Final decisions

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 are 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 Chinese. She works undercover for Chen Wenqing's SSA".

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 west 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, the news is that Moneypenny died an hour ago in the Hospital Britanico".

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.

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.

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”.

Miss Moneypenny

I rush through Defensa, through the  Sunday Tam Tam players and the orange juice stands; through the shoes and bong sellers; pushing my way through the hoards of people who have made the pilgrimage to San Telmo’s market day; all the way to the corner of Independencia and stare up at the tall white building.

“Bond, it’s me!  I’m back! You’re back’, I utter into the buzzer.  “Yes I’m back and so are you it seems”, he replies with much less apparent enthusiasm; the British just don't do enthusiasm I remind myself.

Within the following 15 minutes, I find out Bond went back to London and has essentially left MI6, or so he says, and wants to devote himself completely to tango. “How ironic” I say to him.  “Ironic, why would you say that?” he asks me.  “Because I’ve decided that I’ve spent too much time stepping on cats in cemeteries and chasing after secret societies, while my tango shoes have been collecting dust” I reply.

“Yes we should get back on track with tango, plan a milonga soon” Bond answers back.  “Well there’s no time like the present, dance with me here!” I say.

With that, Bond puts a disk on gramophone, ‘La Cumparasita’, an odd choice for a living room tanda, I suspect he heard me humming it while I was stretched out on his sofa.  We embrace and sway left to right, it doesn’t feel like it did before; maybe we’re both a little rusty; or maybe we’re just not as comfortable with each other as we used to be.

Once the music dies down, I remove myself from his embrace, a little hastily perhaps, but I also remember that he is the reason I am in this mess in the first place.  He used tango before to get me to do what he wanted, how do I know it’s any different now?  Can anyone ever leave MI6?  What proof do I have except his word?

“Thank you for the tanda” I whisper in his ear as I lean in to kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you tonight.  I love Gricel” and make my way down the 52 stairs which had left Bond so out of breath on our way up.

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. 

As I start going up the front stairs, the door suddenly opens: ‘Good evening señora, you are most welcome’, says 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.  How odd to find him here, I really have no idea what I'm getting myself into...but here I am.

Following the candle light, I cross the tiled floor of the vestibule into a grand marbled entrance hall. It has all the appearance of an Italian villa with it's four floors of arched balconies; 4 large chandeliers ornate the ceiling and cast a golden hue on everything below.  ‘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 sound of the music 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, almost a smirk, 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 to some people. Start your evening by getting to know the right people.’ 

‘The man over there chatting to the women is our host Richard.  Next to him is his partner, Santiago, but everyone calls him 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 as he walks over to them.

‘This is the bright young lady I was telling you about, Jay’, Bond announces as we join them. ‘Good evening, my dear.’he responds and then adds‘You are most welcome here,’ 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, traded or more accurately cheated but that's old history by now’.

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 add an eerie glow.

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 followed 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, glanced in my direction with a pronounced mirada. “Go do your duty, Bond”, joked Jay, as he turned his to lavish his attention on Moneypenny.

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…..

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.

“Hello Moneypenny”, I greet, jovially. She struggles a smile but rises for a hug. Hugs are something that just happen in Buenos Aires. Man, woman, known, or just met - the 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 Constitucion. 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 my avuncular concern furrow my brow. I am just about to speak when there is a huge explosion above us. Lights flicker and dim. Suddenly the patio beyond the studio doors is awash with a torrent of rain. The moment for inquiry has gone, replaced by a downpour and the prospect of a journey home through the storm.

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.