Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance Read Online Free PDF

answer. Beyond the solid foundation of the ocho there was no ‘lawful sequence’, as she put it. To stall just gave you away. It revealed an ‘arid imagination’, she said, or as I preferred and which was probably closer to the truth, a lack of confidence to express myself so intimately. I was off a farm. The bare hills and the wind—these were my companions. Dogs and sheep, and the sleepy-lidded sky. I wasn’t used to people so close up. Intimacy was a faraway notion. I had no experience of it, and because of that I recognised there was a line for me to cross—a line that separated private and public, containment and abandonment, secrecy and expression.
    For all that, Rosa had opened the door to something new. The gancha , and the equally sexy ‘sandwich’ step. These days I found myself drifting to a different part of the library. In the margins of my notes on economic history I found myself jotting down new bits of information —
    â€˜ que brada : an improvised jerky contortion, the more dramatic the better’
    â€˜ corte : a sudden, suggestive pause’ (a prelude to que brada )
    â€˜that reptile from the brothel’ (a reference to the tango in El Payador newspaper)
    â€˜What was once orgiastic devilry is now just another way of walking…’ (Borges)
    â€˜Tangos are spectacular confessions. They are public displays of intimate miseries, shameful behaviour, and unjustifiable attitudes…’ (Savigliano)
    And this, what an Argentine poet had to say about the ‘famous’ La Moreira who lived with her criollo pimp. ‘There was no marriage contract, only constant seduction.’
    This was new air I was breathing. Much of my life up to then involved a world I had known in advance of actually experiencing it. School. University. Sports. Drunkenness. I put a tick in each box as I came to it. Rosa represented a different kind of eddy. She was foreign and an entirely unexpected element in my life.What’s more, the dance lessons and the shabby halls represented a world that hadn’t been officially sanctioned. It’s possible that I liked the idea of taking dance lessons more than the actual lessons themselves. To begin with that was probably true. But at some point a genuine interest kicked in. I found myself more interested; interested in Rosa as well. And although I wasn’t aware of it at the time I was also taking the first steps towards hearing the story of Schmidt and Louise.
    It began predictably enough with a bit of criticism. Rosa said I didn’t give anything to my steps.They lacked heart and conviction. I might as well be putting out the milk bottles. No. Forget the milk bottles. She said, ‘It is as though you are swimming underwater. Every so often you rise to the surface and lunge for a breath. Your face is practically changing colour. You are drowning before my eyes.’ Then, less dramatically, ‘Lionel, watch, I am going to teach you to breathe.’ Rosa advanced her foot and as she moved her weight forward she exhaled. ‘Yes?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So, perhaps we will practise our breathing…Give me your hand.We will walk to the end tables…’ That’s what we did, hand in hand, pressing my leading toe into the carpet, driving it there with an exhalation. ‘We are exaggerating, of course,’ she said. ‘But the breath will help give shape and character to how we dance. One last thing, please. When you breathe out aim down at the floor. Not that I am worried.’
    The next night we have finished one dance and are waiting to begin another when Rosa says, ‘Still, technique is just part of it. You can learn that inside a month, frankly. But to learn the feeling…well, that can take years. A lifetime to learn.’ She must have noted the deflating effect of this news because she followed up quickly with a more encouraging timeframe. She said, ‘If you