Like jasmine from the soft fleshed thighs of Bourbon Street whores,
the sweet sounds of the tango drift onto la rue du Temple and find
Natasha's ear. Her slew-footed prance slows, and her hand slides up
her thigh to rest on a cocked hip, as she turns an ear to the music.
The point of her stiletto-heeled shoe taps the pavement, and her hips
begin to move in a seesaw motion that rides the beat. Then her
tight, impetuous ass begins rotating slowly. Her tapping toe rises,
and her back arches. She kicks a nylon-clad leg high into the air,
and off she flies between the tables, dancing a high-legged,
impromptu tango that stops traffic, empties the café and brings the
sidewalk table-crowd to its feet, glasses raised, arms held high and
hands clapping to the beat.

I follow her down the street, enjoying an occasional glimpse of black
garter. Natasha passes under the flashing red neon "Bar de Tango"
sign that hangs from the second floor above the movie house. She
pauses at the entrance. The theater marquee advertises "Un Programme
Retro de Valentino." I take a look at the posters and admire the
slicked--back, Brilliantine shine of Rudolph Valentino's black hair.
His wide belted gaucho outfit proclaims him a tango drifter. And his
whip, casually balanced between his long, white fingers, matches his
cruel, black-eyed squint. Natasha twists the barrel of her lipstick
and compresses her lips, admiring herself in the mirror of her
compact. Her cheeks are flushed, and on her face a fine haze of
moisture reflects the lights of the marquee. "How do I look?" she
asks. I put my arm around her and give her a hard squeeze. "Ughh!"
she says. As we enter the foyer of the theater, I kiss her painted
lips, .

The girl behind the ticket booth looks up from her copy of
Mademoiselle. She's not wearing a bra, and she catches me stealing a
look. Next to the ticket booth, a flight of stairs leads to the
upstairs Tango Bar. The musicians are playing a tango waltz. I feel
its sensuous rhythm rise in my blood, and, as we climb the stairs, my
feet mark the beat.

Entering the Bistro Latin Tango Bar is like walking into a Toulouse
Letrec painting, where one breathes the intoxication and excitement
of bohemian abandon and sees,in the eyes of the handsome men and on
the champagne flavored lips of the beautiful women, a sparkling
gaiety. So many joyful, rosy people gathered together with a common
purpose....the celebration of life....to laugh, to dance, to embrace
the incomparable, delirious charm of Paris. One sees too, beneath
the glittering surface, a hint of chambre--derriere spice and
debauchery. Natasha knows everybody in the place. And, as we emerge
at the top of the stairs, I see admiring glances in the eyes of the
men, who are thinking…"what a heartbreaker she is. Her poor American
parvenu won't be around long," And from the women, a wary, green
flicker of the eye that says…"fucking Bolshoi tramp!"

We step onto the smooth oakwood surface of the dance floor, whose
dark, ruby finish reflects the yellow overhead light. A couple, in
tango-tight embrace, glide towards us. The woman's cheek lightly
brushes that of her partner. She feels the rough dark stubble of his
beard. And in her breast she feels the beat of his troubled heart,
and in her pulse the tango speaks its insistent, redoubtable
message.

Her eyes are closed, and on her face there's a look of tango rapture…
an intense look of sweet, joyful suffering that brings moisture to
the eyes and fills the heart. I know this look. I see it on the
faces of virtuoso musicians and hear it in their music. Sometimes
too, I see it in the faces of Buddhist monks, who, deep in
meditation, watch as The Veil of Maya lifts before their closed
eyes.

At one end of the room, three musicians, with their heads close
together, play guitar, bandeneon and violin, losing themselves in the
back alleys of Buenos Aires. Men, wearing dark, pin-stripped suits
and hats riding low over eyes lost in shadow, sit at tables with
their women, whose stiletto-heels show like dangerous weapons through
slits, exposing nylon clad legs beneath black sheath gowns. Their
smiling, red lips part, and their laughter sweetly rides the crest of
the tango.

The tango ends, and dancers mingle on the dance floor, exchanging
greetings, reviewing tango steps and smiling warmly in animated
talk. The women gradually leave the floor and return to their
tables, where they sip champagne and talk of love.

Fans, folded into unremarkable, inanimate wands, lay on the white
linen tablecloths. But with an imperceptible twist of the wrist,
punctuated by an umbrella-opening POP, the fans are transformed into
gorgeous lace wings that stir the moist, perfumed air beneath the
plunging décolleté of the womens' gowns, cooling their damp breasts
and causing the nostrils of the men to twitch.

The music begins again, and couples return to the dance floor.
Others remain seated at their tables, watching the dancers, admiring
the complex movements, the embraces, the broad sweeps, the clack of
heels. The women's black shoes, armed with stiletto heels,
stealthily climb the legs of the men. The dancers surrender to the
forbidden beat and glide across the floor in close embrace. The
women's eyes are closed. Their blood red lips curve sweetly upwards
in La Gioconda smiles, as the men, with slow hands on silken thighs,
gaze with half-closed eyes into infinity. The world disappears and
conscious thought fades as in a dream.

At the tables, the men and women raise their glasses for un coup de
champagne. Behind the crystal flame rising from the women's jeweled
fingers and the blue plume rising from the red glow of the men's
cigars, there is a hot cauldron of simmering emotion.... jalousie,
desire, anger, envy and hate…ready, like a swift blade drawn from a
high booted heel, to flash into scalding incandescence. How do I
know this? I see it in my own eyes as I gaze into the mirror behind
the bar. Jealousie, pride, envie? These are just incidental
ripples in a vast, tempest-driven sea of churning torment when you're
in love. I'm not talking about the prissy-ass love you read about in
the reader's digest. I'm talking Wurthering Heights, Heathclif-Kathy
love; ego blowing love; blood-tide ripping love; capsizing, bottom-of-
the-sea drowning, agonizing, penetrating love....as if the burning
fires of Hell were kinder than the sweet agony of of a troubled
heart.