Read Online The Gods of Tango by Carolina de Robertis - Free Book Online Page A

the matrons in Alazzano who could tear a person to shreds with their wagging tongues, though Leda tried not to think of them as she received the woman’s customary kiss.
    “I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “We have been waiting for you!”
    All eyes were on her, it was too much, she was so tired. Some were smiling, but others—the children, always the most honest—simply gazed as though she were a fascinating specimen just fished out of the water, the virgin widow, the grieving bride. Some women seemed to look at her with pity, others as though sizing up the wares at a market plagued with thieves. There were so many of them, did they all live here? And without men? But no, it was the middle of the day, the menmust be at work. And so there were even more people than this. She smelled urine and stale oil. Arturo had disappeared through one of the many doors that lined the courtyard, carrying her trunk. The courtyard was like the heart of a labyrinth, with doors on every side, no clear way out. Some of the doors were open, others closed. She wondered whether one of them led to her room, if in fact she had a room and was not meant to sleep here in the unroofed center among the crates and washing tubs.
    “These are my daughters,” Francesca was saying. “Palmira, Diana, and Silvana.”
    One by one, the three daughters—one Leda’s age, two younger—approached and kissed Leda’s cheek. The other women in the patio introduced themselves and kissed her and pointed out their children, some of whom kissed her dutifully while others hung back in defiance, and all of their names swam into Leda’s mind only to vanish immediately. She could not retain a single word. She hoped her smile was convincing. The women were chattering around her about how pretty she was, how young, how was the boat, how did she feel, until finally Francesca took charge and grasped Leda’s arm with all the firmness of a mother. “Come. I’ll show you your room.”
    She had a room. It was the last one on the right. The air inside was thick and hot, unventilated, and then she knew why all the families congregated in the center patio. It wasn’t that they lacked their own spaces but that, inside, there was not enough air. Her room contained a wooden table, two chairs, a chipped armoire, a washbasin, and two narrow beds with rusted metal frames and burlap blankets, with an empty chamber pot under one. There was no stove. The walls had long ago surrendered the whiteness of their paint.
    Arturo and the neighbor boy were in the corner, where they’d just placed the trunk. Arturo gave the boy a coin and sent him away.
    “Sit, sit,” Francesca said, drawing out a chair. She exuded authority. Her accent was unfamiliar, though it sounded Northern Italian. From Genoa, maybe, or Milan.
    Leda sat.
    “You must be hungry,” Francesca said. Eyebrows raised in expectation.
    “Please, don’t trouble yourse——”
    “Arturo,” Francesca said, “tell Silvana to make the lady a plate.”
    Arturo nodded and was gone.
    “That boy, Arturo. He’s got a good heart. You can trust him, and I should know. He’s not my son, but I’m the closest thing to a mother that he’s got here. Same went for Dante. And for you.”
    “Thank you,” said Leda, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say after such pronouncements. And then, stupidly, “I’m Leda.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    Francesca studied Leda for a long and silent minute. Leda looked away, at a spot where the paint had peeled from the wall to reveal the wood beneath.
    “You must want some time to refresh yourself,” Francesca finally said. “I’ll leave you. There’s water in the jug under the basin.”
    Then Leda was alone. She stared at the jug. She should use it to wash her hands, her face, but she could not rise. She could not move. The closed door made the air inside untenably thick, but she needed privacy more than she needed physical comfort. Outside, in the patio, she heard the