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Dancing with Uncle Jorge

Diane E. Dees

When I was ten years old, I saw the DANCING WATERS.  My Uncle Jorge took me to the state fair, and as we trekked across the fairgrounds in our pursuit of Neapolitan ice cream, there they were.  The cascading waves were really only about twelve feet high, though they looked to me like the Hokusai painting.  A tape of the "Blue Tango" played as the water swooshed and undulated under a rainbow of pink, green, and violet lights.  I couldn't take my eyes away.

"Mother of God, help me!"  My uncle threw his arm up in the air and into the choreographed water.  Thinking he was hurt, I pulled myself away from the hypnotic rush of the waves and grabbed his arm.

"Uncle Jorge, are you sick?"  He slowly shook his head.

"No, Maria."  He lifted his silver-handled cane and pointed it at the DANCING WATERS, then began moving it up and down.  He snorted, yanked the cane back down, took my hand and dragged me away to the ice cream stand.

"Is it your leg?"  Uncle Jorge walked with a limp and always used his cane when he went out.  Once, I asked Mama what had happened to his leg, and she said it was "a war injury."

He ignored my question and bought the ice cream.  We sat down at a wobbly table.  The wind was blowing, and the smell of hay and horse manure drifted over to us from the livestock area.  Uncle Jorge and I shared a secret Neapolitan ice cream vice, and we sought the tri-colored block with earnest wherever we went.  There was an art to eating Neapolitan, and we had mastered it.  Use the side of the spoon to cut a slice crosswise, then cut the slice in half, scoop, then eat.  The first cut is long, the second is careful, the scoop is divine.

"What was it like in the war?"

His eyes narrowed.  "What war?"

"Mama says you hurt your leg in the war.  Were you shot?"

He crossed his legs, and I saw his striped socks and black patent shoes.  His feet were small and slender, and you noticed them more because of the limp.  He began to laugh and to slap his thighs.

"Maria, I was beaten with bricks.  They could never fix my leg right, so I limp.  No soldiers.  Just some stupid, angry men.  They had bricks and knives and a can of gasoline."  He leaned forward.  "They tried to set my friend Astor on fire."

"Why?"

"Because he was a genius."

Uncle Jorge left Argentina when he was thirty-five, and moved into an apartment only ten blocks from ours.  My mother, who left when she was only twelve, never talked about her country, but my uncle told me stories about Argentine theaters and dance halls and read Argentine poetry to me.

"Why did they want to burn Astor?"

"Ah, the tango wars, Maria.  The Anti-Piazzollistas.  They said they could not dance to Astor's music.  Ha!  He never wanted them to!  A genius.   He taught me to play the bandoneon."

We got up and continued walking the circular path of the fairgrounds.  Soon, we heard the sounds of the DANCING WATERS again.

"The waters are beautiful," he said, "but the music!  It is not real tango."

"Like Astor taught you?"

"No, Maria, not like anyone taught me."

We were standing next to the waters again.  Suddenly Uncle Jorge threw down his cane, grabbed my right hand, clasped his other hand around my waist and rushed me into the splash of the wet rainbow.

"Tango!" he yelled, and walked me in a long stride to the end of the DANCING WATERS.  People stopped and stared at us:  I tried to catch my breath, and my uncle, wide-eyed, his blonde mustache catching droplets of warm water, made me think of The Three Musketeers.

"Tragedia!"  He took me into a second stride, dipping me and bumping my knee.  For a brief moment, I worried about his leg, then I felt my breath grow short and my face flush.  A crowd had gathered to watch us.

"Comedia!"  Uncle Jorge's hips swiveled slightly, and his long legs led me through the fairgrounds' sawdust in a flourish of slow, lanky rhythm.

He turned me around quickly, and by this time, I couldn't tell where my legs left off and his began.  We did this three or four more times, then Uncle Jorge's bad leg got the better of him.  He picked up his cane, took my hand and guided me into a deep bow.  The crowd roared.  I knew that the women were all staring at my uncle, and I felt important in a way even I didn't quite understand.

" 'Tango.  Tragedia.  Comedia.' "

"What does it mean?"

"It means feeling, the good, the bad, the — well — it is all of life.   You will understand."

Later that year, Mama dragged us both to see Liberace at the big auditorium.  The lights dimmed, and as the curtains opened, there was an enormous whooshing sound, and there, right on the stage, in dozens of glorious hues, were the DANCING WATERS.  Uncle Jorge and I began to giggle, then laugh, then howl until the tears came, and when Liberace appeared to take his opening bow, my mother told us we would have to leave if we couldn't behave.

We dashed out the side door and took a bus to a place we knew that served Neapolitan blocks.  We each ate two, maintaining a silent ritual.  We did it with style, concentrating first on chocolate, then vanilla, then strawberry, and finally on the inevitable moment when they all came together, and we no longer knew which was which.

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Diane E. Dees is a psychotherapist and writer living in Covington, Louisiana.  Her short stories and essays have appeared in a number of publications.  Diane and her husband are the webmasters of princesscafe.com, the world's only virtual rock and roll restaurant.  Diane's blog can be found at: dedspace.blogspot.com.

Copyright © Diane E. Dees, 2003

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