"He has devoured the souls of so many women....hypnotized, driven to
madness by an irresistible macho charm and an aura of raw masculinity
that even the Hombre himself cannot control."

The Hombre turns his eye toward the bar where lean men in dark
striped suits stand with their feet on the bar rail, talons tapping
to the beat of the tango, eyes lost in shadows under wide brimmed
hats. They put down their drinks, turn towards the dance floor and
stand wide legged, waiting. The curtain will soon rise. An hombre can
never allow his woman to humiliate him.

Circling like a panther, The Hombre seizes Ruby's arm and coils her
body against his stiletto frame. She spins away like a lynx with
fangs and claws extended. He pulls her back, crushing her breasts
against his bare chest. I hear the rip of fabric. He entwines her
dark hair between his bejeweled fingers and slowly forces her head
backward to receive his kiss.

In the language of the tango, it is forbidden to smile; a smile
creates an impression of weakness. We must never smile. Yet, at the
corners of his mouth, the hombre's lips curve upward cruelly as his
leg caresses Ruby's thigh.

Ruby's foot glides between her hombre's legs. Her emasculating gancho
rises sharply like a knife . The Hombre's face contorts into a mask
of disbelief and agony. But his response is swift…the white blur of a
diamond fingered hand, the sound of flesh impacting soft flesh, like
the violent clack of castanets.

A stain rises on Ruby's cheek, blood to her lips. Her back arches.
Her arms encircle her hombre's legs as she slips to the floor.

He will kill her. I've seen his bloody knife work. I am no good with
a knife. He will turn this bistro into a butcher shop; Ruby's
entrails entwined with mine on the tango dance floor.

I rise from my chair. The tango's hard, steady cords beat across the
room. I place my wide-brimmed hat on my head; if I am to die, let it
be with style. But even as I think this, I imagine the sharp point of
The Hombre's dagger slicing into my guts, and in the back of my mind
I hear myself begging for mercy. Don't kill me! Please, please. I
will never touch your woman again. I swear it.

I am no hero. Nor a poet. Poets are willing to die for the gift of a
flower, a smile. But perhaps it is better to live life swiftly, to
die with a knife in the heart, to die with noble purpose rather than
cower before an eternity of shame?

The Hombre lights a cigarette. Its tip glows red as he inhales. At
his feet, Ruby's body quivers. The sweet strains of the tango caress
her, cradle her and rock her gently, as gentle seas soothe the
anxious voyager. Her eyes open and stare into mine. Take me; set my
compass, sail me far away, they say.

Lightning flashes along the blade of the serrated steak knife on the
table. My hand closes around its handle. I pull down on the brim of
my hat and step onto the dance floor.

The Hombres at the bar point in my direction. They stare in
disbelief; they down their drinks, wipe their mustaches and dance a
few clownish tango steps, imitating the duel they are about to
witness. Its inevitable outcome seems to represent a source of
amusement for them. Deep, guttural sounds rise from their throats, a
sort of embarrassed laughter, as if saying "who is this fool? Who is
crazy enough to challenge L'Hombre de Buenos Aires, to face the
bloody point of his dagger? Make ready yet another box for another
fool.

Forbidden rhythms enter my blood and speak to the dark corridors of
my soul. The insistent cords of the tango guide my steps towards
where Ruby lays on the floor and into the arms of sweet destiny. The
Hombre stands calmly at the center of the dance floor smoking his
cigarette. Ruby lays sprawled at his feet, her arms entwined about
her Hombre's leg. Her eyes turn in my direction and follow my slow,
catwalk approach. Like The Hombres at the bar, she knows; she must
witness yet another mad fool's final act of madness.

I arrive at the forbidden space: the distance at which a knife may be
drawn quickly and plunged into the heart of an opponent. Knife duels
often end this way, suddenly, silently. The Hombre steps to the side,
with Ruby still clinging to his leg. He drags her body along the
dance floor like a troublesome appendage and then stomps his heel.
She releases her hold.

The Hombre faces me. "There is time", he says, "time for a last
tango, a farewell tango. Time to mark your death in the minds of the
amigos at the bar." Without visible movement, his dagger appears in
his left hand. He holds it loosely, fondly. The blade reflects the
barroom light. I blink… distracted, vulnerable.

"Amigo! I want to know", The Hombre asks. "Do you believe in Heaven?
In Hell? I want to know this before I kill you. I want to give you a
chance to ask for last rites before I send you across the river of
eternal darkness. Trust me. Do not be afraid. I give you something.
Here, You must have this." He withdraws a gold coin from his shirt
pocket and flips it to me across the forbidden space. "Here is for
the boatman."

The thunder of the tango burst upon my ears, like flaming notes from
hell. The Hombre's eyes search an opening for the first thrust of his
blade. We cross- step around the deadly perimeter of the forbidden
space, I in a low crouch, hoping to provide the smallest target. But
The Hombre stands upright, confident, swaggering.

Our blades touch. Clink! Clink! The sound, deceptively soft and
musical, is like metal goblets clinking a deadly toast at a banquet.
Our blades catch the beat of the tango. THRUST, clink, clink, CLANG!
Our exploratory thrusts search an opening, a chance to deliver the
coup de grace.

The Hombre retreats a step, and, in an incredible act of bravado, he
sweeps the rose from Ruby's hair, inhales its perfume, then thrust it
towards me as he would his dagger. So swift is his movement that the
thorny stem grazes my neck, leaving behind a trail of tiny blood-
drops. He could just as easily have slit my throat with his dagger.

The Hombre turns his back to me and steps towards Ruby, inviting me
to seize the moment. But behind his back the point of his dagger
weaves warning circles in the air. He seizes Ruby by the hair, drags
her to her feet, covers her mouth with his kiss and thrust his dagger
beneath her naked breast.

As the blade's tip penetrates her soft flesh, she rises on her toes
and inhales deeply, as if to suck the blade into her body. A low moan
escapes from beneath her Hombre's kiss.
I lunge, my knife driving for The Hombre's back. With Ruby in his
arms, The Hombre spins in a classic tango pirouette. My dagger
plunges to the hilt. Ruby's eyes meet mine. "I feel no sting," she
whispers. The Hombre releases his hold. Ruby slides down his body, my
dagger embedded in her breast. Blood, red like the rose lying by her
side, spills onto the dance floor.

"Now, amigo," says The Hombre, "now I must kill you. I promise you an
easy death, but if you fight me, my dagger will twist in your heart.

I will surely die when The Hombre tires of his cat and mouse
amusements. "Before you kill me", I tell him, " I ask for last
rites." The Hombre laughs. "Last rites? You shall have them, amigo. I
give you last rites of the scared tango!"

I go down on one knee and place my hat over my heart. The Hombre
stands above me, his feet crossed in a tango crusada. He dances a
circle around me, his dagger close to my throat. He nicks an ear, a
nostril. I endure his torment, waiting. His boots weave an intricate
pattern; twisting, turning, stomping. He laughs at my helplessness,
my submission to his torment.

At the bar, The Hombre's brilliant footwork is applauded and
imitated; he responds with movements more audacious, more daring. He
sweeps Ruby's rose from the floor with the toe of his boot, catches
it behind his back, breathes its perfume and then crushes it like a
banana peel under his booted foot. The Hombre has forgotten the old
gypsy proverb...to violate the beauty of the rose is to discover its
thorns…

Suddenly, he is airborne, fluttering like a giant bird. His dagger
drops and embeds itself in smooth oak planks of the floor. He crashes
onto the floor at my feet. I sweep the dagger from the floor and
thrust its steely point beneath his chin. My hand trembles as I brace
to deliver the coup de grace.

"Kill him! Kill him!" the hombres shout from the bar. But my blade,
poised over the Hombre's throat, hesitates. I do not share the
brutal, killer instinct that beats, like thunder from Hell, in the
heart of the Hombre. He has killed so many less mannered men. He has
devoured the souls of so many women, hypnotized, driven to madness by
an irresistible macho charm and an aura of raw masculinity that even
the Hombre himself cannot control.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp, penetrating pressure at my back. Paralyzing
pain sweeps through my body. The barroom lights begin to fade, and
the music grows faint.

Ruby lies sprawled next to me on the dance floor. Her hand creeps
forward to caress my face. I look into her gypsy eyes. "Why, Ruby,
why?"

Her lips tremble. She struggles to speak. "Come", she
whispers. "Together, we shall dance the tango in paradise."