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

sound of water sloshing in tubs, and the giggling of girls rose above the din of voices. Were they laughing at her? They shushed each other, but kept laughing.
    The last time she’d seen Dante, he’d been distracted by the carriage pulling up to his door, the dust on its wheels that whispered of the road to Naples, the approach to his ship, the ocean that awaited him that very night and across which he’d find, if he was fortunate, a place—some crevice in the rock face of the world—that he could call his own. The whole family was gathered at the door of his house to see him off, but he only had eyes for the carriage. The sun bore down on all of them, made them sweat. There was hunger in Dante’s eyes, not so differentfrom the hunger she’d seen there during their nights under the olive tree, but stronger. Sharper. In the last minute, he’d accepted the kisses of his father, mother, brothers, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins until at last he reached Leda. He smiled. His kiss on her left cheek, then her right, was firm and tender.
    No goodbyes for you, he said, because we’ll be together soon. I’ll see you on the other side.
    A knock sounded on her door. Arturo entered with Francesca’s youngest daughter, who was about nine years old, carrying a glass of wine and a plate of bread, ricotta, and tomato slices drizzled with oil and salt. Leda had not seen fresh tomatoes in two weeks. She could have wept. The girl saw the expression on Leda’s face and hurried to set the plate down on the table.
    Arturo stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “Do you mind a little company?”
    “No,” Leda said, although she did. “Please sit down.”
    Arturo sat in the chair across from her. The young girl stood, hovering awkwardly. Leda understood her predicament: she couldn’t leave a young widow alone with a man in her room. There was no third chair at the table. Leda gestured toward her trunk. “Please,” she said. “You too.”
    The girl smiled gratefully and perched on the trunk, a few paces from the table. She was really a wisp of a thing. She had a delicate face that seemed perpetually startled.
    Arturo looked uncomfortable. “Please, eat, don’t let me stop you.”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “You have to keep your strength up.”
    She looked down at her plate. The tomato was beautiful, red and damp with its own juice. She wanted to stroke it with her forefinger. But she could not imagine eating. The three of them sat in silence, enfolded by the sounds through the wall, voices, steps, a woman’s complaint, a man’s whistle.
    Finally, Arturo said, “Dante.”
    She looked at him. He was younger than she’d realized, twenty at most.
    “Maybe you’d rather not hear about it until later, until you’ve had a chance to rest.”
    Her mouth suddenly tasted sour, but she said, “No. Please tell me.”
    “He was murdered in cold blood.”
    She felt the breath trap in her lungs. Her cousin had been an idiot. He’d argued with the wrong man in a bar. He’d gambled away his money to a ruthless man, like his own father might do, digging the hole for his own coffin. Or else he’d walked down a dangerous street and been killed by strangers for the change in his pockets, as she had heard could happen to men in large cities like this one, and like Naples. The blacksmith of Alazzano had a great-uncle who’d bled to death right in the heart of the Neapolitan Spanish Quarter, stripped of his coins, his hat, his shoes, his wedding band, and the gold fillings of his teeth along with the teeth themselves. That is why, the blacksmith used to say, you should never be seduced by the city.
    “He died bravely,” Arturo said, more forcibly. “Fighting for the liberation of all workers.”
    She stared at him. She didn’t understand; she hadn’t heard a word about Argentina being at war.
    “Should I tell you the whole story?”
    No, she thought, don’t tell me, I don’t want to hear another word of this, I want you to