Terence Clarke

On Tango: “The Two Popes”



I would not usually think of Argentine tango in terms of the Roman Catholic papacy. But with the release of the new film, The Two Popes, the relationship is made clear, at least in the life of one of its two main characters.

A fictionalization of the relationship between Joseph Ratzinger, a German cardinal who became Pope Benedict XVI in 2005, and his successor Jorge Bergoglio, the Argentine Jesuit who was made Pope Francis I in 2013, the film is a tour de force effort by its two main actors. Ratzinger is played by Anthony Hopkins with his usual detailed depth of gesture, speech, and feeling, while another accomplished British actor, Jonathan Pryce, plays Bergoglio in what looks to me to be a spot-on accurate look at Bergoglio’s personality. They become involved in a long personal struggle over the future of the Catholic Church during a time when that organization, as it still is now, is under justified fire for its inability to address long-term, self-inflicted problems. This “debate” is the reason to see the film, and it is riveting.

But, there is a second plot in it, in which a young Bergoglio makes his decision to become a priest, and the seasoned Jesuit Bergoglio is made to deal some years later with “The Dirty War.” This struggle resulted in the disappearance and murder of 30,000 Argentine citizens at the hands of that country’s military dictatorship in the 1970s.

As a young man, Bergoglio is something of a Buenos Aires bon-vivant who is an ardent tanguero. He is in love with a young woman, also a tanguera, and they attend a Buenos Aires milonga that will be familiar to anyone who has visited the famous dance halls in that city. At the same time, the young man is struggling to understand whether his calling to the priesthood is legitimate. That would of course require that he give up his relationship with the young woman. To her great disappointment, he does enter the Jesuit order, but not before we get to see the lovely ambiance of tango and its dancing (even by Bergoglio and his girlfriend themselves) during that remarkable time. (Incidentally, young Bergoglio is played by the superb Juan Minujin, a noted Argentine stage and film actor who is as porteño-looking a man as you can get.)

Just because he becomes pope does not mean that Cardinal Bergoglio loses his love of tango. Late in the film, he and Ratzinger have achieved a kind of rapprochement in their different views of what The Church should be. Ratzinger has always believed that The Church should not compromise any of its doctrines. Bergoglio is portrayed as a far more liberal force who has a realistic view of the feelings and behaviors of hundreds of millions of actual Catholics. The Church has refused to deal realistically with these behaviors, and he is the one person who can understand and bring about the changes needed.

The two men don’t necessarily agree at the end of the film, but there is profound respect between them. In a remarkable scene, after Ratzinger has stepped down as pope and Bergoglio has taken over the office, Bergoglio visits the former pope. As he is leaving, he asks Ratzinger if he knows anything about tango. Of course, Ratzinger does not, and Bergoglio proceeds to give him a quick lesson in the tango basic. They fumble. They don’t do well. Ratzinger is embarrassed. Bergoglio is amused. But it is the moment of actual friendship with which the story comes to its end.

This moment, too, is not to be missed.

Regarding the historical accuracy of the film itself, there are numerous moments in it that mis-portray to a degree the relationship between the two men. You can read about these in detail here. But the film itself tells a gripping story about opposing political ideals that clash memorably. The movie is directed by the Brazilian Fernando Meirelles, who co-directed the terrifying City of God.

The Two Popes is a stunner. Take it for what it is worth to you on any level. You’ll enjoy the tango.

Terence Clarke’s novel, When Clara Was Twelve, which takes place in Paris, will be published on April 15, 2020.

On Tango: La Divina María Volonté


The next time María Volonté comes to where you live, drop everything and go see her in concert. You’ll hear intense tango, sung with Buenos Aires porteño charm and streetwise knowledge, delivered with grace and deeply felt passion. Some written by others; originals by María herself. And there’s more. María is an accomplished jazz singer as well, and you’ll see that she can carry her own in any North American or European jazz venue, no matter where.

María Volonté was born in Ituzaingó, a city in the Buenos Aires province, about twenty miles from downtown Buenos Aires itself. “I lived with my parents and my five sisters in a large, bright house. My father worked as a project draftsman and painted watercolors in an exquisite way. But above all he was a great showman who had been frustrated. He had spent the greatest portion of his youth acting, reciting, and singing in cinemas, theaters and cabarets. But as soon as he got married, his first wife made him know…clearly…that vaudeville and the delights of conjugal life were not compatible. After that, he devoted himself to transferring all his fascination for the world of the stage to his daughters.”

Of greatest importance to Maria’s father was music. “We used to sing and listen to tango, folk music, bolero, flamenco, jazz, opera, musical comedy, French and Italian songs, Portuguese fado….”

When María was five, her father brought home a new invention, a home tape recorder, and one of the first things he did was to ask María to sing for him. It was an ancient Neapolitan song “Catari (Cuore ingrato)”. Listening to herself for the first time, she wept, and she remembers the moment to this day. “There was so much secret pain in that melody, so much generous love! That day I discovered, unknowingly, that singing is to allow oneself to be pierced by passion.”

María’s father bought her first guitar when she was ten. “Something within me changed forever.” As she progressed through secondary school and beyond, she sang with friends, all kinds of music. “We used to sing folk tunes or rock songs written by Argentines. And thereafter in the 1970s we would mix the Argentine songbook with music by people from other countries…the Chilean Violeta Parra, Paco Ibáñez from Spain, el cubano Nicolás Guillén, another Spaniard Joan Manuel Serrat…. It was wine and song into the wee small hours of the morning, and it was shaping my courage and warming my voice.”

31a27ee4-716c-49ac-9b24-d83d93982b06María Volonté in Plaza Dorrego, Buenos Aires.

Married in the early 1980s, María and her husband lived in the San Telmo neighborhood of Buenos Aires. A subterranean folk culture was thriving in the city during those years, and she was an active part of it, paying her early dues as so many musicians must, wherever she could. “I sang outdoors at the Plaza Dorrego. I sang in many, many bar rooms. I sang in sheds.”

Her musical eclecticism was not to be denied. But María knew even then that there was one sort of music that was meant for her. “I clearly realized that my destiny was in tango.”

Maria Volonté’s home is still Buenos Aires, where she lives with her second husband, American writer, musician, and photographer Kevin Carrel Footer. But they concertize together extensively in North America and Europe, visiting the San Francisco Bay Area (where I live) once or twice a year. You can see them together in a recent NPR Tiny Desk Concert video.

On her website, you’ll see some other fine videos of María at work. You’ll get a sense of the breadth of material with which she works, and you’ll see especially what a true tanguera María Volonté really is. Her recordings are available on Apple iTunes.

(Thanks to Ricardo García Blaya and TodoTango for the quotations from María Volonté. Terence Clarke’s new novel, When Clara Was Twelve, will be published in 2020.)

On Marilyn Yalom


November 22, 2019

Historian and writer Marilyn Yalom died on November 20, 2019. I had the good fortune to know her, to have read much of her work, and the greatest fortune of all: to work with her on one of her stellar books.

I was sitting a few years ago in the back seat of Irvin Yalom’s automobile, stuck on an afternoon with Irv and his wife Marilyn Yalom in the usual jam of cars attempting to get onto the Bay Bridge. We were in the middle of the San Francisco financial district. Most sunlight was being blocked by the new tech-related skyscrapers just then going up. A great many pedestrians, hurtling from their offices in furious lunch-hour escape, were further slowing traffic. What with the myriad cars, trucks, buses, and citizens, we were making no progress up the street.

So, we had some time to talk about books.

The Yaloms are both celebrated for their writing, each having achieved a level of fame and distinction that is reserved for very few. Irv’s work has been noted by the world, and Marilyn’s is by no means diminished by her husband’s well-deserved fame. I’ve been a fan of her writing for years, particularly her books A History of The Wife, How the French Invented Love, and Birth of The Chess Queen. Marilyn combines a love of deep scholarship and historical accuracy with a sophisticated writing style that makes her books among the most readable I have encountered.

With Ivory Madison, I had recently cofounded the publishing company Astor & Lenox. Marilyn was asking me about that, and was charmed by the fact that we had named our company after the two lions in front of the New York Public Library at 476 Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. I asked her what she was writing just then, and we chatted also about a few of her other books, until she asked me what kind of books we wanted to publish.

“Books like the ones you’ve written,” I replied. My tone of voice was a little breezy, and I worried that it would be thought insincere by Marilyn.

Indeed, there was silence. A few cars up ahead moved, but not far.

“Well…I have one,” she said, “that you might find interesting.”

“You do?”

“Yes, it’s called Blood Sisters. About the French Revolution told by women who were actually involved in it.”

I was unfamiliar with this book, and Marilyn explained that it had been published in 1993 by Basic Books. She had particularly enjoyed the research she had had to do for it, for a couple of reasons. Women in the revolution have received short shrift from most historians, and their stories basically have been under-represented. The research itself was a kind of joyful undertaking, Marilyn said, because so many of the journals she read were written by highly educated women in superb French, a language in which Marilyn was completely fluent.  (Among many other subjects, she taught French at Stanford University and, in 1991, received the honor of Officier des Palmes Académiques from the French Government.)

Blood Sisters features women like Madame Germaine de Staël, the Duchesse de Tourzel, who was the governess of Queen Marie Antoinette’s children, and the Duchesse d’Angoulême, who was with the queen during the last days before her execution.  There are others not so highly placed in the French society of the time. Élisabeth Le Bas, née Duplay, was one who had to negotiate her way through the dangerous post-revolution streets of Paris, and lived to tell about it. Even those journals that were based on oral tellings by illiterate or poorly educated women were special for Marilyn, like the story of Renée Bordereau, called “Langevin,” a peasant who participated in the revolutionary battles fought in the Vendée, in the west of France. Women like Langevin were often on the very front lines of the revolution, serving, as did Langevin herself, as basic infantry. Her stories include grisly accounts of her own dispatching of royalist soldiers on the fields of battle.

“All of it was exciting,” Marilyn said. “It was wonderful.”

I asked her if the book had ever been re-published, or did she have the rights to the book so that she could arrange for its re-publication.

Marilyn looked over her shoulder into the back seat of the car. “I do have the rights.” She smiled broadly.

A few days later, Marilyn gave me a copy of Blood Sisters, and I can write that it is the only academic book I’ve ever read that is also a riveting page-turner. Derring-do, contemplative sadness, bravery in the face of great personal disaster, tragedy itself, the contemplation of certain death, victory in war…all of it presented in Marilyn’s clear, deft hand.

I showed it to my colleague Ivory, who read it as avidly as I had, and we agreed that we wanted to publish it as soon as possible. We asked only for a different title, one that would more directly signal what the book is about.  It became Compelled to Witness: Women’s Memoirs of the French Revolution, and was published by Astor & Lenox in 2015.  Author Gail Sheehy wrote of this book, “Acting as a literary medium with a latter-day feminist eye, Yalom breathes life into these women memoirists and weaves their miniature epics of personal survival into the larger pageant of French history. A wonderful book.”

A special treat for me was to work with Marilyn on the nitty-gritty re-editing of notes, references, quotes, and bibliography for the book. These are treadmill editing tasks that I normally avoid at all costs. But working with her was always a pleasure because she brought such humor and additional information to these notes, which made the book even richer for me personally.

Marilyn Yalom was an exceptional historian, a very fine writer who was also a devout francophile, and a vivid conversationalist. Along with everyone I know who knew her, I will miss her deeply.

A Story with Tango: “The Three-Cornered Hat”


Business start-up guy Trevor goes to The Three-Cornered Hat, a milonga in New York City. There he meets and is astonished by Marianita Miró, whom he first saw at Carnegie Hall dancing tango on stage with the immortal Gaviota. Trevor decides to ask Marianita out, but the endeavor fails, much to Trevor’s ultimate good fortune.

This story is one from my collection titled New York. To hear my reading of it, CLICK HERE.


On Tango: Rubén Juárez: The Voice. The Instrument.

October 5, 2019

It is almost unheard of that a fine bandoneon player will sing, or that a passion-driven singer will play the bandoneon. The incomparable Rubén Juárez was celebrated for doing both.Ruben Juarez, sings and plays bandoneon

Starting out as a sometime rock and folk singer, Juaréz became a friend of Julio Sosa, a major star on the Buenos Aires tango scene who died in 1964, only thirty-eight years old, in an automobile accident. Juárez went on to devote himself exclusively to tango.

Argentine writer and poet Héctor Negro wrote about him in the magazine Los Grandes del Tango:

When he appeared on the great tango stage, there was something of a celebration on the part of old and new devotees alike, writers from various generations and different perspectives…commentators, musicians, and regular people in general. It was one of those rare cases in which someone young and new was accepted without resistance of any kind, almost unanimously recognized as a figure with a very promising future.

There was no doubt about his singing: his interpretive force, his presence, and his personality were overwhelming. He played with new themes and demonstrated that he could light up the classics as well. He was truly a figure of popular song and the stage.”

Star of stage, screen and television

Juárez made many recordings and had full careers on television and in film as well. My personal favorite recording of his is almost not tanguero, although the song itself is Malena, one of the most famous tangos ever written. At first it sounds almost like a blues tune. But as soon as his bandoneon enters in, it begins a gradual change to something more tango, and the conclusion is entirely, clearly and vibrantly tanguero.

Juárez was known for his stage appearances, and you can see an excerpt from one of them in a 2008 performance of the tango Pasional. Here Juárez showcases his rough, insistent voice (rougher and more insistent as he got older), and accompanies himself on bandoneon. I love this performance because Juárez is alone  for almost the entire song, without any other instrumental accompaniment than his bandoneon. Yet his singing is filled with anger and sadness, and he uses repeated chords, extensively, to emphasize the troubled betrayal of love about which he is singing.

“No sabras, nunca sabras
lo que es morir mil veces de ansiedad.
No podrás nunca entender
lo que es amar y enloquecer.”

(“You won’t know, will never know,
what it is to die a thousand times from worry.
You’ll never understand
What it is to love and go mad.”)

My love, Beatrice Bowles, and I had the good fortune to see Juárez in concert the year before he died, at Torquato Tasso, a small club devoted to contemporary tango that still is in operation. It is well worth a visit the next time you’re in Buenos Aires.

Rubén Juárez died in Buenos Aires in 2010. For a fine late recording of his, I recommend El Album Blanco, which is available on Apple iTunes.

Terence Clarke’s new novel, When Clara Was Twelve, will be published in March, 2020.

On Tango: Adriana Varela: From Rock to Tango


Adriana Varela may not be for everyone. Her voice is not pretty. It seldom floats and will not ease you into dreamland. But I became a fan of her voice the moment I first heard it. I feel that, if you want to hear how Buenos Aires can sound when portrayed in song, you should go to Adriana Varela and listen closely.

Varela has been a best-selling recording artist of tango since the early 1990s. Starting out as a rock singer, she paid little attention to the still accepted notion, of traditional tangos of the 1930s through 50s being those most worth listening to. So…large string and bandoneón sections playing lyrical, even romantic, versions of tangos. Chestnuts, every one, pretty as can be. But we dance to them over and over ad nauseum at the milongas, no matter where the particular milonga may be held…in Buenos Aires, San Francisco, London, Istanbul, or wherever.

Varela’s voice, however, is pure porteño, which is to say, Buenos Aires!…rough, direct, and filled with irony, often humorous, often angry. When you walk down almost any street in that city, you hear this voice and that language. It is recognizable to anyone who has enough Spanish to understand what is being said, and especially how it is being said. There is no other accent in the Spanish language quite like it.

Early in her singing career, Varela made the acquaintance of the great Roberto Goyeneche. By now internationally famous, his voice was anything but soft and pleasing. When you hear it, you know that this man, too, knows the streets of Buenos Aires’s massive urban landscape and the difficulties it can present.

The circumstances of their first meeting have become famous. Varela was singing in a Buenos Aires club one evening, and she spotted Goyeneche sitting at the bar. It was known that he did not care for female tango singers, and he spent her entire set silently nursing the whiskey before him, his back turned to the stage. At the end of her set, beset by nerves, Varela stepped down from the bandstand and approached the great man. When Goyeneche realized that the young woman was trying to get his attention, he turned to her and, without provocation, said, “Che piba, (Hey, girl) you’ve got it!” From then on, they were fast friends.

For an example of Varela’s work, watch her studio performance of Mano a mano (“Hand in Hand.”) It’s a tough-minded tango, one of Carlos Gardel’s greatest. The lyrics tell of the crazy love the speaker has for a very high-spirited young woman he knows, although one with questionable morals. She is sought after by the worst of the local two-bit gangsters…and she often gives into them. But the speaker loves her no matter what. As the singer puts it in the last verse:

“Y mañana, cuando seas descolado mueble viejo

y no tengas esperanzas en el pobre corazón,

si precisás una ayuda, si te hace falta un consejo,

acordate de este amigo que ha de jugarse el pellejo

p’ayudarte en lo que pueda cuando llegue la occasion.”

Sadly, I can’t translate the lyrics to include the rhymes they contain, which are terrific. But here’s the essence of what they say:

“And tomorrow, when you’re broken down, an old piece of furniture,

and there is no hope in your poor heart,

if you need a hand, if you need some advice,

remember this friend here who would risk his hide

to help you any way he can, whenever you need it.”

The Spanish translation by Jaime Collyer of Terence Clarke’s latest novel, The Splendid City, is currently seeking publication in South America.

On Tango: Paquita Bernardo: “La Flor de Villa Crespo”


These days, women who play the bandoneón abound in Buenos Aires and around the world. This was not so in the 1920s. But one who did so was Paquita Bernardo. By some accounts she was indeed the very first professional bandoneonista.

The daughter of Spanish immigrants to Argentina, she was famous for playing tango with verve and true porteño style while often wearing a man’s suit and tie.

In 1915, as a teenager, Paquita entered the music conservatory of a woman named Catalina Torres in Buenos Aires, as a pianist. There she met a young bandoneonista named José Servidio, who so impressed her with his ability and the instrument’s sonorous soulfulness, that she switched to the bandoneón. She never looked back. (Servidio, incidentally, went on to a distinguished career as a tango musician on the Buenos Aires scene.)

Initially the trouble for Paquita was that she was a girl, which could have made her professional advancement an impossibility. (For an interesting novel about just such a situation in turn-of-the-20th-century Buenos Aires, see The Gods of Tango by Carolina De Robertis.)

At the time, women appearing on stage in tango boliches and clubs were thought to be of questionable morals. Playing bandoneón requires the instrumentalist to open and shut the legs, which was deemed entirely inappropriate for women. Paquita persisted, however, and persuaded her father to allow her to pursue her study of the instrument. He acceded to her request, and Paquita, whose talent was so obvious, went on to play with various bands on the Buenos Aires club scene throughout her teen-age years.

In 1921, Paquita founded her own band, Orquesta Paquita, with her brother Arturo on drums and a very young pianist named Osvaldo Pugliese. They got a steady gig at the Bar Dominguez on Corrientes Street, and soon the traffic on Corrientes had to be diverted because of the sizable crowd waiting outside the club to see Paquita and her mates. To be sure, it was not just the novelty of seeing a woman playing the bandoneón that brought them to the club. By now Paquita was a master on the instrument and a star. In 1923, she appeared at a Grand Fiesta of Tango in the Coliseo Theater, a major Buenos Aires venue. It was a monumental event in which hundreds of noted musicians played, and Paquita was the only woman on the bill.

Her fame rose meteorically. She played constantly through the next few years at most of the principal tango venues in Buenos Aires and Montevideo, clubs and ballrooms alike. She also became a regular in appearances on the newly established radio stations in both capitals.

Such constant appearances can take a toll on performers, and Paquita was no exception. In the fall of 1925, she contracted a difficult cold that turned quickly into pneumonia with other complications. It is thought that the treatment she received was not up to the seriousness of her affliction, and she died on April 14 of that year. She was just short of her twenty-fifth birthday.

Sadly, there are no recordings of Paquita’s playing. She also had talent, though, as a composer of tango, and none other than Carlos Gardel recorded two of her pieces: La enmascarada (“The Masked Woman”) and Soñando (“Dreaming”).

Terence Clarke’s novel about the great Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, The Splendid City, was published in March.

Fiction Courses Are A Fiction


These days, you are besieged by books and online courses purporting to teach you how to write fiction. These are seldom invented by successful fiction writers. Rather, such “courses” are taught by people who believe they have found formulae that, if followed, will result in a best-seller. That the best-seller may be dreck doesn’t matter.

Edith Wharton wrote, “One is sometimes tempted to think that the generation which has invented the ‘fiction course’ is getting the fiction it deserves. At any rate it is fostering in its young writers the conviction that art is neither long nor arduous, and perhaps blinding them to the fact that notoriety and mediocrity are often interchangeable terms….The trade-wind in fiction undoubtedly drives many beginners along the line of least resistance, and holds them there.”

No course will take you beyond that line. What will do it is fiction itself. Instead of spending $19.95 on something with a title like “How To Write That Novel Of Yours,” spend it on The Red And The Black. Edith Wharton herself teaches you admirably in The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, or The Custom of The Country. Dickens. The James Joyce who wrote Dubliners. The Toni Morrison of BelovedThe Red Badge of Courage. Love in the Time of Cholera. All the Light We Cannot See. Now and then George Eliot. Sometimes W. Somerset Maugham. Very occasionally Hemingway and many, many others, all of which transcend the how-to-write-fiction course simply by being so compelling in the stories they tell, and especially in the ways they are told.

Read those. There lies your course.

On Tango: Edmundo Rivero: The Ugly Man Who Sings So Pretty


To understand at least part of Edmundo Rivero’s unusual appeal, one must know that he suffered from acromegaly, which results from excess growth hormone after the growth plates themselves have closed. (The growth plate is the area of growing tissue near the end of the long bones in children and adolescents.) Among the symptoms of acromegaly are the enlargement of the hands and feet, and sometimes of the forehead, jaw, and nose.

It is for this reason that Rivero was known by his fellow musicians, affectionately, as “El Feo” (“The Ugly Man”). His fans more accurately referred to him as “El Feo Que Canta Tan Lindo” (“The Ugly Man Who Sings So Pretty.”)

Born in 1911, young Edmundo Rivero worked as an itinerant singer in the Buenos Aires dance hall circuit. He came to the notice of Julio de Caro, whose orchestra was getting significant attention for its live gigs as well as for its rising fame on records. From then on, Rivero’s career flourished until his death in 1986.

Rivero’s singing and playing were in every way extraordinary. He had a very fine, resonant bass-baritone voice, and was noted as well for the high-level accompaniment of his principal guitarist, who happened to be Rivero himself. Trained classically on guitar, as a youth he also mastered the rhythms of pampas gaucho music and was present for the rise of Buenos Aires urban tango, begun by the great Carlos Gardel and nurtured by countless other fine musicians.

Rivero was one of them.

In 1947, after many years with different bands and with frequent appearances in tango-based movies, Rivero was hired by orchestra leader Aníbal Troilo. Troilo was a superb bandoneonista who had a clear-eyed vision of the kind of musicianship he expected from his players and singers. A few years later, after all, he would feature the legendary Roberto Goyeneche as his lead singer (See my piece from a few months ago titled “El Colectivero Polaco Goyeneche.”) and had already hired another bandoneonista with an unusual interpretive style named Astor Piazzolla. With Troilo, Rivero recorded just twenty-two songs, but one of them was titled Sur. A huge hit, it is a nostalgic remembrance of an old working-class Buenos Aires neighborhood for whose residents tango had deep emotional sway. Sur became a kind of anthem to tango itself. It is one of the most famous tangos ever recorded.

Having found fame and fortune, Rivero left Troilo in 1950 and started a solo career. During this decade a full orchestra including a bank of violins was seen as necessary to any successful musical career in Buenos Aires. Rivero made a bold gesture. Tired of all the heavy orchestrations, he took up his guitar and started doing tango with just his voice and his instrument (with, occasionally, a fellow guitarist or two.) These are some of my favorite recordings by Edmundo Rivero.  Significant soul flows from them, especially because they are so contemplative and lonely.

Click here for a rich selection of Rivero’s music.

Terence Clarke’s new non-fiction book An Arena of Truth is now in bookstores and on Amazon.







On Tango: The Line of Dance

peony-002-3 copy

(Photo: Beatrice Bowles)

In tango, the line of dance seems a reasonable enough idea. A number of couples dancing are asked, by custom, to dance in a more or less circular line that borders the edges of the dance floor, all in the same direction. This is done in order to keep collisions between couples at a minimum and to further the promise of dancing gracefully while at the same time cheek by jowl with numbers of other tangueros.

You would be surprised, however, at how often this custom is not observed. As a leader, you’re attempting to circle the floor in the line of dance, and some other leader in front of you is coming the other way. You take evasive action, ruining the moment that you and your partner have set up, and sometimes a bad stumble results, or a graceless, sudden stop, or an actual run-in with either that other leader and his partner, or with the poor people following behind you.

It’s even worse if you are a follower. (I’m speaking here of the traditional female role of the follower. But the same scenario exists no matter what the sexual orientations of the leader and follower may be.) If your leader knows what’s happening and is trying to follow custom despite the guy up ahead, or if your leader is a dolt and is taking you in the wrong direction, you may be stepped upon, angered, bruised, or worse. And if the collision includes the sharp heel of a woman’s shoe landing on the side of your foot and bruising or puncturing it, things are even worse.

The injured person is escorted, weeping, to a chair and ministered to. I wouldn’t be surprised if a hospital visit has occasionally been the result.

As a less experienced dancer than I am now, I thought that the simple solution was to get out of the line of dance and head for the less crowded space in the middle of the circle. Two events relieved me of that opinion. Beatrice Bowles and I were once dancing at the Club Español in Buenos Aires. It was a very crowded night, and anything out of the ordinary or too showy in the dance was next to impossible. There was, however, one person who seemed oblivious of all this. About sixty, with a gut, he was dressed in a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts, and running shoes. His partner was similarly poorly frocked and porcine. He danced up and down in the middle of the floor, all the while instructing his partner on how to do tango. At least, I think that’s what he was saying, although I don’t have enough German to have understood entirely what he was ordering her to do. The search for escape on his partner’s face, however, gave me a direct clue to what she thought of his advice.

Everyone in the line of dance found this fellow foolish and invasive, and there’s nothing to equal the sound of a bunch of Argentines agreeing that someone else is a…well, as they say in Buenos Aires, a boludo.

A few weeks later, when I mentioned to the great maestra Nora Olivera what I had seen, she nodded and then shook her head. “The worst dancers are always in the middle of the floor,” she said. Since then, I’ve looked out for this, and found it to be true.

It’s important to honor the line of dance. In fact, I think it’s the first rule of tango. Leave the line of dance, and you will be, so to speak, up a creek and, if she has her head on straight, without a partner.

 Terence Clarke’s latest novel, The Splendid City, is available in book stores and on Amazon.