Chapter 6

The warmth of the sun kissing the skin on my back wakes me. I’m sprawled face down on the bed, the sheet barely covering my nakedness. I’m surprised I even managed to undress myself. I was so weary last night when I returned, having walked back up the hill to my aunt’s house. I wasn’t in any state to work out the public transport system, and my phone battery had died, so I couldn’t call for an Uber.

I lie still for a while, enjoying the gentle warmth seeping into me before opening my eyes. When I blink them open, I can see it’s late. I haven’t fully adjusted to European times yet, so I feel groggy. It’s definitely that and not the amount of wine I consumed last night. Surprisingly good wine, though between the bar owner and the writer, I feel like I was the one who knew the least. I’ve been brought up to know and appreciate wine—enough to be able to pick the best wines at a restaurant rather than the most expensive, which is the trap those wishing to show they have money fall into—but it doesn’t hold a specific interest for me. In my family, it’s used to denote status. Find the hidden gems on a wine list, and you attract the notice of the sommelier. Get his respect and you get the respect of the waiters too. My father always asserts that it helps you get good tables at short notice in the best restaurants. Personally, I think they’re just scared of him and what he could do if they didn’t accommodate him. But none of that matters to me as I haven’t the money to eat at that class of restaurant. My father sending me here because I’m expendable is not far from the truth, though I hate to admit it. Being a tango dancer doesn’t make much money, not even enough to live on. I might not have joined the family business, but I am still a part of them and must abide by their rules. I’m allowed to indulge in my passion for dancing, and in return, my father pays for my apartment and gives me an allowance. In short, my father owns my ass.

I’d like to say, not in a literal sense, but in a way that’s not true either.

I remember the day I told my father I was gay. I don’t think it came as a big surprise to him, but he just gave me one of his long sighs, as if it was just another way I’d deliberately disappointed him, and told me I was not to bring scandal to the family. I understood the threat behind his words. Do anything that affects the business, and I’d be cut off from the family. I like my apartment and I like my life, so I make sure I don’t. So yeah, my father owns my ass. But here in Barcelona, I have more freedom. I’m not so easily recognisable and I could have some fun. Nothing serious, though, that’s not an option for me. Imagine some poor guy having to meet my father? I can just picture his sneer of disapproval, since whoever I chose would never meet his expectations. If they did, then they wouldn’t be with me. Urgh, that’s fine. I’m used to it, but I am going to have a good time.

The need for coffee is what finally prompts me to leave the comfort of my bed and get washed and dressed. I find Juana busy preparing lunch in the huge kitchen. She cheerily waves me away from the coffee machine and insists on making me a cup. I’d soon discovered it was better to let her have her own way, though it’s an amazing kitchen and I’d love to indulge my other passion—for cooking— in it.

She hands me a steaming cup with a smile and a simple statement. “She’s on the terrace.”

That my aunt is well enough to be out of bed explains Juana’s good mood, and I make my way through the vast house and out to the sunny terrace. I stand on the threshold between the cool interior of what could be described as a ballroom—though that seems like an antiquated term—and the large, sunny, white-stone terrace. It’s late spring and warm enough not to need a sweater. My aunt is on a lounger, half under a linden tree, its broad leaves supplying shade. At first, I think she’s asleep. Her eyes are closed and shaded by a wide-brimmed sun hat, but when I approach, they flicker open, and she gives me a thin smile.

“There you are, my dear.” She reaches a hand out to me. It’s instinctive. As a dancer and a singer, she’s used to being a star—the centre of attention. She behaves the same even if her audience is only her great nephew. I take it and give it a gentle squeeze before lightly touching it to my lips. Her smile widens as if she’s just received her due.

I warmed to her almost immediately when I arrived. I’d anticipated that it would be awkward having a stranger, albeit a family member, drop in on her at short notice, but it’s been nothing like that. When I arrived quite late in the evening, she was reclining on a chaise longue in a richly decorated room lined with dark wood panels and velvet drapes.

“Come here, my dear,” she’d said as if we hadn’t just met for the first time, but were old acquaintances. “Let me see who my nephew has sent.” I was a little surprised she expected me. She tipped her head back to look up at me before smiling. It was an encouraging smile, though tinged with a little sadness. “You look very much like her, you know.”

“Like who?”

“Your grandmother. She was a beautiful woman, and she turned many heads. She was my best friend, and we used to go dancing together. She could have turned professional like me, but she only had eyes for my brother and wanted to settle down instead.”

I hadn’t known my grandmother had danced. I hadn’t known her well at all, as she passed when I was still young, but I’d always wondered why I had no interest in business and only wanted to dance. I’ve felt most of my life that I was the anomaly in the family, except for my great aunt Estrella who had left Argentina for Spain decades ago.

“I dance too, Great Aunt,” I replied.

“Auntie, please. The ‘great’ makes me feel so old.” I didn’t point out to her that I was the youngest of my siblings, and my father didn’t marry young, so at ninety-one she was probably old enough to be a great-great-aunt.

“Auntie,” I repeated, and she smiled.

“Of course you dance. I noticed as soon as you walked into the room. I can always tell a dancer,” she said so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t help laughing. Suddenly, this visit had started to look like it might not be as much of a chore as I thought it would be.

I release her hand and look down at her. She has more colour than in the previous days when I’ve seen her; she looks stronger. When I’d asked her what was wrong with her, all I’d received was an enigmatic, “My dear, I’m ninety-one. Life ails me.”

“You look well today, Auntie,” I say, sitting on an adjacent lounger.

“I take each day as it comes,” she says. “But tell me, did you have fun last night? Juana said you went out.”

No secrets in this house, then. Or it could be that nothing ever happens, so I am of interest to them. Probably a bit of both.

“I found a tango bar. La Casa de Valery. Do you know it?”

She shakes her head. “I used to know all the places, but it’s been a while since I was in society.” Her gaze slips past me as if she’s revisiting the past, but she doesn’t dwell there long. “Did you dance?”

“I did a little.” I give a little shrug.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

It’s only been a few days, barely a week, but she’s right. I’ve danced every day since I discovered the tango as a teenager. I love nothing better than to lose myself in the fluidity of the movements and the music. Not dancing has made me hyper-aware of my body and it feels odd, somehow different, like I’m living in someone else’s skin. I could say all that to her, but as I look at my aunt, I realise that she too would’ve danced every day, and she probably hasn’t danced for several years. It would seem cruel to tell her my woes. Her expression tells me she already knows the answer to her question .

“How do you manage?” I whisper, thinking that growing old doesn’t have much going for it.

“I got used to it . . . eventually. But it wasn’t easy,” she sighs. Then she gives a little shake, as if trying to rid herself of the feeling, before turning back to me and fixing me with a gaze. “What else did you do? It’s good to have a young person in the house. Now I can’t get out anymore, you will have to have fun for me.”

What can I tell her? Nothing much else happened.

“I met a couple of guys. We sat, drank wine, and talked.” I try to sound nonchalant, but she leans in a little closer.

“Tell me everything.” She might look frail, but her eyes shine with sharp intensity and I know she won’t be satisfied unless I do.

“I first met a studious-looking guy. He’s English and a writer, very clever, and knew a lot about wine for an Englishman. Then we started talking to the bar owner, which is why I was back late. He’s a tango singer and musician.”

Delight dances across my aunt’s face, and I know this is what she wants. I understand it. We are very much alike.

As I tell her about them both, my mind wanders back to the previous evening. Rafe is certainly not my usual type. It’s like he has no idea how good looking he is, so it sits naturally on him. But it’s those understated good looks that drew me to him and prompted me to ask him to dance in the first place. It’s a damn shame he’s straight.

I recall the shock that made his cheeks glow a rosy colour when he thought he’d offended me. It heightened his beauty, the pink of his cheeks against the gold of his eyes, the colours like sunrise on a calm morning after a storm. But I’m not the only one drawn to him if I read Constantin correctly. He seemed unable to stay away either. Constantin is several inches taller than me and wellbuilt, with broad, strong shoulders. He, too, is handsome, but a total contrast to Rafe. His dark eyes and hair match his face, which speaks of a craggy sorrow. He looks like he’s lived and lost, and I understand as much from the references he made and the pictures on the wall. He smiled a few times throughout the evening, but it was like it was a forgotten action. I wonder what it would take to really make him open up and smile. Yes, yesterday was very interesting, and as I talk, I find I’m less drawn to my initial plan of trying out the gay nightclubs. I can find those in any city. I’d rather spend more time with the intriguing men I met last night.

I finish recounting as much of my evening as I’m willing to share, and my aunt looks animated.

“You must invite them to dinner.” She looks around, already calling for Juana.

“Auntie, we only just met last night.”

“I’m old. I might die tomorrow, then it would be too late,” she answers bluntly, the decision final.

“Are you sure? Would it not be too much for you?” I’d said they should meet her, but I’d meant for a quiet evening, next week perhaps.

“I used to host dinner parties for twenty people or more.” Her tone is dismissive. “Four of us is just a friendly supper.”

Juana appears on the terrace, concern on her face at being summoned.

“Ah, Juana! Can you call your sister to help? We’re having a dinner party. Tonight,” she announces, and Juana, to her credit, doesn’t betray anything in her face or manner. Maybe she’s just used to my aunt’s whims.

“Alas, senora, my sister is out of town until late tomorrow.”

“The next day, then. We’ll have it the next day,” she says in a voice that implies she’s used to getting her own way but is utterly charming about doing it, and I wonder how many people she’s managed to enchant over the years in the same manner.

Juana merely nods, and it’s her job now to make it happen. I wonder if I can help her and her sister with cooking, and perhaps learn some Spanish dishes.

I lie back on the lounger to enjoy the sunshine for a while. No, being sent here isn’t half bad after all.