Anibal Troilo plays his bandoneon on the corner of my street. He plays our soul in this new music, it makes you drop in the knees, it makes your blood boil in the autumn air,
“Our passion comes from here,” mutters Anibal, slapping the bandoneon together forcing our sex to stir.
A half circle of men, their collective name of Frog proudly worn, tough interiors pulsing joyously through the layers of city drapery. Their eyes closed the music bubbling within them. Their eyes open watching fingers fly over little white keys, watching the instrument’s body concertina, afternoon air pumps through, rising, falling, the notes play behind their eyes.
The paving is warm beneath our feet, the plaster wall solid behind Anibal’s back, an old stool supports his heavy bulk and light trickles through the dusty air.
The Riacheulo river burbles by, thick with the slaughter house blood, feet carrying bodies scuff, crossing the Puente Alsina, guiding them into the neighbourhood.
From here, Nuevo Pompeya, this barrio of Frogs, comes the beating heart of Argentina. Buenos Aires, this city of passions! The music of the people born from the underground pulsing of this place, this place, these people, this world where I live.
Breathe, easiness.
Carlos grabs my arm and we swing into each other. A step from him my leg pushes back. We begin. We practice, us men on the corner, feeling the sun making light of the passion that drives all of us. Anibal pumps the afternoon air through his keys, his fingers flying and the sound. The sound grows in us our steps slow, quicken, we hook, we turn.
Anibal draws out the bandoneon as it cries, eye-to-eye we stand, breaths held. The air doesn’t move. Carlos’ eyes shift to focus over my shoulder. “She’s not from around here is she?”
Spinning I see all eyes following the swaying length of a womanly form.
“Mina!”
“Hey bonita, venir aqui!”
“Come home with me woman,” the men follow her on the street. My feet don’t move. I’m breathing in her passing. “Anibal,” I exhale a long smooth echoing call of an endless note flying gently from the soul.
“Say Anibal, how do you kill me with that note if you’re sleeping on your bandoneon?”
END