Chapter 3

“Bye Auntie, I’ll be back later.” My hushed tones still seem too loud in the quiet room. I glance at the prone form in the bed and then at Juana, my great aunt’s housekeeper and now, I suppose, her nurse. She shakes her head, her mouth downturned in sadness and resignation. I’ve only been in the country for a few days, but I’m learning the patterns of the house. Some days, my aunt has times of lucidity and energy, and some days not. This is one of them.

Unable to face a long afternoon and evening by myself, I decided to explore the city.

I’ve never been good at solitary confinement, so it feels wonderful to get out of the house for a while.

The problem isn’t the house itself—as it’s a large mansion split over several floors and has plenty of space—but the zero stimulation it provides. Built in the 1920s, it’s stunningly beautiful, just like its owner, my aged great aunt. And just like its owner, its beauty is faded, reminiscent of livelier and more decadent times. Now, the past is an opaque filter which can be viewed but not lived in. Like looking at a photograph of a long-gone Hollywood star, it belongs to another era.

Leaving behind the hushed oppression of a building waiting to exhale, I choose to walk down the hill from the mansion and into the city, needing the freeing nature of movement. I doubt I could walk back up, though. I’m not used to hills back home in Buenos Aires, where it’s flat. When I get to the centre, I follow La Rambla for a while, enjoying the wide tourist street of boutiques and restaurants. I select an outdoor table at a cafe for a coffee and a bout of people-watching while I rest after the walk. The weather is warming up, whereas back home in Argentina we’d be heading into winter. Maybe spending the summer in Barcelona won’t be such a bad experience after all.

I’m not sure how long I will be here, but no one argues with my father. I remember him summoning me to his office—a rare occurrence, as I’m not usually welcome at his work. I’m the son he tries to forget unless it’s convenient to remember me, like now. He’d held a letter in his hand. That in itself was odd, I mean, who writes letters anymore?

“I’ve had a letter from Aunt Estrella’s solicitor.” He brandishes the thick cream sheet of paper as if showing exhibit A. “She’s dying. You will go to her.”

“What? Me?” Incredulity and surprise sends my voice loud and squeaky and my father visibly winces. I know who he’s referring to, of course. We all know of Aunt Estrella—or rather, his Aunt Estrella—we’ve just never met her. She left Argentina a long time ago, even before my father was born. And whilst he’s met her a few times, as far as I’m aware, she’s not returned for over thirty years .

“She is family, so someone needs to be there.” His voice holds no emotion. Maybe it’s hard to feel anything for someone you’ve not seen for a long time. But then again, this is my father; emotions are not something he’s familiar with. Myself, on the other hand . . . It’s one of the reasons we don’t get along.

There’s no point saying that he should be the one to go, or that I actually have a job and commitments here in Buenos Aires. His mulish expression shows me that arguing would be useless.

“Your flight leaves in four hours.”

“Papa!” The name slips out and my father looks up sharply. I was twelve when my father said I was no longer to call him that. It was to be only Padre or Senor. But I’ve been caught off guard. Four hours is barely enough to get home, pack, and get to the airport. I thought I might have a day or two, at least some time to make other arrangements for my classes.

My father’s expression softens slightly. Anyone might think it’s with affection, but I know my father better than that.

“Florencio, you are the best person to go to her. She will like you.” A rare compliment, even if it is backhanded. He pushes an envelope across the desk to me, no doubt containing my tickets. He keeps his hand on it and looks me square in the eye. “We’re all she has.” And with those last four words, my father reveals himself and what he’s asked me to do.

Before I continue exploring the city, I snap a photo and send it to my sister, knowing exactly the reaction it’ll get. I’m rewarded with a message of her outrage within a few seconds. That I can no longer be at my sister’s beck and call is one of the few kicks I’m likely to get out of this whole assignment. I can’t be her unpaid childminder if I’m thousands of miles away. I love my nieces, but that’s not the problem. It’s the way my sister always drops those duties on me when she knows I’m not teaching, as if I don’t have anything else in my life except to be there for her.

I open a browser on my phone and look up gay bars and clubs, discovering a whole area in the Eixample district, cutely called Gaixample. That’s definitely somewhere for me to visit another night, maybe find a hookup or two. After all, no one said I couldn’t have any fun while I’m here, so I fully intend to. Things are looking up. For now, though, I decide to explore the old town some more, heading past the Cathedral and the Picasso Museum, making a note to come back another day. I follow the ancient winding streets, enjoying the old buildings and quiet reverence past the Basílica de Santa Maria del Mar, Our Lady of the Sea. I stand for a while, staring at its gothic beauty.

Music catches my attention. I can’t mistake the sound of the bandoneón—tango music. It is unexpected, as flamenco music is more common in Spain. Tango is infused in my soul, and the familiar sound of it creates a wave of longing to be at home, to be dancing and teaching. Like a magnet, my body is pulled towards the source of the music. It’s coming from a small bar, set away from the main streets and down a cool alleyway. La Casa de Valery. . . sounds intriguing. When I enter, a sense of rightness settles over me. Standing at the bar, I look around, and it’s easy to see why—I could be back home in Buenos Aires. The bar isn’t big, but larger than it looks from its unassuming outside. A long bar runs along one wall and there are at least a dozen tables and chairs. To one side is a dance floor with enough room for several couples to dance comfortably. The lower half of the walls are all wood-panelled, and the upper half is painted cream but covered in an eclectic mix of paintings and photographs, all tango related.

It has a timeless quality, almost as if it could have been transported out of Argentina and dropped into Spain a century ago. What’s more surprising is that it’s busy. Nearly all the tables are occupied, and the dance floor already has a few couples. The music is provided by a bandoneón player, a violinist, a flautist, and a guitar player. An upright piano is pushed against one wall of the dance floor but is not currently being played.

There’s a small unoccupied table close to the dancers, so I take a seat and watch them. I think of the lessons I had to cancel and the two club owners I’ve let down at short notice by being here. I hope there’s a job for me when I return home. Not that my father views it as a proper job, which is really why I was the one chosen, the one member of the family who could be spared. It doesn’t take long before I’m itching to get up and dance.

I watch as one of the couples sits back at their table. The woman doesn’t look like she’s ready to stop, but the guy is paying her no attention. On a whim, I stand and ask her to dance. She smiles like a vixen at her partner, who looks daggers at her for a minute, but she pays him no heed and eagerly steps onto the dance floor.

Maria, I learn, is probably nearly twice my age, very elegant, and a good dancer.

“Your partner has nothing to fear from me,” I tell her and she laughs.

“I know, but it won’t hurt for him to stew for a little while.” She smiles, and the next time we pass the table, she draws just a little closer to me. The guy is practically apoplectic, so after the song finishes, I take her back to her seat. I don’t want to be in the middle of an argument or risk the wrath of her bullish partner.

I need a drink, so I place my order and sit back at my table. The music starts up again, and this time the guy with the guitar sings. I relax, content to people-watch for a while. My eyes are drawn to a photograph on the wall behind the bar. It’s a picture taken of a happy-looking couple on a beach. I recognise one of the guys as the singer in the tango group, but I don’t see the other one. He looks older now than in the photo, and the joyful, carefree look is gone. His dark brows seem drawn, weighed down like life is a difficult weight to bear. Strangely, it suits him, almost more than the joyous look from the photo. It adds a gravitas to his handsome, dark face. But what strikes me the most about him is his voice. It’s deep and reverberates in my bones. It makes me want to move, want to dance. He sometimes closes his eyes and then the song takes on a more soulful air. More than once, he flicks his eyes across the room, and I follow his gaze to where a guy is reading a book. The man is gorgeous. He’s definitely not Spanish, his skin is too pale, but it’s perfect for his light brown hair. He’s wearing gold-rimmed glasses, which give him a scholarly air. Yes, he’s definitely rocking the sexy professor look. If he notices the attention on him, he doesn’t look up or acknowledge it. He seems completely oblivious to what’s going on around him. I envy him his focus and his beauty. With the singer’s rich tones coursing through my body, I make my way over to the handsome stranger. When I get closer, I see the book he is reading is English, though the author was Spanish.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask, speaking English, reasoning that unless he is trying to improve his language skills, he’s English.

It takes him a second to notice my presence and that I’ve spoken.

“Hmm?” He blinks a couple of times—he obviously hadn’t heard me. I almost feel sorry for disturbing him, but it was worth it to have his light brown, almost gold eyes on me.

“Would you like to dance?” I repeat .

His brow knits together for a second, and he answers with a frown. “I’m . . . err, straight.”

The unexpected answer makes me snort.

“Carino! I asked if you wanted to dance with me, not if you wanted to fuck me!”