Carmen

La Nueva Babel was alive.  The young crowd sat around the smoke filled room, chatting loudly, Corona in hand.  Alfredo, who is also our upstairs neighbor, mounted the low platform, followed by a percussionist. He handed a pair of maracas to a third friend, tuned his guitar, and started singing.  A couple stepped onto the empty dance floor.  Black hair flowed over her shoulders and framed her pretty face.  A tight T-shirt advertised a slim waist and firm breasts.  Her feminine hips and shapely butt were accentuated by a flowing, ankle-length skirt.  The partner was medium height, but proportioned like a refrigerator.  Unkempt strands of hair obscured his scraggy beard.

And then she danced.
The Cuban melody seemed to flow through her body as she sensually swayed to its rhythm. All conversations ceased abruptly.  Men and women alike, gazed at the dance floor, captivated by her grace and sexuality.
Alfredo too was caught in the excitement, gradually increasing his volume and tempo.  Yet, it was not clear who was leading whom, the fast-beating conga drums, or her feet.
"I wish I could dance like her!"  Adi shouted into my ear.
"Me too."  I replied, well aware that both interpretations were true.

The song ended, and testosterone energy engulfed the room.  She was claimed by another young man, while the rest of the aroused males hurried to find a dance partner.  Men outnumbered women by at least four to one, and within seconds, all the women, including Adi, were on the dance floor.  I was content to stay alone, and observe.

If she came to the club with someone special, I could not tell.  She accepted all invitations with grace, giving the initial impression that her current partner is the 'One'.  She would start dancing softly.  Responsive, almost submissive, to her partner's lead.  As the music progressed, she would grow bolder.  Raising her eyes, she would add energy to her dance, and with a mischievous smile, challenge her partner to match her style.  The song would pick up tempo, and she would withdraw inwards, no longer aware of her partner.  Her body undulating furiously, she would raise her skirt to her knees and let her feet fly like sparks.  Many men tried to conquer her.  Most, were dull dancers and did not capture her interest.  One exception, a quiet gentleman in his sixties, surprised both her and the crowd by his agility and technique.  However, he was too timid to pursue his advantage.  Without sexual tension, they were two skillful dancers, dancing separately.

And then, he came in.
Despite the heat in the club, he was wearing a hooded jacket, his face a mystery under the hood's shadow.  He slowly drew close, and began the dance.  Almost without moving his feet, he raised her hand in his, signalling her to turn.  She complied.  He kept her hand up and with a flick of the wrist indicated 'another', then 'another', and 'another'... you could almost touch the tension in the air.  He stood there, silent and still, while she continued to twirl, but her energy was clearly ebbing.  Finally he relented, took her in his arms, and swayed to the music.  The battle was won.  For the rest of the piece, they communicated their love through movement.  I was enchanted by the beauty and emotion of their dance.    At the end of the song, he turned, and without a word, slowly walked out.

I never knew her name.  To me, she could have only one.

                                                                                                                       Illustration by Adi