconjure herself. The question always asked, how might she attain an equally astounding height? She was only here through another’s efforts. His. How might she ascend on her own?

That the steady topic of their summit discussions.

In the States, Pfarrer might’ve answered her straightforwardly. There, despite spreading belief diligence and hard work no longer rewarded, it could. Only problem could’ve been too many of the current seekers failed persevering. And, therefore, fall short as ordained.

Argentina required more than vision, energy, clarity, and desire. Pfarrer could not advise Florencia because he could not conceive how to channel craftiness into luck.

The nation’s system was capricious when not dismissive about hard work bestowing hard-earned rewards. Far more so than North America, a particularly ambitious Argentine could do everything right – using methods and drive that would likely benefit a norteamericano or norteamericana in a North American setting – yet rise no farther than an inch above bottom.

“So, that’s what we talk about,” Pfarrer told McKenzie Squared. “A 21st century Sisyphus and Tantalus.”

“What will happen to her when you leave next week?” McKenzie Squared asked.

Pfarrer sipped the last of his maté, saying nothing. McKenzie Squared accepted his silence as an answer.

The following day he saw little of McKenzie Squared. Only over breakfast. And that rushed. She had a schedule to finalize for the next night, Friday. The re-premiere of The Leopard Changes His Spots demanded her attention and assurances. Fine with Pfarrer. Her absence would not make him feel neglected. Foreseeing such an instance when they wouldn’t be joined at the hip, he’d brought along material to be edited into possible future submissions.

Offseason in Selknam permitted him to guiltlessly monopolize a workstation in the hotel’s business hutch. Pfarrer would tighten or expand or condense or clarify his copy. He also used the occasion to load a CD of The Leopard Changes His Spots soundtrack into his machine’s CD/DVD tray. McKenzie Squared had loaned him a work pressing. She thought perhaps he might want an opportunity to listen to the movie’s orchestration before hearing its live accompaniment tomorrow.

Thus, he found himself in the unique position of hearing music the band, Los Pingüinos de Patagonia, had managed sequestering from earshot of Selknam’s curious locals. Also, thanks to McKenzie Squared, one more item packed believing he’d never use got called upon. Earbuds.

Before refining pages waiting and letting Los Pingüinos immerse him aurally, Pfarrer idled a bit.

Yesterday, McKenzie Squared had also led a tour of what had once been a church balcony but whose centermost section had been repurposed into a projection room. Reel-to-reel projectors inside the tight room had been expected. What surprised, though, were the facility’s thoroughly up-to-date digital commercial movie theater projectors.

So much for spooling or rethreading.

Rooms abutting either side of “the film box” served as storage. In one, now yawning with fairly empty shelves, McKenzie Squared and her Film Board Canada team had not only retrieved The Leopard Changes His Spots, but had also recovered other never returned or just retained movies. What remained of forgotten silver nitrate titles rediscovered the Canadians preserved as best as possible and catalogued. These, as well as early talkies, were transferred to Museo del Cine in Buenos Aires.

‘No wonder she has run of that place!’ Pfarrer marveled.

Inside the second room, piles of movie posters and boxes of lobby cards. Stacks and stacks of boxes holding lobby cards. McKenzie Squared had told him sorting out the latter would’ve drained too much time from film preservation. The posters he saw were copies of ones deserving delivery to Buenos Aires.

He’d paged through a poster pile or two. Mid-1930’s through early 70s titles abounded. From his cursory perusal, he gathered Mexican productions flooded this market. Even in Argentina Cantinflas proved a ubiquitous presence.

Pfarrer smiled, wondered, ‘Who today remembers Cantinflas?’

Back-to-back days without shaving. Pfarrer’s first day minus razoring was imperceptible. On the second, ample gray sprouted on his cheeks and jaw. This gained McKenzie Squared’s disapproval. Friday morning, he lathered up good then scraped that two-day growth until his face became baby’s-behind smooth. One less way of being mistaken for a local.

Several hours before the big night, Pfarrer passed McKenzie Squared a sheet of paper. Upon it he’d typed several paragraphs. These weren’t instructions but prompts. He had no idea how she responded in front of crowds. Especially in Spanish.

He emphasized simply: graciously thank Selknam authorities who assisted her Flim Board team as well as residents the Canadians’ activities might’ve inconvenienced.

Gratefully acknowledge the contributions of Los Pingüinos de Patagonia. Turn to and gesture at the band in the pit so the violinists, bandoneón players, double bassist, and pianist might rise and accept the crowd’s recognition.

Mention what a marvelous land Argentina was; one made even more so by its fantastic people.

Briefly summarize the film The Leopard Changes His Spots. Mention its personal importance to her as a Canadian. Even if it had none, it was a gimmick which should’ve increased the audience’s receptivity.

Surprisingly, she’d worn a dress and pumps to the event. Some velvety knee-length, midnight blue, shoulder-baring schmatte which accentuated her figure in a way he was unaccustomed to seeing. Even he could tell her shoes were for dress up, not business.

As always with McKenzie Squared, no lipstick, no makeup.

That night on stage between movie screen and full house, McKenzie Squared hit all her marks. Enthusiastic applause drowned her as she signaled the projection booth. House lights went down. A 1928 restoration flickered to life. A silent film further enlivened by music from the first quarter of the 21st century.

Pfarrer expected the actors to have pantomimed their characters broadly. The subtlety in a lot of scenes pleased him. Lighting rendered their eyes limpid or gelid when necessary. The stars and a few of the secondary players moved without much self-consciousness; moving as if free of behind camera directions. And it helped The Leopard Changes His Spots immensely that its cast, as Nora Desmond famously stated, “Had faces!”

Modern technology had cleaned and sharpened the frames. These so crisp to eyes that even gray tones were distinct.

Earlier for further background, McKenzie Squared told him the original intertitle cards mostly sufficed. However, sequences age had made unstable or lost altogether through disintegration, needed exposition in order to retain story continuity. While the team didn’t have a script, it did have a treatment. In missing segments, the outline got leaned on “creatively.” But the troubling balance was to move the story forward without making any viewers feel they read a novel.

“That’s when we needed a writer,” she said.

Naturally in Selknam intertitle cards were in Spanish.

The theater was chilly. Drafty too. Light coats predominated among the viewers. Bulkier apparel stuffed the cloakroom. When McKenzie Squared finally sat beside him, Pfarrer handed her a red & white cable knit sweater she quickly cocooned inside. She didn’t eat the empanadas he’d bought for her but did thankfully accept the glass of malbec he’d poured. The bottle sat between his feet for refills.

Audience reaction reminded him of attending long-ago movies in Times Square. No, fisticuffs did not erupt. Perhaps it was the film’s nature, but anytime high or low emotional instances arose or descended, the audience, okay, mostly its female contingent, loudly opined, suffered or rejoiced with the lead actress.

Since the Leopard was not a true villain, nobody hissed him.

Hearing Los Pingüinos live accompanying the film and having heard their melodies in distended fashion via wireless, he much preferred the former. Same strums and beats, yes, but far warmer live.

Their melodies aptly underlined and emphasized scenes.

As McKenzie Squared had earlier revealed to Pfarrer, in the end the cad reverted into a worthy man. He got the girl. But on her terms. All this in just barely over an hour.

House lights resumed. Smiling, Los Pingüinos stood and bowed. The audience also stood. It applauded. One of the musicians gestured for McKenzie Squared to join them in the pit. She looked at Pfarrer in happy modest disbelief. He would have none of that. He jerked his head at the appreciation awaiting her. Once past him onto the aisle, her steps were short, hurried ones.

Reaching Los Pingüinos, the sextet bowed to the chief restorer. Her reciprocation of the gesture was honest but unsure. After all, McKenzie Squared was Canadian.

Didn’t take much for Pfarrer to believe repeated “bravos” from the clapping assemblage drove her into on the way to dreaded self-consciousness. He yelled a few more “bravos” himself.

Adulation subsided, the house emptied. Several audience members swung down by the pit to thank Los Pingüinos and McKenzie Squared. By this time, Pfarrer stood near her, a half bottle of malbec and their winter coats in hand. After some garment maneuvering, he shook hands with the musicians, then told them he admired their tunesmithery.

The bandmembers were scruffy on the way to roguish. Each had shocks of unkempt black hair that looked artful instead of appearing so through inattentiveness. All smiled easily.

McKenzie Squared’s back to them, the double bassist informed Pfarrer there would be more from Los Pingüinos. After they packed up, the band was to make its usual Friday night pilgrimage/appearance at the Selknam locals’ milonga. He anticipated seeing Pfarrer and “his lady” there.

That the night could continue in such fashion elsewhere surprised Pfarrer. Surely McKenzie Squared must’ve known of Los Pingüinos’ schedule. And if she hadn’t, wouldn’t an invitation have been extended? Either way of knowing, why had she kept it unmentioned from him?

Outside, theater exterior lights rendered it into shadows. The structure’s five domes hid in such stark illumination.

McKenzie Squared and Pfarrer had been among the last departing stragglers. Rather than streetlamps, Selknam had installed solar-powered battery pathway lights to picket the road curving towards or away from the theater. Days before on the introductory tour of the theater, he might’ve noticed them but none of the gold conical-shaded lamps fully caught his attention. At night, these gently shining low to the ground guides minimalized light pollution. The knee-high electric torches let eyes feast on icy stars whose only competition amid the black above was a waxing scimitar.

The short light posts blurred the pair from the knees up. Their dark, heavy, outer garments added more obscurity to both.

Pfarrer asked her when and where might The Leopard Changes His Spots re-premiere officially. Would it be in Los Angeles or New York or even Cannes, if the French used such a prestige festival to indulge the past. Particularly a non-French past.

“Toronto Film Festival,” she stated. “In September. Where else could it be with all the Canadian associations? Besides, it’s the sort of endeavour that plays nicely between artistry and national recognition. ‘Film Board Canada Presents …’”

“Always nice to keep the funding wheels greased,” he said.

She did a good job of excising any complicity through her laugh. They took silent steps. Indiscernable Spanish voices from behind followed both. Pfarrer spoke.

“Why didn’t you clue me in about Los Pingüinos? They’re playing at the local hop tonight. Won’t all the cool kids be there? Aren’t we going? Shouldn’t we go? Aren’t we cool, too? Don’t we rate?”

Amusement and embarrassment mixed in her laughter. She spoke deliberately.

“Well, Matthew, you know it’ll just be tango. I don’t want to stick out.”

“Stick out how?” Pfarrer said. “Don’t tell that after all these months in Argentina, you haven’t ventured into a milonga, taken a few free lessons when they’re offered, and, um, yielded to our hosts’ rhythms.”

McKenzie Squared spoke grudging words. “Oh, no. I have. That is, I’ve taken lessons. I’ve also chanced milongas. Thing is I’ve discovered I have a strange disease. One that’s mutated.”

Pfarrer asked her malady. She answered.

“Know how some people have two left feet? When I dance, I grow a third one.”

Painful images of Elaine Benes flitted through the writer’s mind.

“You do know no one is judgmental in those places,” he said. “Ideally, you and your partner are enveloped in your own worlds for the length of the song. Same as other couples. All eyes won’t be on you.”

She asked if he wanted to go. He replied they both should want to go. In fact, he offered to give her a quick breakdown of the simplest pattern comprising tango. As rudimentary as it got. Basically, walking to a beat.

Stalling miserably, she asked from where his enthusiasm, his knowledge for tango had developed.

“And don’t tell me it’s something you learned in high school Home Ec,” McKenzie Squared admonished nervously. “I barely believe your fish fork story.”

Almost 20 years ago, before his first journey to Argentina Pfarrer had taken dance classes in New York. Though he wanted to focus on tango, he ultimately decided an expansive compendium comprising syncopation his best bet. So, say, if a fox trot or rumba broke out, he was in the mix.

Slightly astounded, McKenzie Squared asked, “Matthew, you fox trot?”

When he stopped walking, she halted as well. Facing her, Pfarrer replied, “Chicks love big men who move smoothly across the floor. Like we own it. Besides, being able to shuffle my genuine leather satchels around make my feet look smaller.”

He placed the bottle of malbec on the glade by a lamp. Before instructing her, Pfarrer told McKenzie Squared to imagine several bars of music.

“Milonga music,” he suggested.

Both faced the other squarely. After cupping a left hand around her waist, McKenzie Squared placed her own left upon his on his right shoulder. Their free hands clasped loosely at shoulder height.

He slid his left foot away. Rather than meet it, his right foot strode forward then followed it to be joined by his left. Since he led, McKenzie Square would mirror his steps. He took strides ahead; hers retreated. His next two steps ahead, hers backwards. Having progressed thusly, he angled them slightly then slid his right foot athwart. There, his left foot joined it to make a pair.

From hereon it became repetition. Except had it continued long enough his angling would’ve had them completing a full circuit – an exaggerated one at that – not a partial one. Several more of these and he’d introduce her to the open, free, and back steps. A k a the “between the legs stuff.”

Three hindrances in this exercise. First, their coats. Pfarrer didn’t know of any dance steps smoothed when the partners wore bulky coats. Second, her trapper hat. When he forgot to keep greater distance between them, its bill sawed his forehead. Third, rather than yield to movement, McKenzie Squared reluctantly resisted. Unintentionally. Self-consciously.

Gloved clapping stopped their music, ceased their motion. Pfarrer didn’t need better lighting to know McKenzie Squared’s face holding some version of chagrin. She probably blushed, too.

They’d been observed by a couple who’d also entered the pit to compliment Los Pingüinos. Neither was very well seen in the evening murk. Through their lisps he took them to be Spaniards. Which they were.

Seeing Pfarrer and McKenzie Squared dancing “spontaneously” as they had, gratified the woman. One saw such images in travelogues, that was of Argentines dancing in the streets; images she assumed clichéd or false.

“The sort of make-believe used to sweeten visitors’ interests,” the woman said. “And yet here you are. I’m glad the sugar was real in this case.”

Pfarrer interrupted McKenzie Squared before she could correct their admirer. He knew the next words from her mouth would’ve emended their nationalities. And that, he also knew, would’ve dimmed the moment’s sweetness.

The pairs presented themselves. The Spaniards had traveled to Selknam for its unusual skiing opportunities. After all, it was June. They’d come with a group. Probably then carousing in one of the bars Pfarrer had seen during his in-town wander a few mornings ago.

The Spaniards had heard of The Leopard Changes His Spots by chance from a local. Between another night of mindless partying with friends or witnessing the revival of an almost 100-year-old relic, the choice was clear. Both members of the couple knew there would be countless more nights of partying into stupor. But how more many times in their lives might they get to watch history?

Pfarrer looked into what he could of McKenzie Squared’s face. He believed his sight clear enough to see pride and appreciation color it.

The man broached attending the local’s milonga. He gathered it would hold a post-premiere celebration. He wondered if it’d be found obtrusive, or worse, objectionable, if he and his novia joined the festivity. Pfarrer liked that he’d asked. McKenzie Squared beat him in assuring the Spaniards their presence would be most welcome.

Coyly, she even asked if they knew how to tango.

Pfarrer hoped she grinned and side-eyed him in the same manner he grinned and side-eyed her.

Regrettably, both Spaniards lacked tango knowledge. Pfarrer assured them the locals should gladly fix that. Retrieving the bottle of malbec that had been lain aside for safety, this quartet moved along.

McKenzie Squared led them to the dance hall. The strangers’ arrivals did not draw stares from anywhere in the somberly lighted, pressed, active room. Los Pingüinos were in the middle of a song. Immaterial. Through the churning dancefloor bodies they saw McKenzie Squared. They hiccuped just long enough to greet her. That occasioned other Selknam residents who’d dealt with the Film Board Canada chief to cheer her. The astonished Spaniards looked upon the “luminary” with esteem.

The foursome found an empty table at the rear periphery. Movement and comfort were reestablished after everybody removed his or her winter coats then draped them on chairbacks. Thanks to bodies and electric heaters, the room was warm enough for McKenzie Squared to shrug off her cable knit sweater. Her thin bare arms were long white beacons.

Pfarrer guessed the Spaniards in their mid-20s. Both gave off the unworried temper of moneyed backgrounds. Their outer garments had hidden expensive clothing designed to have appeared down-market. Therefore, they, in a manner, fit right in with the locals.

A quick reconnoiter around the room showed McKenzie Squared’s outfit to have been extravagant for the setting. She had tarted up for the restoration’s introduction and presentation. All well and good. However, their subsequent destination definitely insisted on staidness. Casual sober clothes the uniform for residents. Solid dark suit jackets furthered the quiet dignity of those who wore them. Men glided in shadow-hued slacks, the women in either the same or just as low-toned, modest-length skirts.

Shoes worn the black kind best for comfortable prancing.

Pfarrer placed the bottle of malbec carried from theater on the table. He announced the obvious.

“This won’t last long.”

He stood and declared his intention to acquire a couple more bottles and four vessels. The Spaniards and McKenzie Squared cheered his initiative. Pfarrer needn’t have done so. A server would’ve been by soon enough. However, entering the milonga he saw Dominica, the clerk who’d registered them several nights earlier. She’d sat with a group of friends. By the time Pfarrer left the table his quartet had commandeered, she’d accepted a “look.” He dawdled at the bar until the tune ended and that partner escorted her back to where she sat.

Bottles and glassware in hand, he wedged his way beside Dominica and knelt. His appearance surprised her. Whether because as he expected not many foreigners got to that place in that part of town or, as his male vanity hoped, she found him exotically attractive.

Nights ago, after first seeing her, he facilely evaluated Dominica as “saucy.” Night, wine, close confines, tango, in the swirl of friends, her hot presence did plenty to further his first impression.

Looking into Dominica’s bidding eyes, her warm face whose smile started making no possibility too presumptuous, Pfarrer regretted his time in Argentina had suddenly come short.

“Priest!” she shouted. Her beso was exuberant. Again, with more time, perhaps it might’ve been an opening stanza. Pfarrer got down to business. He explained rapidly.

Through openings in the crowd, he angled Dominica’s sight upon his party. The Spaniards didn’t know tango from baseball. He wondered whether she and a friend could ease their entries into the former.

Yes. One of the two “instructors” would steer the male Spaniard’s girlfriend. No. Women paired with women in tango circumstances didn’t necessarily signal Sapphic turns. Same as men paired with men never disturbed those possessing sturdy masculinity. A carryover from the early immigrant experiences. Then, sometimes the communities’ man-woman ratios just didn’t balance. Sometimes gender numbers favored one over the other. Yet the need for release through tango demanded partners. It was only a question of who led. Nothing more.

About “educating” the Spaniards, from Dominica, a “naturally.” Pfarrer also sought another request of her. This second more of a challenge than his first.

Scheming completed, Pfarrer rejoined his companions. Glasses set on table they emptied the malbec he’d toted from the theater until only dregs remained. Thankfully the next bottles were also screw tops, not corked. A round or two later, Dominica and two friends swung by their table. McKenzie Squared and the hotelier kindly greeted each other. Dominica then presented her girlfriends, while McKenzie Squared did likewise with the Spaniards.

When Los Pingüinos cued their next song, the three locals gave the trio accompanying Pfarrer the “look.” El cabeceo.

He hurriedly explained to the trio through this they were being invited to dance. Once understood, the Spaniards rushed to accept. Giddy, they would let their partners lead, of course. McKenzie Squared, though, appeared conflicted. Probably about plenty. Being asked by a woman to dance. That adding to the rattle she felt about being asked by a woman to share steps in an action which discomforted her. Dancing. Had there been time, Pfarrer might’ve resorted to the old standby of suggesting she drink heavily. Alack, the moment of truth had arrived.

He stared at the Canadian, jerked his head upward, then growled, “Let her lead.”

McKenzie Squared unfolded herself upward from the seat. Her partner did a practiced thing. She took McKenzie Squared’s hand and led her through the moil onto the dancefloor. Apparently, this woman had dealt with nervous ones before.

It pleased Pfarrer the Argentines had kept their “partners” engaged for several Los Pingüinos’ tunes. It further pleased him that by chance or purpose the band played songs whose tempos increasingly slowed. Adagio to larghetto to largo. Any slower than that and those bars should’ve induced foreplay.

Before what would be the last song in this particular set, Pfarrer spied a woman seated among other women. Hers was a rather mature crew. No telling what her hair color had been because now every strand was gray. She presented elegance. The mane atop her head added to the regal regard she cast and should receive.

On her, a pompadour may have appeared appropriate.

One might be born lovely or handsome. One may even look distinguished. But unless that quality exuded from the core, it was only a superficial trait.

He walked to the woman’s table, gave her the “look.”

Unexpected as he must’ve been, Pfarrer liked her expression of having expected him. As if he was her due. Together they moved without friction among other couples. Two forms in single movement. He tried recalling his last session of such immersive delight. The non-carnal kind. He probably needed harkening again to his first journey to Argentina. Twenty years ago. When the country was unknown to him and his rookie mistakes added degrees of difficulty, he somehow managed preventing them from becoming fraught.

Talk about being nimble and agile.

If remembered correctly, his 20-year-younger self ventured into a lot of barrios he’d been advised to avoid. He went figuring those held eye-opening revelations and people who produced them. Reflecting, he’d walked along a lot of questionable on the sure way to suspect Buenos Aires sidewalks.

He had yet to ever reconsider those early detours any version of folly. Naturally no way he’d retrace those foolhardy steps now.

A bit later with Los Pingüinos on a set break, the four recognizable outsiders had reconvened at the table. The Spaniards’ enthusiasm had launched into near ecstatic states. They rejoiced in the “found thing, its moment” always sought during travel. Both effusively thanked Pfarrer and McKenzie Squared – and probably Dame Fortune, too – for the chance occurrence landing them into this milonga.

Once Los Pingüinos resumed playing, the Spaniards exchanged cabeceos. They laughed. Apparently, it had been a contest between them to see who delivered the sultriest “look.” Their departure left Pfarrer and McKenzie Squared alone.

“It’s starting to get easier,” she admitted.

“Don’t stint on the malbec and move like nobody’s watching,” he replied. “That way it gets better.”

McKenzie Squared asked about the “mature” woman with whom she seen him partner. Hers wasn’t an accusatory or insinuating question. Just one whose nature she left open for his interpretation. He answered just as indirectly.
“She reminded me of somebody. Somebody I knew when I was much, much younger.”

He knew McKenzie Squared probably ached to have him elaborate. In detail. But circumspection thwarted her from barging ahead. Pfarrer smiled thinly. She asked a question solely intended to fill what had become awkward air between them.

“Does Florencia tango?”

He said, “I’m sure she does. I think it’s compulsory in schools down here. National heritage and all that. But I haven’t faked being her Latin lover that way.”

McKenzie Squared followed up with the obvious inquiry. His response either disappointed or flummoxed the Canadian. He couldn’t be sure.

“I prefer older women,” Pfarrer said. “At least women somewhere in my age range. Give or take 15 years. Florencia would bring nothing to the dance. Ah, let me take a step back. Yes, doubtlessly she’d be a delightful partner. Energetic, too. But she’s too young. She hasn’t lived enough, done enough, been loved or hurt often enough or deeply enough yet. Her joys and sorrows are nowhere near those of what older tangoists – ‘tangoists?’ – tango dancers bring to these couplings.

“She has little to remember.”

He continued.

“Not that tango should bring or inflict pain. Or regrets for that matter. However, I think there may be a strain in it which summons longings lost that want to be recalled. Nobody wishes to revive agony or anguish and call it enjoyment. Masochism is a whole different avenue.

“Although let’s admit pain let’s us know we’re still alive.”

The last sentence Pfarrer said with a smirk. He resumed explicating.

“But such instances are so manifest, moments when you may’ve believed yourself so most alive, you want those feelings to infuse you body and soul again and again and again. You know the outcomes. There will be no new results. Those will never change. Neither will the passions before the oncoming despair.”

Whatever McKenzie Squared might’ve anticipated, by her face he saw his pitch had taken her on no known road. A dark one at that. Easy to have thought it might’ve led to a darker place. Finally, she spoke.

“You, uh, embraced, no, comprehended this 20 years ago?”

“No,” Pfarrer said. “Twenty years ago, in the first hood-rat barrio milonga I ever two-stepped into, a derelict joint where other norteamericanos would’ve determined by its exterior never to have stepped foot in, that night I did. There, I learned.

“It had a blood red curtain across its entry. Like a bull I charged towards it. The doorman tried to brake me. He told me it was a milonga, not a bordello. I lied to him; told him I knew that. Being another guy, he knew I lied. But he nodded, stood aside. He let me enter a moonless den darker than night. Inside was not earthly delights or Dys. It was what you were going to invent.”

Shadowy forms possessed the murky premises. The music heard approached that of dirges. Whether it the sound system or the CDs chosen had degraded, what music pieces in there didn’t tremble against ears?

Despondent couples shuffled dispassionately on the dance space. Of the several bare square tables occupied, just one man or woman sat at each.

He smelled a light presence of cigarette smoke. A few patrons who could’ve been mistaken for statues seated at tables did strike matches or flick lighters to spark cigarettes. Ignition accomplished then extinguished, only suspended red embers indicated life other than dancers inside the deep-blue sea into black shrouded milonga.

Pfarrer wandered over to the bar, bought a beer. Fisting the cold bottle, his feet led to a random table. He sat and watched, just letting his surroundings wash across him. He considered himself a middle-aged man who knew plenty. This scene he could not clarify or decode nor match against any of his known experiences. Its spectral nature made him think.

A woman appeared at the corner of his eye. She then filled his sight.

Striking that night, at one time she could’ve passed as beautiful. But a whole lot had transformed that appeal into severity.

Even under the best lighting, her head nod, her “look,” more a short voluntary tremor, the manner her eyes snatched his and guided them onto the ragged floor cleared for dancing, ought have been slight. Instead, he plainly saw her raw cabeceo. Then, he didn’t know the “look.” But he understood her summons.

The evening would hold many occasions on that floor for them. When not entangled physically, she unwound her story to him. It wasn’t misery so much as mischance and missed chances. During their frail hours together, she’d imparted plenty of what Pfarrer carried forward about Argentina until the present.

Her view of tango being one of the essentials nuggets. Another being that of attempting to strive forward on a backwards moving treadmill. These views he repeated to McKenzie Squared. Pfarrer spoke.

“Days ago, you asked me what I foresaw for Florencia after I left. She’s at the beginning. Still. She’s at the start of a race that has no defined course or distance. Maybe she’ll benefit from that thing called luck. Maybe she’ll get her chances and ace them all. Otherwise, her finish line will be despair. No prize for that except for the worst participation trophy imaginable.”

So strong the discouragement running across McKenzie Squared’s face, Pfarrer felt it. Sadly, he shared her sentiment. His helplessness at Florencia’s plight angered him. What infuriated him further was knowing an “airlift” out of Argentina awaited him. McKenzie Squared, too. They’d return to an advanced techno-industrial world where minor inconveniences and niggling nuisances could nearly derail the respective societies they resided among.

Above the Equator, bangles and bracelets carried little cachet. And an evening wardrobe consisting of one black dress, no matter how immaculately maintained, meant hermitage to avoid razzing or public embarrassment.

McKenzie Squared said something. Pfarrer’s thoughts had deafened him. He asked her to repeat what she’d said.

“Too bad real life for the deserving can’t be like the movies.”

Cynical as he felt at the moment, he wanted to snap, “Yeah! Fine! But that movie would probably be a sequel in a horror franchise!”

Instead, forlorn, his agreement with her rode on gloom.

Near the end of their conversing, the Spaniards had shuffled beside the table. Rather than sit, the mirthful couple gave Pfarrer and McKenzie Squared the least subtle “looks” possible. Broad as they were, the seated North Americans recognized relief in the invitations. Both laughed then gladly accepted the most slapstick blandishments alive.

FIN

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