Today I'm returning to the Vanderbilt library a marvelous novel: "Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance", by Lloyd Jones, author of the highly acclaimed "Mr. Pip". (Amazon link below.)
I'm recommending this book to everyone reading this post. I could hardly put it down. I'd like you to read it, both men and women, because through 4 different characters, across a century and an ocean, the author describes so well the deep levels of gratification tango can bring to one's life. I've chosen an exerpt for you, to underscore the leap in the confidence one can gain in one's own grace, mastery, savoir faire, and sometimes, panache.
The story of Paul Schmidt and Louise Cunningham is the compelling core of the novel, but I want to jump two generations to the 21st century.
Here are a few lines from the end of chapter 30, where we share in a private, manly triumph of the 19-year-old narrator, Lionel, a shy New Zealand farm boy who washes dishes in an Argentine restaurant to support his university studies. His boss, beautiful restaurant owner Rosa (Schmidt's grandaughter), who's almost twice his age, has been teaching him Argentine Tango after hours, having once snapped her fingers at him and said "I need to dance". Lionel had responded "I can't dance!" Here we are less than a year later at the staff Christmas party (bolding for emphasis is mine):
"We moved to the middle of the floor as we would have at the end of a normal evening shift after the last waitress had gone, and we began to dance. As usual I felt the rough edges fall off me. I became emboldened. Everything we tried seemed to come off. I didn't notice the waitresses making space for us. I didn't notice that we had an audience until the song finished and the waitresses applauded and wolf-whistled. "Way to go, Lionel. Way to go."
"We moved to the middle of the floor as we would have at the end of a normal evening shift after the last waitress had gone, and we began to dance. As usual I felt the rough edges fall off me. I became emboldened. Everything we tried seemed to come off. I didn't notice the waitresses making space for us. I didn't notice that we had an audience until the song finished and the waitresses applauded and wolf-whistled. "Way to go, Lionel. Way to go."
. . .
"Now the waitresses wanted to see us dance again, so we danced to Piazzolla's "Oblivion," . . . We danced with cheeks pressed together, our eyelids closed.
"The music ended. We rocked in place a few extra seconds then parted. There was a delayed response from the audience this time, a gap in proceedings for all kinds of suspicion to wash about. Then as Rosa and I moved to an arm's length apart, the faces relaxed. I detected a sigh of relief around the room. It was only a dance, after all."
What would happen if YOU could dance Argentine Tango? Let your imagination go free for a moment. Where could YOU be less than a year from now?
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