Composite story so far, for those wishing to read from the beginning

This blog is about ‘Bond and Moneypenny’. They meet in Buenos Aires.

Like Bond, the writer of his character is now an ageing Englishman. He is somewhere in his 60’s (some might say, later than earlier). He is nearly retired, but clings onto his profession as a lawyer/spy, as a child would hold a security blanket. He writes, just for fun.

The writer of Moneypenny is a young and vibrant single 30-something professional. She too is taking time-out from a demanding profession to live life and write about it. She loves ideas, feelings, experience, and is an aspiring writer.

The writers have in common - tango - Argentine tango. They both dance: Moneypenny with that youthful flair, Bond with a settled maturing experience. The stories you will read will be about tango. And Buenos Aires. And life to be lived, demonstrating the different perspectives of two very different people from very different places.

This is an experimental collaboration between the writers, setting challenges for each other and their characters. Each piece is written independently and without consultation, to which the other has to respond. Now there’s a recipe for sparks to fly!

We hope you enjoy the result.



2.
Friday 15 December 2017
Bond meets Moneypenny

Mr Bond
Hello. My name is Bond. Just call me ‘Bond’, for these days this is my only name. Since we last met - you at the movies, me on the set - I have matured and aged into a 60’s something gentleman. Occasionally, women may still glance in my direction in a half-remembered way and struggle to place me; and I still crave the female attention of yesteryear. But life moves on, and with it, we move or wither.

I am in Buenos Aires. I came here to dance Argentine tango, or at least that is what I tell my friends. Presently, I sit to write to you, my dear reader. But I do dance tango as well, at least occasionally.

And that is how I met Moneypenny.

Arriving at Mariposita de San Telmo tango school, I notice a young, beautiful woman in the arms of a handsome young tangero. They are dancing in close embrace. Their movement is synchronised and effortless as lovers who understand the meaning of connection. As I enter the room, she glances up, just as Moneypenny used to glance up from her desk when I visited M. She smiles, a half smile of acknowledgement, one that carries the reassurance of a welcome.

The principal teacher at Mariposita calls the class to order. We stand around the room, dancers from across the world, of different ages and differing abilities.

I look across to the floor-to-ceiling mirrors and see a tall, grey haired elderly man dressed in black looking back at me. I avoid his gaze, but each time I glance, he is there. Like me, he struggles with the steps, but eventually masters the best part of them. “All change”, shouts the teacher. This is the point at which we are expected to select a new dance partner to practice our new skill.

The grey man stands rooted to the spot, but the young, slim, elfin woman I noticed earlier, looks across the room towards him. He hesitates. She is so young and vibrant, radiating an energy that affects the room. For a second time she smiles and walks purposely towards him. “Hello, who are you?....Are you Mr Bond?”, she says with a teasing girlish laugh. “You must be Moneypenny?”, I reply, feeling vaguely stupid, but flattered. She lifts her arms for an embrace. “Well, let’s get on with it”, she adds. And we dance. A first dance. A moment that spans a generation, two continents, two different reasons to be in Buenos Aires. But it shares a communality of tango.

This was the moment that Bond meets Moneypenny in Buenos Aires. It is the start of a tale that will take them, and you the reader if you choose to stay, on a journey through time, place, different experience, fun - and perhaps a sadness of that we do not yet know.

But settle in, stay with the narrative, and enjoy the ride. For you never know where it may lead.

3.
Thursday 21 December 2018
Before the Storm

Hi, my name is Moneypenny

I couldn’t decide whether to go to class tonight or not, I’ve been here 2 weeks and I can’t seem to find my dancing feet (forgive the cliché). The last time I was here, it was instantaneous, the second my dance teacher took me in his arms and ‘made me dance’ I was hooked and because of him, I turned my 7-day stop-over into a three month life-changing stay. It didn’t matter that he was gay, it didn’t matter that I had to pay for his attention, I was in love, the way he just understood my body and what it needed.

“The dancer in you wants to come out, you’ve repressed her behind a computer for so long, she wants to come out now, it’s her turn”, he told me, and he was right. Because of him my entire life changed after our first tanda.

It’s Thursday, today’s class is a double class, I use to run to class, get there 15 mins before, insist that the class should be more than 2h30 and yet tonight I can barely make up my mind to go. It’s going to rain and I don’t feel like putting on a happy face or answering anyone’s questions, “Why are you back? For how long? Wow you don’t need to work?”… but still I should go.

I arrive just as class is about to start, everyone is too busy getting ready to notice me so I quietly go to my ‘usual’ seat to get my shoes on, I struggle with the strap, it was as if even my shoes didn’t want to dance that night. Finally I get my shoes on and get up, I look around the room and give a friendly smile, I’m just happy I don’t have to talk to anyone and then I see a familiar smile.

‘Good evening Miss Moneypenny.’

“Mr Bond!! You’re here! You’re about the only person I can tolerate to see tonight”. Bond and I met last year when I was here, he was generous enough to ask me to dance at my first milonga, Maldita Milonga - one of my all time favourites, He explained the embrace, the 4 tango tanda, the cabazeo… We hugged, it felt nice.

“Shall we dance?’”

We start to dance, my body feels stiff and out of balance. Tonight I can’t decipher his lead, but he’s patient with me, and as D’Arienzo takes us back in time and walks us through the struggles of lost loves in Buenos Aires, our bodies begin to dance in unison once again, our connection is slowly re-established, like softness in the air.

Then suddenly the music stops and everything starts to shake. We see a flash of light and thunder so loud I thought the entire place would collapse; and then rain… .The storm was just beginning.

Mr Bond

Last time we met Moneypenny seemed a little distant. There was something on her mind that she was not sharing. A part of her youthful exuberance had momentarily faded.

When I arrive at Thursday class she is already there, in her usual position on the bench, changing into her tango shoes. Her eyes look strained, she seems to struggle with a strap, and I can tell something is amiss.

“Hi Moneypenny”, I greet, jovially. She struggles a smile but rises for a hug. Hugs are something that just happens in Buenos Aires. Man, woman, known, or just met - a hug replaces the hand-shake, banishing formality with a tenderer cultural innocence.

A first tanda of Orquestra D’Arienzo blares from the speakers sufficient to wake hot and tired students of tango. D’Arienzo, with his quick, sharp, rhythmical beat is a sure way to start a class. I nod towards Moneypenny and she tilts her head. It is the code for tango - the offer and the acceptance of a contract to dance, avoiding embarrassment of refusal. With the cabeceo - the look, you either receive a mirada in reply or you look elsewhere.

Initially, there is a slight stiffness in her movement, but as we dance a warm-up tanda Moneypenny’s mood seems to soften. Tango does this. It creates a ‘bubble of consciousness’ into which dancers recede from the troubles of the world. It has always been so, since early immigrants left European ships and migrated to find or share a room in the arrivals-barios of La Boca, Barracas and Constitution. Their tough lives needed an escape, and tango provided precisely that freedom.

There is no rule to ‘the bubble’. It can be shared - or private. The tango embrace is inclusive, but your personal bubble of feeling can remain private. You dance together, feeling the music, leading, following, coordinating movement and sharing a silence in separate bubbles. On other, special occasions, following the embrace, you both enter the same bubble and share the immediacy and intimacy of the moment.

Today Moneypenny is in her own bubble, the focus of her consciousness removed. In the mirrors I see that my paternal concern furrows my brow. I am just about to speak when there is a huge explosion above us. It is as if something has landed on the roof. Lights flicker and dim. Suddenly the patio beyond the studio doors is awash with rain. The moment for enquiry has gone, replaced by the downpour and the prospect of a journey home through the storm.

4.
Saturday 30 December 2017
Moneypenny’s Milonga - Part 1

Moneypenny

Sabrina: ‘We’re going to a milonga tonight, you can’t wait until you think you’re ready, you have to push yourself to go or else why are you here?.’

Me: ‘I’m not ready and what if he’s there? I can’t handle seeing him right now.’

Sabrina: ‘Cry on someone else’s shoulder, you knew what you were getting yourself into last year, I told you, tango is about dancing, you dance and then you leave. Never shit where you eat, it turns everything into shit.’

Me: ‘Is that what happened to you?’

Sabrina: ‘Did I miss the part when this became about me? Get your pretty shoes, I want to take you to a Milonga tonight, a real Milonga, no Maldita or Dorrego nonsense, it’s time you started dancing for real. Come here at 11, we’ll take a taxi together.’

10:30, I’m just waking up from my pre-milonga nap, it’s the only way I can keep up with these Porteños, it’s hot and humid and it looks like it’s going to rain, if it were anyone else, I would cancel, but Sabrina won’t have it, I’ll never hear the end of it. I met her when I was here last year, the notorious Sabrina Arellano, the tangera no one could keep up with 30 years ago, like Gardel her entire person was tango, the aura in the room changed when she walked in. I met her at my tango school, she was giving a seminary on turning in close embrace, I never danced close embrace before coming here and now it seems like my center of balance won’t allow me to dance any other way. She and I started talking during one of the breaks and somehow kept talking for the three months I was there.

Ok I have to get ready, red shoes, black backless dress, hand sanitizer and flip-flops and I off I go.

11:05 in front of Sabrina’s door.

Sabrina: ‘You’re late.’

Me: ‘Oh come on, 5 minutes and this coming from a Porteña!’

Sabrina: ‘You’re not a Porteña, if one day you decide to be one then you can show up late.’

Me: ‘But you’re not even ready.’

Sabrina: ‘That’s because I’m a Porteña, we’ll leave in 15, have a drink.’

We arrive at the Milonga on Aldofo Alsina, it’s at the Italian cultural center, everything here is slightly Italian, the places you dance, the food you eat and the men you fall in love with. As we walk upstairs, it was obvious that everyone knew who Sabrina was, she greets everyone with a smile and nothing more, we walk passed the entrance like we own the place, obviously no one would ever dream of charging her to get into a Milonga. Sabrina has ‘her’ table in almost every place anyone has ever put on tango shoes and this place was no exception. We walk across the dance floor, usually a big no, no, but there was nothing usual about Sabrina. Our table is ready, there’s a vase with a red rose and a bottle of champagne there waiting for us, it has the perfect view of the dance floor and is the focal point of every cabeceo going on in the place. Sabrina, of course does not dance, not anymore, not for a long time but she likes to keep an eye on everyone else who does.

Sabrina: ‘Don’t look for him, he doesn’t matter unless you let him matter.’

I put on my shoes and I struggle with the right strap, I have to get it fixed at some point, ok so here we are at my first Milonga of the year, I take a sip of champagne and look around the room, every face here looks familiar, I remember last year when I thought that there existed an entire population milongueros, thousands of dancers obsessively going to their favourite Milongas while purposely circumventing others, every Milonga was a new opportunity, a new discovery and now it seems like it’s the same old faces everywhere, everyone knowing everyone’s business.

Sabrina: ‘There’s a man looking this way, I don’t want you dancing with him.’

Me: ‘Um ok, I have to pee, do you want me going to pee or is that off limits also?’

Sabrina gave me a smug smile as I got up and started making my way towards the back of the room where I see a familiar face sitting at his usual table, in the back with a full view of everything and at the same time discreetly unseen except to those seeking him out:

Him: ‘Miss MoneyPenny, how lovely you look tonight, I see you’ve gathered the courage to take your dancing shoes for a night out on the town, are you here alone?’

Me: ‘Mr Bond! How nice to see you! It seems destiny has brought us together yet again. I’m here with Sabrina, she has me in close watch, in fact I have to hurry back or she might send out a search party, we’re at our usual table, come say hi.’

James: ‘I shall.’

I continue walking around the room, Troilo is playing, I love this tango, couples are twirling around the dance floor, he’s nowhere in sight, not that I was looking for him, I’m just saying he’s not here.

Me: ‘ I saw an old friend of yours on my way to the bathroom.’

Sabrina: ‘I know he’s walking this way now.’

I could see it in her eyes, neither of them had ever told me what really happened, but there was a palpable tension between them. I heard great stories, they were once lovers, went from Milonga to Milonga every night, drank, danced everywhere the floor allowed them to, back in the day when Sabrina danced, everyone wanted to know them, everyone wanted to be with them, and then one day it just ended, no one quite knows why although there is no lack of rumours or speculation. ‘Don’t give tango anything’ Sabrina, once told me, ‘Just take from it, but don’t let it take anything back, because the second you do it’ll take everything from you’, Argentines can be very melodramatic at times.

James: ‘Good evening ladies, you look ravishing’ he said referring to both of us but clearly looking directly at Sabrina.

Sabrina: ‘Hi, it’s nice to see you, you seem well, you should take her to dance, I can’t get her to accept anyone’s cabeceo and I’m sick of seeing that pout on her face.’

James: ‘It would be my pleasure.’

We start, dancing and like every tanda, especially the first of the night I feel stiff, I have trouble relaxing, but as always James is patient and purposely slows his breathing and tries to get me to follow it which I slowly do, and through the synchronicity of our breath our dancing becomes harmonious as well. When our tanda was over, we hugged as we always did and James walked me back to my table as he always did and nodded at Sabrina.

Before I could get properly seated again, the next tanda started, it was a Pugliese. ‘One tanda for me?’ he asked, it was Alvero, a professional dancer I had met at my second milonga last year when I barely knew my right from my left but he told me I had great potential, which is what most professionals looking for students will say to you, but it didn’t matter, whether it was true or not wasn’t important, only that I wanted to believe him had mattered at that point.

As he took me in his arms, I instantly recognised his embrace, there’s something about dancing close embrace with someone, it’s almost like kissing or even making love, you recognise it even if you don’t remember the person, like you couldn’t mistake one kiss for another you couldn’t mistake one embrace for another. I recognised Alvero’s smell and the feeling of his breath on my shoulder, I closed my eyes and tried to make everything else disappear, like a Buddhist monk in deep meditation.

After my second tanda, the floodgates had been opened and I danced the night away, tango, waltz, pugliese and even the dreaded milonga, I was hooked, like a druggie who had gotten her first hit after a long period of being clean, all I could think of was getting more.

Sabrina: ‘You know I don’t like you dancing with just anyone, come it’s late, we should go, and you need to manage those little feet of yours, we have a class tomorrow.’

Me: ‘No you go, I’m only getting started, I’ve tasted it again and now I want more.’

Sabrina: ‘It’s what got you in trouble last time, I’m going, be careful.’

Me: ‘Has anyone done anything truly great by being careful?’

Mr Bond

The Associazione Nazionale Italiana sits prominent on the northside of Adolfo Alsina, just to the west of San Jose. Cartoneros have requisitioned the derelict overhang at the corner, and tonight the pavement is strewn with paper and debris. An old lorry stands just beyond with rafts of cardboard sheets toppling through its slatted sides.

Darkness has descended over the bario of Montserrat, giving it an eerie glow in recently arrived rain. I pull up my collar and pull down on my homberg just as a gust of wind attempts to whip it away.

Jorge, whose usual position is at the foot of the steps, has retreated into the doorway to escape the weather. He is one of Sabrina’s street-rescues whose job is to provide a semblance of security outside the milonga, although I am yet to see him turn anyone away. He looks up from his mobile phone and smiles through a broken tooth. “Buenas noches, señor”, he says as I slip three notes into a rough hand.

The entrance hall is grand in an Italianesque way - marble and cherubs with a plaster embossed medallion celebrating the Italian immigrants who on 25 march 1861 conceived of the idea to found ‘Società Nazionale Italiana’. Behind, delicious aromas rise from restaurant Marie Fedele.

I take the marble stairs that lead up to the salon. On the landing I change out of my wet street shoes and hang my coat. Beyond the curtain, the milonga has started with a tanda of D’Arienzo, ‘No Mientas’ - to get the blood circulating in the older milongueros.

I take my usual seat against the wall. The young, the zealous and the pretentious choose pista-side seats, but I prefer to be safely at the back, slightly cloaked, where I can see the whole room. Tangueras that want to dance with me will seek me out with their insistent mirada, or glance in my direction as they pass to the powder room.

The evening develops from ‘easy-subdued’, into ‘night milonga’. A new wave of arrivals displace the older milongueros who leave for home. Just after 11:20 pm, the curtain is swished aside to reveal Sabrina.

Her entry everywhere must be dramatic by force of habit. As a young tanguera, Sabrina seduced both men and women, young and old. Her hold over the milonga was legendary, and dancing with her was the achievement of a dream. Whilst her beauty and technique was unsurpassed, it was her balance, poise and seamless follow that made her the prize. These days, age had caught up with her, and they say she dances` only with her former lovers - not that this appears to restrict her tandas.

To my surprise, behind her is Moneypenny.’How on earth did she fall into Sabrina’s clutches’, I thought to myself. ‘She should take more care - perhaps I should warn her’.

Sabrina’s table is set like an altar, slightly vulgar with a rose and champagne. It dates to her 1970’s hayday from which she has never since escaped. She settles like a yacht docking at a pier and looks around her to acknowledge the smiles of both the envious and the critical. Moneypenny in contrast, looks like an early foal as she squeezes her delicate feet into shoes that are clearly still too tight. She glances around nervously. There is a short exchange of words between her and Sabrina, and she rises to walk my way.

The codigos of the milonga determine the invitation to dance. Whilst in some places they are permitted lapse, here at the traditional milongas, they’re strictly observed. Direct invitations result in refusals, and on occasions conflict as the traditionalists step in to protect tangueras from unwanted attention.

Moneypenny appears to be walking towards the ladies’ powder room. This will bring her directly by my table. I glance up, she smiles and greets. Teasingly, I ask how she has come to be at my milonga, and she points across the room, giving little away as to whether she is Sabrina’s latest conquest. Leaving, however, she asks me to drop by to rescue her. ‘From what?’, I ask myself. As she passes I resist the temptation for my eyes to follow her shapely legs.

A crowd of elderly and unruly men between my table and the pista has prevented a clear view of Sabrina’s table, so I stroll around the room towards where she sits with Moneypenny and the rose. Greeting them both, it is clear that Sabrina is either out of sorts, or out of breath and offers up Moneypenny for the next tanda. Moneypenny giggles girlishly, and rises in a rush. “Yes please, Mr Bond”, she gushes, and almost falls into my arms.

Within moments we calm. Her tense body softens and sinks. Her breathing switches from a race to a pace. Nerves reduced, the music takes over. It is an easy lyrical Fresedo tanda which finishes with ‘Vuelves’.

I offer an arm and walk her back to Sabrina and the rose. Almost immediately I see Alvero walk straight up to the table. His invitation is direct and coarse. Without dissent or warning from Sabrina, like a lamb to the slaughter Moneypenny rises and is led onto the pista.

5.
Thursday 4 January 2018
Moneypenny’s Milonga - Part 2

Mr Bond

Moneypenny is headstrong. I suppose that is a perennial hallmark of youth. Seen through aging eyes, it is dangerous - mistakes await, problems to be encountered, disappointment to be endured.

But maybe maturity has left me too cautious. What happened to excitement, challenge, new experience?

One thing I do know from experience of life, is that Alvero is bad news. I am sure Sabrina knows it too, so why did she leave Moneypenny in his clutches? What is wrong with the woman? Isn’t Sabrina supposed to be taking care of her?

After Pugliese, it was Firpo. At the time I thought it was an odd follow-on tanda; maybe the tango DJ had gone for a smoke. Moneypenny left the pista, but only as far as the corner, to return once again in Alvero’s embrace.

Most women develop an instinct at milongas. They can spot the lothario, the bottom-feeder, the cad, the ‘teacher’ looking for a student. Maybe their piropos (one liners) are too slick, or their insistence - too insistent. So I was surprised that Moneypenny appeared simply to fall into his arms. The regular tangueras looked on with pity. I watched with a protective dismay.

These days, my milongas tend to be ‘to the point’. With a bottle of sparkling water, I survey the pista. My regular tangueras mirada for their special tandas - Fresedo tango, the vals, and maybe a slow Canaro milonga. Additionally I allow myself a couple of tandas with new tangueras - partly responsibility, partly exploration. Then I leave. And if the milonga is not working for me, I leave anyway.

That time had come, but as I reached for my shoe bag I spied Alvero returning towards Moneypenny’s table. She, on the other hand, is fiddling once again with her shoe strap. I will-her to look up to catch my cabeceo. He is approaching fast, cutting past the corner tables as if he realises the contest. Another tanguero is trying to catch her attention from across the room.

I rise, to take a direct line to her table. There is no time for the codigo. The moment is passing, and once lost, will not return. The cortina has finished and a Biagi tanda is starting. As I close to her table, Moneypenny looks up. But where is she looking?

Moneypenny

Sabrina: ‘He’s coming back for you, the vulture. One Pugliese wasn’t enough, he wants the Firpo also, two tandas in a row, you know what’s on his mind. I’m telling you he’s bad news, stay away from him.’

Me: ‘Why has everyone taken it upon themselves to take care of me and advise me like I’m some sort of stupid teenager?’

Sabrina: ‘I think the answer is in the question my lovely.’

Alvero: ‘Buenas noches Sabrina, que lindo verte aca, it’s been so long since you have graced us with your presence. I’d love to ask you to dance but I fear I cannot bear the pain of your refusal’, with that he turned to me and gave me a light cabeceo. I know Sabrina will hate me for accepting him, especially after that little show he just put on for her and maybe that’s exactly why I will accept.

Me: ‘Bailamos!’

Alvero: ‘Dale.’

He whisks me towards the dance floor, in the corner of my eye I see Mr Bond seemingly walking towards my table, did he want to see Sabrina? Ask me to dance? Or is he also here to protect me against the evil clutches of this Tangero as if I don’t know how to take care of myself? And what about them, what about their mistakes? Maybe I should be telling them what to do!

The tanda starts, it’s Firpo ‘Volver a Vernos’ the literal translation is ‘Return to see each other’ but in practice it’s more ‘See each other once again’. Six months ago I knew nothing of tango or tango music aside from the fact that it’s all about depressed men singing about how much they miss they mommy and how terrible a life without love or fortune was; then Mr Bond made me a 200-tango compilation as part of my ‘tango learning’ experience’ he said, ‘You can’t just dance, you need to know who is who, who made tango what it is today and why it is how it is, Troilo, Firpo, D'Arienzo, Osvaldo and of course Gardel, these need to be more than just exotic sounding names to you MoneyPenny’, he told me. So, I took the UBS key and have been listening to all the greats for the past 6 months and when it doesn’t make me want to kill myself, I do love listening to it.

Alvero: ‘What an appropriate tango, I am so happy that you have returned to see me again.’

Me: ‘I didn’t return to see you, I returned, that is not the same thing and now shush, you know I hate talking while we dance.’

Alvero: ‘You will be a great tangera you know, you have so much potential, those legs, that dissociation, your feet… those ballerina arches, it drives me crazy. Come take classes with me, in 6 months we’ll win the Tango world competition, I promise you!’

Me: ‘Shush and dance.’ It is that true he never stops, were Sabrina and Mr Bond right about him? I think he’s harmless, he’s just trying to make a living like everyone and using everything he has to do it, is that so wrong? He is incredibly charming and he does make me feel like I’m flying when I’m dancing with him, the way he dominates me, which I usually hate, but he does it in a way that just makes me want to follow him blindly, feel what his body wants me to do while gently feeling his breath on my neck, the makes me feel like the most important girl in the room, but I know better….. (or at least I think I do). He has such a bad reputation though I wonder if any of it is true.

We continue dancing, it’s simple at first, say that you will about Alvero but he can lead, not only can he lead, he knows what you can do and what more you could do. He starts off with slow ochos, ocho cortados, a simple cruce and then when he feels my getting more comfortable with him he takes me off my axis and then one volcada, a second volcada, a colgada and so on, I feel like a prima ballerina. It seems like all eyes are on us, they aren’t of course because the place is filled with professional dancers, no one would be looking at me, except for two pairs of eyes which haven’t left me all evening, what are they worried about?
Our tanda ends, as always Alvero takes my arm and starts walking me back to my table, I can see Sabrina is about to leave.

Alvero: ‘Come home with me tonight? Nothing will happen that you don’t want to happen, but I want to be with you tonight, I’ll give you a massage, make you taste some new Malbec I got from Mendoza last week, we can dance, talk tango, drink…’
I do love a good Malbec…..

6.
Friday 2 February 2018
In which Moneypenny finds Bond at Guerrin, Corrientes


Mr Bond

Walking down the stairs from the milonga, I reflected on tango and life. I have taken the mantle of milonguero, entering the milonga deftly without a stir, staying in the shadows, slipping into my jacket before a tanda, a fan on the table, a glass of sparkling water to moisten my mouth. The colours of my life are subtle and subdued.

It is easy to forget the early days of tango, when each milonga is vibrant and exciting, every tanda a new achievement, heart thumping and quick-of-breath. Of course this is the point at which Moneypenny will be, and that is her right of passage to becoming a tanguera. I should be less parental, and more open minded as I age.

I leave as she is taken to the pista by Alvero, his right arm slid around her slim waist. She looks up to his handsome face adoringly, as if seeing it for the first time. She walks quickly with girlish speed not wanting to lose a moment of the tanda. They disappear into the swell of dancers that now congests the floor.

I stroll slowly through the calles of Monserrat and my mind turns to pizza and Quilmes. The night is now close and the prospect of beer overwhelming. I head for Guerrin in Corrientes. The regular doorman greets me and thrusts the door open wide - but not so fast that his hand cannot catch mine as I enter. Inside it is like a station at rush hour. Waiters call, pizzas are rushed to tables, bottles rock as tops fly, and somewhere behind is the sweet smell of Moscato, causing me instantly to forget the Quilmes.

Pizza and Moscato go together like La Boca and football. Not the only pairing - for there is Quilmes - but a surprisingly great one. Moscato is a sweet fortified wine, sold either by the bottle or the carafe, the latter being my choice. Around me, families, men and women on their own, and lovers gather to eat pizza in this pulsating place.

It is at this moment that the door directly ahead of me opens. A young woman slips in alone and looks quickly about her as if searching the room. Her eyes settle on my table, and she walks purposely towards where I sit.

How is it that she is here? What happened to Sabrina and Alvero? Is that a tear in her eye?

Moneypenny

Alvero: ‘You’re overthinking things and just like in tango, when you overthink is when everything goes wrong.’

Me: ‘I’ll be back.’

Alvero: ‘I’ll be waiting.’
I started walking away, I thought, was he right? Was I overthinking all of this? People have affairs all the time in the world of tango, why was I so hesitant? As these thoughts were going through my mind I realized that I have no idea where I’m going. I circumvent the people swirling around me to a ‘vals’, a Troilo I think, I bump into two couples which both give me the look of death, I am in fact commiting a tango capital offense by walking across the pista during a tanda, they might release the hounds on me if I don’t get out of there quickly enough.

Sabrina and Mr Bond are nowhere in sight, I wonder if they left together…. As much as it irritates me when they watch over me like I’m some headstrong teenager, I sort of wish they were here now to take me home for a glass of wine or for a pizza.

I decide to go powder my nose and walk towards the bathroom, as I walk in, there is the usual herd of women fixing their makeup and adjusting their décolleté to either show-off what is already there(or hope is there) or to pick-up what was once there. It smells of ladies’ perfume and there’s a light haze of foundation powder in the air. I get the usual up and down looks you get any time you walk into a tango environment, not even the bathroom is free of scrutiny in this world.

I try to escape towards the back of the bathroom and push the stall door open….

Alvaro: ‘No!!!! Que estas haciendo? No, mi linda, This is not what it looks like!’

Me: ‘Ok, so this is not you kissing Lucia left breast then? Que estas haciendo entonces? A failed attempt at CPR?’

Alvaro: ‘Como?’

I decide to run out, I don’t need this right now, I’ll pee later, I can hear him tripping and hitting himself against the stall door. Was this what ‘I’ll be waiting’, means in Castellano? Was it understood that it meant, I’ll be in the bathroom making out with another woman while you decide whether you want to come home with me or not? God I hate it when Sabrina is right!!! I’m just happy she’s not here to see it and relish in her triumph over my stupidity.

I can’t run very well in these stupid shoes but somehow I manage to get to my table, grab my bag and run out. I try my best to at least make it out to the first corner just so he won’t see me if he comes looking for me, that is if he hasn’t tripped over some other woman’s left breast. I run two blocks up to Congresso park and sit next to Rodin’s thinker to take off my shoes. My right strap is, like always, refusing to cooperate and as usual I struggle to remove my shoes. When I finally win the battle, I feel a rush of blood go to my feet, as if I had been depriving them of oxygen for the past 4 hours, one day my feet will take revenge on me for everything I’ve put them through. I wiggle my toes and realize just how badly they hurt, this was my first Milonga in 5 months I guess it’s normal. I look up and wonder what Rodin is thinking and why he hasn’t figured out by now.

So now what? I don’t really feel like going home but I’m not sure where to go from here, back to Sabrina’s? She’s obviously not sleeping yet, maybe she’s with Mr Bond, at any rate a night with her will mean sitting through a list of things I did wrong this evening, she’s the Dr Xavier of the tango mutans. Mr Bond, for some reason, if he’s not with Sabrina, I feel like he didn’t go home either, but where would he have gone? Another Milonga? My guess would be a drink, maybe even something to eat, he once took me to that pizza place on Corrientes, maybe he’s there, he goes there a lot from what I remember, should I try to to find him?

I aimlessly start walking down Avenida de Mayo, I love this street, my gaze naturally looks at the top of all the buildings. All Art Nouveau masterpieces, gilded mouldings, dancing arches, undulating roof tops, colourful stained glass windows, all of them bearing testimony to the Buenos Aires of the turn of the century, a flourishing Buenos Aires, too rich for its own good, a Buenos Aires of opportunity, style, luxury, endless spending, a Buenos Aires that once was. With few of the spaces rented out and lack of investment, most of these buildings are falling apart, sometimes only the ground floor is rented out, converted into a cheap eatery or convenience store, I never know whether to feel sad for what was lost or admire the city’s ability to transform itself.

As I reach 9 de Julio, I hesitate for a second, turn right back to my San Telmo querido, and home, or turn left towards the pretty lights of ‘Broadway’? And then like a firefly, I turn left towards Corrientes still in awe of this city and how it can be so many things at the same time, I understand it though, there are so many great things to be, so many inspirations, Paris, London, New York and when you can’t choose, you want to be all of them. Before I know it, I’m on Corrientes, I might as well continue walking, I’ve come this far so I turn left and walk passed the theatres and the flashing lights and find myself across from Guerrin…I peek into from the street and I spot him immediately, he’s a foot taller than everyone else and always in black, how could i miss him! Somehow, I knew he’d be here, I knew or I hoped…... hmm a sad ending to what might have been a night of passion with a hot argentine, or a happy coincidence to have one of the best pizzas in town with one of my favourite people in this town?

They only take cash, as I found out on my last visit when all of the city’s cash machines were ‘fuera de servicio’ So do I have enough? 500 Pesos, Yes I have enough for pizza and maybe even a ‘muscat’.

As the doors open the smell of cooking dough hits me like heat wave on a hot summer day when you walk out of the air-conditioned shopping mall, and all of a sudden I realize I’m starving to death, I have to have a pizza or I’ll die! I see Mr Bond look up, he’s seen me, there’s no turning back now.

Me: ‘Mr Bond, fancy meeting you here, may I join you?’

Mr Bond: ‘Why Monneypenny, of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, you had to walk into mine. Have a seat, I’ve just ordered a Quilmes and some Moscato’.

Me: ‘Perfect, I’ll be right back.’ I just realized I still hadn’t peed…

7.
Wednesday 7 February 2018
In which Moneypenny interrogates Bond about Sabrina at Guerrin

Mr Bond

If Moneypenny were a bird, she would be one of those little, bright finches that live on the edge of the forest, that dart out, flutter their wings, peck at a flower, dance, sing a phrase, then dart back for cover.

It was a surprise to see her as she walked into Guerrin; but Moneypenny always tends to be surprising. Was her choice of Guerrin accidental, for it was too long for her to have followed me there? Ciudad Autonoma de Buenos Aires, with a population of nearly three million is in fact a small place. Yet with a density of thirteen and a half thousand people per square kilometer, it is quite hard to bump into friends. Without success I wracked my mind to remember ever telling her that Guerrin was on my list of favourite haunts.

When she returned from the banos Moneypenny was composed, the tear and its tell-tale run of mascara having been wiped expertly away. Her mood was jaunty as she allowed her free hand to float across my smooth head, but beneath her mood I sensed a darker side.

“So Moneypenny, tell me about it”, I ventured, hoping to draw her out. “Have some moscato, be a good girl and tell Mr Bond all”, I added, not thinking how condescending this sounded until the words were out of my mouth. I glanced at her brow, then to her lips looking for disapproval. But having recovered her composure, she was not for revelation of any thoughts, let alone feelings.

That moment a waiter clattered by with a tray of clinking glasses and bottles, and the opportunity to explore the tear was lost. “I didn’t know you frequented Guerrin”, I said after a short pause. “I don’t...it's just...well never mind”, she replied, bending to stroke the arch of her foot from which she had slipped a shoe. “Now, what are we eating?”, she enquired, turning the menu sheet in her dainty hands. “This looks good”, she said, pointing to the jamon queso y cebolla pizza. “Mozo” she called to the only good-looking waiter at our end of the salon, at which he turned and smiled a youthful smile that reminds you of your age.

“Tell me about you and Sabrina”, she added almost as an afterthought, slipping in the question without so much as a moment’s warning. “Moneypenny, are you quizzing my reckless past?”, I quipped, feeling the spotlight change from my intrusion to her’s. “Yes, actually, I am”, she replied. “It’s an old story, and a long one I warn you”, I said, seeking to distract her once more; but she was not for diverting.

So, with hot pizza, cold Quilmes, tepid moscato, and the buzz of Guerrin life all around us, I told all.

Moneypenny

I took a bite of pizza and washed it down with some Moscato, it was sweet and soft and created the perfect contrast to the salty hot pizza, which was heavy and perfect for my empty stomach which had been dancing for 5 hours. I had food, I had drink, (I had just peed) and now nothing could divert my attention from the story I had wanted to hear for so long. Sabrina never budged on the subject; all I had were small fragments of their story pieced together from hundreds of conversations, but never the full story, like a roman mosaic unearthed one centimeter at a time, but now he was going to tell me everything! Or not - but it’ll be more than I’ve gotten so far.

Mr Bond: ‘I won’t tell you everything, you know, not the parts that disgrace me, I don’t want to ruin my perfect image.’

Me: ‘There’s no risk of that, your perfect image was shattered when you couldn’t quite get the step during our last class, so go ahead and tell it all.’

Mr Bond: ‘Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good you know, Moneypenny, except when it comes to men.’

Me: ‘And you’re too mysterious for your own good, you need to let go a little…. .’

Mr Bond: ‘Well, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was an age of wisdom, it was an age of foolishness….. Once upon a time in a mysterious land of endless beauty and infamous danger…... It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen…Ah Sabrina, light of my life, fire of my loins…. Is that the type of start you had in mind? Are you expecting a grand story? What if it’s dull? What if our problems turn out to be just like everyone else’s?’

Me: ‘No, I’ve already taken many literature classes, I don’t need the start of every Dickens, Nabokov, Orwell and whatever novel, tell me your story, in your words, and don’t worry about boring me with it. If I don’t like reality I’ll change it in my head. Tell me all!’

Mr Bond: ‘You don’t want to know it all, trust me, you’ll be disappointed…

Me: ‘Disappointed is the theme of my night.’

Mr Bond: ‘You’ll have to expand on that later but anyhow, here I go, but keep in mind I only give half of the story so I can’t tell it all, you’ll have to get her version as well to understand it all.

Where to start I’m not sure, at the beginning I guess would be the best place. I came here once, a long time ago. The British government had some vested interests in Argentina at the time, it always has really, but during this period of change in the government, we saw an opportunity for a new way of working and exchanging information with the Argentine. Many things were happening in South America, the US had their interests and their methods, and we had ours.

I was sent here to explore some of these opportunities and to blend in with the well-to-dos of the time. We say that Argentina is not longer the rich country it once was, that the wealthy have left; well they haven’t left, the money is just in the pockets of fewer people.

I was at the private dinner party given by Richard Alvarez - not Ricardo, but Richard as he was at pains to point out, boasting English ancestry. He was ludicrously rich and wanted everyone to know. He was hosting a grand event at his hacienda just outside of Buenos Aires. His mansion in the capital, he told us, could not have accommodated all of his guests and all of his horses.

The display of wealth was almost scandalous, imported French champagne, Russian caviar, French cheeses, English Gin (and English tonic), Scottish scotch, Belgian pralines, Italian hams and sparkling water, no luxury was spared. And just like the imported delicacies that were intended to tempt us, there was a harem of imported women - blondes, brunettes, tall, short, thin, voluptuous, one (or two) for every taste. And there was Sabrina. She wasn’t the most beautiful nor the most lavish, but there was something about her, drawing your gaze. She wasn’t just enchanting, she was bewitching, and she cast her spell over all the guests that night.

She was, of course Richard’s mistress. Richard was, of course married, and Richard had many mistresses, of course. But of all of them Sabrina was his favourite, of course, and she knew it (of course). She was about your age, maybe a little older, but unlike you, Sabrina understood the power she had over men (and women as well) and she understood how to use it. She had been a hired performer - a tango dancer at one of Richard’s parties and like the little unknown performer called Evita, Sabrina, used Richard, like her own version of Peron to climb the socialite food chain. Within a few months she was at the top of it.

She had other men in her life, but they all knew that she was Richard’s. But what no one knew was that Richard was actually her’s more than she was his, the man was crazy about her.

From the moment I noticed her, I knew she had to be mine, so I started as I always start. I observed her from the other side of the room - usually whilst speaking to other women. I watched her fastidiously, deciphering her favourite drink. Champagne seemed to be her poison of choice so I grabbed a bottle of ‘Gout de Diamant’, so elaborately displayed amongst the other bottles, and walked towards her. ‘Your glass seems to be on the empty side, may I oblige?’ I said, to which she responded ‘I’ve been drinking this pompous drink all night, every Tom, Dick and Harry has been trying to impress me by filling my glass. You do realize I’m already sleeping with the man who paid for this?’ she responded. Her response took me by surprise and amused me at the same time, I had underestimated her. ‘If you really want to make me happy, get me dirty a dirty martini, one olive, Gin not Vodka, Hendrick’s.’ she said. ‘I’m on it’ I replied to which she added, ‘Oh and one more thing - I want it shaken not stirred.’

And that’s how we met, and I think maybe the rest should be for another day, another pizza, another bottle of wine, or maybe even part 2 of this story calls for an asado.’

Me: ‘ What!!! What, do you mean that’s it? You haven’t told me anything, you’ve basically written the script for another movie, better than Fleming himself, I might add, but you haven’t told me anything! I might as well go home and read a book!’

I could see the satisfaction in his smile, he had me hooked. It could all be a joke, maybe they had one drunken night after a milonga and he was just pulling my leg. Although I didn’t want him to know, my leg did enjoy the pull.

Mr Bond: ‘Right Moneypenny, enough storytelling for one dinner, the night - just like you, is still relatively young, so where should we go next?’

8.
Sunday 11 February 2018
In which Moneypenny finds herself at Palacio Haedo drinking Port Ruighe

Mr Bond

The night was still young - but thinking about it with a bit more care - I am certainly not. “Moneypenny, how about joining me for a Talisker Port Ruighe malt?” “I know the only place here in Buenos Aires where you can taste it”.

“Oh, and where might that be, James?”, she replied with teasing informality, guessing at my first name.

An advantage of age and distinction is that night taxis tend to stop when you wave, especially when dressed for a milonga, rather than driving by looking for a better fare. Holding the cab door for Moneypenny, she dived in, and I followed more conservatively and with a little more decorum. “Recoleta - Santa Fe 690”, I say.

Palacio Haedo was built in 1860 and restored in 1923, making it one of the oldest buildings in Buenos Aires. It certainly retains all of its original features as befitting a national historic monument - including unfortunately, the plumbing and heating in my grace-and-favour apartment provided by Her Majesty’s government.

As we enter Moneypenny glances around her with that quick bird-like manner and whistles quietly. “Wow, Mr Bond, do you really live here? It looks just like a museum!” Well, in that I live here, that is precisely what it must be”, I quip as I slam the lattice doors to the lift and it jerks into motion to ascend.

“Yes, the Ministry - National Parks or something - is housed down below, but somehow they forgot they forgot all about the top floor apartment and the roof garden”. “Fortunately for me, they also neglected to retire Raul the gardener. He lives in the basement with his cat”.

Rosa, the maid, has been away visiting relatives in Cordoba, so on our arrival the main room is still strewn with books and papers where I left them. As we enter and before I can find the switch, a column of moonlight catches a breath of rising dust. For a moment Moneypenny stands and stares as if bewitched.

“Come along, old girl, let’s try this malt”, I offer, just to break the spell. “Its double matured in port casks, very Gaelic, and not a lot of it leaves Skye, let alone arrives in Buenos Aires”. “How do you take it?...a little water, I suggest”.

Moneypenny crosses to the radiogram and picks up the cover of an old vinyl LP which she turns in her hands. “Any tango, Mr Bond?”, she calls as I open a window to the terrace. “Di Sarli if you can find it”, I rejoin. “Oh, and in the cupboard I think you might find a packet of Belgium pralines that were stolen from a party I once attended”. “Be a good girl and fetch them too”.

Monneypenny

I’m not really sure I should follow Mr Bond, and I’m even less sure about what Talisker Port Ruighe is, but it sounds like it’s meant to impress ne, not that malt is really going to do the trick but I guess tonight is as good a night as any to try it.

I’m always impressed with how easily he is able to get a taxi. It’s as if they’re trained to distinguish between those who have money and those who don’t, and even more so those who give good tips and those who don’t. Mr Bond is and does both. ‘Recoleta, something (I can’t remember) Santa Fe, Palacio Haedo’, he says to the driver in his very perfect British English he is always so proud of.

The taxi sets course towards the Palacio. I remember this area from my first visit to Buenos Aires when I took a historical walking tour of the city. It’s near Plaza San Martin, in honour of José Francisco de San Martin, the liberator of the southern part of South America (that’s a lot of south) from the Spanish Empire. There is a grand statue of him in the center, which should point to his famous crossing of the Andes when he met his Northern counterpart, Simon Bolivar. But when the city was being remodelled and large avenues were constructed around the famous Liberator, his statue was turned ‘because it looked better pointing in that direction’, according to my guide.

This parc and the elements around it embody so many of the contradictions which make the Porteño city what it it. There is a Maldivas war memorial right in front of the Torre de los Ingleses, which is an odd ‘Big Ben’-like tower the British gave Argentina to congratulate her on her independence. Buenos Aires once did a survey on what the people considered the best and worst building in the city, and one building won both votes, that building lies in this square as well.

The taxi suddenly came to a halt, we had arrived and I abruptly woke from my daydream r to find Mr. Bond holding the taxi door open and extending his arm to help me out. As I looked up to reach for his hand, our eyes met in a way they had never met before and I started thinking about how many women got escorted to his apartment in this very same manner throughout the years. His reputation as an irresistible seductor had impressed even the most porteño of porteños, who, as it is well known, could hold their own when it came to romantic liaisons.

What was I doing here? It had actually never occured to me that I could one day just be another ‘Bond-girl’. Why hadn’t it occurred to me actually? He was still handsome and certainly knew how to charm a woman, he even managed to seduce the un-seducible Sabrina once, who despite her many lovers and admirers, has never gotten over him. He and I weren’t friends in the conventional way, but still it had occurred to me that it could go in this direction for some reason.

Him: ‘I’m not going to keep my hand out all night you know.’

Me: ‘Oh sorry, right, sorry.’ I clumsily replied.

Him: ‘Top floor, just wait until you see the view, and in daylight I’ll show you the garden.

Daylight, was I staying that long? Mind you it was nearing 4 am, I guess we didn’t have long to wait. He opened the door to his apartment and it was as if I had stepped into a black and white hollywood movie where my part would be played by Vivian Leigh or Audrey Hepburn and his would have been played by himself (or yes of course Sean Connery).

Me: ‘It’s messier than I expected’ I said, staring at the piles of papers and leather-bound books which almost fully covered the round persian carpet in front of the large brown Chesterfield that sat in the middle of the room. ‘I also half expected a live-in buttler to open the door.’

Him: ‘He died and the maid is on holiday, come along now, this malt won’t drink itself. How do you take it?...a little water’ he suggested.

Me: ‘With crushed ice, the equivalent of an ice cube, but crushed.’ I replied.

Him: ‘Right a little water it is then.’

He’s insufferable sometimes but yet I always come back for more. I looked around the room, it was a large living room, it had large windows that let in the moonlight which gave the art-nouveau arches on the mirror and the elegant marble fireplace on which it stood, a light lustre which almost made them look frozen, maybe frozen in time, like the rest of the apartment and maybe a little like Mr Bond himself. The clicking of my shoes against the marble and hardwood floors made me self conscious with every step I took; so I stood still in almost awe of this dream-like place I had entered. I could hear distant music, laughter and clinking of champagne glasses which must have resided in these walls from years ago.

My eye caught a gramophone in the corner and I slowly made my way towards it and looked at the collection of vinyl records.

Me: ‘A tango, Mr Bond?’ I asked.

Mr Bond: ‘Di Sarli if you can find it”, he responded “Oh, and in the cupboard I think you might find a packet of Belgium pralines that were stolen from a party I once attended. Be a good girl and fetch them too.’

Me: ‘I really prefer Swiss chocolate actually, so I won’t bother fetching anything you can do it yourself and be a good boy about it.’ He really was condescending sometimes. ‘Also, I’m not sure I want old belgian pralines from a fictitious party, they’ve probably gone sour by now after so many years’, I responded, ever so slightly alluding to his age and more so our difference in age.

He didn’t answer, he just smiled and moved towards me holding two glasses of scotch with a drop on water in each.

Me: ‘I thought I had asked for crushed ice? Why ask me what I want if you’ll just ignore it?

Him: ‘Just try it, you’ll love it.

Me: What shall we drink to?”

Him: ‘This malt is so good and it doesn’t require a toast. You drinking it is enough.’

So we drank, put our glasses down and began to tango to Di Sarli, and in his embrace I found comfort again. We weren’t friends in the conventional way, but I also wasn’t going to be a Bond-girl in the conventional way. Our’s was a story of tango. At least for now.

9.
Wednesday 14 February 2018
In which Moneypenny and Bond face the morning after

Mr Bond

The sun is just peeping over Plaza San Martin, casting small pools of Sunday morning light, and long sharp shadows. I sit in the old battered armchair that Raul had pulled on the terrace and forgotten to take back inside. Moneypenny swings in a hammock, her bare feet against one of the low parapets. Her left knee is raised, showing a creamy leg.

“Bond, did you really get those chocolates from Sabrina?”, she asks naively. “Of course I did; you yourself commented on the white bloom”, I reply. There is another moment’s pause whilst she thinks. I sense her mind turning, but she remains silent and pushes the hammock with her free foot.

Earlier, with two tumblers of Port Ruighe, we had danced to Di Sarli, Biagi, D’Agostino, Rodriguez, finishing with Laurenz, the most romantic of the Golden Age orquestas. Moneypenny had slipped her left arm lazily around my shoulder and fell into a deep embrace. Clearly, she was not used to drinking Talisker.

“Right, old girl”, I prompted as the stylus ground against the edge of the vinyl, “I think it is time for coffee and juice”. “Here, catch”, I added throwing her an orange and pointing to the juicer on the countertop. Was Moneypenny over-romanticising the evening? There always was that danger. And, more to the point, was she in fact in danger from me?

I shrugged the thoughts away from my mind, ignored the prime Sumatran Kopi Luwak coffee beans (which I suspected she’d hate) in favour of Panamanian Hacienda La Esmeralda, with its superb undertones of chocolate and fruit - more befitting to the palate of a young girl.

“May we take breakfast on the terrace?”, she asked, “It’s lovely out there”. “Of course, if that is your wish old girl”, I replied. “You take the medialunas and I’ll bring the coffee”. “No milk, I’m afraid - but with this coffee it would be a crime to add anything other than the sparkle in your eyes”, I added.

And so we are here in the garden as dawn breaks and the Torre de los Ingleses chimes the hour. Me in my chair, Moneypenny in front, wrapped in her private thoughts. There is something peaceful about the moment. I have not yet told her why she is here. She does not know my past. ‘Maybe it’s best that way’, I say to myself, as I reflect on darker thoughts.

Monneypenny

‘I don’t take it with milk, I like it black and strong,’’ I replied, while throwing the orange back his way. Did he really think I would run to the juicer to make him a fresh glass? ‘And why do you call me old girl?’ I asked. ‘Would you prefer I call you young girl?’, he responds. ‘No, but old girl sounds like you’re talking about a car or your dog.’ I said realizing how silly I was starting to sound.

‘Right, enough of this frivolity, old girl, let’s go to the terrace and have our coffee in peace,’ he said mockingly.

I took a sip of the coffee and a bite from the the orange I had peeled for myself. Neither of us had relented on the subject of pressing the juice and so neither of us would be having a glass of fresh juice this morning. The orange was fresh and sweet, the perfect contrast to the hot, slightly bitter coffee. I swung in the hammock, my leg hanging off to the side absorbing the early sun’s heat, which slowly flowed through my body. I gazed at the sky and started imagining a grand party in an even grander Palace.

“Bond, did you really get those chocolates from that party with Sabrina?”, I asked, taking him by surprise. “Of course I did; you yourself commented on the bloom”, he replied, barely looking up from his morning Herald.

Really? Why had he kept them for so long? Did they reminded him of their first meeting? Or was he just teasing and they’re really leftover from his last trip to Europe? ‘So why have you kept them for so long?’ I dared to ask. ‘Because, just like you Monneypenny, I prefer Swiss chocolate,’ he replied with a hint of sarcasm, looking at me directly.

Our gazes met - just like last night when I got out of the taxi. I’m not sure how to read him. Why was I here? What was last night about - was it an attempt at the seduction? And if so, an attempt on whose side? Last night was still a little hazy - we started dancing, he commented on the tango singers and their styles as if to know who they were was as essential to dancing tango as the steps themselves. I had drifted away to the sounds of Biagi and D’Agostino and the gentle swaying of his body; and before I knew it, it was morning.

Was romance in the cards for us? I know he likes me, but then again he likes women, especially younger women. Was this all I was to him? He hadn’t really tried to romance me last night; and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

I get up and sit next to him. ‘I thought they stopped distributing the BA Herald’, I said looking at his newspaper, ‘They have.’ he responded with his usual hint of mysteriousness. The night is catching up with me and suddenly I feel an uncontrollable urge to rest my head…. For just one little minute.

10.
Wednesday 23 February 2018
In which Moneypenny visits Sabrina, and keeps a lunch date with Bond

Mr Bond

You know the feeling. Dancing in Buenos Aires - supper, milonga, dawn, medialunas, coffee and bed - with an early morning breeze lifting the curtains in gentle swirls, birdsong from the terrace, maybe the distant sound of early morning traffic.

I feel across the bed to find a crisp unturned sheet. Sitting up I rest on an arm, reach for my spectacles and survey the room. Her shoes, dropped casually by the patio doors, are gone; the dance bag is no longer hanging from the back of the sofa where I half expected her to be. I glance through to the terrace. She is not there. The bird has flown.

Rising, I find her note on the table, “Dear Bond, thanks for the dances, the Talisker, the coffee and the laughter”. I look across to the countertop and see that the box of chocolates has disappeared, leaving two empty wrappers.

I lie back and breathe in warm air, now approaching midday. What is it about Moneypenny? Enigma? No, Moneypenny is simple and straightforward. Desire? I trust not for she is just a young woman embarking on her new life of tango. Loneliness? Perhaps. In Buenos Aires I am surrounded by acquaintances but it is difficult to trust others - to release the emotional shutters that have protected my professional life. I reflect back to dark memories that disturbed my sleep. Perhaps Moneypenny fulfils that particular need.

Reaching for my phone I find the usual new messages, but one in particular catches my attention. ‘Moneypenny here. Got your number from your phone, hope you don’t mind. You up for lunch?’

There is still an inch of coffee left, and at 600 US dollars per pound it cannot be wasted. Clutching a cool mug and a now crusty medialuna, I wander out to the terrace. The hammock still swings in the breeze; the scent of Jasmine in the garden reminds me of her perfume. I reach into my robe for my phone.

Noon, and I have left it too late to walk, so I hail a taxi in Santa Fe I and arrive at Sarmiento 635 eight minutes later. The doorway to Cafe Paulin gives little hint of what lays behind. I negotiate the till area and peer down two tight ailes. Moneypenny has already arrived and taken a stool on the left side half way along the glass-topped bar. As I make my way towards her a plate of pizza comes spinning along the glass surface, kept in place by the mahogany flanges. A waiter in olive green cross-buttoned tunic and fawn floppy hat gathers it up in one movement, and with a pirouette places it before a customer to his right.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”, I say in greeting. Moneypenny scowls, “What sort of gentleman arranges a lunch date in a cafe the size of a cupboard?”, she rejoins as she crosses her legs, clings to the bar rail, and swings her stool towards me.

Moneypenny

The morning light, usually so welcome, almost feels like an assult this morning. All I want is for someone to turn the switch off, but that’s obviously pointless, so I might as well get up.

Bond is nowhere in sight, he must have gone back inside. As I peek into his room, I see his long legs stretched out on the bed which seems completely undisturbed by his presence as if he was floating on it rather than laying on top of it; he seems to be in a deep meditation rather than sleep.

I’m not going to bother him, I’m not really sure what I would say or I would act at this point, I am still unsure of what was happening between us and on the 3.4 minutes of sleep I was on, there was no way I could think reasonably, so I decide that it’s best to just go.

I look around to room to make sure that all traces of my presence have disappeared, shoes, dance bag, I wash the glass which so elegantly delivered my Port Ruighe last night, I finish off the coffee, even cold this coffee it is better than anything I’ve ever tasted. Then on the counter I spot the infamous box of chocolate, the unmistakable black Marcolini pralines. I have an idea, I don’t think he’ll miss it and I know someone who they might interest.

I discreetly make my way towards to door thinking that it’s wrong to just leave without a word, so I scan the room for paper and something to write with, when I spot his gold Parker fountain pen and the royal crested stack on paper on his desk: ‘Dear James’, no ‘Dear Bond’ ‘thank you for a lovely evening’…. NO, more casual, ‘thanks for the dances, the Talisker, the coffee and the laughter’. ‘MP’

‘San Telmo por favor’, I tell the taxi driver as we begin our rollercoaster ride towards the other end of the city. The streets are empty, Buenos Aires is still asleep, this is really the only moment when one can feel a sense of peace driving through the city.

‘Good morning, or are you still on last night’s time’, Sabrina says to me, as she opens the door with one hand and holding her morning coffee with the other, ‘Come inside’ she adds, she’s wearing her red silk Carine Gilson bathrobe, her hair is down, which it never is, giving her such a different appearance, almost like an amazon temptress. I could spot the unmade bed and the second coffee cup on the table which confirms that she did not wake up alone this morning, but also that she hadn’t allowed anyone to disturb her morning routine for too long either.

‘Can I get a cup of that? And take a shower?’ I ask hoping she sees my needing her as a truce after our little argument last night when I did not take her advice and almost did something very stupid. Thank God there was someone there who was not only stupider than me but much faster. I should send Lucia a thank you note . ‘Go, I’ll make you something to eat.’ she said, acknowledging my plea for peace.

The cold water feels invigorating as it trickles it’s way down my body and slowly I start to wake up from what seemed to be a dream, the tangos, Alvaro, pizza, Bond, did it really all happen in one night?

‘I won’t ask you what happened, because I don’t want to know, but I will tell you this; you’re too smart and too good a dancer to get distracted by frivolities. Everything is yours for the taking, but you need to want it and you need to focus,’ she said almost gloatingly, as she poured my coffee into the spare cup. She must have heard about Lucia and Alvaro and she must think it bothers me, but mostly she’s just thinking of how she warned me and how I wouldn’t listen to her.

‘I know, and thank you for not asking, but my night last night didn’t quite turn out like I thought it would,’ I responded pulling the box of chocolates out of my bag and placing them on the table.

She paused when she saw it, she recognised it, I was sure of it, it didn’t seem to shock her, she just stared at it as if in a trance. ‘Would you like some chocolate? I smirkingly asked.
‘Those things are older than you; I wouldn’t go near them if they were offered on a gold plate,’ she responded trying to sound indiferent.

‘He kept them all this time, I’m sure it means something. Why won’t you tell me about the two of you, and why won’t you go see him. I really think he still loves you.’ I said, almost pleading with her. ‘You’re too romantic, and too curious for your own good. He and I are like those chocolates, maybe once something irresistible or even exotic, but are now well beyond their due date. So much has happened to us that we’re both covered in the white powdery due that tells you we’re not good anymore,’ she responded.

‘You’re both so poetic, but he kept them all this time…. I don’t know but it has to mean something. Why would anyone keep a box of chocolate for like 75 years?’ I teased, knowing full well it wasn’t even half that much time.

‘Careful or you won’t get any coffee.’ she teased back. ‘Well the way you talk about yourself, is as if you were young in Victorian times. How old was the man you spent the night with if you’re so covered in white powder that you’re too old to go Bond but not too old for whoever was here last night?’ I asked inquisitively. I was also curious about whom she had spent the night with.

Suddenly, I became very aware of the time and of the fact that I had told Bond to meet me for lunch in 30 minutes.

‘I have to run, thank you for coffee, I’ll see you later. Un beso,’ and I was out the door before she could say anything else.

‘I’m not sure, he’s good for you, you know. Come back here tonight mi querida,’ she shouted with a smile on her face.

‘Oh and by the way, I had two of the chocolates, and they still taste great! You should try one!’

I ran to get there on time, up Florida, between the vendors and the herds of shoppers, making my way to Sarmiento. Why am I running? He can wait a few minutes can’t he? Or was it me that couldn’t wait?

He’s not here yet, I’ll just make my way to my favourite seat, which is surprisingly available, and wait for him. What was it about him and Sabrina and where I am in the midst of all this; it’s almost as if both had laid a claim on me and were using me, in a very agreeable way, to outdo each other. Maybe I’ll strike up the courage to ask him, I tell myself. A plate of pizza slides past me at the speed of light, and I notice Bond walk in.

11.
Saturday, 24 February 2018
In which Moneypenny challenges Bond about Sabrina and makes an important decision

Mr Bond

“She crosses her legs, clings to the bar rail, and swings her stool towards me.”

The metal framed stools of Cafe Paulin are bolted so close together that Moneypenny’s knees instantly touch mine. Accidental contact would frequently be followed by a quick ‘sorry’ and readjustment; but at this moment they remain firmly against me. I glance down, noting their youthful smoothness, and the shortness of her skirt. Moneypenny seems animated. She bursts with conversational energy. Half listening, I glance around the bar.

The place is packed, the other customers mainly city office workers. It is like an ants nest, streams of people coming and going, waiters calling orders to each other with barely room for them to pass.

Cafe Paulin is about twice the width of a railway carriage. And that is not where the similarity ends. Down the centre, full length, is a narrow servery giving on to left and right. On a raised dais within the servery stand the waiters in their olive cross buttoned tunics. To each side of the servery are sheer glass shelves about a foot in width. These are the tracks, with two rows of stools adjacent.

Another plate passes along the glass counter at speed, apparently out of control. It appears to spin, but is docked securely into a waiter's hand at the other end of the bar.

“Did you enjoy the chocolates”, I ask with a smile, returning my attention to Moneypenny. “Now, I thought you only liked Swiss truffles?”, I add inquiringly. “I took them with me to Sabrina’s”, she replies, “Bond, she recognised them instantly”. “I am sure she still has a soft spot for you, Mr Bond”.

Something that I don’t quite understand tells me that I don’t want our lunch date to be about Sabrina. Is Moneypenny really interested in what transpired between us over twenty years ago? If so, why? And why do I constantly wish to move the focus back to the present - this moment with Moneypenny?

I glance at the Bremont secured to my left wrist. It shows that I am running late for an appointment with my lawyer Maria Cristina, a colleague from a previous life.

Moneypenny picks up the last piece of pizza and takes a bite. Her wine glass is empty and she glances around, as if to check that she has said all that she was intent to say.

I take a last sip from my small glass of bourbon - you can never get Martini at Paulin - and reflect for a second on the ‘Sabrina days’ that had seemed so distant until today; half forgotten memories that had not withstood the test of time.

Lifting the bill from where I slid it against the glass countertop, Moneypenny reaches out two fingers to seize it from my grasp. “My treat, I’ll pay for the cupboard this time. Next time, take me somewhere swish where we have more room”, she adds. With that she swings on her stool again, exposing an iridescent leg as she lets her toes slip to the floor. I watch her go as she walks to the cashpoint to tender her card.


Moneypenny

I swing my stool to greet him with the customary Porteño one cheek kiss. The place is too small for me to actually get up, so I stay on my stool and lean towards him which makes me suddenly aware of the fact that a short summer skirt was a poor wardrobe choice for a place like this, but it was the only acceptable thing I could find at Sabrina’s.

‘What sort of gentleman arranges a lunch date in a cafe the size of a cupboard?’ I said turning my stool away from him and trying to cross my legs as elegantly as possible in a 2 cm radius. ‘What kind of lady wears a skirt like that in a place like this?,’ he answered back, taking advantage of the fact that I was struggling to sit properly. ‘And I never said I was a gentleman,’ he added.

‘Right, I ordered us a pizza and some wine for me. I wasn’t sure what your poison of choice was at this hour, so you’ll have to order it yourself’, I told him. He then barely turned his head, raised him hand, motioned the waiter at the back of the bar and ‘signed’ something to him to which the waiter gave an approving head nod. He knew sign language?

‘What did you say to him, and I didn’t know you knew sign language!’ I exclaimed. ‘I simply asked for my usual drink, and yes I can sign, and do many other things you couldn’t even imagine,’ he replied in his suave voice. I suddenly felt a rush a blood to my cheeks, was I blushing? Was he flirting with me?

‘Right old girl, so I couldn’t help but notice a missing box of Belgian Pralines this morning. You took them to her didn’t you?,’ he asked inquisitively. ‘Ah I knew it! Of course - you noticed the missing box, the one you were trying so hard to be indifferent to. Yes I took them with me and she recognised them instantly,’ I teasingly replied, feeling as if I had information he desperately wanted me to divulge.

He hesitated to say anything else, but I could tell he was curious. ‘She’s just like you though, she didn’t budge except to speak in riddles and metaphors. The two of you are very much alike you know. You say so much without saying anything, like a fortune cookie. I’m usually more confused after you answer my questions than before I even ask them,’ I affirmed as if wanting some clarification from him now.

‘Old girl, the chocolates are old, like Sabrina and my story…..’ he started... ‘Oh my God that’s exactly what she said. Come on, you guys are reading from the same script, this can’t be. Spare me the ‘we’re old’ and ‘it’s an old story’ and just tell me everything. And then go see her,’ I interrupted.

‘I hate being interrupted, and now our times is up,’ he said looking at his watch which seemed to have so many dials that it could tell the time at all four corners of the earth. ‘I have another appointment and I’m late.’ ‘I’m going to have to pick up the bill and leave you to finish that second glass of wine on your own,’ he said in a continuous and firm way, not giving me a chance to contradict him.

‘Fine, go to your next appointment, I’ll make sure to schedule our next appointment when you have more time. I’ll take care of the bill and I won’t take any contradiction on the matter. Go, I’ll be fine, this is my type of place anyway.’

‘I bet it is old girl,’ he replied as he got up to leave. ‘Oh and I’m going to Canning tonight if you’re looking for something to do, I’ll be the one twirling around the dance floor,’ I shouted over the crowd of voices and clinking of cutlery. He nodded back and walked from the door into the street.

Another appointment ? I wonder where he’s going? Should I follow him?

12.
Tuesday 27 February 2018
In which Moneypenny follows Bond to Recoleta Cemetery
Mr Bond

My meeting with Maria Cristina was scheduled for Aguero in Recoleta, but after a tortuous taxi journey blocked by demonstrations on Av 9 de Julio, I was now running late.

Whilst waiting at lights, I dashed to a call box to rearrange our venue. Maria Cristina’s voice was feint on the bad line, but I gathered she was about to leave for Recoleta cemetery, our default meeting place. “Let’s meet there, then”, I suggested, and the line went dead.

“Change that to the cemetery”, I instructed the cab driver. “Makes no difference to me, senor, but I will have to drop you off at Av Manuel Quintana because Junin is closed”, he replied as we turn into Juncal, now making up time.

As we arrive outside La Biela, one of Buenos Aires most iconic cafes, I slip a fistfull of notes into the cab driver’s hand for his trouble. Cutting by the late afternoon diners, the British post box and the Arbol Patrimonio Historico - the largest, oldest gum tree in Buenos Aires - I walk briskly across the park towards the cemetery steps, skirting the tango dancers who are performing stage effects for tourists.

Twenty minutes later the meeting is over. It has gone pretty much to plan, and we have completed our business. As Maria Cristina walks off towards the entrance, her blond hair catching the breeze, a call from a cemetery cat cuts the early evening air. I peer down a passageway lined with tombs in the direction from which the sound came. Something moves or darts, as if in flight; probably the cat, or maybe just the illusion of light from the street as it plays against the trees. I think no more of it.

It is 5 minutes later that I descend the marble steps. The tour guides have gone home leaving the attendants to rattle their keys as they prepare for their lockup rounds. Quitting the cemetery I retrace my steps across the park, passing a lone street performer. He has been unable to access the premiere pitches on Junin for which the traders compete. A battered wheelchair has been shrunken to accommodate his emaciated frame, his bent feet barely reaching the footrests. He will be in his twenties, but bearing a much greater age, To ward off the evening chill a wool hat is pulled down across his forehead. In his twisted arms he cradles a tiny harmonica. He is totally alone - but for the music, which falters as he struggles a nod for the 100 peso note I drop into his empty tin.


Moneypenny

After paying the bill, I sprinted out of Cafe Paulin, looking in both directions to hopefully catch a glimpse of his tall figure amongst the crowd. Walking off towards 9 de Julio he hailed a passing taxi. Before I knew it, before even thinking it through, I was telling my taxi driver to ‘Follow that cab’, which seemed to entertain him because as soon as I closed the door, he jetted off, swirling through the cars on the world’s largest avenue.

We were headed north, the Jacarandas were in bloom and 9 de Julio was in a purple haze, which made all of this seem even more dream-like. He slipped out of his cab at a red light, jumped into a phone booth and within a minute he climbed back into the taxi which took a sudden left turn onto Juncal. My driver turned to me ‘Si si, seguimos! Keep following him’, I screeched.

His cab came to a sudden stop by the park opposite the renowned Recoleta cemetery. What was he doing here? Not exactly the place for a romantic rendez-vous. I hand the driver his well deserved pesos and slip out the back door, squatting below the top of my taxi only to realize that I was showing my not so good side to the afternoon cocktailers at La Biela, one of my favourite cafes in the city. I turn around to give an apologetic head nod, acknowledged by friendly smiles and some not so charitable smirks.

Bond races across the park, I run to keep up with him whisking by the gum tree and the tangeros performing deep ganchos to a crowd of cheering tourists.

He stops at the entrance of the cemetery, glances at his watch then casually walks in. I continue to follow, trying to draw as little attention as possible by blending in with the crowds of tourists snapping away at the marble statues of the city’s long dead Aristocracy and desperately seeking out the famous Duarte grave.

His pace is brisk; he knows where he’s going. I follow him from a distance. I start wondering if I’m not in over my head. What if I see something I shouldn’t see? Why am I here? Then a gentle pat on the shoulder jolts me from my thoughts, ‘Excuse me Miss, will you take a picture of us,’ a woman with a thick southern US accent asks, as she hands me her camera giving me not much choice in the matter. ‘Um sure,’ I answer taking the camera and a snap away before even warning them. I throw the camera back her way and dash to catch up with Bond.

He walks away from the crowds; past poor Rufina Cambeceres’ grave, past Mitre, past Quiriga and Sarmiento’s graves, who were ironically bound more in death than they had ever been in life. He takes a quick right at Luis Angle Firpo’s Art Deco mausoleum, towards the back of the cemetery, in the directions of the forgotten graves, the ones that no one but the cats come to visit.

I duck between two crumbling crypts to watch. A woman is waiting for him. She wears an elegant black trench coat and a black cloche hat which conceals her face but allows her blond hair drape over her shoulders. I can’t hear what they’re saying but she seems concerned. Bond takes hold of her hands and whispers something in her ear. She nods, as if agreeing, taking a key out of her purse which she hands to Bond. They both look about them, making sure that no one is watching. It’s odd, for no tourists visit this part of the cemetery.

With the key in his right hand, Bond goes to the side of one of the disintegrating graves - I can’t make out the name from where I stand - he opens the metal gate and slips inside. What is he doing here? Seconds later he exits carrying a metal box which he hands to the woman. Together they open the box. He takes out a green envelope. She takes the box and the key.

They part with a lingering hug to walk off in opposing directions. I step into the shadows between the crypts so as to conceal myself completely. As I do so, my heel connects with the tail of a snoozing cemetery cat which shrieks out in pain. Bond spins around. I duck. He remains still and, although I’m out of breath, I try to slow my breathing so as not to make a sound. He pauses, looks about him for a few seconds, and then walks off again. I get up and follow him as he makes his way out of the cemetery back towards the park.

From my concealed spot behind the roots of the gum tree, I see him stop, open the envelope and read it’s content. Returning a sheet of folded paper to the envelope, Bond steps towards a nearby figure hunched in a wheelchair, drops something in his tin, then hurriedly turns away to hail a taxi. I attempt to follow, but know that I am too late to catch him. So walk towards the figure. I hear feint music, a tango almost lost on a breeze in the trees. On reaching him, I see that he is a young blind boy, hunched over a tiny harmonica. As I pass I glance into his tin and notice a 100 peso note - but there is also something else there. It is the green envelope that was in Bond’s hands but moments ago. The one retrieved from the tomb in Recoleta cemetery. I stop, open my purse and take out a 50 peso note. Stepping back a pace I reach into the tin, dropping the bank note, whilst deftly lifting the envelope. It’s now mine. But what am I to do with it?


13.
Saturday 3 March 2018
In which Moneypenny solves a riddle and acts on a hunch

Moneypenny

I take the note, start to walk towards San Telmo while trying to make sense of what I had just seen. Was this a secret meeting? Was he involved in something illegal? I was expecting to catch him having a romantic rendezvous with another woman (I mean with a woman, not another woman) but instead I saw something else; something I couldn’t put together at all. Secret keys to hidden notes in crypts? None of it made sense; only a few hours earlier we were having coffee and I was teasing him about his love life, but now this?

After over an hour of walking, I reach San Telmo. I circumvent the market streets where I am bound to meet someone I know, and walk towards Sabrina’s to collect the shoes I left there this morning. I just hope I won’t have to answer too many questions.

As I reach the corner of Humberto Primo and Balcarce, I see Lucia walking directly towards me, I had forgotten all about her. She looks up, sees me and crosses the street as if to avoid me. But I won’t give her that satisfaction, so I cross over to come face-to-face with her. ‘Hola, Lucia, you seem to have recovered from last night I see. Recovered your clothes as well, I’m glad to see.’ I said. ‘Um, I… I, it was, I mean, I had a lot to drink…’ ‘she mumbled, ‘Don’t worry, I don’t really care who you play tit-for-tat with in the bathrooms, he’s really all yours...really, enjoy!’ I replied and walked off.

As I reach for my key to unlock Sabrina’s door, the handle was pulled from my grip and a woman tumbles towards me . ‘Ah, it’s you; you again,’ she exclaimed in a tone of annoyance. Adrianna, was a regular visitor to Buenos Aires and and habitué of Sabrina’s dance school. She, like so many, came here for the tango; and maybe more specifically for the tangeros. She doesn’t seem to like me very much; according to Sabrina resents the loss her youth and inevitably those who remind her of it.

At a very posh milonga last year she mistook Alvaro’s cabeceo, which he intended for me, and she still hasn’t forgiven me for being picked over her. It baffles me how it’s me and not Alvaro that she hates, but I guess that’s how ‘jealous’ combined with ‘insecurity’ works.

‘Sabrina, is out’, she continued, assuming that this was the reason for my visit. ‘No, it’s not her I want, it’s my tango shoes - I left them in her apartment earlier today’, I answered, realizing that I didn’t owe her an explanation.

She reluctantly let me in, knowing full well what Sabrina would do to her if she had refused. As she was about to step out, she turned, ‘You know I’ve been meaning to ask you, how come you’re here for so long? I mean don’t you need to work? Don’t you have a proper life somewhere else? Don’t you have obligations?,’ she asked, almost aggressively.

It was as if she desperately wanted a reason to resent me, one which was more easily justifiable than my age, my potential as dancer, the attention Alvaro gives me, or my very pretty Comme Il Faut’s. She wanted me to be a spoiled brat who had been spoon fed everything without having to lift so much as a pinky for it. This would elevate her hatred of me to more than just jealousy; she wanted something that she could openly criticize and maybe even rally others to her cause.

‘A few years ago, I started, I married a very wealthy older man, and last year I got tired of waiting for him to die, so one night I poisoned his brandy. And I’ve inherited all of his money.’ I said triumphantly. ‘We should go for coffee when you’re free, talk about the latest milonga gossip,’ I added and walked into Sabrina’s apartment before she could reply.

'Go ahead, hate me, for whatever reason you want, hate me.’ I thought to myself, ‘But if you push me, I’ll give you a real reason to hate me.’

I grab my shoes and run home to rest before deciphering what to do tonight.

As I lay in bed I take the note out of my purse:

‘Reveal yourself tonight at Our brother in arms, dweller of the skies; celebrate his liberation from the imperial shackles to which we were both bound. Speak the word of our founder and enter.’

‘At our brother in arms….’ Is it Shakespeare? Was it a play that might be playing somewhere in the city? No, that seems too predictable… and it’s not theatre season just yet. ‘Dweller of the skies’ - a Greek god? A bar named after a deity? There are thousands of bars in Buenos Aires, I’ll never find the right one before tonight…

I close my eyes and repeat the words ‘Brother in arms, Brother in arms… that Dwells in the sky…. Imperial shackles’. Bond is always speaking in riddles this must be a joke to him. He’s re-written his entire history in the form of riddles - chocolate boxes and shaken Martinis....Wait, history!! History in riddles!… Yes that’s it!!!

I glance at my watch; midnight; I’m standing in front of an iron cast gate behind which lies what appears to be an old mansion that I had never noticed before. I’m on Calle Peru - Argentina’s brother in arms during the fight for independence from the spanish crown - they fought high in the Andes, high in the sky where they dwell, against the imperial shackles of their common oppressor, Spain. 1826 Calle Peru. 1826, the year Peru officially acquired independence or liberation from their common motherland.

I ring the intercom: ‘Yes’, a low distant voice responds. ‘Yes hello, I would like to….’ I could barely get the words out when the voice says ‘No’, and hangs up. No? No to what? I hadn’t asked anything. I ring again: ‘Yes’ says the same Edgar Allan Poe-like voice, that you might imagine saying ‘The raven rapping at my chamber door’, to which this time I reply, ‘San Martin’. I hear a click and the gate opens inwards.


Mr Bond

Buenos tardes, my dear reader - it is early evening here in Buenos Aires, and I hope whatever time it is where you are, proves the right moment for you to read the next episode.

After my meeting in Recoleta, I returned to my apartment at Haedo, to rest. ‘I’m getting too old for this pace’, I tell myself, as the last drop of evening sun catches the drapes, and a silence settles over the city. This is the moment when shop and office workers have returned home, but revellers are yet to stir.

A lifetime of secrecy makes it hard for me to share my life, events, and feelings. Suffice it to say that the meeting with Maria Cristina went according to plan. Yet where she is involved, life does become more complicated. Her role has never been to make things simple - she looks for hidden agendas and the unexpected. But that is her job and maybe this particular skill is why ‘M’ is held in such regard here in Buenos Aires.

There is that which I am not at liberty to reveal; but I can confess that our meeting created more tasks than it settled. One of them I must resolve tonight.

Raul calls from the terrace, “Senor Bond, I got your note. You want me to drive you?”, he inquires in a thick Argentine accent. “If you would be so kind, old boy”, I reply, knowing that the extra pesos of a night’s work will be of use to him. “I will bring the car round at 2200 hrs”, he replies, revealing the discipline of his former military life.

Touching his forelock, Raul and his rake disappear towards the end of the terrace, followed in hot pursuit by Cleo the cat.

Tonight calls for more than a jacket - but less than tails. Rosa the maid, has laid out an evening suit, white shirt and bow tie - the sort one ties oneself, rather than the abominations that come ready tied. I pick up a silk scarf, only to discard it as perhaps too formal for the occasion.

When I descend to street level Raul is waiting by the maroon and cream Bentley S2 Continental. It was a generous gift from ‘a good friend’, one to which I am too attached to sell, despite private motorcars being less than useful here in the capital. By habit, Raul opens the rear door, then offers a hand. “No need for that yet”, I exclaim, aware that age is catching up fast, but not that fast. I smell leather upholstery and note reflections of the street lights on the walnut. ‘I must be mad to keep her”, I say to myself, whilst simultaneously settling back into the familiar comfort of the 1960 standard sedan, the only one in CABA.

From Santa Fe we drop down to Leandro N Alem and then, via Casa Rosada, onto Paseo Colon. Our destination is San Telmo, bohemian barrio of Buenos Aires.

Having turned in Martin Garcia, Raul pulls up the Bentley outside Peru 1826. With the engine running, he leaves the car momentarily to press the intercom. As a trustee, he knows the SM code. The metal gates open inward, allowing us to enter.

14.
Sunday 11 March 2018
In which Moneypenny follows her hunch and ends up at a curious party

Moneypenny

I make my way through the gates, candles light the path to the house setting the perfect mood for a late night in Buenos Aires. As I get nearer, I hear music playing, it’s faint but I recognise it immediately - Francisco Canaro’s Corazon de Oro. It’s instrumental, without words, but every emotion is transmitted. It’s betwitching, and before I know it, I sway to it’s gentle rhythm 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3 as I walk towards the mansion.

Reaching the steps the front door opens. ‘Good evening señora, you are most welcome’, comes a voice from the entrance hall. ‘Good evening,’’ I respond timidly looking into the darkness. ‘Please enter,’ he continues.’ As my eyes accustom to the gloom, I see a small wheelchair, in which sits the tiny figure of the boy from Recoleta.

Following the candle light, I cross the tiled floor of the vestibule into a grand marbled entrance hall. It has the Italian look of an inner courtyard beneath four floors of arched balconies from which hang large chandeliers casting a golden hue. ‘The ballroom is to the right, señora, says a butler, pointing towards the French doors.

My shoes click as they tap the marble floors making my presence hard to conceal.

As I get closer to the ballroom, the vals rhythm intensifies and I see the silhouettes of dancing couples and the orchestra; women in long dresses with sparkling jewelry, the men in black and white tuxedos. I’m greeted by smiles each way I turn, as if they’re expecting me. One figure, stands out from the rest - since he’s a foot taller than anyone else, he can’t help but stand out everywhere. He’s wearing a simple evening suit and bow tie, less formal than the general crowd, but he fits in perfectly.

Bond notices me and smiles, a light smile, as if he’s amused to see me here. He raises his hand and motions for me to join him. ‘Why good evening old girl, what are you doing here?”, he says tauntingly. ‘Good evening Bond, well it was like this...’ I explain, when he interrupts, ‘Come, let me introduce you. Start by knowing the right people.’

‘The man over there chatting to the women is our host Richard. Next to him is his partner Jay’, he says, pointing out a man of smaller stature to Bond, but with a presence that seems to dominate the room, like an eagle flying over a canyon. ‘Jay is from Peru and loves to dance tango. You should indulge him old girl,’ he adds.

‘This is the bright young lady I was telling you about, Jay’, Bond announces as we join them. ‘Good evening, my dear, please call me Jay, everyone does’. ‘You are most welcome here,’ he adds as he kisses the hand that I had raise with the intention of shaking his.

At that moment a blond woman bustles towards us. Could this be the woman I had seen at the cemetery? If so, why the riddle? No, it can’t be her. In a turmoil my mind drifts back to cemetery, I still had no idea what I had seen there, or why it and the riddle in the green envelope had brought me here.

The blond woman smiles at Jay, then turns to pat Richard gently on the shoulder, ‘Richard, my dear, the Vanderbilts are looking for you. Be a good host and join them,’ she says in a soft, possessive voice. ‘Yes of course my dear Margarita’, he replies. As he leaves he turns to Bond saying, ‘Enjoy the night old sport, we’ll finish our discussion later in the billiard room’.

‘What is this place?’ I ask Bond. ‘Come, someone is waiting for you, or if she’s not, she’ll certainly be happy for you to fill one of the empty seats at her table’. ‘Oh, and by the way, Richard our host is Richard Alvarez’, he adds casually avoiding my question.

‘Bond!! Richard Alvarez!!! So that story you told me WAS true!! I want to meet him!’ I plead. ‘All in good time, old girl’, he says knowing full well how much I hate the expression. ‘You know sometimes I don’t know why I like you so much! Save the ‘old girl’ for your hound back home’, I say, turning my back on him. He makes me so angry sometimes.

‘Did you like his partner Jay? he continues, ‘he’s quite a character, and unlike the Argentines he’s proud of his roots. He claims to be descended from an Inca dynasty, but actually his ancestors were Spanish renegades who traded gold with the Incas, trade and cheat actually’.

We walk towards a table at which a woman sits alone. ‘Isn’t that Sabrina?, I ask. ‘How come she is here; why all this mystery?’ I plead again. ‘Put your shoes on and we will dance.’ he responds, again avoiding my question.

I cross to Sabrina, I notice that her classic bottle of Don Perignon and red rose lay on her table. She’s wearing her black Versace dress and her signature red Manolo Blahniks. ‘How nice to see you here - finally,’ she blurted out. Finally? I’m not even going to ask her what this place is, or how everyone seems to know that I was going to arrive. Until a few hours ago I had no idea I would be here.

‘Sit, put your shoes on and dance. This is where you were supposed to be tonight,’ she adds casually. ‘Fine, but can I ask one thing? How come you have Manolo tango shoes? I didn’t know they made them for tango,’ I say knowing that this was yet another question to which I would not get an answer.

‘They’re made for me, and only me. After all I went through these shoes are the least I should be getting. Now hurry along, he’s back,’ she adds as Bond makes his way to the table.

I put on my right shoe, struggling with the left strap as usual. When I finally look up, I see Bond and Sabrina making their way to the dance floor and ask myself, ‘Could this be the rekindling of their long lost love?’


Mr Bond

Barracas was hit by a power outage, a regular occurrence here in Buenos Aires, leaving the barrio in darkness save for street corners touched by moonlight. The headlights illuminated the entrance beyond decorated wrought iron gates and I made my way to the door of Peru 1826 before Raul turned the Bentley, my last steps bathed in red from the stop lights and a pitiful handful of pillar candles that I managed to avoid.

The front door clicked open on a remote release catch, and I entered. From the darkness came the sound of ‘Milonga triste’, a classic tango tune made famous by Hugo Diaz.

He lowered his harmonica and looked up at me from his shrunken wheelchair. “Mr Bond, what are you doing here tonight?”, he exclaimed. “We were not expecting you after you failed to leave the envelope”. ”Didn’t you get the message?”

Knowing that Raul and the Continental were now en route back to Palacio Haedo, I had to think quickly. Should I simply spin on a heel, and leave in a cab? At that moment voices came from a room beyond, and then appeared Marguerita holding a candlestick.

“Bond, you are here”, she exclaimed, “Come and join us”, she added, swinging her skirts and large frame towards the ballroom. “Seems I am trapped HB”, I whispered, winking to the unseeing boy, now left in total darkness, and following her.

Argentine’s - especially Portenos - love parties, in particular those that start late and finish in the early hours: these, together with tango and beautiful women, are the three main reasons that I am here in Buenos Aires. But this was not a party of Mate, empanadas and Malbec; here in the gloom of a power cut were gathered some of the city’s wealthiest people and, as it happened, the most excruciating bores. It was the sort of party that I was required to be at when working for Her Majesty's Government - and for which I was paid to attend.

Let us start with the Vanderbilts of ‘the Vanderbilts have asked us up for tea’ family fame - you remember the song...something about ‘swells? With conspicuous wealth, they had positioned themselves centre stage to attract the attention of their acolytes. Having made a fortune (some say from involvement in selling the children of the ‘disparue), they now were intent on spending it socialising with their friends, creating a form of upper class social polo game for the retired elite.

But for his wealth, extracted dubiously as a cosmetic surgeon, and the paid support of his effete Peruvian partner Jay, our host Richard Alvarez would have been a forgotten character sitting in a care home lounge. Instead, he was indulged by sycophantic ‘friends’ and, having a half-decent voice, unfortunately asked to sing. Margareta, his deposed wife bore no resentment towards her husband’s gay partner Jay. She always appeared at his parties and said that singing (and her presence) was good for his health. To outsiders, it was hard to tell which of the two was keeping him alive, and which intent on his demise. No doubt his death would bring with it a fight for his fortune.

Alone at a table bearing a candle and single rose, sat Sabrina. She was wearing Versace and the expensive Manolo tango shoes I had acquired for her twenty years earlier. For an instant I wanted to retreat from the room, feeling a tragic sense of deja vue - when one’s forgotten past becomes one’s present. She had started to bear the ravages of time, accentuated by the roots of her hair that shone silver under the chandeliers.

As the night progressed I glanced around the room. From the head upwards, the predominant colour was grey. Below, brashly expensive jewellery separated their status. With one exception - that suddenly entered the room from the hallway.

“Moneypenny, what are you doing here?” “I didn’t know that you wanted to be a part of this set?” “But how clever of you to work it out, old girl”, I added. “Now, who do you know, who don’t you know, and who do you want to meet?”

I inspected Moneypenny who looked awkward as I introduced her to some of the relics, like a filly standing for the first time, surrounded by old drays.

‘So, about the note’, I asked. “Well, it was quite simple; all I did was to….”, she replied, but was cut short by the sound of a bandoneon.

Sabrina, desperate for company, glaced in my direction with a pronounced mirada. “Go do your duty, Bond”, joked Jay, as he turned his to lavish his attention on Moneypenny.

15.
Thursday, 15 March 2018
In which Bond and Moneypenny leave Peru 1826 and arrange to meet at Salon Canning

Mr Bond

And that is how both Moneypenny and I came to be trapped for a night at Peru 1826 - me in Sabrina’s ageing arms; and Moneypenny in the visceral clutches of Jay.

Fortunately, at 2 am Dr Richard Alvarez was called upon to sing, not a moment too late, and certainly not for the faint hearted, yet one that provided cover for our escape. Dancing the last tanda of Osvaldo Fresedo I whispered into Moneypenny’s ear “Marble entrance hall - 5 minutes”.

She was waiting there when I arrived, half hidden beneath an archway. Racing swiftly across the vestibule, pressing the door release, we exited via the courtyard, through the wrought iron gates and into the street. Within seconds I hailed a passing radio cab and we were away down Peru, through a sleepy San Telmo towards the city, bearing left into Roque Saenez Pena (Diagonal Norte) and out on 9 de Julio towards Recoleta.

Moneypenny appeared pensive but silent in the cool dawn breeze that entered from the open cab window. “We will talk about it later, old girl”, I said, to which she replied, “Right, Mr Bond, have it your own way, but we must talk soon. I need to understand. I need to know. Salon Canning tonight...I’ll see you there, old man”.

Salon Canning is in Av Raul Scalabrini Ortiz in the heart of Palermo, Buenos Aires’ leafy suburb where the smart young set tends to live. Canning, as it is abreviated, is one of my regular haunts - a milonga at which I can meet other regular milongueros and dance with their wives. Unlike La Viruta at Asociacion Cultural Armenia - at Canning I do not have to cope with the hordes of tourists, their salsas and rock-and-roll.

Nancy, my regular waitress smiles as I enter and leads me to my reserved table, central to the pista, but set back one row - for it is not my style to join the egos on the front row. “Nice to see you Señor Bond”, she adds as she takes my order for sparkling water and champagne. “Nancy, lovely to see you too, you’re looking great tonight”, I reply, to which she blushes, as always.

I wear my dance shoes from the taxi to the milonga, for there is nothing worse than seeing dancers change shoes by the pista. From my table I glance around me, looking to identify friends, especially those that dance with skill. By the time Nancy has released the champagne cork, poured a glass and returned the bottle into an ice bucket, I already have planned in my mind my initial tandas. Orlando is guest DJ tonight, so the next tanda will be Rodolfo Biagi, followed by Miguel Caló, Francisco Canaro, Angel D' Agostino, Alfredo De Angelis, Pedro Laurenz, and Ricardo Tanturi. I will cabeceo the elderly milonguera Hilda for the Biagi, for that is what I always do, and what she will expect.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a slight figure walking briskly towards my table. “Bond, you are here already?”, she gushes. “Moneypenny, I thought you wouldn’t arrive until midnight?”, I reply feigning surprise. Why am I not surprised that she would be here from the outset?

‘Ahora no me Conoces’ rings out from the speakers suspended from the ceiling. I am too late to catch Hilda’s eye, and Moneypenny tips her pale face to one side, smiles and twirls her right forefinger. Is she is cabeceoing me? I reply with a mirada, reversing the codigo in which only the leader uses the cabeceo. Not that it matters with Moneypenny - I suspect she can barely spell the words ‘cabeceo and mirada’, let alone understand their cultural significance to the milonga. Perhaps, sometime I should sit down and educate her on the topic?

Biagi is perfect for a first tanda - it gets blood circulating and energy levels rising with its staccato beat. The floor is open, so we just walk with a long stride that extends Moneypenny’s reach, her hips moving to open with each step making our difference in height inconsequential.

The milongueros at tables along the edge of the pista look up from their conversations to admire her youthful walk and and the sway of her hips. The milongueras shift their critical stare from her dainty feet and Comme il Faut shoes to her body hugging dress and translucent shoulders.

Within the embrace I simply feel her softness and the flexibility of her movement, her simultaneous response to my lead, and warm breath on my neck. We dance the four songs of the tanda, for that is the codigo, after which I lead her to the side of the floor, as is the tradition.

“Bond, tonight do you mind if I sit at your table?”, she blurts.”We still have to have that talk, remember?”.

Intrigued to know what she has to say, and knowing of the gossip that will follow when Canning sees a new young woman at my table, I reply, “Yes, most certainly, Moneypenny, it will be my pleasure”, and escort her across an empty pista to the enquiring looks of the Canning crowd.


Moneypenny

There’s something about how they dance together - eyes just seem to follow them. It may be just the romantic in me but wouldn’t it be grand if they got back together; here again under Richard’s nose?

Their tanda is finished. As ever Bond offers his arm to escort Sabrina back to the side of the pista. Sabrina accepts gracefully, but releases him just a few meters before our table, as if she wished to keep him away.

“You danced beautifully”, I say as she sits down. “How was it? Have you missed dancing with him?”

“He kicked my heel in a sacada”, she replies. “That man never could do a sacada. He can’t even pronounce the word - after all these years his Spanish is still hopeless”, she continues.

This is not the romantic reply I was expecting, but sense that this isn’t the right moment to press for more. “Go dance with him; he’s trying to get your attention”, she adds, pointing towards Bond.

I get up and make my way to the pista where he waits with his arm out. “The two of you were wonderful”, I start, hoping to get more from him than what Sabrina has given. “That woman should change her shoes for something lower, more age appropriate. She almost fell over in the giro, causing me to miss my sacada. We looked a mess!”, he blurts. “Come let’s dance!”

I finish my tanda with Bond but before the next starts I have four heads nodding towards me. The nod or ‘cabeceo’ is how leaders secure their next partner. The follower responds with a mirada which is the look that says ‘yes I will dance with you’; not that this has ever stopped me from using the cabeceo when I want a dance.

Tanda after tanda I am asked to dance making it difficult to sip the Dom Perignon during the ‘cortinas’ - a piece of non-tango music that separates the tandas. Suddenly the music stops. “Richard is going to sing for you”, Margarita announces. I look around me but Sabrina has disappeared without saying a word. I catch Bond’s gaze. He nods towards the entrance hall, holding up five fingers.

Five minutes later we are making our way out the door towards the gates, but as we pass I knock against a candle and wax splashes onto my shoe. When I look up Bond has already hailed a taxi.

“San Telmo first, then to Recoleta”, I say to the driver. “I’m too tired for an explanation now, but you have to tell me what just happened tonight. All of it”, I say to Bond. I’ll see you at Canning, old man?”

“You will, old girl”, he replies. “Oh and while we’re at it, I have a question for you. Was that cemetery cat alright? It let out the most dreadful screech”, he added with a grin.

Before I could say anything, the taxi pulled into the kerb outside my apartment and whisked Bond off in the direction of Recoleta.

My alarm goes off; it’s 9:30 (pm that is), for southern hemisphere days and nights are upside down as well. For Salon Canning I select my red backless dress, of which Sabrina would surely disapprove, together with my silver Comme il Faut shoes.

Taking a taxi to Palermo I arrive 20 minutes later. As I enter the salon to orchestra Biagi I spy Bond at his usual table. He looks up as I walk towards him.

“Bond, you are here already?” “Moneypenny, I thought you wouldn’t arrive until midnight?”, he replies. “Well here I am, so shall we dance?”, I add. “I just need to put my shoes on”, I say as I struggle with the strap to my left shoe, now marked with candle grease from Peru 1826.

I know full well that he hates breaking tango etiquette by women asking him to dance; and that he disapproves when people put their shoes on at the table. But propriety is not my thing, and the bathrooms here are a mess.

We dance our first tanda under the critical eyes of the regular tangeros. The Canning crowd is a very exclusive set, or at least that is what they think. To me most of them are just over-the-hill dancers who pine for lost youth and create rules for self-importance. Tonight, for some reason, I am starting to dislike them all.

We finish our tanda and Bond extends his arm to escort me from the pista. “Bond, may I sit at your table this evening?”, I ask. “We still have to talk about last night”.

Bond looks at me knowingly. “Of course you may join me”, he replies, as we walk together to his table on the far side of the salon.

16.
Sunday, 18 March 2018
Intermezzo - Bond on Bond

Dear readers have been asking me to reveal more about myself - the true Bond. They sense my reserve, and the reasons for it - historic from a lifetime's work under a spotlight, and currently from a shyness to share the vulnerability that comes with age.

Having led a rather public life - one that necessitated travel around the world - I have never really sought set down roots. The closest, I suppose, is my small apartment at Ormond Yard, St James, giving me a short walk to Downing Street, MOD Whitehall, and importantly around the corner in Duke of York Street, the Red Lion Public House.

My London apartment is where I hang the few Savile Row suits that I still possess, my handmade shoes from Jermyn Street, and a modest supply of single malt whisky from Skye. Yes, I have some books, but they are collected on one shelf where they gather dust. Perhaps I should part with them, but in moments of nostalgia they bring back memories of my youth.

London and St James seems a distant dream, now supplanted for the time being by Buenos Aires, and my ‘borrowed’ rooftop apartment here at Palacio Haedo.

When I spoke to ‘M’ of my intention to come to Buenos Aires she looked over her half glasses in a familiarly questioning way, saying nothing, neither approving or disapproving. Two days later a key was slipped under my apartment door, with a handwritten note saying, “Park on the roof, drink the fresh air, and say hello to Raul”.

My forte had been dealing with situations rather than solving problems, so here, I thought, was a task for Q.

“Why Bond, it’s obvious isn’t it”, he jabbered, inspecting the note and the key, “the fresh air’ has to be ‘Buenos Aires”; ‘the Park’ must be the Ministry of National Parks in Recoleta where Raul Ocampo is still stationed, and this double sided key, typical of Buenos Aires, almost certainly fits the door to the mothballed MOD apartment on the top terrace”.

“How the hell did you work that out so fast”, I retorted - to which he simply smiled his annoying smile and said, “Bond, get out of here...enjoy the trip and don’t come back”.

Buenos Aires came as a surprise. I was able to walk down a street without looks, stares or comments. Age brings an invisibility, but 7,000 miles from London on another continent provides an extra layer of privacy. Occasionally the observant passer-by does a double take before dismissing their questioned recognition. And, naturally, that suits me fine.

Argentine tango was altogether another thing, and arguably the most difficult mission of my life to date. No written instructions. No equipment. No support. Just me in Buenos Aires and the most daunting task in the world.

And that was when I met Moneypenny.

What you have to understand about Argentine tango is that from day one you need all the help you can get. Not simply the best teacher and a half-decent pair of shoes, but encouragement and affirmation from your tango partners. The experienced Portenas would breathe heavily with impatience and thereafter avoid my cabeceo. Not until I had spent months of practice and threatened to drop my shoes in a street skip did tango slowly start to fall into place.

Moneypenny had little idea about tango, but she did have natural rhythm and a love for the music. As a dance partner, she was perfectly formed. Recognising me and knowing of my past she was perfectly positioned. But for her youth (or maybe because of it) she was an ideal companion.

But, I have said enough about me; and maybe too much about Moneypenny. Perhaps we should get back to the story - after all, that is why you are here, isn’t it?

17.
Tuesday 3 April 2018
Mr Bond

I flash a smile towards Nancy the waitress, and without a word she arrives with a second champagne glass for Moneypenny, who is now settled alongside me fiddling with her shoe strap. The convention - that men and women sit separately has long since been abandoned at Canning, but the milongueros know that I usually sit alone, so this presents a field day for wagging tongues. Fortunately for them, my grasp of Castillano is not sufficient to understand all of their remarks.

“Bond, you really must tell me what is going on”, starts Moneypenny. “First, the cemetery, then the mansion in Peru? And who are these people - Richard, Jay and the others?”

“Whoa”, I say, “I will tell you what you need to know, but here is not the place”. “If you look behind, you will see that even the walls have ears”, I add glancing at the rows of tangueros in front of Canning’s huge wall mural.

“But I can say this, Moneypenny”, I continue, “you’re quite something. You showed your metal in following me to Recoleta, and followed it up by getting the envelope. How long did it take you to solve the riddle?”

Moneypenny smiles. “Well, old boy, I think that that must wait for a proper debrief, don’t you?”, she adds mischievously. “But Bond, are you still working for HMG, and is this something to do with that? I am right, aren’t I”? “You needed me at Peru, for some reason”.“You must tell me for it seems that I am being pulled into something way over my head”. “And this time you can tell me somewhere a little more salubrious than the Cafe Paulin cupboard”.

“ Alvear Palace Hotel for tea tomorrow”, I reply “and I promise I will tell you what you need to know”. With that, and a tanda of Edgardo Donato, we return to dance.

The penalty of allowing Moneypenny to pay for lunch at Cafe Paulin was the bonus of her company for afternoon tea at the Alvear. But it was clear that tea and cakes were the least important topics on her agenda. Our chat at Canning had left much unsaid, and the relative privacy of L’ Orangery at Hotel Alvear was the perfect place to say it.

Some say that the Alvear Palace is the best hotel in Buenos Aires. It is certainly one of the poshest. Mounting the steps, and slipping Jorge, my regular doorman, a crisp 500 peso note, I pass the showcases of Arita jewellery and Cartier watches in the entrance foyer, and make my way through to the lounge where we had arranged to meet.

Plush, but relaxing, this is not a casual stopping point, but a destination in itself; for it is from here that one may see the rich and the infamous as they arrive and leave. Jorge has excelled himself, for it is within moments that a tiny waiter arrives with a tray bearing a single, simple Martini - cool and shaken just as I like it.

Afternoon tea at the Alvear is an institution to be taken seriously. Moneypenny, having listened to my instructions, arrives promptly and is dressed for the occasion. Her tight black dress shows her figure as she walks towards me, and I notice that she wears new Katrinski tango shoes and a flower in her hair.

“Hola, Mr Bond”, she greets. “Now this is more like it”, she continues, clearly recalling her first impressions of the ‘cupboard’ Cafe Paulin and pleased that the experience is rectified by Alvear splendour. “Right, which way for tea?”, she adds, looking around herself approvingly.

“Straight ahead if you will, old girl”, I rejoin, noticing a flash of disapproval on her face. Nevertheless, she dutifully links arms to walk along the deep carpet to L’Orangerie. Led by the waiter carrying the Martini, we pass the salon pianist in full flow, neglect the booking-in desk, and go straight to our private table. It seems, working with Jorge over the years - and the generous tip, is paying dividends.

A bonus of L’Orangerie is the huge tables that form an acre of space sufficient for ten diners, making it impossible to be overheard. But our waiter takes us to a small table just laid for two, tucked privately in the corner of the salon.

I pull out a chair for Moneypenny, and she feigns delight. “Oh, Mr Bond, how kind”, she says unconvincingly as she lowers herself with unusual elegance. I wonder to myself whether she has ever taken tea Buenos Aires style before?

“First things first, Moneypenny”, I announce, “a glass of proper champagne - not the old Canning plonk?”. “Yes please, what fun”, she replies excitedly, but with a hint of impatience. “And which tea would the old chica prefer”, I continue undeterred. For the second time her eyes flash with annoyance as she checks the list of teas, their descriptions listed page after page. “What’s this Genmaicha tea like?”, “or would you choose the rare Rose Petal for me?”, she says tersely.

“For me, it's simple old Earl Grey”, I say, and the waiter scurries off to find the sommelier with our choice of champagne.

Tea, when it arrives, is a miniature feast. Fortunately Moneypenny has taken my advice and not eaten since her breakfast of grapefruit. At first sight, the tiny trimmed sandwiches appear insufficient even for our diminutive waiter’s frame, let alone a grown man and his hungry companion. But appearances are deceptive, and it is not long before we turn to the mini pâtisserie, fresh fruit tarts, warm scones and other delicacies prepared by the hotel’s Chef Pâtissier.

As we share the specialty cakes that are always served right at the end of the meal, and the salon pianist embellishes “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina’, Moneypenny leans back to search for her handbag from beneath the drop of the white linen tablecloth, returning clutching an envelope, which I immediately recognise.

“Now, Mr Bond, it’s time for reckoning. Guess what I have here?”, she says, and places the green envelope onto the table, carefully withdrawing its contents….

“I think we have some talking to do, Mr Bond; don’t you?”

Monneypenny

Bond escorts me to his table under the gaze of Canning’s regulars, who know he always sits alone. I can only imagine the stories that will run rampant in the tango community tomorrow. Bond and I should give them something to really talk about….

The pista is crowded, ‘Orchestra Juan d’Arienzo’ is playing live tonight and that has brought more than just the usual posh tangeros, with an invasion of tourists clicking their cameras. I have little desire to dance like a sardine tonight. I have more pressing matters on my mind.

“Bond, you really must tell me what is going on”, I start. “First, the cemetery, then the mansion in Peru? And who are these people - Richard, Jay and the others?”

Bond smiles at me and tells me that this is not the time or place to discuss such matters. “ Alvear Palace tomorrow for tea and I’ll try to satisfy your curiosity”, he says as he pours a glass of Veuve Clicquot.

“Cafe Alvear, por favor”, I tell the taxi driver. Fifteen minutes later we arrive in front of Hotel Alvear Palace, one of the city’s best examples of luxury. I have wanted to come here for ages.

I bump my head as I leave the taxi and almost lose the flower from my hair. Making my way up the steps I have a quick browse of the cases of jewellery. I’m early and Bond hasn’t arrived, so next I head towards the powder room to fix my hair. With large mirrors, a selection of perfumes to choose from and even more hair products, the washrooms are a sight in of themselves. One might even come here just for them. I fix my hair and take one last look at the black dress I borrowed from Sabrina - an Armani that she wore last year when we went to Colon. I hope Mr. Bond approves.

I go up the stairs and spot him immediately, predictably with a Martini in his hand. “Hola, Mr Bond, now this is more like it, not quite the same feel as yesterday’s lunch”, I say looking around and recalling our lunch at Paulin where Bond, as in tango, had opted for a close embrace meeting.

We walk towards our table in L’Orangerie. It’s filled with plants, almost blinding white tablecloths and sparkling silverware. It reminds me of tea at the Plaza in New York, or the Gerbaud in Budapest - the cities of my previous life.

We order our tea. Bond orders champagne, of course, for it would be inconceivable that any of our meetings would be alcohol free, even afternoon tea. Once we’re settled with tea, drinks and cakes, I pull out the envelope from my purse dramatically and place it in front of Bond.

I look into his eyes. “I think we have some talking to do, Mr Bond, don’t you? How did you know I was at the cemetery? Who were all those people at the mansion? How come Sabrina was there? Am I being used for something I might not want to be a part of? Or is this just some of tango initiation ritual?”

“Slow down old girl, you almost made me choke on my cucumber sandwich! I will tell you everything, just be patient”, he responds. “Everything?”, I ask with a hint of sarcasm knowing full well he’ll tell just enough to tease my taste buds, and claim that it is all I need to know.

“Let’s just say I’ll tell you all you need to know”, he begins, when I interrupt him. “I knew it, but go ahead anyway”, knowing it’s hopeless to get more out of him.

“Good girl! So it goes like this. Of course I knew you were in the cemetery. First, with your adorable short, blond hair you stick out like a sore thumb, not to mention that little mini-skirt number you wore yesterday. Anyone would spot your creamy white legs from miles away. Second, I knew you would follow me when I left Paulin; I purposely left mysteriously knowing it would peak your interest. You took the bait just as expected. These obvious baits might be treacherous - you’ll have to be more careful in future.”

“Wait, what future?”, I interrupt again. “Don’t interrupt me, or you’ll get no more of this story”, he retorts. “Fine!”, I lash back.

“You were meant to follow me; you were meant to find that envelope which I so obviously left in plain sight. The riddle was a test. I wasn’t sure you would decipher it but Sabrina on the other hand was sure you would. That woman does have good instinct, I can’t take that away from her. And before you get all lovey-dovey on me, yes Sabrina and I still speak occasionally, but no there is no chance of a rekindling of whatever it is that you think we had”.

“Oh but Bond”, I interjected, “there must still be something there!” I was beginning to sound like a teenager reading a romance novel and hopelessly waiting for the ‘and they lived happily ever after’ ending.

“Oh but Bond nothing!”, he continued, “now, about the cemetery, the woman I met there is my contact in Buenos Aires. We worked together in the UK. She scripts the missions, no specifics, just places to be, people to meet, and I provide her with the information she seeks”.

“That was how Sabrina and I came to meet years back at one of Richard’s parties. I recruited her that night, but got more than I bargained for. Sabrina was a natural - charming, pleasing and smart as a fox. Within an hour, she could get information from Stalin himself if needed. We worked together for many years. Much like our respective countries, our relationship has been one of ups and downs, collaboration and deceit. Nonetheless, HMG has repaid her services handsomely, hence a seemingly endless supply of Manolo Blahniks and Armani dresses”.

“Anyhow, last night I wanted you to meet Richard - and more importantly his partner Jay who is the way to Richard. Who Richard may be, and why he is important matters not right now; what does matter is the information on Richard that I believe Jay will provide if given the right push. Which is where you come in, my dear”. He pauses and looks directly in my eyes.

“Me? What can I do?” I asked, intrigued. “You’re going to get that information. Maybe not you directly, you’re not ready, so we need an information mule of some kind, someone who can be disposed of once its done,” he responds.

“I have an idea that I’m sure will work”, I say triumphantly.


18.
Saturday 7 April 2018
In which Moneypenny begins to execute her plan

Moneypenny

The taxi swings into Caballito, one of the few places in Buenos Aires that remains relatively tourist free, where the everyday Porteño can still afford to live. It is far cry from Bond’s fashionable Recoleta.

“Top floor, hermosa”, he breathes into my ear”, “let’s take some wine on my terrace”. The elevator doors slide open. Inside is cramped, enabling him to slide his arms around my waist. The elevator pings at each floor, increasing my anxiety as we ascend into the darkness.

I’m so nervous. I feel a smudge of his hair gel on my face. I struggle not to touch it. I hadn’t expected it would happen like this. I hadn’t thought this through. I had not anticipated how I would feel. He is wearing a divine cologne and looks elegant. There would have been a time when this was exactly what I would have wanted, and where I would have wanted to be. But now the only thing on my mind is to accomplish my task, and to dash to the safety of Bond.

“Estamos hermosa!”, he invites as he unlocks the door to his apartment. It’s larger and more sophisticated than I had expected. I guess tango, and it’s extra-curricular activities can pay off after all. After the dingy elevator I notice how fashionable his room is, with black leather sofa and large television. Yet it is so obviously a shrine to him. On each wall is a picture of Alvero dancing tango, taken in a way that his partners are barely discernible, just ornaments of tango like his shoes and fancy vintage suit.

“Your apartment is quite interesting”, I manage to say as I stare around the room. “Si, it’s my palace. Come upstairs”.

From behind me his hand guides me up the staircase, descending to my lower back as he directs me towards huge lounge chairs on the terrace. We don’t speak. I smile a lame smile. He pours two glasses of chilled white wine - the perfect catalyst to a hot and humid summer night.

Whilst he fetches another bottle of Sauvignon blanc, I top up his glass. On his return, we toast to a life of tango and dreams.

Within moments he takes my glass from my hand, places it on the table and reaches out towards my bare legs. He leans in to kiss me. It feels rehearsed. I realise I’m not the first extra for the role of ‘Alvaro’s lover’.

“Take me to bed”, I whisper to him. “Si, vamos hermosa”, he breathes in response.

Leading me towards his bedroom he flicks his cigarette lighter against the candles positioned strategically around his bed. Here are more self portraits ornating the bedroom - Alvaro in Paris, Alvaro in Rome, Alvaro in Vegas…..every picture, the same smile, the same piercing gaze.

Silk sheets are cool against my back. He unbuttons his shirt to expose a hairless, muscular chest. He kisses the back of my neck and up towards my ears. With goosebumps I feel a tinge of regret about slipping Sabrina’s sleep inducing drug into his glass minutes earlier. It will take effect any moment now. But what if I could enjoy him a little longer?

“You are so beautiful you make my head spin,” he slurs, then passes out, his arm flopping over the side of the bed. I roll him over to remove his clothes.

Extinguishing the candles I leave the apartment by the stairs. He’ll be sleeping like a baby by the time I get back.

From the taxi, I run up the stairs of Club Armenia, throwing peso notes towards the cashier but not waiting for a ticket. I scan the salon for Bond and spy him tucked away in the far left corner from which the media lunas will be served within the hour.

“Good evening, or more like good morning old girl”, he quips as he glances at me.

“Bond, I have just come from Alvero’s and I know just how we’re going to do this”, I gasp.

“Very well old girl, tell me everything. But before you, do how about us taking those red Katrinsky’s for a tanda of Fresedo?”.


19.
10 April 2018
In which Bond meets Moneypenny at La Viruta and prepares her to meet ‘M’

Mr Bond

It is Friday morning, after midnight. Checking my fountain pen, I pull on my jacket but decide against the black polished shoes, favouring a pair in suede. La Viruta Milonga is far from formal and I want to do my best to blend in.

There are some things that you should know about La Viruta. Situated in the Asociación Cultural Armenia in Palermo, La Viruta is a tango club with a difference. Whilst tango tourists arrive before midnight, the true milongueros - the professional dancers, teachers and organisers do not appear before two or three o’clock and stay until six in the morning after the tourists have gone, for a breakfast of coffee and medialunas.

My taxi drops me in Armenia and, being early, I saunter diagonally up the wide Asociacón stairs, turning to descend to the salon. From above, the ceiling appears low, giving the place a ‘club-like’ feel. Horacio Godoy’s bald head glints as he purports to conduct a small tango orchestra to the amusement of his tanguero followers. I glance to the far corners of the room in search of Moneypenny. As expected, she is not here yet. When a departing couple leave their table near the piano the waitress nods and I take my place to await Moneypenny’s arrival.

It is nearly 5 am when a breathless Moneypenny stumbles down the stairs to the salon. It is hard to know whether she is fearful, excited or both. She spots me and trots quickly towards my table. “Moneypenny, old girl, what kept you?”, I say jovially. She looks strained and exhausted. “Come, let’s dance and you can tell me all about it”, I continue, glancing down at her little red Katrinski flats.

Out on the crowded floor Moneypenny recounts her encounter with Alvero, and that she has made a discovery. As we dance she slips her hand under her shirt to withdraw a slim diary. “Bond, I found this in his pocket and from what I could see in the taxi coming here, it may hold the key to Jay”. “I am sure there will be more there if only I can get back. Will you come with me?”

“It’s out of the question, old girl”, I reply, adding, “apparently, Lucia arrived just as you left”. “We don’t know why, but it seems she has a key to Alvero’s apartment. Fortunately, she did not see you leave, thanks to the door of her taxi being blocked by a wheelchair”.

I take the diary from her fingers and slip it into my jacket pocket. El pibe de La Paternal - Fresedo’s ‘Buscandote’ swirls us into a close embrace.

“I have had a phone call from my handler ‘M’ here in Buenos Aires”, I breathe. “And she requires to meet you. It seems that from here on she will be pulling the strings for both of us”.

Returning to our table, I take the diary and pen from my pocket, and rip out a blank page on which I scribble an address. “This, old girl, is where we are to meet. Eight o’clock on Thursday night. For heaven’s sake, don’t be late”.

Were it not for my ‘grace-and-favour’ apartment on the top floor of Palacio Haedo, I would live in Barracas; an area that lies to the south west of San Telmo with the river Matanza at its feet, and La Boca to the east. Considered by many to be a ‘risky area’, for me it combines aging splendour with the historic home of true Portenos.

Sabrina was strangely quiet when I phoned to pass on Maria Cristina’s directions for a meeting. Her matter-of-fact response had me questioning the whole plan, and in particular, which of us was really handling Moneypenny. These days, Sabrina’s bitterness often conceals her true feelings, and drawns a curtain of mistrust. “Fine”, she replied, “I will meet you there for I don’t want to suffer Raul’s driving after last time”, she added abruptly, referring to her rescue from Belgrano two years earlier.

Bar Los Laureles is located in Av Gral Iriate, deep in Barracas. It is one of the oldest bars in Buenos Aires, dating back to 1893, and is steeped in the traditions of politics and tango. It was here in 1940 that the famous tango singer Angel Vargas gathered and seduced his first followers. Well chosen by M, it is so distant from the Recoleta’s Embassy community as to be a safe, discreet and private meeting place.

“We could get there by taxi, Mr Bond, but it is doubtful that we will find a cab to bring us back”, said Raul, knowing of Barracas’ night time reputation. “I will get the Bentley out on Thursday”, he continued, drumming his garden-gloved fingers on the side his watering can. “We can bribe one of those cartonero kids to watch it for us”, he added with a grin.

20 & 21.
23 April 2018
In which Bond and Moneypenny keep their appointment


Mr Bond

As I exit the double doors of Palacio Haedo, I spot Raul waiting in the Bentley by the crossing on Av Santa Fe. In contrast to our last sortie to Peru 1826, I have dressed down, choosing a simple black shirt, casual chinos and a dab of cologne. Raul, as ever, sports his old gardening shirt and sun-beaten straw hat. Having arrived in good time for once, in the off-side seat sits Moneypenny, her cool slim legs crossed against the leather upholstery as she leans forward to kiss my cheek.

“Mr Bond, do we go to collect Senora Sabrina?”, Raul enquires. “No, she doesn’t trust your driving”, I retort with a grin that he spots in the rear view mirror. ”Bueno, let’s go”, he adds, feigning indifference. It is clear that Sabrina’s historic allure still retains some of its magic.

We head east in Marcelo Torcuado Alvear to 9 de Julio, then due south towards Av San Juan, beneath 25 de Mayo and into Barracas. I glance at Moneypenny. Tonight she is quiet and pensive. Gone - the incessant chatter and questions. In one way it is a relief to feel the summer evening silence; in another I am missing her youthful exuberance. Leaving the flyover at Herreras, Raul navigates the Bentley down Alvarado, left into Salom and two blocks later to Av Gral Iriate. Just beyond the railway arches we arrive at our destination, Bar Los Laureles.

As I nudge the door of the Bentley I hear the sound of Hugo Diaz on the evening air, and a small wheelchair containing a diminutive frame comes into view along Concalves Diaz. Raul nods in its direction, and slips a manila envelope under a wiper blade.

It is about to turn eight o’clock as we enter Laureles. Following Raul, I glance around the bar in search of Sabrina. As expected, she is already at our table by the window, her jet black hair catching the fading light. Lines to her face reveal a slight scowl.

“Don’t get up”, I quip, smiling down at her, which she ignores as she offers a cheek to both Moneypenny and Raul. “What kept you?”, she asks with sarcasm, remembering her last dash in the Bentley with Raul at the wheel.

Bar Los Laureles still bears its 1893 credentials, and some of its paintwork. It has not changed in 125 years. The waiters bequeath their jobs from father to son, so even their appearance remains reminiscent of years gone by. Tonight they clatter from table to table, polishing glasses and checking salt cellars, with the occasional instruction called from the bar.

At one such shout a young waiter rushes to the back of the restaurant to pull open a door leading from the kitchen. And ‘M’ appears in the room from behind the bar.

Wearing a light cape and cloche, there is no doubting Maria Cristina’s significance and status, yet somehow she seems at home here, just as she does everywhere. She removes her hat, shakes her blonde hair to her shoulders and folds a silk scarf in her gloved hands. At the same moment a departing motorcycle and side-car bearing government insignia growls past the front of the building, its single headlamp penetrating the gathering gloom.

“Good evening everyone”, she announces, glancing in turn at Sabrina, Raul and me. “Bond, are you recovered from your trip to the cemetery?”, she adds with a superior smile. At which she turns to Moneypenny and says, “how good to meet you at last, Miss Moneypenny; it has been a while since Recoleta”.

Moneypenny

‘It’s out of the question old girl”, he said to me, “You can’t go back. Lucia arrived as you left. It seems she has a key to Alvero’s apartment. Fortunately, she didn’t see you leave - her taxi was apparently blocked by a wheelchair”, he added with a smile.

Those were his instructions, which in one blow destroyed my original plan of returning to Alvaro’s with a handful of La Viruta’s famous medialunas and café con leche to convince him that we had just spent the night together - that we were working on the same side to ‘seduce’ Jay, each for their own purpose. Perhaps I could tell him that I ran off when I heard Lucia making her way into his apartment? I wonder how gullible he is…..I have the feeling that a little flattery and promise of money and sex will go a very long way with Alvero. I could also have disobeyed Bond, but as they say, ‘those that don’t follow instructions are often the most intolerant of disobedience’.

Anyhow, tonight is about meeting the mysterious ‘M’ for the first time. I have no idea how I should act. With Bond I know a little flirtation works allowing me to get away with almost anything, but this was going to be different, The silent card is probably the best one to play - speak only when spoken to, and see how things develop.

“Buenas tardes Miss Moneypenny”, says Raul as he holds open the rear door of the Bentley and I climb aboard. He calls me ‘Miss’ because he knows I hate being called ‘señora’. I’ve demanded that he call me by my first name, but he won’t hear of it.

“Buenas tardes Raul, es la primera vez en mi vida que alguien viene a buscarme con una Bentley, que suerte tengo!” I reply, and he smiles, appreciating my efforts to master Castillano.

We drive through the city towards Recoleta. Why would Bond have Raul pick me up first and then return for him, since Barracas is in my neck of the woods? Did he think I may be late, or worse, didn’t he trust me to come?

Bond gets into the car and gives me his usual up and down look; ‘Dress casually’, he had instructed, so I followed his example by sporting black shorts and a black sleeveless shirt. We look as if we’re going to a funeral or impersonating Yoko and John during their black phase.

Bond is silent, and I have no inclination for chit chat, so it suits me perfectly. I stare out the window as Raul swirls the Bentley through the avenidas and calles of Buenos Aires towards Barracas. These streets hold so many memories. I feel I’m watching the end of a Woody Allen film - scenes empty of people to a haunting violin that makes you question if it had all been a dream. Who I was when I came here first? The things which have happened since? I still can’t believe it at times…

I love Barracas. The best way to describe the barrio is that it’s ‘haunting’, ‘bewitching’ - grand old houses in large avenues that reveal a certain sadness about the city and it’s dwellers, a sadness with which I identify.

“We’re here, old girl,” Bond says, pulling me from my daydream. “Bar Los Laureles, you’re going to love it!”

It is as if we’ve stepped into the time capsule, or that the clock has been wound back 130 years. The walls are filled with pictures of famous historic clientele. Between the pictures, time has chipped away the paint. The checkered floors on which dancers sway to Gardel are cracked, yet it doesn’t seem to bother them. Waiters whisk from the cluttered bar to impatient customers carrying everything from bottles of wine to obscenely large pieces of meat.

Sabrina is seated in the far corner of the room, looking incredible as always. As we enter she looks up, ignores Bond, and beckons me. I feel vulnerable. For some unknown reason her presence here comforts me.

We kiss, take our seats and await the arrival of ‘M’.

22.
3 May 2018
In which Moneypenny meets and impresses ‘M’

Mr Bond

Looking back on it, I have rarely seen Moneypenny look more uncomfortable than when ‘M’ addressed her in the bar at Los Laureles. It was as if Moneypenny realised that her insatiable curiosity in entering the cemetery had sealed her fate.

She smiled limply and cast her eyes down in a coy way. Was this the real Moneypenny, or an act put on for Maria Cristina’s benefit? But a few nights ago Moneypenny had been quick to seize the initiative and suggest what could only be described as an outrageous plan to seduce Alvero and access Dr Richard Alvarez.

“Well, you are now with us, like it or not - and I have a little job for you”, ‘M’ continued.

Raul leaned back in his chair as a 1931 vinyl recording of ‘Amargamente’ from Orquesta Tipica Brunswick played in the background, and lights from a passing car flickered across the wall. A waiter slid a fresh bottle of high altitude Malbec onto the table, and I picked up the last piece of queso milanesa. Sabrina, seeking to rescue Moneypenny ventured, “It seems that she has already made a good start”.

“So, tell me about it”, said ‘M’ as she looked intently into Moneypenny’s eyes. “What have you been up to, chica?”

It was over an hour later that Maria Cristina picked up her scarf from her lap, pushed her blonde hair beneath her cloche hat and opened her handbag to retrieve her gloves. On doing so, a yellow light spun across the wall and a motorcycle turned outside the bar in Av Gral Iriate. A waiter, not hitherto noticed, stepped forward and led M the way she had entered, behind the counter, disappearing as quickly and unseen as she had arrived.

Raul whistled softly, ‘phew, Moneypenny, I would never have guessed you had it in you. How on earth did you work out that plan?”, added Sabrina, “you make Mr Bond look like an amateur!”

Never the master of the understatement, Sabrina was spot on for once - although in fairness neither Moneypenny nor I had shared with ‘M’ details of her reckless plan to return to Alvero’s apartment.

“I think another bottle of Sottano Judas Malbec 2012 is warranted”, I ventured, “no point in having the Ministry’s gold card and not making full use of it”, I added. Raul looked across disconsolate - driving the Bentley had its disadvantages. “So, let’s get a couple of bottles then Raul can enjoy his at his leisure”, I continued with a wry smile and a nod.

As we prepared to leave Moneypenny tipped her head to one side and glanced over to the small dance floor. “Oh I adore Di Sarli”, she slurred, “just one last dance”. After her tour de force earlier I could not deny her this trophy, so propping her against my arm, I led her to onto the pista. “I know the words, Bond, ‘Esta Noche Luna’, I know the words”, she repeated, and resting her head against my chest we danced as she sung,

“Acércate a mí y oirás mi corazón
Contento latir como un brujo reloj,
La noche es azul, convida a soñar
El cielo ha encendido su faro mejor.
Si un beso te doy, pecado no ha de ser
Culpable es la noche que incita a querer,
Me tienta el amor, acércate ya
El credo de un sueño, nos redimirá”.

Moments later, we stepped out into the cool night air. On leaving, the waiters slid the windows down along the front of the bar and shot the bolt on the doors. The sound of Di Sarli faded, to be replaced by Hugo Diaz’s ‘Mi Noche Triste’- receding from beneath the railway arches where I could just discern the glint of moonlight on the wheels of a chair.

Moneypenny

“I didn’t want you to end up here, it’s not too late to say no…..it’s not too late yet”, Sabrina whispers in my ear. I don’t have an answer for her, few are the times when I am at a loss for words and it seems this was one of them. At first, I thought it was fun running around the city following Bond; mysterious cemetery meetings, secret milonga parties, even sleeping with Alvaro didn’t bother me too much, but now… I have to prove myself, prove my worth towards something I’m not even sure I want to be a part of.

Suddenly, I feel Sabrina and Bond tense up as the bar doors open and a blonde woman. dressed in black, walks in. It’s the woman from the cemetery, it’s the illusive ‘M’.

“Good evening, James, Sabrina, Raul”, she says as she removes her hat and lets her golden hair cascade over the shoulders. “Now let’s see what the two of you have been up to”, she says with a smirk, addressing Bond and Sabrina casually avoiding me. She then turns her gaze towards me and adds: “You both left out how incredibly….what’s the word, not beautiful, beautiful is too plain, too generic, no not beautiful - but seductive she is. Although, I should hardly be surprised, I have known you for what over…..well let’s just say some years now haven’t I James?”. I assumed this was also eluding to how Sabrina got caught up with them.

“Indeed M, good of you to conceal the exact number of years”, Bond retorts with a smile. “Don’t flatter yourself Bond, I did it more for me, and because I simply can’t count that high!”, she responds with a burst of laughter.

“Now enough of this nonsense; Sabrina I trust that everything is in order”, she questions, giving Sabrina no chance to repond. “And now Moneypenny, James tells me you’re quite something, says you figured out the riddle we planted for you without too much difficulty, Bond himself would have taken years to solve it”, she says looking directly at me with her piercing eyes. “How did you do it?”

“Well, it was quite elementary”, I started. “James, I mean Bond, and Sabrina for that matter, always seem to speak in riddles, so I’ve had a fair amount of practice when it comes to deciphering things. I know Bond is fascinated by Argentine history so I knew it had to be a historical reference. And the rest just followed: brothers in arms, high the sky… had to be Peru or Lima up in the Andes; freed from the same shackles, had to be the year of independence, and then I realized it was an address”, I respond, trying to conceal my nerves.

“Impressive, and what did you think of the party my dear?” she asks, again looking directly into my eyes.

“I’m not sure what to think, the standard of tango wasn’t very good and the floor was too slippery - but the champagne and the orchestra were excellent. Other than that I have no opinion”, I retort.

“I like her”, she says to Bond, “she doesn’t venture to talk about what she doesn’t know. It’s a good quality. However, don’t take me for a fool, I know you have more to say than a comment on the type of polish Richard uses on his floor. I also know you took matters into your own little hands with Alvaro”, she adds with an inkling of criticism. “ So tell me, what have you been up to, chica? What was your plan that you so boldly took on by yourself?”

I wasn’t sure what to answer her. I hadn’t really thought things through properly, I had just acted, I couldn’t tell her that though. “Well, I thought that the most direct way to Richard, assuming Richard is our target, is through his lover. Margaretta is clearly useless in this area, so the most obvious choice is Jay, which gives me at least one degree of separation from Richard should anything happen. But I thought Jay wouldn’t be too easily swayed by me, he’s a profiteer and I had nothing to offer him. It could make him doubt my motives for getting close to him. I needed something else to spark his interest. And then it came to be, who would do almost anything for a little fame and glory? Alvaro is perfect, he’s beautiful and fairly stupid. Not to mention that the man is obsessed with himself; a little flattery of his ego goes a very long way. Thus, I wanted to ‘seduce’ him and convince him that he and I had a lot to gain from a connection with Richard. I made up some cockamamie story about my dreams of being a tango dancer and how he and I could benefit from Richard’s connections around the world. How, by infiltrating his inner circle, by infiltrating Jay, we could have it all. Alvaro is too stupid and too preoccupied with moisturizing his chest to put two and two together”, I respond almost surprised at how easily the words flooded from my lips.

‘M’ smiles, pulls her hat down and slips her gloves on her slim hands. “That’ll do for now”, she replies, “don’t do anything else until you’re told to”. “James, Sabrina I trust the two of you can work together on this”. Just as she got up, a waiter arrived, picked up the glass from which she had been sipping her Malbec and led her away. Not a trace of her was left behind, even her napkin had disappeared.

The four of us just stood there in silence as James opened another bottle of Malbec. “Don’t say anything, put your shoes on and go dance”, Sabrina instructs me.

As soon as I manage to hook my shoes strap on, after struggling with it as usual, Bond cabeceo’s me and swooshes me away to the dance floor. We dance to one of my all time Pugliese favorites as moonlight beams in through the windows of Bar Las Laureles.

23.
In which Moneypenny starts to think about her future

Mr Bond

Sabrina’s resolve not to travel with Raul at the wheel of the Bentley evaporated in the evening air, impelled no doubt by the prospect of locating a taxi at this time of night, and I suspect, a desire to reassure Moneypenny whose hand she held as they slid into the rear seat. Once underway through the darkened calles of Barracas I heard a sigh from Moneypenny, but otherwise our journey silent, but for the clinking of Raul’s bottle of Malbec as it rolled in the boot.

Back at my Recoleta apartment I found my mind turning over the evening’s events, and the need to sleep seemed secondary to the desire for a single malt and the chance to think. My old arm chair beckoned from the terrace, and that is where I found myself, with moonlight glinting through a bottle of Talisker, and Cleo the cat arching gently against my leg.

Recoleta, so busy and bustling during the day, settles into a state of suspended animation at night, only the tops of tall trees in Plaza San Martin showing signs of a breeze. In the distance, unseen and almost unheard, the sound of a taxi as it turns into Santa Fe, and nearer, the beat of wings from a startled dove as it settles in a Jacaranda tree below the terrace.

‘Moneypenny is certainly a strange fish’, I think to myself. She played M like a professional. With each question and at every turn of the conversation she seemed ahead of the game. There was clearly more to Moneypenny than first appeared. Maria Cristina must have logged her consummate performance. Was it too good to be true? With this plan, M was about to allow Moneypenny, a relative stranger, inside access to our plans and concerns regarding Dr Richard Alvarez and his dealings. This could amount to a very dangerous strategy.

Returning from the terrace to the study, I pull out my old Olympia typewriter and wind in a sheet of plain paper -

‘M, I have worries about Moneypenny. She seems to know precisely what we want before we do - it is as if she has been briefed - but not by me. I think we need to meet, and maybe do a few more checks (unless you have another plan)’.

Folding the sheet into a brown envelope, I leave it in the rack for Raul and, pouring myself another malt, retire to bed for the few hours that remain before morning.

It has been light for a couple of hours when I wake to the sound of Rosa the maid clattering in the kitchen.

“It’s alright, Rosa, I am awake. How about coffee?”, I say, trying to smile and look vaguely refreshed. Raul has already collected the envelope and left a stack of morning papers on the table, just flown in from London. Down below, I hear the clack of lattice doors and the bump of a wheelchair as it negotiates its way out of the lift.

As I finish reading the last Times obituary, the telephone rings.
“Bond, are you up yet”, comes the voice. “You up for lunch? I’m starving. That shared milanesa last night was not enough to feed a mouse”.

“Moneypenny; good of you to ask how I am doing”, I reply facetiously. “So, what about Convento San Ramon Nonato in Calle Reconquista?”, I suggest, feeling the need for proper food. “You know where it is, I take it”, I inquire. “Isn’t it behind the Bank of Argentina or somewhere?”, she replies with a vagueness that is in stark contrast to last night. “Yes, I think I know it. Meet midday on the steps? Oh, and how are you today, Bond?”, she adds, “Have you recovered from the effects of all that Malbec?”

As I replace the receiver I hear the sound of a click on the line. It is faint, but clear. ‘We were not alone in that conversation’, I think to myself, and my mind returns to the turmoil of the previous night.


Moneypenny

“You did well tonight, just like I expected you to”, Sabrina utters while pouring me a cup of jasmine tea. “All I did was follow your advice”, I retort. “I just don’t want you to get sucked in the way I did, you need to watch out for yourself; make sure you have a safety net; because once they no longer need you, you’ll be left with nothing but a pair of fancy shoes and a lifetime of secrets”, she adds. “I’m still not really sure what all of this is, but are we doing the right thing?”, I attempt to ask, hoping she’ll give me something more concrete to go on.

“There is no right and wrong, no good or bad really, peace and safety are assured by one thing and one thing only, balance, no one can have absolute power, it would ruin us all, even if intentions are good, are they rarely are, it wouldn’t work. But that’s enough for now, have your tea and go sleep in the guest room”, she replies, not giving the information I was hoping for, but I know tonight, a cup of hot tea is the only favour she’ll grant me.

Sleep wasn’t on the agenda tonight it would seem, the events of the evening just kept playing over and over in my head, like a broken record; Richard…. Infiltrate….secrets... Alvaro….working together… working for what.. Balance of power...? For whom? Once ‘M’ left, silence dominated our a table, not one superfluous word was spoken; Bond just smiled and twirled me about the very uncomfortable dance floor and Sabrina sat there in a deep ponder, sipping her Malbec.

If I were reading a novel, I wouldn’t be able to put it down at this stage, but now when everything seems to be materialising and playing out exactly according to plan; all I seem to want to do is run away…. My usual reaction.

I wonder what Alvaro must have thought when he woke up to find me missing, I shouldn’t have listened to Bond and I should have gone back like I had intended, what did it matter that Lucia went there? Why did she matter in any of this anyway?

I look over to the dresser and notice the outside light hitting the side of my silver Comme il Faut’s, casting a beam of light onto my bed; my shoes are calling me and their call is much stronger than the call of sleep.

I get up, put on some jeans, grab my shoes and discreetly make my way out of the apartment, if hurry I can make it for the first batch of media lunas at La Viruta.

24.
In which Bond gets a telephone call and takes a trip

Mr Bond

Dawn over Recoleta. The sun barely catches the tops of the trees, gold fronds flickering on a morning breeze. Beneath in the gardens of San Martin the cartoneros wake from their benches and leaning against their trolleys await their timber-framed truck to carry away a haul of cardboard and plastic.

Here in my apartment the telephone rings. I stir and reach out for the receiver. “Mr Bond, you are needed in London”, says the voice, “there will be an envelope for you in the post room by first delivery”, the voice continues, and the phone goes dead.

I do not recognise the voice. It is certainly neither a familiar M nor Q. It is of a deeper timbre, British, with a military edge. Walking to the windows, I gaze out onto the square in time to see a small wheelchair disappear behind the statue of Jose Francisco de San Martin.

As the coffee pot comes to heat, Raul raps his distinctive knock on the apartment door. “This has just come for you, Mr Bond”, he proclaims as he enters closely followed by Cleo the cat, “it is marked urgent and confidential, so I thought I would bring it up straight away”.

The manila envelope is clearly MOD, and the typeface typical of the department. Slitting it open with my silver penknife, I find inside a single flight pass to RAF Northolt London, together with travel instructions to Whitehall. There are no further details. The message could not be clearer...or more obscure.

Flying the long route via the RAF station on Ascension Island, the military aircraft touches down in a grey north west London as early morning light struggles through a deep blanket of cold cloud. I wheel my small overnight case through the bare reception area and touch in to confirm my arrival. My designated car - no 67 driven by my favourite driver Mireille, who for over twenty years has collected me from airfields around Britain. “Bonjour, James”, she greets, her French Canadian accent still joyously vibrant. “So, Mireille, no gold watch, you haven’t retired yet?”, I reply, winking a bleary eye. “How dare you suggest that I might be so old”, she rejoins, “Get in the car and let’s quit this dump”. With that, probably to make a point, she seizes my case, throws it onto the back seat, shakes her blonde-grey hair and slips into the drivers side.

South Ruislip passes quickly as we join the A40 and on to the raised Westway. A morning London streams past like a silent film, overlayed only by passing small-talk. “How are the cats, MIreille? How are Richard and Paul doing with the allotment?”, I ask, stifling a yawn and thinking about coffee. “Will you be going back to Buenos Aires?”, she asks eventually. “It depends why I have been pulled out”, I reply, “You never know with the powers-that-be, they rarely tell you anything unless you need to know, and it seems, presently I don’t. I reckon they get off on their surprises”.

With road works and a diversion the 43 minute journey has taken nearly an hour. On the roofs of Whitehall the early light is still thin. A double kiss from Mirelle and she is gone. The corridors of MI5 await. “It’s going to be a long day’, I say to myself as I divert towards the canteen.

“Hey Bond”, comes a call, “what are you doing back? I thought you had gone for good. How’s the tango?”

Q smiles but looks faintly ridiculous. A container clipped to his belt sways as he simulates a tango gancho. “Ah, do you like it Bond? It’s my new design for a hands-free, non-spill cup. You see - no hands. And it tastes much better than the biodegradable cardboard ones they dish out here”, he adds.

“Have you any idea what’s going on, Q?”, I ask. One minute I am dancing tango in San Telmo; the next I am on that dreadful plane back to blighty”. “Not a clue, Bond, but why would they tell me unless they wanted something from me? And at the moment, old boy, it seems my time is filled with inventing cups”.

I am now waiting in the anteroom, the smell of fresh lilies and furniture polish competing with the receptionist’s cologne. “They will see you now”, says Tom, adding “you can leave the case here if you wish Mr Bond”. I recognise this as the voice on the phone from London as I walk towards the mahogany doors.

Behind the table sits a panel of three. “M is worried about you, Bond. It’s the usual problem”, the chair begins. “This girl - what’s her name - the one you seem to have been spending time with in Buenos Aires”.

The department always start this way. Disarmingly probing. Catching off-guard. Straight to a point - but not necessarily the point. “So, tell us about your new tango life and this...whatever-her-name is?”.

“Bond, we have her under surveillance, you know. According to M she seems to be close to retired agent S - that Sabrina woman who worked with you on ‘les desaparecidos’. “Didn’t you have a thing with her, Bond?”, a wing member questions.

“Well, we are concerned about Sabrina as it seems she has rekindled her friendship with Dr Richard Alvarez. Did you know about this, Bond?”. We have been following her to a regular meeting place - what is it now…”. My principal interrogator tails off as she shuffles through a file of papers. “Ah, yes, Peru 1824 in Constitucion”.

“I think you mean Peru 1826, Barracas”, don’t you?”, I reply. “That is where he and his Peruvian lover Jay spend their time”. “But I thought Sabrina was still on side from what M told me”, I added inquiringly.

“It seems not. She may have been compromised”, the third member explains. “Which also means that we are worried about this girl. According to M she knows too much. We need to know that she is on side - or not”, he adds ominously.

“We are keeping you here in London for the next ten days whilst we run a few more checks. Then we will fly you back to Buenos Aires in time for your next tango lesson”, the lead continues. “You can go now, Bond. Enjoy your holiday”.

With that, I close the door behind me, pick up my case from Tom and head off towards my tiny apartment in Ormond Yard, St James. I cut across St James’ Park under a line of plane trees and reflect back on Sabrina’s responses and Moneypenny’s recent transformation. ‘Maybe they have a point’, I say to myself as I slip my key into the outdoor latch and climb the stairs to Flat B.

25.
In which Moneypenny takes a break

Moneypenny

I head towards 9 de Julio, jump into the first taxi I see and head to towards Palermo, where the night was still relatively young.

We arrive in front of the Armenian cultural center, with my mind constantly wandering, taking me back in the events which occurred earlier this evening, I almost forget to pay the driver. “Perdon” I tell him as I dash out.

I run down the stairs and accidentally collide with someone: “Perdon”, I blurt out a second time.

Standing before me is Adrianna. “You really must learn to be careful, you could have hurt one of us!”, she admonishes, “but I guess that’s not important to you is it, as long as you can get downstairs fast enough to get the best tandas!” she adds.

I wish I had run into anyone else but her right now. She is accompanied by Lucia and this little mishap of mine will no doubt give them something to complain about for the rest of the evening.

“I am very sorry, it was reckless of me”, I say apologetically and then turn towards her and say: “Oh, Adrianna, I wanted to tell you, I saw Alvaro at De Querusa the other night” I stare over at Lucia and try to gauge a reaction from her, any sign of discomfort on her part, “and he couldn’t stop talking about you” I add.

“Really!” she responds excitedly in a high-pitched voice like a hyena. “Yes, he’s quite fond of you…..says you’re very kind and elegant. He says you remind him of his mother, which, I’m sure is quite the compliment; you know how these porteños are, everything is about their mothers. Must be why they like breasts so much. Wouldn’t you say Lucia?” I add with a smirk, they’re both going to hate me.

“Our table is ready, we will see you inside” Adrianna responds grabbing Lucia by the shoulder and rushing away from me.

I hadn’t expected them to be here tonight, especially not arriving at this hour. Was La Viruta some sort of secret meeting place for undercover agents? Are Adrianna and Lucia involved in this somehow? Or am I just becoming paranoid.

The smells of fresh coffee and medialunas fills the air; the dance floor is starting to empty out; dancers are slowly removing their shoes to give their aching feet a little break. I sit in the far corner, where Bond usually sits, even in his absence I seem to gravitate towards him. I lean over to put on my shoes and barely manage to tie my left strap when I feel a gently caress on my right shoulder: “Quieres bailar?” He asks, in that porteño accent I could never resist. “Si” I respond without hesitation; not only is he very handsome, but it’s a Troilo tanda.

I gently lean into him as we start to synchronize our bodies and slowly move in-tune with the dos por quatro tango compas. I close my eyes and abandon myself completely to him and to our tanda; I want to empty my mind of everything and just enjoy this moment; enjoy his subtle perfume, his firm support as we move around the dance floor, the feel of his hand almost caressing my back; I want to forget everything else that has happened tonight. After the first tango, we simply stay in close embrace and sway from left to right without saying a word, waiting for the next tango to start.

“Gracias” he says after the tanda is over. “Gracias a vos” I respond, “I want to go I think” I say looking directly into his eyes. “Ok let’s go then” he responds without hesitation. So we leave La Viruta grabbing 2 medialunas on our way out.

-----------------------------------------

I slowly unlock the front door, I’m sure she’s out, it’s market day; she nevers sleeps in on Sundays. I wonder if she noticed my absence this morning. The house is empty, I quickly grab my things from the night before and drop off a note on her bed stand before making my way out.

I need time to think, I’m going to Bolivia to clear my mind. Don’t worry about me I’ll be fine, I’ll be back in 10 days. Don’t tell Bond.
Take care of you
Love
MP

26.
In which Bond is told of Moneypenny’s defection

Mr Bond

Bright Sunday morning light streams through cream blinds at Ormond Yard, London WC1. BBC Radio 4 burbles from the bedroom. Across St James’s park, Westminster Abbey’s peal of ten bells rings for a Royal birthday.

Wearing my Lock & Co cream Montecristi Panama I take the back stairs to the yard and head out via Jermyn Street towards Piccadilly. It is now 11.30 am and one of Fortnum and Masons’ late breakfasts seems the perfect option. The street is freshly licked after a night time downpour.

Passing Princes Arcade a motorcycle pulls against the kerb ahead of me. The rider turns, “James, I have been told to give you this”. Beneath the open helmet I recognise the face. “Stephen Madden”, I exclaim, “what on earth are you doing here - and where did you get the bike?”. “I’m supposed to be on Operation Rainbow- you know, gangs and CT, and all that - but they have lent me this from the Diplomatic Protection Group to track you down. Apparently, I am the last living officer who can recognise you, old thing”, he replies with a grin, his bushy moustache widening across his face. “Got to dash the bike back to Battersea, so can’t join you and your fancy hat at the Ritz, old boy”, he adds, and with that, roars away into the Piccadilly traffic towards Hyde Park Corner.

I glance down at the file. A large Post-it note is placed across the seal. ‘Meet Rivoli Bar, Ritz’, it says.

‘Work has a habit of getting in the way of breakfast’, I mutter to myself, reflecting on a vanishing image of perfectly served Fortnum & Mason venison sausages. ‘But Rivoli’s Martinis are the best in the world’, I add almost out loud, and quicken my pace down Piccadilly towards the Ritz.

From the colonnade I turn into the ordinary doorway leading to the Rivoli bar and reflect on its difference from the wide stairway to the Alvear in Buenos Aires. As I enter I instinctively glance about the foyer to look for Moneypenny, but here is but a passing group of American business women and a two Japanese tourists that appear to bowing for some reason. Beyond however, from the Rivoli bar, I hear a voice that I recognise. “Bond, Bond, over here”, he calls.

Hammond rises to his full height and beams a smile. “That didn’t take you long, James”, he adds. “And this is Paul. He is here to check up on us both!”, he exclaims with a laugh.

The contrast could not be greater. The man seated is dressed in a black polo shirt, casual trousers and is clean shaven. He nods a greeting but remains silent. Richard Hammond, however, is larger than life, charismatic and flamboyant, his unruly hair pulled back into a tight Argentine bob, a faint suggestion of mascara emphasising his long eyelashes.

“Well James, it seems that you have managed to upset everyone from here to Buenos Aires”, he continues. “Have you checked out the file?”.

Only then do I realise that I am in fact returning the file to its sender. “Madden has only just dropped it off with me outside Fortnum’s”, I rejoin, “what’s it about?”.

“It appears that your floozie is making waves. Bond, these women will always be your downfall; you really should change your proclivities”, he replies with a laugh and a nod towards Paul for support, “anyway, aren’t you too old for all of this tango nonsense?”, he adds.

“If you mean Moneypenny, she’s not a floozie - mine or anyone else’s”, I reply defensively. “What has happened now?”.

“Look in the file, James, look in the file”, Hammond replies. “But perhaps before you do, a glass of Campari?”. “Make that a dry Martini, shaken not stirred”, I reply, and settle back into the deep upholstery of the Rivoli Lounge with the file.

Unfastening the string from the circular seal, I peer inside. The first page is a photograph of Moneypenny at Ezeiza airport, beneath which is another showing her arrival at El Alto International airport in El Paz, Bolivia. In the third photograph, she is being greeted by Dr Richard Alvarez, with Jay at his side holding his favourite Chihuahua, ‘Chico’.

“Do I need to go further in this file?”, I ask with a heavy feeling. “Sorry, Bond, maybe not. It doesn’t get any better”.

“So that is what Moneypenny is up to”, I grunt. “Does M know about this?”.

“M has asked me and Paul to fly to El Alto this afternoon. We have been given an official invitation to his party tomorrow night, which by all accounts should be fun”. “And we have been instructed to fetch Moneypenny back before she can do any more damage”.

For the first time, Paul speaks. “James, has it occurred to you what a nuisance you are becoming? Here take this”, and hands me a key. “What on earth is it for?”, I question. He smiles, ‘Stay out of trouble, Bond. It’s for the gate to the allotment, and you are on tomato watering duty whilst we are cleaning up the mess you have made”, he retorts.

Hammond seizes the file from my grasp and flashes a smile. Paul nods as he rises to leave. “The drinks are on M’s tab, James”, he adds, “so if I were you, I would stay for another”.

27.
In which Bond goes on the run

Mr Bond

Ashley brings another perfect Martini, slides it across my table, and I realise that Hammond has signed the drinks to M’s tab as he left. I look down at the single key in my hand and my mind drifts off to bowls of strawberries, canes of raspberries and warm, ripe tomatoes.

My next image is of Richard Hammond and the mysterious Paul snaring Moneypenny as she races ahead through the Amazon jungle, or more likely in some seedy back street of Santa Cruz de la Sierra. I think to myself, ‘perhaps Hammond will write to me and I can share his adventure with you?’

The Martini is cool on my lips as I close my eyes to enjoy the moment.

Thirty minutes later I am again in Piccadilly, walking towards the Circus. It is now too late for breakfast and a tad too early for lunch. In any event, two Martinis have taken the edge off my appetite, and as I stroll I conjecture what lays ahead. After so long in Buenos Aires, London seems both tame, and remote. With no desk nor Moneypenny at the Ministry - not even a locker - I felt like an intruder. I sense that my connection with the capital is fading.

The panel was quite clear in their intention, “We are keeping you here in London for the next ten days whilst we run a few more checks”. Ten days...and then what? What if Hammond fails in his mission to locate Moneypenny? For how long will I be held here in Westminster? After only 24 hours, Ormond Yard is starting to feel like a prison. Another shower blows across as I reach Regent Street. ‘It is time to pack a bag’, I say to myself as I cut down Church Place and track back through Jermyn Street.

“Mireille, can you meet me at the apartment? Oh, and book the car out for routine maintenance - don’t for heaven’s sake mention my name”. Replacing the receiver I slip a few toiletries into my bag, a clean shirt and my flying jacket. I pick up the Panama, noticing the key hidden beneath the brim, and slip it into my pocket. I slam the apartment door and descend the stairs. ‘Like old times’, I mutter to myself and cross into the shade of the yard to await the car.

“James, what on earth are you up to now”, she greets, grabbing my leather bag and eyeing my Panama with suspicion. “Can you get me to Tilbury without hitting the radar?”, I ask, “I have a ship to catch”.

We head out towards Poplar and then onto the A13, turning south towards Chadwell St Mary, and then to the docks. “Alors, James, are you really up to this?”, questions Mireille, “you are not as young as you used to be. How long will it take you to get there?”. “If I reach Barcelona by Tuesday, it will be 22 nights, all being well”. “And if not, James?”.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the key. “If not, Mireille, I’m afraid you will have to be on allotment duty instead of me. Don’t forget to water the pumpkin”. With that, I swing from the passenger seat, grabbing my bag from the footwell, and head out towards a tall figure wearing a fluorescent jacket at the check in booths.

28.
Welcome aboard Mr Bond
Mr Bond

“Stephen, well done for getting this sorted”, I say. Before me, a marked BMW 1200 RT at his side stands Madden with a collection of travel vouchers in his gloved hand. “Bond, are you sure about this?”, he replies, “it will just be a matter of hours before they realise you have gone”.

“But they won’t know how”, I add, feeling slightly smug. “The last thing they will suspect is a cargo ship. Shortly I will simply be lost at sea. The crew speak Filipino and internet is patchy. Checks at Ezeiza and Jorge Newbery airports will all draw a blank”.

“But they will guess that you are to return to Buenos Aires - for Moneypenny and for tango”, he adds, sounding rather ridiculous. “James, keep your head down, or mine too will be on the block”.

Madden, who without the gelco jacket would pass for an extra from a 1940’s Hollywood film, flashes his usual smile. “Have a good trip, Bond, and don’t fall overboard”, he adds jocularly, before thrusting the vouchers into my hand and pulling his helmet over his voluminous moustache.

Ahead of me is the departures booth. Inside a grey faced dock official with a Sudanese accent checks the booking and waves me through with a nod. Beyond, I walk the long trek towards the ‘Hanjin Buenos Aires’, weighing in at 35,595 tons, 225 metres in length and flying a Maltese flag.

Tillbury docks are designed for vehicular access. Nobody ever walks, save the Chief Officers and crew that descend from the bridge to direct large freight boarding a vessel. It seems like half a mile, made arduous by another flurry of rain that lashes the sides of docked ships as I pass. Eventually, I reach the Hanjin. Dusk is gathering, and the last of the evening’s cargo is being backed onto the lower decks. A bearded officer waves in my direction, and I head towards where he is standing. “NIck Compton, Chief Officer”, he says cheerily, “and who might you be?”, he enquires. “MIght you just be Major Bond - James Bond, one of our two passengers?”, he adds knowingly. “Step aboard. Dinner is at 8 pm. Join me at Captain’s table if I get back in time”, he continues. “Got to get these Range Rovers stacked. Oh, and Madden is my cousin - he has told me about you, but don’t worry, you are safe with us. Nobody ever checks the manifest”.

Tonight there is to be no piping aboard, just a glare from a galley steward carrying a box of provisions on the mid-deck. I search along the long white corridor for a door bearing the number 007 on my boarding voucher.

A fluorescent light staggers into life revealing a small cabin with two bunks. Opposite is a fixed desk leading to a wardrobe and functional, airless bathroom. I pull open a drawn curtain to reveal the view - a long line of red blue and green containers. Somewhere below, engines hum gently producing a constant low level vibration. I throw the Panama onto the bottom bunk and place my travel bag on the chair. ‘That’s me unpacked’, I say to myself, wondering whether this was my best idea.

On the desk a folder marked ‘PASSENGER INSTRUCTIONS’ bulges ominously. The first few sheets start ‘In the event of….’followed by a major catastrophe identified in capitals, with line drawings of stick-men jumping into lifeboats. The translation appears to have been undertaken by the Filipino chef, as is the sample menu which is decorated with lurid photos of Adobo and Dinuguan garnished with mint and green chillies. Fortunately there are some recognisable dishes, at least according to the text.

It has been the longest Sunday, and eyeing the pack of cheese and tomato sandwiches that Mireille had dropped into my jacket pocket before leaving, I decide that I will skip dinner. Somewhere in my bag I have a bottle of Talisker single malt. Now all I need is the plastic cup from the bathroom and ‘dinner is served’.

29.
In which Moneypenny can’t seem to get away

Moneypenny

“Flight 627 to Buenos Aires is ready for boarding, all first class passengers may commence boarding” the speakers resonate as I start to make my way towards gate A37.

I board the plane and get comfortable in my front row seat, seat 1A, courtesy of my unexpected tour guide, whom I ‘accidentally’ bumped into when I arrived in La Paz almost three weeks ago. As the flight attendant serves me my glass of ‘champagne’ I gaze out the window and try to make sense of everything that’s happened in the past month.

I left Buenos Aires, desperate to get away from it all; from Sabrina’s watchful eyes; Bond’s overbearing advice; M evaluating me like I was some piece of real estate; I felt, I feel I should say, like everyone’s puppet. I had hoped that La Paz would give me the distance I needed to decide what to do, little did I know that I’d be leaving even more confused than when I arrived.I barely had enough time to pick up my over-sized backpack when I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder; I turned around and there he was: “How lovely to bump into to you here my dear”, he uttered, “Had I known you were coming to my homeland, I would have planned a proper welcoming party”, he continued.

“Richard! What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were Bolivian”, I blurted out, a little incredulously, to which he answered that his mother (to the great disappointment of his father’s aristocratic ‘white European’ family) was Bolivian and that he had spent many childhood summers in the altiplano of his motherland.

“Are you here, to visit family?” I continued. “No, I am here on business, in fact if you’re interested I would love to show you around my country. Let me show you what Bolivia is, the beauties of its land and of its people. Surely, Miss Moneypenny, you can’t refuse such a tempting offer”, he said very confidently.

What was he talking about? Travel with him? Had he followed me here? Why couldn’t I get a moment’s peace! At the same time, I was a little curious and I felt that Richard would not settle for a no, no matter what excuse I would come up with.

“A tempting offer by your own account, why should I be tempted to accept you?” I retorted with a smile.

“Fair enough, but you won’t know until you try, and besides from the looks of that backpack, you don’t have any fixed plans, so why not give me chance? A few days is all I ask, if you’re not pleased you can go, what do you have to lose?”

30.
Bond at sea

Mr Bond

I wake. A thin spear of light slopes to the corner of my bare cabin. The engines hum, but the sea is calm and the motion gentle. My eyes take time to adjust to daylight as I pull the curtains to reveal the line of containers. Standing aloft, a seagull gazes through my spray drenched window.

The ‘Instructions’ on my desk designated breakfast between 0800 and 0900 hrs. It is already 8.40 am. I skip the shave and walk the white steel corridor towards the galley dining room. A door to my right bangs in a 19 knot headwind.

The galley is deserted. Along one side the steward has arranged stainless steel trays over a huge bain-marie. I select two thin sausages and a spoonful of drying scrambled egg, thinking back to the missed brunch at Fortnum and Mason. As I slot two pieces of brown bread in the commercial toaster it springs to life.

Across the room a door opens and Cpt Compton enters followed by a miniature Schnauzer. His little dog trots over to where I am standing and Compton grins “look out for your sausages Bond, mi pero is rather fond of them”.

“So who’s driving the ship?”, I question, hoping that humour will conceal my fragility. “It mostly does not need driving, Bond, it knows it’s own way once we are out of the channel”, he replies with a guffaw. “Right now the galley steward is probably practicing his driving skills”, he continued, “Let’s hope he is better at steering than he is at cooking breakfast”. “Come, let’s sit together”.

Nick Compton has the appearance of a man who has been at sea for a lifetime and a half. Although far from old - somewhere in his early fifties, he has assumed the mantle of an aged sea dog, his forehead creased by sun and rain, his springy beard showing traces of grey. He is not merely master of his ship, but master of the seas, crossing and re-crossing the Atlantic on a route that will take us through the Straits of Gibralta to Barcelona for our next landing, then down the Spanish coast via Valencia, Algeciras to Tangiers - and across the Atlantic to Salvador de Bahia in Brazil. From there we are to travel south via Itaguai, Santos Itapoa and finally on to Buenos Aires.

It seems that Compton has been employed by the same ship owner for most of his sea-going life. He tells me that his Chief Engineer is Romanian, and the rest of the crew are wiry Filopinos. “They learn quickly”, he adds, “we Europeans are a dying breed on the ships. It won’t be long before we are history”.

“So, Bond, what brings you here?”, he says after a silence.”Madden tells me that you are on the run”.

“No, not quite, simply fleeing old blighty and the MI5 cabal”, I reply, “I don’t think the Ministry wanted me to return to Argentina, but I have unfinished business there”.

“Nuff said”, he replies, giving me a quizzical smile and a nod. “Well, here you are safe, Bond. This ship’s cargo is full of secrets”. “Join me on the bridge when you are at a loose end”, he adds, “we might need you on our three officer rota”.

With that, Cpt Compton drops a sausage into the Schnauser’s open teeth, and rises to leave. The door bangs noisily behind him, leaving a silence that is interrupted only by the creaks and vibrations up from the engine room. I stack the plates and carry them to the servery. The coffee is bitter and stewed. Perhaps tomorrow, I should ensure I am down for 8.00 am on the dot.

Outside the sea is still calm, but a sharp wind blows spume up to the lower decks down below. I fasten my flying jacket tight and walk a full 278 metres of green painted top deck, cutting around stacks of containers arranged like lego bricks, the uppermost covered by tarpaulins, some buzzing with refrigeration fans, all lashed together by a lattice of steel ropes. At the stern, propellers weighing 98 tons drive the ship at 20 nots, powered by 42,000 horsepower midship engines that stand over three storeys and consume 90 tons of fuel per hour at normal speed. At the bow, the sea is torn into a ragged white tissue of small waves. Seabirds wheel, and in the distance other vessels progress like tiny snails.

It is going to be a long voyage. I turn and head back to my cabin. As I approach, I hear the door catch click. I need not struggle for my key for the door is ajar. Inside, the cabin is deserted, save for an object dropped onto the bottom bunk. ‘The Quest for the Embrace’ by Benzecry Saba - it reads. ‘Who on earth could have left this?’, I ask myself, ‘And why?’


31.
In which Moneypenny gets more than she bargained for

Moneypenny

What did I have to lose really? I had made no real plans, I just bought the ticket, threw a few things in my backpack and ran away...just as I always seem to do.

“Let Hugo here take your bag and we will board my plane shortly, Jay is already there waiting”, he said to me. “Board your plane? But I... I mean, where are we going?”, I managed to mutter.

“I’m taking you to Potosi, to visit the mines and then we can go to my house in Sucre, we have a party tomorrow night and your presence will be greatly appreciated, not to mention your tangera talents”, he responded and just like that we were off.

The next day, Richard took me into the famous Cerro Rico of Potosi, while Jay went to Sucre to prepare for the big event the following day.

I could see how serious Richard was about showing me the mines, something told me that he had more than just a friendly tour on his mind. “Miss Moneypenny, I am honoured to have you here with me. Let me ask you, what do you know about the history of Bolivia?” he started. “I suppose what most people know, beautiful lands, many riches, the Incas and then, of course, the sad story of colonisation”, I responded.

“Yes sad indeed. Bolivia, along with Peru, was once the jewel of south america, with a mighty civilisation whose creations and technological discoveries were so advanced, that the neanderthals of Europe were too ignorant to even recognise, let alone understand. The Incas thought the Spanish were sent by the Gods when they first arrived on their mighty horses waving their bibles in one hand and concealing their daggers in the other. The biggest mistake the Incas made was trying to create relations with the foreign coloniser instead of attempting to destroy them from the very beginning. The spaniards brought disease and death; they reaped this land of every resource it had; enslaved, killed and brainwashed its people to the point where even today, the indigenous feel inferior to their white counterparts. Had those fools taken one minute to try to understand what the people here were capable of, had they invested in the land…. Well let’s just say it would be a different world today. Potosi was once the richest city in the world, the envy of Paris and London and look at it today? A waste land with a increasingly ill population” he began telling me. “Yes Spanish colonisation was very violent, colonisation in general I guess but it’s time to move forward isn’t it? Surely we can’t linger on a thing of the past forever?” I remarked, not knowing what else to say.

“A thing of the past? Oh no my dear, colonisation is still very much happening today, it’s simply done under a different guise. The Spanish were barbarian imbeciles indeed, bleeding this land dry, like a hungry vampire; and for what? To invest in Spain? To develop it’s motherland? No, they did it in order to buy pretty things for Spain’s rich and famous; they didn’t put a penny back into their own country let alone their ‘backwards’ colony. Idiots, all of them, but I’ll tell you who d did get rich from the colonies and from the stupidity of the Spanish, (and are still getting rich today); those who understood that richness was not only to be found in gold and silver but in industry, in technology, in monopolies, in creating commodity goods that everyone wanted. Did you know that every slave in south america wore clothes fabricated in the UK? The ships which traded human flesh for precious metals, bore the emblem of the English crown. Shipbuilding, heavy metal industry, universities, education, industry….. that’s how you make a country rich, and of course by keeping those who provide for you poor and ignorant not to mention imposing taxes and monopolies. You have to give it to the English, they knew what they were doing. The English let the Spanish and Portuguese do the dirty work and the benefitted from their newfound riches. Gold, silver, diamonds, metals only transited through Spain and Portugal, it was in England that they found a home. The English provided Spain and Portugal and their colonies with everything, down to bricks to make their sidewalks. Have you ever heard of anything so absurd, bringing pavement from the UK to build the streets of Buenos Aires! Bolivia is the world’s biggest metal exporter and we don’t have so much as one tin can fabricated here, and this has always been the case. The English and their American cousins, buy our raw materials cheap and, after lobbying our spineless governments, sell us back their finished good with a 10 000% profit margin. And our governments just sit by and watch from their 5 star hotels rooms, sipping Dom Pérignon, while our people starve or die a of slow asphyxiation. Pigs, all of them!” he shouted.

“I’m very sorry this has happened to your country, I don’t know what else to say” I said. “Thank you my dear, but don’t worry, this will all change, they will all pay, and somehow you’re apart of this plan. The English have their eye on you, they’re smart, I won’t take that away from them. But come now, let us visit the mines so you can see for yourself” he added gently pushing me into the dark tunnels of the ‘rich mountain’.

The mines were dark and cold, a permanent haze of dust followed us and we made our way deep into the mountain. He walked by workers, old and young alike, were buried deep in dirt hammering away, desperately hoping for a few grains of precious salvation. They barely noticed our presence as Richard walked by and greeted everyone single one of them by his name. We walked the tunnels for two hours. “How do you know your way around so well and all the miners?” I asked him. “Because I use to work here, when I was young, I wanted to know what is was like, I wanted to understand” he answered as he guided me towards the way out.

I was silent, the sunlight blinded me, that’s a little how I felt deaf and blind, and somehow under everyone’s control; Sabrina in tango; Bond in whatever it was he was getting me into; and now Richard. I can’t tell left from right in all this.

“Well my dear, let us make our way back to Sucre and we can talk about all of this later. We should rest before the big night tomorrow”, he said as we started our 3 hour silent journey to Sucre.

32.
The journey home for Moneypenny
Moneypenny

We arrived in Sucre late afternoon, where Richard took me on a tour on his elegant while mansion in the middle of the city, a few blocks from the central square.

“This house belonged to my great grandfather, he was part of the Bolivian elite who wanted to be freed from Spain’s tyrannical rule. Bolivar himself had dinner at that very table”, he said pointing to the large Louis XIV style dining table, inside an even more Louis XIV-style dining room. His grandfather was most likely one of those people who got rich off the backs of the slaves and natives working (and drying) in the mines; the same workers he is now trying to ‘save’ from the English; humans are such contradictory creatures I thought to myself.

“Now come this way and I’ll show you to your room”, he added as the went up the large marble stairs. The room was bright and very cheerful; floral patterns ornated the walls; bouquets of white roses filled the room with the sweet scent of spring; the windows gave onto the interior French garden; it was a little nirvana right here in the middle of the city. “This was my mother’s room, I hope you find it comfortable. You will be served dinner here at 9PM, for tonight’s party is not a dinner party, and guests will start arriving at 11PM. You will find everything you need in this room, should you require anything else, please let me know”, and with that he was gone and I was left alone with his in this room which was a shrine to his mother; her portrait was everywhere; her perfumes, half empty, laid out on the dressing table; her clothes still filled the drawers and closets; clearly he loved her dearly. In the dressing area, aside old 1920’s dresses, hung dozens of Chanel and Dior dresses each with matching Manolo Blahniks; all one size, my size. It made me think of Sabrina, and her very extensive wardrobe; was Richard the one providing her with all these luxuries or the British government? Or better yet both?

I couldn’t quite think straight and the only thing I really wanted was a glass of wine and a hot, lavender scented bath; luckily Richard’s mansion could easily provide both…. Maybe this life isn’t so bad afterall!

After a long rest and a gourmet dinner, the time was nearing 11PM and Richard’s guests started arriving. “My dear you look absolutely wonderful”, Richard said to me. “Yes, it’s incredible how you knew my exact dress and shoe size; it’s almost as if you had inside information on me”, I responded. He paused and smiled, and then finally added, “Let’s just say I have a good eye for these things. Come let me introduce you to two members of MI6 who have just arrived, Richard Hammond and Paul Savident, two of her majesty’s most eccentric, and efficient agents”.

“You know who the agents are? Doesn’t that defy the point?” I asked in surprise. “Oh my dear, MI6 and us have been running after each other for the past 40 years, I know some of the agents better than I did my own brother, which they killed by the way. Come I’m sure it’s you they are after anyhow, so let’s indulge them.”

“Hammond, Paul, you are welcome, but I have to say I don’t remember extending the invitation list to all of Mr Bond’s associates” he said in irony and continued with, “This, as I’m sure you know is the lovely miss Moneypenny. Do take her for a spin on the dance floor when the first tanda begins, I guarantee you won’t regret it!” And as if he had pushed play himself, the orchestra began playing Troilo.

“Good evening Miss Moneypenny, I’m Paul and I am delighted to meet you. Now we must absolutely speak to you about your being here with Richard Alvarez , we are very concerned”, he began saying when Hammond interjected “Come man this is a party, give the poor girl a chance to find her sea legs, not to mention a drink in her lovely hands. Always ruining a good moment Paul with your ‘concerns’, now go fetch Miss Moneypenny a glass of Perignon whilst I try to remember my tangero days.” Before I could reply, he took my hand and walked me towards the dance floor.

“Do forgive Paul, he’s had a stick up his rear end since I met him, some 40 years ago. We are however concerned about you, not to mention how preoccupied James is, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this way” he started telling me when I added “Why is everyone so concerned? Am I the long-lost heir to the British crown? As far as I know, James, is a retired professional with too much time on his hands and too much imagination. He doesn’t care about me, no one does, all they’re interested in is how they can use me and frankly I’m fed up, I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“I understand you perfectly my dear, but make no mistake, James does care about you and yes ‘we’ think you can be of great service to us” he responded. “Well I’m not sure I want to be of service to anyone, for these past few months I've felt like everyone's puppet and quite frankly I'm done with it! Now let’s dance” I said, a little harshly I admit. “I see what he sees in you now” he added with a smile.

His embrace was stiff, but his dancing had a playfulness to it that I couldn’t help but enjoy. Richard Alvarez was watching us like a hawk; I wonder if this is how it happened for Sabrina? I spent the rest of the night dancing and listening to advice from all sides. I went to bed as the sun was rising, certain of only one thing: that all wanted was to return to Buenos Aires and return to tango.

33.
In which Bond finds that he has company

Mr Bond

From the bunk in my cabin aboard the Hanjin Buenos Aires cargo ship, I pick up ‘The Quest for the Embrace’. Flicking to the flyleaf I discover a plain envelope inside, the flap tucked in but not sealed. As it rests in my hand I smell a recognisable perfume.

Turning it over I see the words ‘Mr Bond’ in a neat hand. Immediately I recognise the writing. And suddenly the perfume makes sense - ‘Lolita Lenpicka’ - worn by Moneypenny at milongas in Buenos Aires.

Inside, a sheaf of violet paper reads, “Bond, I hope this finds you well. I have escaped, in case you didn’t know. Your friends Hammond and Paul have arrived here in Bolivia. I said I will return to Argentina, but not with them, and not for MI6. I am too young for this game, and I sense you are too old. I will see you in Buenos Aires, old man. Let us dedicate our time to tango. Moneypenny”.

How on earth did Moneypenny know that I was here in a cargo ship heading towards the Atlantic ocean?

Moments later I hear an adjacent door slam and the rasp of a knock at my cabin. Opening the door my eyes focus on a silver key swinging from a tape with the sway of the ship. Mireille steps forward. “James, I fear that Paul’s pumpkin will have to take its chance...now, when do I get my first tango lesson?”

“Mireille, what on earth are you doing here?”, I stutter, “and how did you get this?”, I continue as I exchange the key for the envelope. “James, Moneypenny knew that I am the only person you really trust. The book is from me. You are not the only one who is not too old for an adventure, despite what Moneypenny may say”, she adds with her usual smile. “And with 20 more days at sea, I reckon I will become quite the tanguera under your tuition!”.

“Well, I wondered how I would survive on this dreadful ship”, I retort. “There is no time like the present. Your first tango lesson will be on deck at noon. Don’t be late”. With that, I usher Mireille from the cabin and sink into the brown leather chair.

‘So that’s three of us that have jumped ship - so to speak - me, Moneypenny and Mirelle’, I say to myself. I wonder who will be next?

Two hours later I climb the grey steel staircase leading to the aft deck. Mireille is already there, her blonde hair caught by a gentle breeze, her tango shoes glinting in the midday sunshine. Canaro’s ‘Poema’ drifts from the gramophone. “Shall we start with the embrace?”, I ask. “On that topic, your book has been really quite helpful”, I add as we start a tango walk towards the quarterdeck.

34.
In which Bond and Moneypenny return to Buenos Aires

Mr Bond

If you want to know about life on a transatlantic cargo ship, you will have to book a cabin and experience it for yourself - the solitary times when the hum of engines and the creaking of decks provide the only company, the monotony as a day slips towards evening, long views to a watery horizon, and the moment that a new dawn arrives in the east with the rising sun.

After leaving Dakar in Senegal, accompanied by Mireille’s lively French Canadian chatter, twenty days slipped past quicker than expected. We met for breakfast, joined by Simon the miniature schnauzer, and the occasional member of the Filipino crew. In the evening we would watch the sunset across the western horizon and dance tango to orchestras of the Golden Age on deck. On lazy afternoons schools of dolphins would gather alongside to race the ship whilst flying-fish tore ahead of the bow, and keen eyes could spot turtles, sea snakes and the illusive shark.

As we enter the busy shipping lane on our approach to Buenos Aires, I join Captain Nick Compton on the bridge, his greying beard matching that of his ageing schnauzer. His deep baritone voice booms instructions to the first mate. At the horizon the city shimmers in summer heat. Soon, we make out the tall towers of Puerto Madero just to the south of commercial dock Darsena D. None of the quiet, sleepy restraint of Tilbury - voices call out and figures dart amongst the moorings. Within moments the dock erupts with activity, overhead cranes grind out above our port side, ropes are thrown by the Filipino crew, whilst lines of huge Argentine transporter trucks await, their swarthy drivers leaning nonchalantly in the shade.

Ahead of me, Compton addresses the migraciones officer in Castillano and nods in my direction. As I arrive at his desk he glances over half glasses momentarily before vigorously stamping my passport. “Bienvenido a Buenos Aires, Snr Bond. Tres meses”. Three months? Without the British government visa, it seems that I am now a tourist. It takes a moment to register. At first I sense a loss of status, ‘Cpt Bond’ it seems remaining somewhere on deck between London and Santos Itapoa. Then I realise what I have gained - the freedom to recover both life and identity from the department.

Mireille heads off to the leafy bario of Palermo, whilst my taxi takes me towards Recoleta for the last time, stopping in Santa Fe just short of the grace-and-favour MOD apartment on the roof of Palacio Haedo. Raul is waiting alongside a large trunk bound with a leather strap. “James, let me give you a hand with this”, he greets, ”I think that’s the lot”, adding, “mum’s the word, but you know what, I am going to miss you, old boy”.

Minutes later, a half-open boot tied down with rope, the taxi leaves Raul standing on the footway, his hand raised in a half-hearted wave; and heads out on 9 de Julio towards San Telmo, ten minutes later cutting down the cobbles of Estados Unidos to turn back north to Defensa and my new home in the city.

Eva, the housekeeper, is there to greet me. “Mr Bond, here are your keys - and a spare set just in case you have a visitor”, she announces. “The terrace is upstairs, and beyond, the roof has fine views. Enjoy your stay”. And with that, she descends the fifty two steps to the street and disappears into the crowds of Calle Defensa.

San Telmo is one of the oldest barios in the city. A fresh start. I hang my Panama hat on the brass hook and look around me. ‘Coffee, I think’, I say to myself as I start to open the trunk, but within moments the buzzer sounds and a light pitched voice calls over the intercom, “Bond, are you there yet?”.

Moneypenny

‘Bienvenidos a Buenos Aires’, the signs say although there is nothing welcoming about crossing customs in Ezeiza Airport, they seem to consider everyone guilty until proven innocent, maybe they’re right now that I think of it. As I step out the customs checkpoint, passed all the Tienda Leon ticket sellers, I notice Sabrina in the distance, she has come to pick me up. I won’t even ask how she knew I was arriving today.

“Welcome back, I’m glad to see you” she mutters nervously. “Yes, I am back and don’t worry. If anything this trip has convinced me of one thing, there is no right or wrong side, the only thing I am sure of is that I want to go back to why I came here in the first place, for tango,” I say knowing it will reassure her, and at the same time not 100% convinced myself this was the end of everything else. Just as those creeped into my head I notice Richard Hammond and Paul in the distance walking to a taxi.

“Have you heard from James?”, I ask Sabrina. “Yes I have,” she responds in a way that I know I had better not push for more information.

“Come, you must be tired, let’s go home. I’ve taken the liberty of moving your things from your apartment into my guest room; I’ve decided that you should live with me for a while. You may come and go as you chose, no questions asked, but you will live with me,” she says affirmatively. “Alright, then I guess there isn’t much I can say then is there?,” I respond.

Sabrina’s hired limousine takes us to the streets of San Telmo where I would once again, start a new life. The smell of Sabrina’s place was familiar and I unconsciously sigh with relief, feeling that I could give up the reigns to take time to breathe. I make my way up to me room, when I notice a note near the telephone ‘Defensa 893 3C’. ’What could this mean’, I ask myself, but resolve to save that for later, for now all I wanted was a warm bath and a glass of Malbec.

“Everything is upstairs, go rest and we can chat later,” Sabrina says, adding as she hands me a glass of wine, “and I’ve missed you”.

I open the doors to my new room. It was always ‘a little’ mine actually but now, dressed with all my possessions, it feels more official. As I open the closet I notice the red dress I had worn at Richard Alvarez’ party - along with all the other clothes from the Sucre suite. How had this happened? Was I really out of all this? Bond! I knew I had to see him and said to myself ‘I must do it right now’.

35:
In which Bond is back in San Telmo

Mr Bond

Dear reader, the two of us were standing together in the living room contemplating life in my rented apartment in Defensa, San Telmo, my Panama hat in its new home on an ancient brass hook, and about to unload my worldly possessions from my trunk; when the sound of the door buzzer breaks the spell.

“Bond, you are back”, a voice squeals. “And it seems, so are you Moneypenny”, I reply, pressing the intercom door release to street level.

After the ascent of fifty two stairs Moneypenny is a little out of breath. Since we last met so many weeks ago at Bar Laureles, Barracas, she has cropped her hair, it now forms a tiny golden halo around her head. She smiles. “I understand that you have been a bad girl and disobeyed M, fleeing to Bolivia and meeting up with Richard Alvarez?”, I state with a grin.

“It’s really not for me, this cloak and dagger agent’s life”, she replies, “it’s far too stressful for I am never sure who is who, and on what side. I am done with it. From now on I propose to dedicate my time to tango. What about you, James? Sabrina said you were back, but then clammed up for some reason”.

“Well, if it is of any interest, I too have escaped the clutches of MI6 and just arrived under the radar on the cargo ship Hanjin”, I reply. “It seems that we are both fugitives”.

“Who, apart from Sabrina, and your friends Hammond and Paul knows we are in Buenos Aires?”, she inquires, frowning. “Only Nick Compton, captain of the Hanjin, and his little dog Simon”, I reply jovially.

With that, Moneypenny throws herself onto the sofa and stares at the ceiling. “James, are we safe here?”, she asks, “and what are you going to do now you are no longer working for the ministry?”

“Safe enough, I reckon. It is just a matter of time for them to recruit our replacements and then forget that we ever existed. It happens all the time. No-one is indispensable”, I add, regretting the words as soon as I said them. “Life is like a film; you’re in the action, then you’re on the cutting room floor”. “And I too am going to take this opportunity to dance Argentine tango”, I add. “Club Gricel tonight, do you reckon?”.

As I am crouching to unfasten the leather strap from the trunk that dominates the centre of the room, Moneypenny stretches out a long creamy leg and levers herself up from the sofa. Squatting alongside with her left hand across my shoulder, she whispers, “Dance with me now, James”.

We rise into a close embrace as she hums ‘La Cumparasita’. We dance. Sunlight glances through the open doors from the veranda. A light breeze disturbs the foliage of the lemon tree which taps rhythmically to her song. Her breath is warm and moist on my neck, and the fragrance of Lolita Lempicka drifts from her soft skin.

“So, James, are you pleased to be back?”, she questions. “Do you realise, Moneypenny - Buenos Aires is the only place in the world where you can dance proper tango and drink a decent cup of coffee?”, I retort, adding with a smile, “of course I am old girl, and it is great that we are together again as a tango team”.

36.
Bond and Moneypenny dancing again…..in Gricel

Moneypenny

Part I

“You’re sure you don’t want to join me tonight?” I shout as I step out the front door. “Bond will be there and I’m telling you he’s a new man!”

“I don’t go out on Sundays, and if I did it certainly would not be to Gricel! And I have enough new men in my life, I don’t need an old-new man”,she replies with a chuckle. “Suit yourself!” I respond and hop into the limo she ordered for me; Sabrina has been insisting that this is how I have to move around now, or for now at least.

We drive off, down Carlos Calvo, passed 9 de Julio and down to Umberto Primo; “You can just leave me at the corner of La Rioja, no need to go around, por favor” I say to the driver, Damian. “Perdon, pero no puedo, I have instructions”, he responds, as he gives me a little wink in the rear view mirror and detours around the corner. “Como quieras!” I respond.

As soon as the car stops, Damian gets out to open my door, extends his arm, and as I reach out for it, I can’t help but notice how incredibly fit and handsome he is (and incredibly yet another of Sabrina’s lovers, but she has a little weakness for this one I sense). He has that typical Italian-Spanish-and something touch-look, dark hair, dark eyes, killer smile and just the right amount of English to seduce you; just the type of porteño you want to stay away from.

“Message me when you want to leave, and I’ll come running back to you, any time…..any place….”, he says before rushing off to what I can only imagine is a night with Sabrina, no wonder she didn’t want to come to Gricel!

I stand on the sidewalk staring at the people walking into Gricel, the doors are wide open, I can hear the hum of the Milonga from across the street; it feels so nice to be back. I walk in, take out my neatly prepared pesos to pay the entrance, when a man walks right up to me and says: “Bienvenida hermosa, I am Javier, the host of this milonga and you do not have to pay to join us. It would be my pleasure to have you here".

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” I ask intriguingly.

“You do not, but I hope to correct that as soon as possible”, he responds with a smile and adds “He is sitting at the far right corner; he’s been waiting for you”. Of course, Bond, I should have known. “Gracias, please do join us for a drink when you have a minute”, I say and turn around to pay the entrance fee.

“Very independent I see”, the host says “You’ll have to give me the opportunity to invite you some other night, a night of your choice”, he says and escorts me to Bond’s table.

With it's velvet curtains ornating the entrance, a large wooden dance floor, dim lighting complemented with the red hue given off by the neon sign at the back of the dance floor; Gricel has a rustic, almost brothel-like milonga feel to it.

Everyone is dressed up in formal tango wear: women in shockingly revealing-form fitted dresses, the men in suits with their hair gelled back, everything seems to be in place, except for Bond who somehow always stands out despite all his efforts to the opposite; or maybe it's just that I can't help but notice him.

The tanda has just started, it’s a vals, couples are twirling around the dance floor with skirts of every colour flying around, it almost looks like a proper Viennese waltz, only not so proper since this is tango.

Bond spots me immediately and starts to pour me a glass of bubbly. “Right, I had almost given up on you old girl, you’re late!” he utters. “Late? How long have you been out of Buenos Aires, it’s barely midnight Mr Bond, things are just starting to get interesting. But have no fear you will not have to finish that bottle all by your lonesome”, I retort.

“Be quiet and put your shoes on, so we can get one tanda before the exhibition starts”, he adds, just as the dance floor empties and the show is announced. Bond gives me a look of reproach and hands me my glass.

It’s exhibition time! The dancers walk onto the dance floor,. I’ve never heard of them before; V and J are their initials and are performing for the first time tonight, we are informed. They're both beautiful; her with her large brown eyes, dark hair and snow-white like complection has all the men gawking and the women red with envy; him with his assertive walk and penetrating eyes has all of us bewitched (and maybe a little in lust); together they are mesmerizing.

They dance to Pugliese, their dance is classic, no frills, no acrobatics, no excessive drama, just simple, genuine, divine dancing. His musicality is irreprochable; her feet complete his lead to perfection; it’s as if the music followed their dance and not the other way around. The entire room is in silent awe, which, given the amount and level of tango in Buenos Aires is no easy feat.

I stare over at Bond who seems transfixed by the dancing. “She’s too young for you Bond”, I say teasingly. “And he’s too young for you” he responds with a smirk. “I am simply enjoying the tango’ I answer back to which he adds “As am I my dear, as am I”.

As they go into their final pose, everyone rises to their feet to give praise to this very promising couple, two stars are born tonight! “And they’re not even sleeping together”, says the woman sitting at the table adjacent to ours. I had forgotten what a small world tango is.

As the night’s Fred and Ginger take their last bow, the young tangero and I cross glimpses, he gently smiles and gives me a little wink; I can’t help but smile back, he is afterall the celebrity of the night (and not to mention cute as hell).

I finally bend over to put on my shoes, the strap won’t quite hook on; Bond has lost patience and is already dancing with someone else. When I at last get my shoes on, and reach out to take another sip of champagne, I notice him…. I had forgotten all about my last night in Buenos Aires at La Viruta and what I had done…..

37.
Gricel continued 2

Moneypenny

“So you do exist! I’ve been looking for you at every milonga in town, I was beginning to think I had imagined that night at La Viruta!” He says in a tone of reproach.

“Wow, your English has improved!” I exclaim back, to which he responds smiling: “My English has always been good, only last time you weren’t so interested in my linguistic skills, not my English ones that is”. I could feel the blood rushing to my head; I was blushing; he was right, I had only wanted one thing from him that night and it had little to do with whether he spoke English or not.

“You shouldn’t have left like that”, he adds. “What did you want, a thank you note?” I fire back. “No but at least the chance to let me make you coffee and establish some possibility of seeing you again” , he responds. “It just wasn’t the right moment for that. Let’s dance”, I ask him, to which he responds with a cabeceo.

He takes my hand and we walk onto the dance floor; the first tango of the tanda is ending, it’s a D’Arienzo tanda. We stand in front of each other in silence; he’s not looking at me but rather at my body as he slowly wraps his hands around my waist and gently pulls me towards him; I can feel his longing for me and feeling it so surely, only intensifies mine for him. He then grips my back with one hand and slowly slides his other hand down my right arm all way down to my impatient hand. We move together into a close embrace, it's perfect, like two pieces of a puzzle coming together.

The second tango starts, another D’Arienzo: ‘Hasta siempre amor’, I love this tango. We don’t move quite yet; he shifts his weight from left to right, pressing his body against mine, and then, with one long first step we start dancing. I’m nervous, I’m shaking but I try to control it. I close my eyes and try to focus on his lead and on my breathing which is getting heavier with every step. I feel as if everyone is watching us, as if they all know, know what we're both thinking, both wanting; I relish a little in the attention we're getting.

The tango ends, a slight shiver goes through my body and I pull away from him so that he won’t notice the effect he’s had on me. “Never pull away so quickly, always hold the last position”, he says to me. “I’m sorry, I thought the exhibition part of the night was over”, I manage to say, trying to sound indifferent to him. “It’s not about exhibiting, it’s about etiquette, tango etiquette.” he smirks back.

As we wait for the next tango to start, he lightly caresses the back of my arms, running the tip of fingers in circles around my elbows and shoulders; all I can think of is kissing him and running my hands through his thick hair. We had kissed in the middle of a tanda at La Viruta, right there in front of everyone, a clear break of all tango etiquette; but it was La Viruta, very late on a Sunday night and everyone there had their own secrets to worry about.

The following tango starts, D’Arienzo, El nene del abasto this time. We dance and the more we dance, the more I feel like myself turning into putty in his arms. I open my eyes to try to regain some control over myself, I look for Bond; he is dancing with a slim blond; he’s enjoying it, but it doesn’t prevent him from keeping a close watch on me; he knows exactly what's happening, I hate how transparent everything about me seems to be to him.

The tango ends, I hold the final position, just like he told me to do. “Thank you, that was lovely, I almost didn’t want it to end”, I manage to say to him. “So don’t let it end, let’s go and dance the night away somewhere, anywhere you like”, he replies. “I’d love to but I can’t tonight”, I respond and look towards Bond, who is already sitting at our table. “I see, you’re not alone tonight”, he responds staring directly into my eyes. “It’s complicated, it’s just not the right moment now” I manage to say. “It’s complicated, yes, you seem to have perfected that concept. Go then and hopefully the next time, it will not be so complicated” he says while I lean in to kiss his cheek and take one last opportunity tp press my body against his.

“That looked very ‘intense’ old girl, you seem flushed. Will you be alright?” He says smiling his little smile. “I’m fine”, I respond and add “You also seemed like you were in good hands”. “Indeed I was”, he responds looking in the direction of his tantalizing blonde.

Bond and I dance a few tandas and order another bottle of champagne to finish off the night. “Right old girl, I think perhaps eachother the best either of us can do tonight”, he says to me while pointing towards the door where I notice my Viruta man going home with the newly famous Ginger, the one who had seduced us all during the exhibition. I can't blame him; given the chance I might have gone home with her myself.

Her equally enticing partner, the Fred Astaire to her Ginger Rogers, seems to be himself captivated with a young blonde he has been dancing with the entire night and Bond’s own blonde is nowhere in sight.

“I think you might be right Mr Bond, we have been left of our own devices it would seem. Shall we make our way back to the lonely streets of our San Telmo?” I ask him. “Right, I’ll send for a car”, he replies, for a second I'm reminded of how I got here and picture my handsome driver wrapped in Sabrina's arms. “No, don’t, let’s take the bus, like the ‘normal’ people of this city. You do know what a bus is Mr Bond, don't you?” I tease him. “Not only do I know, Miss Moneypenny, I'll have you know that I have a bus card!” He exclaims back. “It’s just one amazement after another isn’t it!” I retort with a hint of irony.

And so, like two regular porteños, we took the bus back to the empty, almost nostalgic, streets of San Telmo we both so identified with.

38.
Club Gricel - a fresh start, or the road to ruin?

Mr Bond

As soon as I uttered the words ‘Club Gricel’ to Moneypenny I regretted them. Sometime in the distant past presumably I had enjoyed an evening at Gricel, but now I struggle to recall when.

Club Gricel is at La Rioja 1180, way out through Constitucion along Humberto 1st over Av Jujuy. From the outside it is unauspicious, announced only by a couple of tangueras smoking by the pavement door. After paying the entry fee at the tiny desk, a curtain pulls to reveal the salon, beyond which is the bar that sports Gricel’s famous neon sign.

The problem with Gricel is the people. I hasten to add that I have nothing against the aged, but there are times when Gricel makes the former El Arranque look like a kindergarten. And then there are the tourists, dancing wildly with the old milongueros as they flirt with death. This is Gricel’s lethal cocktail.

A plump waitress escorts me to my table hidden away in the corner from which I may observe the pista. A couple of ancient milongueros nod in my direction but tonight I have not the will for the big showy embrace, so pass at speed.

It is after midnight and true to form, Moneypenny has not yet arrived. As the champagne appears, one of the grand dames of the milonga catches my eye with her skilled mirada. The orchestra is Fresedo, perfectly complimenting her invitation. We navigate the floor, avoiding the stumbling steps of the infirm and the lane-changing of the tourists. The freshness of arrival at Gricel has evaporated in a single tanda. Returning to my table I sip from my wine glass, feeling the consoling energy of bubbles against my nostrils.

Moneypenny’s arrival, when it comes, has the air of a car crash to the ¾ rhythm of a vals. Tonight she seems breathless, as if she has run from Av San Juan.

“Calm down old girl and put your shoes on”, I venture, noting her sharp reproaching stare as I speak. For what seems an age, Moneypenny fiddles with her shoe strap, giving up as the lights lift to announce a performance.

Professional tango dancers in Buenos Aires make their living from exhibitions. Within the entrance charge most milongas boast a midnight performance from aspiring dancers. Sometimes, by luck or judgment, you will catch famous dancers and may witness a seminal moment. But generally aspiring hopefuls struggle to create something new, or a new definition of something old. Perfection eludes them, and their performances end with polite applause. Tonight, I stifle a yawn and resist the temptation to check my Bremont.

With the performance complete Moneypenny still struggles with her shoes, so I rise to accept a Russian tanguera’s mirada. She combines Kseniya Sobchak’s beauty with Putin’s assassination skills - the perfect match for Gricel’s pista chaos.

Only later do I notice that Moneypenny is no longer at our table. I glance across the salon to see her in his embrace. Moneypenny is like a moth to a flame. ‘So much for her escape’, I whisper to myself, ‘It seems that Moneypenny is not through with espionage!’

39.
Moneypenny, the colectivo, and a stab in the dark

Mr Bond

I get the impression that Moneypenny thinks this is my first time - my virgin voyage. In the early days I introduced her to my maroon and cream Bentley Continental S2. She thinks that, and the radio taxi is all I know.

Since escaping the clutches of MI6, Raul has kept the Bentley hidden under dust covers beneath Palacio Haedo. There is also the little issue of my stipend. No sooner had I left London aboard the ‘Hanjin Buenos Aires’, than the ministry stopped my pay cheque.

The great thing about ‘el colectivo’ is the cost. When I first came to Buenos Aires I learned to say ‘ochenta’ as I boarded, receiving twenty centivos in change from my peso. Now I have one of those touch cards but with inflation am charged a resounding ten pesos.

Moneypenny has already dashed to the back of the bus to claim two seats. It is approaching three in the morning, yet the atmosphere is carnival. Alongside, a group of revelers laugh and tease, ahead two lovers engage in a long kiss, whilst beyond grey clothed passengers, at the front sit two office cleaners and an eighty year old woman with her shopping trolley pulled into her side. What brings us here together on the colectivo?

We speed along Av San Juan towards San Telmo, shuttered shops and restaurants flashing past as we race the lights. Our bus driver has perfected the art - red-to-green as we approach without the slightest hint of braking, his progress only interrupted when forced to drop a passenger, after which he accelerates at break-neck speed to make up for lost time. At each stop we brace together to avoid sliding forward from shiny seats, and on departure bump our heads on the boarding behind.

Our colectivo swings left into Peru and heads down towards Independencia. The transition from bright San Juan to the dusky calles of San Telmo is stark. We alight between tall buildings that crowd both sides of the street. Recessed doorways lead to long passages, and further down to the hidden apartments of the bario. Two figures follow us, previously inconspicuously seated on opposite sides of the bus, unnoticed, but now walking quickly together.

I hear the sound of a blade, then of a snap. Before my hand can seize it, Moneypenny’s ‘Comme il Faut’ dance bag disappears into the darkness. “Oh my God”, she screams, but her voice is lost on the night air. We stand numbed in the moment. It was so sudden; so unexpected; we were so unprepared.

“What was in the bag?”, I ask lamely, as if it could make a difference. “Just my shoes - fortunately not my best Katrinskis”, she adds. “But wait, I think my keys were there too”, she murmurs desperately checking her pockets. “They have gone”, she concludes, “and forty pesos which I saved from sharing your bottle of champagne”, she adds.

“There is nothing to do now”, I reply peering forwards into a deserted street, “spend the night at Defensa - tomorrow is another day”, I continue, failing to account for the rising light in the east.

Moneypenny is pale, her normally lively face has become drawn. Without a word she reaches round to take my arm, snuggling close for comfort. Our footsteps tap in unison in empty streets as we walk in silence towards the lights.

40.
In which Moneypenny spends the night with Bond

Mr Bond

Dawn comes and goes, apartment shutters keeping out the morning light. Below, sounds of the market meld with fragments of street song from performers who arrive with gusto and depart with pesos.

I turn, feeling the warmth of her back. An escaped shaft of light illuminates the curves of her shoulders, ending in a pinpoint on her calf. Her cropped hair appears translucent in suffused light. She turns. “Bond, is that you?”, she breathes with a serious expression, then smiles.

“What was wrong with the maid’s room?”, I inquire. “What was right with it?”, she retorts, “that bed is as thin as the tail of a La Boca dog, and I am sure you have put a pea under the mattress!”

“Well, that is clear then”, I reply, racking my memory for the moment that I felt a sheet turn, or noticed the softness of her breath on my neck.

“Put some coffee on, old girl”, I continue as I reach for the Bremont. “Gosh, it’s after 12 noon - how did that happen?”

“Time goes quickly when you are enjoying yourself”, she calls from the kitchen and I hear the tap run and the clink of coffee cups”. “Don’t fool yourself”, I reply, “at my age I simply don’t have the time for pleasure”.

Nevertheless, after our first night together at Palacio Haedo, when Moneypenny slept on the terrace, this feels totally different. Protectiveness, responsibility and intrigue compete together for my attention. Then I remember that I am in Buenos Aires, and it really does not need to be resolved. Instead, I close my eyes, listening to fragments of song as Moneypenny prepares breakfast.

An hour later, as I am reading yesterday’s newspaper on the terrace, Moneypenny approaches from behind, pulls back my forehead and supplants a lipstick kiss. “I am going to sort out a key. Plaza Dorrego tonight?”, she stipulates, turning quickly to leave before I can reply.

As her footsteps recede down the staircase, from my half unpacked chest, I take out some writing paper and my Parker fountain pen.

Dear Mireille,
Contact Hammond and Paul. Tell them to meet us tonight (Sunday) at 8pm in Plaza Dorrego. Tell Harmonica boy to collect the size 6 in gold from Comme il Faut, and bring your tango shoes.
Bond

Moneypenny

I can’t sleep. How did I end up in his maid’s room anyway? If he were any type of gentleman he would have given me his bed and, would himself, have slept in this sorry excuse for a room which is essentially his walk-in closet. But it seems that 'gentlemanliness' was not on Bond’s new-post MI6 menu, or was there another reason he didn’t want me in his room?

I keep replaying the night in my head; it started off so promising, a true return to New Airs, and it ended with my losing my favorite shoes, my keys and my having to spend the night feeling like Bond’s hired help. The odd thing is, I swear my shoe bag had gone missing earlier in the evening. Had someone put something in it? Had they tried to recover it by taking my bag on the bus? Had we been followed out of Gricel? Why did they reach for my shoe bag and not my purse, which I was also so evidently carrying? Or has all this secrecy and spying made me paranoid ? Could this simply be nothing more than a common act of pickpocketing? The kind that happen every day to everyone?

I get up to fetch a glass of water and try to think of something else. I start looking around Bond’s new apartment: it’s much less luxurious than the last, but I’m quite fond of it. It has a European art-nouveau ‘je ne sais quoi’ feel to it, the same type of ‘je ne sais quoi’ Buenos Aires has. I walk around the apartment, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that Bond has been living here for years; portraits of famous Argentines ornate the walls in such a way that made it seems as if they were family. At any moment Borges, Ernesto Sabado, Mussolini (ok not quite Argentine but with close ties), the handsome Gardel and even Eva Peron herself could walk in for an afternoon coffee and medialunas.

The large bookshelf in the living room is filled with books and manuscripts on the history of Argentina, dating all the way back to independence in early 19th century; they all look as if they have been read dozens of times; it’s as if Bond has recreated himself as an old Argentine gentleman in the 4 days he's lived here, complete with a very influential family tree.

I gaze at the brick walls and large windows around me; I walk about the room; the wooden floors cracks under my feet as I gently dance with the ballet of shadows cast by the swaying curtains and the moonlight peering in; I can’t quite tell if I’m dreaming or awake.

I can still smell my mysterious Porteño cologne on me, if I’m honest, it’s not really my missing shoe bag, nor my shoebox size room which are keeping me up tonight, it’s him. I can feel the tips of his fingers running down my arm and around my waist; yet I know nothing of him and that’s how I wish it would remain…mysterious men have gotten me into enough trouble lately, yet I feel myself hopelessly drawn to him.

I want to dance, I should wake Bond and make him dance with me, after all I am his guest; but perhaps we’ve already exhausted all the tango this night could offer and asking more of it would only exacerbate things.


I make my way up the staircase leading to his room and lay next to him in hopes that his deep slumber will somehow pull me along.


41.
Just another day in San Telmo

Moneypenny

“You’re sure you don’t want to join me tonight?”, shouts Sabrina while twirling in front of the large mirror ornamenting the entrance of her, and now my, apartment.

“You seem very preoccupied with how you look tonight, any special reason?”, I ask her with a smirk.

“I believe my question was about whether you wanted to join me or not. If you’re so curious about my reasons for going, why don’t you join me? You’ve been going out with that man non-stop this week, it’s time you spent your free time in better company”, she adds.

“I’d love to, but I’m tired and all I want to do with get into a hot tub, have some wine and just be alone” I tell her.

“Suit yourself, you have Damian’s number in case you change your mind”.

“And which part can Damian help me with? The alone part? The hot bath part?” I respond mockingly.

“You're too clever for your own good you know? Damian can drive you to wherever you want to go if you need, for the rest, he's a grown man who can indeed be at your service if you need anything else..... Rest well my dear” she retorts with a smile.

As she closes the door behind her, and seeing her all ready for dazzle and dancing tonight, I almost regret staying home; not to mention that I was dying to know where she was going, she had been so secretive all day, almost as if she had been trying to bait me. I stare down at the box of ‘Comme il faut’ shoes, that were delivered earlier today and wonder if I shouldn’t just run after her, but something tells me I should stay put tonight after the day I’ve had.

I stare over at the clock, it’s just before midnight, still early by porteño standard, but for some reason I’m exhausted. I let the tub fill with steaming water and start soaking my tired feet and desperately try to make sense of the events that happened to me today.

I left Bond’s this morning, after making him my specialty breakfast: coffee and burnt toast, and rushed through the Sunday market. I love Sundays in San Telmo but for some reason today nothing was quite like I wanted it to be; the fresh orange juice stand I usually go to, wasn’t there; the coffee from the market was too hot; my medialunas were too dry; it’s as if the day was trying to warn me to stay home.

I walked towards home and just before reaching the front door, I saw I Damian leaving Sabrina’s place; he no doubt spent the night here, a rare privilege for Sabrina’s lovers, they’re usually asked to leave just as quickly as they’re asked to come in, but not him. I’m not quite sure what she sees in him, but I know better than to ask Sabrina about her nightly engagements.

When I got home, Sabrina handed me a package which had been delivered earlier today; a pair of 36 silver Comme il fauts, just like the ones I lost last night and a copy of my key. The worst part was that I almost wasn’t surprised. I feel as if I’ve had no control over my own life in the past few months, that it was only natural that last night’s pickpocketing had more to it than met the eye, but why? Of what interest was I of all people to anyone? Nothing seemed random, everything seemed all planned out, like a play and I was the only one who hadn’t gotten a copy of the script.

After a few hours of telling Sabrina what happened, I stepped out to Dorrego and that’s when I realised I should have listened to the events of the day and stayed home…..


42.
In which Bond and Moneypenny encounter problems at Plaza Dorrego

Mr Bond

There are some days when Buenos Aires is so hot and humid that San Telmo streets hum with the sound of the air conditioners which deposit their contents into large plastic bottles, or drip across scorching footways. Today is one of those days. Fortunately for me, a hint of breeze brushes the terrace to cool the skin.

On Sundays the milonga at Plaza Dorrego creeps into life at 1800 hrs, but most dancers arrive after later just as it starts to cool. The organiser, ‘El Indio’ Pedro Benavente is tall, slim and athletic, with long indian hair tied back into a plait. Following him, a collection of young tangueras vie for his attention. Significant amongst the local milongueros that frequent Plaza Dorrego is Don Bernabe, the grand master of the milonga. His age, a closely guarded secret, does not prevent him from dancing, and occasionally performing to the delight of the crowds that gather there.

Now early evening, I stand on the terrace overlooking Defensa. A tiny figure wheels into view and the sound of a harmonica rises against the walls of Geza Eckstein Sanjon de Granados Sa. The apartment buzzer sounds but over the intercom I hear nothing but the noise of market traders packing away their wares. When I reach street level, the figure and his chair has evaporated amongst the crowds, but tucked close to the door is a package - a shoe box wrapped in brown paper.

Returning to the apartment I slip my Georgian silver and mother of pearl pen knife through the string to open the box. ‘Exactly right - the perfect Comme il Faut seduction’, I say to myself.

Wearing my old dance shoes, I descend again the fifty two stairs to street level and make my way across Independencia towards Plaza Dorrego. I have left everything behind, save for a handful of pesos in my pocket and my apartment key clipped to my belt - the Bremont and leather wallet stored safely at the apartment. Plaza Dorrego welcomes those that travel light, and after our exploits of last night I do not relish a repeat loss.

The square is already crowded with visitors. On Sunday evenings it acts as a magnet for tourists that line three of its four sides to watch the dancers and take photographs for their memories. El Indio has just finished his demonstration performance to Angel Villoldo’s El Choclo, his a youthful partner’s fishnets catching the light from a string of coloured bulbs that hang from a plaza tree.

Moneypenny arrives with a swirl of energy. “Bond, let’s dance right now - its Miguel Calo with Raul Iriarte”, she calls above Cuando Tallon los Recuerdos, and she pulls me from my seat on the low wall. With that, we slip into the pista and execute a fast giro whilst waiting for a knot of onlookers to retreat to the steps. Tonight, for the first time since our return to Buenos Aires, Moneypenny dances with a lightness, almost a shallow breath, her short blonde hair catching the lights.

At the cortina, we return to the wall; and from beneath a planter I retrieve the box. “Imagine that, Moneypenny, it seems someone has left a present for you”, ‘Size six if I am not mistaken”, I continue with mock surprise. Lifting the lid, she takes out the Comme il Faut bag and squeals with delight. “Oh James, how thoughtful.” “But what is this?”, she adds, a frown crossing her face as she opens a note that has been slipped inside.

“Bond, you had better read this”, she stutters. “What is it….how did this get here….what does it mean?”

I look down at the note as she holds it out in her hand. The paper bears an MI6 letterhead and below, writing in thick italic nib. I glance up with concern. As I do so, I notice a wheelchair disappear into the crowd. Simultaneously, Richard Hammond appears ominously from the other corner. The Hugo Diaz cortina dissolves into a new tanda of Pugliese. But now dancing is the last thing on my mind.

Moneypenny

Richard ‘cabeceos’ me and before I can even react Bond says: “Go dance with him, be natural, don’t say anything, keep it casual and talk about the weather.” Richard and I embrace, the pugliese has already started so we don’t lose any time in idle chit-chat. My dancing is horrid, I can’t hold my balance and as I go into my first ocho, my left shoe strap comes loose. I notice Bond across the pista reading the note, he seems worried but not surprised.

The first Pugliese of the tanda ends, “How nice to see you my dear, we did miss you at Casa Blanca in Sucre after you left”, Richard whispers in my ear. “Yes, I had a lovely time as your guest, but I had to get back to Buenos Aires”, I respond as I break away from his embrace. His eyes are fixed on mine, “What a pity, but perhaps we will have another occasion to spend time together in the near future, I feel that we have much more to talk about Miss Moneypenny, in fact I’m rather sure we will see each other very soon”. “It sure has been hot these past few days hasn’t it?” I suddenly utter not knowing what else to say; Richard ignored my sad attempt at changing the subject and whisks me back onto the pista. The tanda continues, ‘Una noche de Luna’ plays; Bond has picked up a slim blond and is circling around the dance floor as if nothing had happened.

The tanda ends and Richard disappears just as quickly as he had appeared; “Good job old girl”, Bond says to me. “If you say so, I’m not sure what happened there”, I answer as I try to get my strap to hook on; “He knows something, or there was something about the way he spoke to me. I’m so fed up with all this mystery secrecy; what did the note say?” I ask Bond.

“See for yourself”, he responds and hands me the letter, a telegram more than a letter really, which reads:

‘Bond, the situation is grave, we are on the brink of war; they have managed to get vital information from the Argentine government. You must go to the rendez-vous point tomorrow, your local contact will meet you there as will agent 012. Keep the girl handy, we have reason to believe she can be of use to us, but do not tell her more than she needs to know. Goodluck. M’‘

“Why would you need me? This is absurd, I want no part of it”, I shout to Bond. “Lower your voice Moneypenny, everything will be alright, you just need to play along”, he responds in a calm and contained voice. “We will dance after this milonga tanda”, he casually adds. However, before the end of the tanda, the music suddenly stops as the crowd, which was just seconds ago merrily twirling about the dance floor, falls into the deathening silence. A man has collapsed, his partner kneeling over him trying to wake him.

“Alguien llame a una ambulancia!”, shouts a voice as everyone retreats to the side of the pista. Before Bond can say anything, I grab the box of shoes and run off to Sabrina’s.

43.
In which two surprising students arrive in Buenos Aires

https://luciaygerrytango.wordpress.com/

Guest Blog: authorised by the Foreign Office, London, United Kingdom

The Plaza Dorrego note dated 24 November
“Bond, the situation is grave, we are on the brink of war; they have managed to get vital information from the Argentine government. You must go to the rendezvous tomorrow, your local contact will meet you there as will Agent 012. Keep the girl handy, we have reason to believe she can be of use to us, but do not tell her more than she needs to know. Goodluck. M’’.

Foreign Office memo 26 November:
“Agent Moneypenny’s disclosure of the note in a public blog is highly regrettable. There is every possibility that it will be viewed as a credible leak. Our current situation and conflict with Russia following Salisbury is highly classified and should have remained confidential.”

What you may not know, dear reader, is the extent of ripples from ‘Brexit’. Until recently, the safety and security of the United Kingdom was little in doubt. To the west was ‘our special relationship’ with the USA (and Canada) under the steady, civilising leadership of Obama (and Trudeau). To the east was Europe (and Switzerland), a largely collaborative and affluent landmass, offering joint ventures for trade, defence planning and policing (with military protection to the Vatican). All of that was to change. Now, the Channel - a thin strip of murky water bearing ships and concealing submariners - is all that separates us from a hostile world.

The Foreign Office was fully aware of our risk of isolation. The ‘£350 million per week’ sign was hastily dropped from the Brexit Bus and replaced by ‘£100 billion loss by 2030’, according to the National Institute of Economic and Social Research. The Foreign Office needed to act quickly and decisively. And there was little point in turning to Merkel and Macron.

Worryingly with the Vatican falling into Argentine hands under Jorge Mario Bergoglio, and the US Supreme Court currently headed by Chief Justice John Roberts, supported by fellow catholics Clarence Thomas, Samuel Alito, Sonia Sotomayor and now Brett Kavanaugh, the world order was changing in other ways. There were even beliefs that Prince Charles, on his accession to the throne, may convert to Catholicism, Islam (or both).

I know that it troubled you, dear reader - because you have asked why ‘M’ was sent to Buenos Aires, and with her, a collection of disparate, unusual agents. Predictably, the first to arrive was 007 Bond, meeting with ‘M’ in Recoleta cemetery. Then followed Sabrina, 009 Richard Hammond and his mysterious associate Paul. Even Mireille was to depart unexpectedly on the Hanjin Buenos Aires from which Cpt Nick Compton disappeared without trace. And who is the unknown Agent 012?

It is a matter of record that Theresa May, the British Prime Minister, arrived in Buenos Aires in the early hours of 30 November. Her itinerary was tight, but before meeting Argentine President Mauricio Macri, she had a prior appointment arranged personally by ‘M’. Whilst a Presidential car and escort greeted her at Ezeiza Airport, a switch was effected when the cars left Av 25 de Mayo, diverted back down Av San Juan to the junction with Salta. The cavalcade came to a stop at Parilla Nuevo Gogy where secretly Philip May was waiting with asado con frites and a glass of Malbec. Later three radio taxis carrying the Mays and British Secret Service left for Mariposita de San Telmo at Carlos Calvo 950, the May’s boutique hotel for their visit.

Within 30 minutes a 1960 Bentley S2 Continental Standard Sedan seen to be driven by chauffeur Raul Morgado from Palacio Haedo delivers Theresa and Philip May to Calle Balcarce. Whilst the British Secret Service keep watch from the first floor of the public garage across the road, the Mays are taken between the twin lanterns of 725 and the tall double mahogany doors into Taconeando.

“Hello, Prime Minister”. The voice is Argentine, but with almost flawless English diction. The owner of the voice is a slim, striking Argentine woman, her fascinating face framed by black hair. Alongside stands her husband, a short intruiging Irishman with shining pate and winning smile.

“Prime Minister, this is the famous La Flaca Lucia and her husband Gerry. M secured the best for you. I understand this is your first time in Buenos Aires, and indeed to be your first Argentine tango lesson?”.

Philip May smiles uncomfortably as he balances on one foot to tie his shoelace. Theresa places her handbag on a chair. “Take your time, Lucia”, Theresa May announces, “Mauricio Macri can wait; after all, our Falklands misunderstanding will not be resolved in a day”.

From their position of vantage, the officers of MI6 are able to see directly into the studio. And the agents witness the start of an important transition, from a gauche dance at the Conservative Party Conference - to tanguera. Whilst Philip struggles with the embrace, Theresa launches herself into the moment, arguably the most civilising event of the G20.

An hour later, the Bentley S2 pulls away from Balcarce 725, swinging via Plaza Dorrego into Defensa. Bond looks down from the roof at Defensa 784 as they pass, muttering “her next dance with Macri and Trump will make tango seem like a walk-in-the-park”.

44.
Stranger returns

Moneypenny

Corner of Balcarce and Defensa

‘Bond is standing in front of a Bentley; the window lowers and…. I can’t believe it, but it would seem that Bond was with Theresa May!!!! She’s no doubt in town for the G20, trying to make a plea for her post-Brexit Britain, just one more amongst the other lost causes of this year’s gathering of the ‘Great forces’. The window rolls up, Bond takes a step back and the Bentley drives off.

Bonds looks up and just as I am about to cross the street to meet him, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t run away from me again”, he says, in that unmistakable Argentine accent. “It’s you, how did you find me? I mean what are you doing here?” I utter in shear shock.

“I have a friend who lives near by, I was just leaving his apartment when I saw you standing here; I told myself I couldn’t let you get away yet again. You’ve already escaped me twice, after La Viruta and then again after Gricel last week”, he responds with a slight smile.

“You seemed in ‘good hands’ when you left Gricel”, I retort, half mockingly. I turn towards where Bond was standing only to notice that he’s disappeared. “You also seemed to be in good hands if I recall correctly”, he responds.

“I was there with a friend”, I say in a very affirmative voice. “Well so was I, with a friend”, he replies. “Really, it seemed as if you had just met her?” I continue. “Well she was a ‘new’ friend, but enough of this friend nonsense, come home with me now!” He says in a determined voice. And before I can even attempt to respond, he takes my hand and we start waking up Defensa, we turn and walk through the market, passed the coffee shops and fruit stands to Bolivar; then up Bolivar to Plaza de Mayo; we go in complete silence, a silence that matches the calmest of the city on that day.

Taking all precautions possible, president Macri has ordered a complete shut down of the city during the G20 summit. All public transport is cut, people were told to stay home, shops to keep closed, Buenos Aires is a ghost town today. Never have I experienced silence in this city before, everything else yes, but never silence. The streets are quiet, no colectivos rushing by, no one shouting, no one running, no one pushing, it’s as if we had traveled to an alternate universe.

“Come, we’ll take Avenida de Mayo and cross 9 de Julio to take a taxi to Palermo, to my apartment”, he says as it suddenly starts to drizzle. I love it when it rains here, especially this time of year, it gives one a break from the scorching heat and washes away some of the filth that accumulates with time to reveal a new, more hopeful Buenos Aires. We walk along the grand Avenida de Mayo and the drizzle now turns into rain, but neither of us seem to notice. We’re soaked but we keep walking in silence, trying not to break the meditative state of the city. 20 minutes later, we arrive at his apartment, penthouse in one of the modern buildings of Palermo. “The first thing I want to do is get you out of those wet close”, he whispers in my ear while gently fondling my neck.

I feel hopeless, he was such power over me....and then I suddenly remember that all my troubles seem to have started in the penthouse suite…..and not too far off from here come to think of it……

45.
In which Bond is recalled to Buenos Aires

Mr Bond

‘Well, that is an end of that’, I mutter as I glance half-spectacled over my copy of today’s Times. ‘Theresa is gone. Without Brexit; and it seems she didn’t even get the trade deal from Macri at the G20’, I continue to myself. ‘But at least she got to dance tango with Gerry and Lucia!’

Readers will gather that several months have elapsed since I escorted Theresa and Philip May to their Argentine tango lesson in Balcarce just before the Buenos Aires G20. Perhaps my services may be needed again by Boris and his children Lara, Cassia, Milo and Theodore in June? After all, Argentine tango is also popular in Japan.

My muse is interrupted by the ringing of the phone, an ancient black Bakelite rectangle with a bell and a dial - like everything else in my Ormond Yard apartment, just past the brink of redundancy. “Bond, isn’t it time you got a mobile, old chap?”, says the voice. “Sorry to interrupt your retirement, but we have another little job, and there’s no one else who will go to there at such short notice”. There follows a pause. “You will, of course, be paid, plus club class BA flight 245 rather than the ship. Oh, and we’ll give you a brand new mobile phone”, the voice teases. “What’s more, if you are really good you can have the Bentley and the grace-and-favour apartment at Santa Fe, after all they’re just catching dust since you left Buenos Aires”.

This last offer sends my mind racing back to long, lazy, sun-filled days at Palacio Haedo, the department’s almost forgotten accommodation in Argentina’s Capital Federal. Built in 1860, it is one of the oldest buildings in the city. Untouched since 1923, the apartment provides home from home antiquity with Ormond Yard, but with the added value of high ceilings and tall doors leading to shaded terraces tended by caretaker Raul and his cat Cleo. Somehow HM Government managed to get their hands on the top two floors in the 1950’s and despite the Malvinas, never relinquished their hold.

“So, what have you in mind?”, I ask casually, trying not to disclose my interest. “It’s the same as ever, old chap. New PM, so new trip to grab trade from Macri...or will it be Cristina’s mob if they get back in power?”.

With first rounds imminent in the Presidential campaign, former President Cristina Fernandes de Kirchner and Alberto Fernandez lead the current incumbent Mauricio Macri by four points. Here too the perennial division: whilst the West favours the economist Macri, the people remain seduced by Fernandez socialism. The only candidate that could topple both would be Evita, long dead, but always present in the Argentine heart and psyche.

“And who will I get to show around?”, I ask with a failed attempt at humour. “Will it be Johnson, Gove, Leadsom, Raab - or one of the other tailenders?”.

‘So, you’ll do it”, the voice cuts in curtly. “I’ll tell M that you’re in”, it continues. Then the phone goes dead.

I heave myself from the chair and walk to a rain-drenched window, with its ‘almost view’ over the roof-tops of distant Whitehall. ‘Now look what you’ve done, James’, I say to myself as I turn the brim of my old panama between my palms. But deep down I feel the bubble of excitement of a new challenge, a return to Buenos Aires, and of course, Argentine tango.

‘I wonder whatever happened to Moneypenny?’, I continue. And with that, a smile returns to my face for the first time since I left Buenos Aires.

46.
Bond in for a shock at Heathrow

Mr Bond

Heathrow Terminal 5, the champagne bar, a plate of Balik smoked salmon, mozzarella and caviar, and glass of Lombard Grand Cru Brut Nature. At my feet, my possessions contained in one leather bag. In my lap, my trusted Panama. On the shelf to my right, the bill.

I glance at the Bremont. It has turned 2130 hours and BA flight 245 has blinked onto the overhead monitor for gate B46. I pay with notes. Now to start the long walk.

Ahead, a crowd is littered across the departure lounge. Some laze with their trainered feet across the bench; others wait expectantly as if for the arrival of some celebrity. British Airways staff trot and dive beneath barriers, preparing to perform. The countdown begins, first with wheelchairs and buggies, followed by the suits and shades, and finally the teaming public who scatter down the passenger boarding bridge as if their favoured seat depended on their earliest arrival.

Three of us remain. He, by his look, demeanour and case, must be a retired pilot. She has been motionless, but at the last minute stirs as feet clatter in the distance towards the plane. She turns and smiles. “Alors Bond, comment ça va?”

Mireille, what on earth are you doing here? I thought you were still in Buenos Aires?”.

Dear reader, you will recall that Mireille, a French Canadian agent with MI6, stowed away on the ‘Hanjin Buenos Aires’ in her bid for freedom. On board ship, for twenty two nights we had danced to old recordings from the Golden Age of tango - Canaro, Laurenz, Biagi, Troilo, Calo, d’Arienzo, Rodriguez, Fresedo, Demare. Once in Buenos Aires, she had disappeared to Palermo Soho, only to be seen from time to time dancing Argentine tango at midnight in the milongas of Canning or Villa Malcolm.

“James, they brought me back to Blighty to keep un oeil sur toi. I’m surprised that you haven’t noticed me before. I had to report your every move”. “And now, they want me back in Buenos Aires in readiness for the change of PM”.

“Does that mean that I am off the hook?”, I reply frowning at the thought that I have been followed in London for months without noticing. “Yes James, I gave you a good bill de sante with Hammond, although I definitely got grilling from his friend, that Paul Savident. He behaves like un espion, plutot que un boss!”

I look at her momentarily and say to myself, ‘yes, he most certainly is a spy. And I sense, quite a dangerous one at that’.

Mireille disappears to starboard, and I settle into my clubclass couchette with the better class of blanket. It’s ‘no’ to more champagne, but a ‘yes’ to a Martini, even if it is stirred and the olive tastes rather like plastic.

Later, trays are cleared and the lights dim. From aft, the buzz of turbofan engines. From fore, the tinny sound of the inflight movie. And then 13 hours of fitful sleep before the descent into Ezeiza Airport, Buenos Aires.

47.
Finding ‘C’

Mr Bond

BA flight 245, “We have an announcement”.

Entering Argentine airspace from Brasil, the cabin staff walk briskly down the aisles to spray DDT or perhaps less noctious insecticide. “It is required under regulation”,we are informed, “if you do not wish to inhale, cover your mouth and nose with a handkerchief”.

There follows the descent into Buenos Aires. In early morning sunshine the Boeing 777 circles the city, as it turns capturing views down to Puerto Madero and the wide river Plata estuary beyond. ‘Is that La Boca Juniors stadium?’, I ask myself, seeing the morning light glinting on glass and recalling secret walks there at dusk.

It is half a kilometre from the plane to baggage reclaim, where the carousel is spinning cases through plastic strips. With my single leather bag, I pass by the feverish tourists and proceed to ‘Migraciones’. Already the queues for non-residents are snaking back towards the access routes. Unlike my arrival on the ‘Hanjin’, this time I have a UK government pre-registered visa in the name of Cpt Bond, recorded fingermarks and digital photograph. I follow aircrew along the restricted special visa lane and a surly immigration officer waves me through.

The next hurdle is the customs check. Those with special visas are shown no favour, but my bag slips easily from the scanner. Beyond is the final flight-side point before freedom, the currency exchange and taxi booking services hall.

Mireille is somehow already positioned at the Manuel Tienda Leon desk, speaking rapidly in a confusing combination of French and Spanish. “Oh, James, I’ve got your ticket. We’re getting the autobus”. Before I can complain, she pushes forward towards the electronic doors which open with a whoosh. Beyond are the familiar scents and sounds of Argentina. A press of drivers wait with cardboard signs, and families gather in groups with flasks and ‘Mate’. Children run, porters shout, and outside taxis hoot impatiently. And the heat - a wall of hot air gushes forward to melt the moment of arrival.

“Follow me, James, I really know what I am doing”, calls Mireille, without glancing behind her. Through the covered walkway, we arrive at the bus stop where she waves two tickets, logs her case and receives in exchange a raffle ticket numbered 006. “Climb aboard, James. This way we get the best entry to the Capital Federal”, she continues, as we sidle between the worn coach seats. “Slide that curtain back, James, don’t screen the sun; we don’t want to miss anything on the journey”.

The Manuel Tienda Leon coach pulls forward into a line of taxis, and jolts as it forces its way onto the departure road. A clock, which at one point told the time, hangs limply from its wires and swings against the dashboard. The driver breathes heavily and waves a fist at the driver of a pickup calling out ‘boludos’.

As we pass through the two motorway tolls, and the roofs of Boedo and Barracas stream to our right, Mireille turns abruptly in her seat.

“James, I haven’t levelled with you”. “You know I told you I was here for the change of PM. That is not true. And neither are you here for that purpose. The message M sent was simply to force your hand to come back to Buenos Aires”.

“What are you saying, Mireille? In that case, what on earth are we doing here?”


“James, we are here to find a missing agent. Our mission is called ‘Finding C’. And we are not to leave until it is done”.

48.
Finding ‘C’ - the back story

Mr Bond

Dear Reader,
I must interrupt the story at this point before Mireille and I disembark the Manuel Tienda Leon bus into Buenos Aires, to tell you about ‘C’.

At the mention of her name, it all became clear. For good reason, few people on the planet knew about her. For a special reason, I was one of the few. And evidently, that was why I was here.

Recruited over a decade earlier in Buenos Aires by Maria Cristina (known in the department as ‘M’) with the help of M’s assistant Paul Savident, Cecilia was to become one of the UK government’s most important South American assets. When I was informed of my first posting to Buenos Aires, it seemed just one of those random places that the Ministry insists upon. After months trapped in Whitehall, I saw it as the dream job - for climate, wine, culture, and tango. Yet very soon it became clear why I had been sent. My task was to train ‘C’, the latest, and most talented MI6 acquisition in years.

My first meeting with ‘C’ was arranged to take place at Convento San Ramon Nonato in Calle Reconquista, behind the huge Bank of Argentina in downtown Buenos Aires. The convent is an oasis in the heart of the city, with shaded pavement cafes beneath the cloisters, surrounding sun-kissed terraces. During weekdays, lunch is served by ancient waiters at linen covered tables, away from the hubbub of city sounds. In the gardens whilst the bells of the convent are silent, you can hear the vibration of hummingbird wings as they flit from flower to flower. It is the one place in the city where meeting can be discrete and unnoticed.

Our first encounter remains a vivid memory. Approaching, a woman of both beauty and bearing, Spanish waves of black hair cascading down her back. Remarkable was her gaze, her penetrating dark brown eyes displaying immediate intelligence.

Cecila had trained as a psychologist, then turned to the camera to become Buenos Aires’ most fashionable portrait photographer. It was this combination of skills that had caught Savident’s eagle-eyed attention when visiting her gallery in Plaza Serrano, Palermo. Through her work, not only did she know and photograph Argentina’s leading politicians and influencers, but she had an immediate understanding of the working of their minds, delving into innermost thoughts, like an Annie Leibovitz, Dorothea Lange, Diane Arbus, or Yousuf Karsh.

Since then years had passed and ‘C’, as expected, had risen in the ranks to be one of the most useful, effective and charismatic agents in the field. And now she had suddenly disappeared.

The alarm was raised by her friend Norm Keilty, Northern Ireland’s international photographer. His emails had gone unanswered, texts unread and phone messages ignored. That traffic, or the lack of it, was picked up by MI5, and her loss became immediately evident.

As the coach pulls into the Tienda Leon guarded station and we prepare for our transfer, Mireille looks strained. “James, I know how this looks; I should have said something earlier. You should have been told”. There follows one of Mireille’s famous French pauses, “but we needed your support and assistance. The truth is, James, we know all about you and C, and how hard this will be for you”.

“You will be joined by Norm, Hammond and Moneypenny, if we can locate her. You are the team. Savident is your handler, and Raul and I will be available if you need support. We part here. Perhaps we may meet at the new Club Gricel if you have news?”

With that, Mireille stepped down from the coach, a fifty peso note imperceptibly exchanged hands with the coach driver, and she disappeared wheeling her case into the crowds of Retiro.

49.
Jorge Luis Borges and Galerias Pacifico

Mr Bond

From the Tienda Leon bus station I can either wait for a taxi, or walk the twenty minute journey to Palacio Haedo in Santa Fe. The day is fair, and after 13 hours of long-haul flight, the stroll would be preferable to a shared taxi.

Skirting Luna Park I pace to Av Corrientes and ascend to the pedestrianised Calle Florida where I turn north. It is still early, but the street is already busy with traders. Voices call out ‘cambio, cambio’ advertising currency exchange. I tuck my leather bag firmly under my arm for security as I pass intersections and open doorways.

Crossing Lavalle, Florida 537 appears on my right, a gloomy 1960’s building designed as a mall, now accommodating but a handful of trading units. I descend the escalator (inoperable as long as I can remember) to the lower ground level, heading down the sloping ramp to Argenper’s office. Smoked glass doors give access a deserted seating area backed by screens to hide the tellers. It is early. I am a queue of one, and a voice calls ‘siguiente’.

Whilst the foreign office will arrange currency transfers, they track every transaction. So I prefer to access pesos myself, making funds transfers from my bank to the English company ‘Azimo’, who arrange for peso collection here at the Argenper kiosk.

For proof of identity I present my passport which is scanned and returned. Horacio’s eyebrows raise as I write my address, Santa Fe 690. “Isn’t that the ancient palacio? I thought it was boarded up for renovation?”

I reply that in Buenos Aires you have to get accommodation wherever you can, at which he smiles, handing me a large roll of notes that have drummed from the auto-counter and enclosed with an elastic band.

With cash tucked into my body-wallet, my mind turns to thoughts of breakfast. I know that Raul, Haedo’s caretaker, will be on his rounds, and Maria the housekeeper has Tuesdays off.

Galerias Pacifico at Florida, just before Av Cordoba is the ‘shopfront’ of the Centro Cultural Borges. Jorge Luis Borges 1889-1986 was a writer and thinker, sharing with Samuel Beckett in 1961 the first Prix International. He was an opponent of the Nazi fascism of Adolph Hitler, which he described as ‘a chaotic descent into darkness’; and of the Peronism of Juan and Evita Peron which he called ‘the lies of dictatorship...to conceal or justify sordid or atrocious realities’. He was above all else, a nationalist for Argentina, one who loved tango, writing, ‘el infinito tango me lleva hacia todo’ - ‘infinite tango takes me towards everything’. Without doubt he would have approved of ‘Escuela Argentina de tango’, the famous tango school hidden away on the top floor of the building bearing his name.

The street-side Galerias Pacifico however, is the zenith of retail, and a few steps to the lower ground level leads the visitor to the food hall where breakfast can be whatever you wish it to be. This is now my destination.

As I descend the stairs a voice calls, “Bond, esperarme...wait for me”. I glance behind me to see a young slim, fair haired figure pushing through a crowd of tourists.

“Moneypenny, what on earth are you doing here? And how did you know that I was back in Buenos Aires?”

50.
Nine of Ten

Mr Bond

That I should encounter Moneypenny in Buenos Aires would not be surprising. Visit the city and you will understand why immediately. The tiny electrical charge that surrounds all humans is somehow magnified here, and strangely transmitted. You may be walking in a crowded calle, only to have a friend or acquaintance approach or wave furiously from a passing collectivo.

But that Moneypenny should find me within two hours of touchdown was spooky. On meeting, her demeanour was even more unusual. Gone, the carefree, fun-loving tanguera; now a subdued young woman on whom her smile appeared strained.

“James, I haven’t got much time”, she said breathlessly. “Take this, it contains your instructions. Oh, and don’t be late!”

With that Moneypenny pushes a data card into my palm and disappears up the staircase into the crowds of Calle Florida.

The astute reader will recall from a previous chapter - ‘Bond Recalled to Buenos Aires’, the MI6 voice on the phone that made it perfectly clear that the Palacio Haedo apartment in Recoleta and the 1960 Bentley S2 Continental came on the condition that I should carry the department’s phone with me at all times. In one demand I was propelled from the twentieth century into the twenty first, necessitating a return to Whitehall to collect my kit.

“Bond, you here again? I thought you were retired?”, had jabbered ‘Q’ as he opened a sealed case. “Now I have something to help you with your tango”, he continued with a laugh, “ask it anything...what is an ocho?....look, it makes Siri look like a child”. “And this is where you slot in your data card. No, Bond, don’t ask why you would need one of those; all will become clear”.

With that ‘Q’ had slipped the phone into my jacket breast pocket and spun on his heel. “See Bond, I have been practicing tango too,” he joked as he chasséd from the room.

Tracked by my phone? I inserted the data card and clicked ‘read’. ‘Reserva Ecologica Costanera Sud: Martes 1500 hrs para conocer a tus amigos, saludos, ‘B’.

But why the ecology park? And who is this ‘B’?

Breakfast at the galleria seemed to lose its appeal. ‘There is no such thing as a free meal, or even a quiet one these days’, I thought to myself. It seemed no sooner than I had set foot in Buenos Aires than I was being set to work.

I enter the press of humanity in Calle Florida and continue my route north to Santa Fé, turning left before Plaza General San Martin. Ahead, Palacio Haedo is looking both tired and splendid, the last traces of repairing scaffold being removed. Behind the glass reception screen sits Diego, his eyes fixed on a television screen. “Senôr Bond, nice to see you back in Bueno Aires”, he says with a frowning smile. “Here your key”.

Thirty minutes later I return to the street to hail a radio cab. “Puerto Madero, Fuente Monumental Las Nereidas”, I say, so as not to reveal my true destination. The taxi chases along the new Paseo del Bajo cutting minutes from the journey.

For 33 years, 350 hectares of marshland has served the Portenos as their last remaining wilderness. This is the Reserva Ecologica, where rough tracks lead you past swamps skirted by large iguana, eventually to the banks of the La Plata estuary.

My phone pings. ‘Monumento Al Plus Ultra’, reads the message. I squint ahead into the sunshine. On the steps is a collection of familiar faces.

“James, good of you to join us”, calls a voice. Two groups stand informally around the monument. In one group, Savident smiles, Mireille traces a lapise on the marble flags and Richard Hammond blows a kiss in my direction. In the other, Norm photographs Moneypenny as she shrugs her knees. “So we are six”, I observe tallying a head count.

“No, Bond, apparently we are nine”, says Savident authoritatively, “we have been told to wait here for M and B”.

Maria Cristina (M) runs the government’s secret service operations in South America from her hidden office in Avenida Gral. Las Heras in Buenos Aires. “But who is this B?”, I ask, glancing around at the group.

“You’ve got to be joking, Bond”, replies Savident, “or you’re seriously out of touch, old man”. “B is the new Head of MI6, appointed yesterday by Theresa May as her last political act before her escape to obscurity”.

“So, this B, where’s he from?”, I continue.

“Not he, Bond…. She....our first transgender Ministry chief. And her name is Boothroyd”.

On cue, a shiny new dust cart pulls up at the end of the avenue, and from the side door descend two blonde women, M turning to lend a hand to the other as she steps down to the street.

At that moment, behind us, the haunting sound of a harmonica emanating from beneath the Jacaranda fades, as a tiny wheelchair disappears into the distance.


51.
Does she survive?
Important update: from Mr Bond

We met at 'Monumento Al Plus Ultra' against the entrance of the Reserva Ecologica on the eastern side of Buenos Aires where land meets La Plata. Savident, Hammond, Mireille, Norm, Sabrina, and Moneypenny were waiting for me on the steps as the afternoon temperature dropped beneath the thick canopy of Jacaranda trees that borders the reserve.


The Jose Lorda sculpted monument commemorates a hydroplane flight across the Atlantic Ocean in 1926 from Madrid to Buenos Aires. This was a riverbank area from which over time the River Plata retreated away from the popular bathing point where the statue still stands.


Maria Cristina (known as M) arrives with London's new Head of Service Sue Boothroyd; unconventionally but not unexpected from what we know of M's quirky transport choices.


It is the first time that I have encountered Ms Boothroyd, MI6's first transgender Head, Thereas May's last appointment before a new Prime Minister takes up residence in London's Downing Street. She is younger than I had expected, powerful, beautiful and smart, her blonde hair pulled into a pony tail. The two women walk purposefully and without urgency along the avenue towards our group. Paul Savident, Hammond and Mireille chat quietly to one side. Norm continues to snap photographs of Sabrina and Moneypenny. I stand alone against the plinth.


When they reach a point twenty metres from the monument, Ms Boothroyd stops and turns. I can hear the sound of a phone as she reaches into her hand bag to retrieve her mobile. The distance is just too far away to hear her words. Almost immediately Moneypenny's phone rings out. She steps down from the marble steps to take the call. At the same moment a shot rings out, recognisable as from a single-action semi-automatic M1911 pistol.
Moneypenny stands for an instant but the phone drops from her hand. Within a second she crumples to the ground. For what seems an eternity no-one moves.


The events that followed fall seemingly into time-lapse. Norm steps back into the shadows followed by Savident, Mireille and Hammond. I rush forward to where Moneypenny is lying. She does not move. Her breathing is feint and rattling. A pool of blood creeps across the stone and she whispers words in my ear that I cannot hear. I turn to see the steel-clad dustcart depart into Rosario Vero Penazola.


Sabrina calls 107 for an ambulance and whilst waiting with her I instinctively seize her phone from where it had landed in the dust. Paramedics rush down the avenue. Arriving, they attempt to stem the flow of blood whilst delivering oxygen. Departing, they say that they will go to the Hospital Britanico in Av Caseros, Constitucion, and that Sabrina should accompany them.


I remain seated on the monument steps staring at my blood-stained hands. Distant at the reserve entrance I notice the glint of sunshine on the spokes of a wheelchair as it retreats into the shadow.


52.
From Berlin to Buenos Aires Part 1

Moneypenny

Bond and Sabrina freeze and gaze at me in terror. What happened? I feel lightheaded, everything is hazy; I feel as if I were floating above everyone. I look down, onto the steps where my body lies, Bond is panicked as Mireille tries to calm him, Sabrina is motionless, petrified; I can’t make out where the others are; I’m just lying there motionless….


I have this overwhelming urge to float away…… To follow the breeze…. Go towards the sunlight…… but something pulls me back, faint in the distance, I hear Bond’s voice “You stay awake, you come back, do you hear me”, and abruptly the floating stops and I can feel a deep pain in my abdomen and a weakening of my body.


I close my eyes; darkness comes over me, and then, unexpectedly, a flicker of light appears in the distance; I see myself; myself 6 months ago in Brussels, about to give my speech on health-care issues in the European Union and new regulations for the big pharma which have been dictating rather than following the rules lately. I’m back, back to that moment that started the chain of event that led me back here, that led me to this moment which might be my last.


6 months ago…..


I had left BA after the G20; after yet another encounter with my mysterious Argentine; after Bond; after Sabrina… when I had had enough of all of it. I came back to Brussels, went back to work as if none of it had ever happened.


"Madame, madame c’est à vous de parler. Andiamo!!! Presto!", said M Rasi, Guido I should say, the executive director of EMA, the European Medicine Agency, and my boss. So I stood up and gave my speech, like I had many times before, on the importance of unity in the face of division, on the importance of our common goals, our strife for the people of Europe, and the world, to have the highest quality of medication to preserve, improve and prolong life….yes preserve, improve and prolong life…Yes all of those values, those values I used to believe in so strongly....before I knew any better.


"Hai fatto bene, come sempre", Guido told me. "You think so? We’re planning our move from London to Amsterdam; half of Europe is no longer European, you think talking about unity makes a difference now?" I responded in an almost irritated tone. "Ah che passione!" he responded and paused as he looked directly into my eyes. I knew that look all too well, he wanted something from me, and something I wouldn't really want to do.


“My dear I need you to go to Berlin, to attend a conference next Wednesday; given by a very influential Russian genetic engineer. You’ll need to pay close attention; we think the Russians are trying to play God and are trying to create some sort of super Siberian humans along with mutated vaccines against their own new engineered biological weapons. You need to take notes, talk to people, see who is there, who is interested, make friends." He said as he gazed at the speaker’s chair at the front of the auditorium.


“Anyhow, you leave tonight, and you will spend the week in Berlin. You will stay at Hotel di Roma, in the center, near the university library. It’s the only place you can get descent pasta, I will not have you eating German food for seven days straight! No one deserves that, not even the Germans!” He said as he burst out laughing at his own joke.

“One week, why one week if the seminar is on Wednesday?” I asked with a hint of annoyment, as if I had no life of my own and could just get up and go according to everyone whims and desires. “Perche e cosi. All your things are ready, you just need to take the taxi to the airport and enjoy. Antonella packed your things and whatever is missing you can just put on your expense report. Grazie mille cara mia."


So just like that I was off to Berlin on the 7PM flight. 9PM I arrived at hotel Roma, in the heart of Berlin, on the very spot which was the scene of the very infamous 1933 Nazi book burning. No matter how much we move forward, Germany’s past will forever haunt her, like a shadow that follows you even on the sunniest of days.


“Welcome madame” said the concierge, “we are very pleased to have you with us, Pierre will escort you to our best room, on the top floor, for your stay with us", he continued.


Penthouse and a week in Berlin, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all I thought to myself, why was I complaining?


Pierre opened my door, placed my suitcase on it’s dedicated stand and handed me an envelope; “C’est pour ce soir, amusez-vous bien mademoiselle”, he said before disappearing. Why an Italian hotel in Berlin had a French speaking busboy, I wasn't sure, but it is why I love Europe and believe in her so profoundly.


The envelope contained one handwritten note: ‘Das Kaffeehaus Dallmayr and bring your shoes. Grazie mille cara mia.’


The place was 3 blocks from my hotel, the coffee house of the Communication Museum of Berlin, I could hear the music from outside, and like it always does, it drew me in, like a firefly to light.



53.
Moneypenny returns to Buenos Aires

Moneypenny

I opened the front door and followed the music all the way up the stairs that lead to the milonga. Two French doors opened onto a 1920’s typical Berlin café resonating with Troilo’s ‘Te aconsejo que me olvides’. A man and a woman were talking, or struggling I to talk, should say. I could tell instantly and he was Porteno, and hence spoke very little English, and she was German, and hence spoke very little Spanish. I stepped in to try to facilitate communication; Federico was a singer and had been invited by Madga, the milonga organiser, to sing tonight and they were trying to agree on the best moment for him to start his performance.


‘Gracias’ he said to me, to which I simply responded, ‘de nada’, and he was off. He sang 4 songs, one tanda, and started with Di Sarli’s ‘Soñemos’, ‘Let’s dream’, Let’s dream that we are both free, let’s dream that tomorrow doesn’t matter…….ironically how most people in Buenos Aires live and deal with the day to day insecurities, dreaming and trying not to worry about tomorrow.


When Federico finished singing, he walked over to where I was sitting and told me he had another performance tonight, but would love to see me again. He gave me his card and said he was singing here again on Wednesday and could really use my help ‘translating’ for him again.


Wednesday
I was at the conference given by Vladimir Dimitrov, Ph. D, a well known and very accomplished genetics engineer. He was working on some sort of artificially accelerated genetic mutation which would help humans better adapt to environmental and diet changes. The Kremlin was selling it as Russia’s solution to global warming, which would allow humans to adapt to new environments, only instead of it taking hundreds of years, with countless deaths, this new research demonstrated that this could be achieved in as little as two generations.


The conference was very well attended, scientists and politicians from all over the world were taking notes and exchanging business contacts, ‘this is the future, our very survival depends on it’, Dr Dimitrov argued.


‘Survival of those who have the means to afford it, he means’, said a voice coming from behind me. ‘Richard’, I exclaimed, ‘of course the British would send their very best to be there today’,I added. ‘I was about to say the same about Brussels, Miss Moneypenny, it’s a pleasure to see you, as always’, he responded.


The conference ended, and then begun lobbying from all sides. ‘It’s almost pathetic seeing them running after each other like that, like pathetic little dogs. Let us do the civilised thing and get a drink; champagne I believe is your poison my dear?’ Richard asked me. ‘My afternoon poison. Yes’, I responded.


‘You know, Bond is back in Buenos Aires, and word has it he might soon need some help over there. Things are happening in Argentina right now and it is vital that changes happen in the right direction’, said Richard while handing me a glass of Dom Perignon. ‘And what right have we to determine the ‘right’ direction? Isn’t foreign involvement what Britain is accusing Brussels of?’, I asked while sipping my cold bubbly. ‘Let’s just say that in these matters we have two choices, to lead or be led, and frankly I know which side I prefer to be on, I guess you have to decide, my dear Moneypenny, which side do you want to be on?’, he responded purposely ignoring my comment about Brexit.


And with that I decided it was time to get back to my Berlin penthouse and try to take all this information in. Why had I been sent here? And why did I again feel like a pond in someone else's chess game?

Then I suddenly remembered I had a milonga to get to!





54.
In which Bond beats a retreat to Humberto Primo 378


Mr Bond

Good day, dear reader. From my last episode, you will recall the sensational events at Monumento Al Plus Ultra by the Reserva Ecologica here in Buenos Aires. As the new Head of MI6 Ms Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina (M) approached the monument steps, Moneypenny was wounded by a single shot from a semi-automatic M1911 pistol. We told you of her urgent transfer to Hospital Britanico in Av Caseros, Constitucion; but that is where our account concluded.


Some thoughtful readers have inquired as to whether Moneypenny survived the shooting (her flashback stories to Berlin giving no clue on this issue). You will be relieved to know that she has. That which caused her to crumple into my arms on the monument steps thankfully proved to be a deep flesh wound, producing copious blood rather than delivering death.


We were all present at that fateful time. Paul Savident, Richard Hammond, Mireille, Norm, Sabrina, Moneypenny, Bond, and of course, Sue Boothroyd and Maria Cristina. Also, almost unseen and unheard in the distance beneath the canopy of Jacaranda glinted the chromed spokes of a wheelchair and a drifted a haunting harmonica tango.


As the ambulance left with Sabrina clutching Moneypenny’s hand, a cavalcade of Ford Falcons sped into Av. Dr. Tristán Achával Rodríguez. Ms Boothroyd and M had already reached the road and were ushered into the second car which turned into Padre M L Migone, disappearing from view and leaving the food vendors and late afternoon joggers staring in disbelief.

Savident took charge of our remaining group. “Our instruction in such circumstances is to go immediately to Fundación Mercedes Sosa, Humberto Primo 378. Take a car”. And with that our group split - Savident, Hammond and Mireille in the first Falcon, followed by Norm and me in the last car.


Imagine my surprise when, on sliding down into the rear near passenger side I glanced up to recognise the driver. “Raul, what on earth are you doing here?” Pushing his beaten straw hat to the back of his head, Raul (Palacio Haedo’s caretaking gardener and chauffeur) just smiled, “someone has to be looking out for you, old boy”, he replied.



Postscript

I should explain to the uninitiated reader the significance of the Ford Falcons. The first Falcons were produced in La Boca, Buenos Aires in 1962 and remained in production until 1991. Between 1976 and 1983 they were commandeered by the military regime death squads, arriving late at night or early morning outside homes where opponents of the regime would be spirited away to be ‘disappeared’. Between 11-30,000 citizens were killed. To this day, street pavings mark the buildings from which radicals were removed.

55.
Final Decisions

Mr Bond

In the last episode you will recall that we were directed to go to Fundación Mercedes Sosa, Humberto Primo in San Telmo, formerly a religious institution, hospital, barracks and prison, now a cultural centre dedicated to South American culture and the memory of the renowned folklorique performer, Mercedes Sosa.

Raul steers the grey Falcon from Ave Ingeriero Huergo across stone sets into Humberto Primo to stop behind a queue of similar Falcons outside no 378. Norm and I were clearly the last to arrive.

Unlike the others, however, our journey across Puerto Madero had required total concentration.

"James", Raul directed sternly, "you have to listen carefully to what I am about to say. Do not interrupt me. You now have little time".

"Things are not what they seem. Susan Boothroyd isn't who you think her to be. She has infiltrated MI6 but her masters are Russian. She works undercover for the KGB".

For a moment I froze not knowing what to believe. Did my friend Maria Cristina know this, and who was Cristina working for? What about Savident and Hammond; where did their allegiances lay? Was Mireille at risk? Who on earth was Sabrina? Finally, who attempted to kill Moneypenny and why?

Norm breathed out, "I knew it, James; all that bollocks about a transgender regional head of MI6. How could we have been so stupid?", adding, "and that why we have an attempt on Moneypenny's life".

"We need you both in there - that is the Fundacion I mean", continues Raul. "We must know what is happening, but if you take my advice, you will not stay too long". "Find some excuse to get away...any excuse...any way", he continues.

With that, the door to the Falcon swung shut and it disappeared into the San Telmo traffic.

"Stay close and don't breathe", I ordered, "and Norm, don't say anything with that Northern Irish accent of yours", I added as I pushed him ahead of me. "If they ask I will say that you are my driver and you need a comfort break".

Those that know the Fundacion Mercedes Sosa will be familiar with the entrance straight from the street leading to an open cloistered courtyard. To the right is a visitors' information room and studio, straight ahead a passage leading deep into the recesses of the building.

"Senor, te estan esperando", says the security officer, directing us towards the chained-off area. Norm lifts the links and we pass through. The corridor is in partial darkness, the only light being that from the courtyard. We descend into the gloom.

The fifth door on the left is ajar, and voices sound from within. I step through, whilst Norm continues to the door recess for room six. As I enter I feel a new atmosphere, one of anxiety, laminated with the feint smell of sweat. Boothroyd is seated on the edge of the table, Maria Cristina to her right. Mireille looks downwards forlorn, whilst Savident and Hammond recline uneasily on wooden chairs to one side. As for Sabrina, there is no trace.

"Ah, Bond", says Boothroyd as I enter, "at last - and true to type, the last".

"It seems that Moneypenny may survive, but this marks the end of her time with the department, and I fear, the end of her career as a tanguera", continues Boothroyd. "As for the rest of you, the team is disbanded due to security concerns". "That will take effect immediately", she adds curtly, "your passes will be taken as you leave the building". "That is all".

At that moment there is an urgent rattle at the door. Norm appears in the doorway. "Chicos...atacado auto", he yells, hardly disclosing an Ulster note whilst waving at me to follow.

We race down the corridor and in tandem leap the chain rail. The security officer is in his room and unable to react as we run towards the door to the street. Visitors stand back and gasp. Outside waiting is the grey Falcon, Raul at the wheel.

"Let's go", urges Norm as the Ford cuts into the traffic and we race past Plaza Dorrego towards Bolivar.

On entering Av San Juan, Raul turns. "I am sorry to say, James, Moneypenny is dead".

As we return to Puerto Madero in afternoon light, clouds have gathered ominously overhead. Raul's words pierce my heart like a knife. It cannot be possible. Moneypenny...she had everything to live for - tango, youth, life.

Tears trickle down my cheek. I feel numbed. The light fades; sound dims; the buildings either side close in. It is as if a spark has been extinguished without reason.

"Where to James", says Raul softly, "may I suggest Palacio Huedo and take stock there. Perhaps a cup of tea from Rosa?"

And with that we thread through Av Independencia towards 9 de Julio and on to San Martin. My mind is like ice, my feelings frozen.

'What is left for me here in Buenos Aires?', I ask myself. But this time I do not have or hear an answer.



56.
Farewell to Buenos Aires

Mr Bond

A thin sun lights a damp autumnal San Martin. The lattice doors of the Palacio Haedo lift clang closed as we start our descent to a bustling Av Santa Fe. Raul looks pensive.

"If you have forgotten anything, James, I will send it on to London", he says, more to fill the silence than to declare an intention. He knows that, in one leather bag, I have everything that I brought with me to Buenos Aires. And in his heart he knows too that I have left behind the thing most precious to me. He sees my strained, creased face, and feels my loss - a bereavement that goes down to the soul.

As the lift clatters to a halt on the ground floor, Cleo, Raul's black cat, crosses purposefully on her way to the palacio kitchens. Horacio's eyes leave the flickering television in the attendant's lodge and he leaps up, rushing into the entrance hall. "Senor Bond, I going to miss you", he stutters, waiting for his hug.


A black and yellow radio taxi is standing in the street, its driver re-reading the morning paper. Raul opens the rear nearside door. "Have a good flight, James, and stay in touch won't you". There is another moment of silence before he adds, "you are the last of the old guard". A sweep of the second hand pushes time and urges the moment of parting.


And away, threading the morning traffic, the taxi windows wide open to admit the breeze bearing last early autumn scents of the barrio, then heading to the raised carriageway of Au 25 de Mayo that will zip out to Airport Ezeize - and beyond, over an Atlantic night, to a Heathrow dawn.

Farewells are bitter-sweet. The intrinsic sadness of leaving friends and familiarity is tempered by melancholy. Thoughts and feelings heighten, and I grasp for final memories. There remains but a glance across the roof tops of the city, and back - before the present unveils the changing picture of life's new challenges.

58.
Postscript for readers

Stephen & Andreea











In December 2017 the writers, Stephen Twist and Andreea Vladan agreed to take up a writing challenge involving each of them penning episodes of a storyline set in Buenos Aires, reviving the famous characters of James Bond and Moneypenny.

The idea behind the challenge was to write together (frequently in the same room), but independently; in each episode setting challenges and traps for each other’s characters, allowing a story to unfurl without forward planning. For both rookie writers, the task called on new skills and was designed to stretch both our writing experience and imagination.

At the outset we had little concept as to how our characters would develop, save that Bond was now in his 60’s, retired (almost) from MI6 and in Buenos Aires to dance Argentine tango. Conversely, Moneypenny had not aged a day, remaining in her early 30’s, lively and in slight awe of Bond. No doubt this configuration owed much of its provenance to the ages of the writers themselves!

We did, however, want to include a host of characters based on our friends - when I we say ‘based’ we really mean ‘stolen’. Taking our friends’ names, we wove a little mystery into their fictional characters and frequently a touch of undeserved evil. It follows that none of those named in the blog bear any but a passing resemblance to the invented characters they inspired.

All good things must come to an end, and with our respective and increasing separations from Buenos Aires we concluded that the time was right for new writing ventures. Our love for our characters does mean that we shall be keeping this blog for posterity: not least because by choice we have taken Bond away from his historic misogyny, and Moneypenny from her subordinate eye-candy role. No doubt film producers will clamour for our services.

It remains to thank all of our readers - those who followed each episode and sent comments; those who occasionally dipped into the blog out of curiosity; and of course, those that lent us their names.

We wish our readers well. Do not delete the blog from your list of notifications or favourites. Who knows, Bond and a resurrected Moneypenny may return some day; and with your presence here, you will be the first to know!

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