First, There Is Desire
-Buenos Aires, 1895-
The noise of the crowd hit him just as it always had, in a wash of sound, lights, and color all blended into one sublime sensation. It was indescribable, that first step into the brothel. It was vivid, alive, rippling, yet tainted with unwashed sin and debauchery, like dirt under the fingernails of the painted dancers in their diamonds and rubies.
On the dance floor, the girls, squeezed into corsets and too-tight dresses, spun and stomped with the rich Spanish beat pulsing from the corner where the band played. Their coloured skirts rose to flash garters as easily as their rouged faces flashed an enticing smile.
Upon entering, he smoothed his fingers over his beard and mustache as his eyes darted around, taking in the room. Wooden tables positioned around the floor were filled with loud, drunken men calling for more liquor and flirting shamelessly with the waitress, heedless of the gold bands that glittered on their left hands. The women flirted back, with a flip of curled hair or a tease of a touch on a hand.
The bar was crowded as well, lined with men in various stages of failure in life. The barmaid, a senorita by the name of Bella, brought smiles and tips with her ample flirtations and even more ample bosom. A smile of his own crossed his face as she set down a mug in front of an aging gentleman in a patched hat and allowed him to kiss her own the cheek for her troubles.
He made his way through the twist of tables and chairs to the bar and leaned casually against it while Bella poured another round for a group of young canallos not old enough to hold their own drink. Then he thumped his fist against the counter. "Cantinera! Conac!"
"Ai!" she shouted back, not looking up from her work, "You can wait like the rest!"
"Si, but I am not like the rest, mi hermosa. And I had an invitation."
At the words she glanced up finally and let out a sharp laugh! "Eres tu!" she exclaimed, leaving the half-filled glass to saunter over. At a protest from a customer, she turned her head to deliver a rude gesture and then leaned against the bartop. "You came, you dirty sonofabitch."
He grinned. "I promised I would."
Wiping off her hands on a stained towel, she looked around. "It's not much, but better than that shit-hole I came from." She snorted and tossed the rag aside. "Speaking of which, how is it since I left?"
"Mierde. The new barkeep is an ugly tramp who cannot mix drinks."
She looked skeptically up at him. "In other words, she wouldn't give you free drinks."
The comment made him laugh, a loud rumbling sound from the depths of his chest. "Not a one, Bella, not a one." The song ended and the girls dispersed into the crowd in search of that night's business. "By the way, I did ask for a drink."
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "Uh-uh, senor, none of that. I've only just started. I must be a good girl."
He leaned further over the counter as the lights dimmed, bringing their faces closer together. "But you are no good girl, mi Bella."
Her fingers twined into his curls as her voice dropped to a whisper. "You know it."
A solitary set of heels clicked heavily across the center of the dance floor. The room fell silent and all heads turned as one to see what the next act would be. What they saw was an angel who had been trapped in a brothel. Over caramel skin she wore a thin white dress that was eye-catching in its simplicity. In a room full of brightly coloured dresses and intricate, glittering details, the simplest dress is the one that is most effective. It clung tightly to her slim frame, dipping down teasingly among her breasts and flirting with her golden thighs. Long curls of black hair fell in rivers over her back and shoulders, framing kohl-rimmed eyes and ruby lips.
She raised her head, smiling coyly at her now-captivated audience, and began to sing.
"Si cuestión de confesar
no sé preparar café
y no entiendo de fútbol."
A murmur of laughter went through the crowd at this. She winked at one of the men in the front table.
"Creo que alguna vez fui infiel
juego mal hasta el parqués
y jamás uso reloj
y para ser más franca nadie
piensa en ti como lo hago yo."
Then she began to dance, a slow rhythm that first involved nothing but her hips. The movement then spread through her body, though her hips continued to sway seductively, leading the dance. The hem of her dress snaked round her legs as she moved.
White was a strange colour for a prostitute. In fact, white was rarely found in any part of this place. Dirt would cling to it and mar the brilliance of the colour, soil the purity of the material. But her dress was spotless, shocking against the grime of the walls and the smoke-filled air. White was a strange colour for a prostitute...
He felt his fingers grasp the drink in his hand with a firmer grip as he watched her. He pulled away from where he had been facing Bella and stared openly at the dancer. She moved like water, effortlessly and seamlessly. There was something haunting about her, some mystic that made him want her all the more. His hand ran over his goatee absently.
"Bebe?" Bella's hand stroked his cheek, drawing his attention reluctantly back to her. "You asked for a drink, no?"
He nodded distractedly before fishing out a few coins to lay on the table. Once again, his eyes drifted to the angel dancing provocatively through the seated guests. As she writhed her way around the room, customers would reach out to caress the flash of leg she granted them or to smack her playfully. She would answer with a roll of hips or a girlish laugh.
"You're paying?" she asked, a note of understanding tingeing her tone. He nodded again, his fingers once again convulsively smoothing his mustache. She scoffed at the motion and took the coins with a hard glance. "You needn't look pretty for her, you know. She is a whore like the rest of us. All she need see is your pocketbook." Slamming the drink down in front of him, she turned away to serve the next man.
"Wait!" he called after her.
She turned, the seductress back instead of the tiger. "Si?" she purred, leaning over the counter.
"Se llama?"
The frown returned and she dropped the purr, knowing that it would not entice him, not tonight. "Roxanne." She picked up the drink she had given him and sipped it, staring at him over the brim. "You like, no?"
"Si." How could he not, he wondered, watching her out of the corner of his eye. This girl... Roxanne... was beautiful, alluring, sexy. Ai, he wanted her, needed her.
Heaving a sigh, she set the drink down and propped her chin up on her hand. "Tell you what. Catch her after her number and tell her I recommend you."
"And?"
"And you catch any lonely stragglers out there and you send 'em to see Bella. You got it?"
He leaned over the counter and kissed her quickly on the lips. "Gracias, Bella. I can never repay you."
She arched an elegant eyebrow. "Probably not. Now mind you watch yourself with her."
"Que?"
"She's like a fire, that one. She burns then men she touches, and they grow addicted to the pain. It is like a drug to them." She jerked her chin in the direction of a young man staring forlornly at Roxanne. "Take 'im, for example. He's been here a week. Doesn't eat, doesn't drink, doesn't move. Just takes up perfectly good space and just watches her. She burned him, she did, and then moved on to consume her next victim. It always ends the same... badly."
"I'm not easily burned, Bella."
"I know, I know. But be careful and do not say that I didn't warn you."
Sighing, he straightened and finished off his drink. "And what do you suggest I do to avoid being burned?" he asked sarcastically.
She shrugged and turned away. "Wear gloves."
He snorted through his nose and leaned against the counter, watching her, measuring her every curve and memorizing her every movement. With a screech of the violin, her song was over and she left the stage in a whirl of her white skirt. She slunk across the room, exchanging greetings with the men and other prostitutes, and reached over the bar to pour herself a drink.
"Allow me," he said suddenly, moving towards her.
A flirtatious smile leapt to her face, replacing the look of distraction she had worn but a moment earlier. "Gracias, senor."
He filled the glass and stepped behind her, reaching around to hold it to her mouth. "My pleasure," he murmured, titling the glass so that the liquid poured slowly into her parted lips.
After swallowing, she pressed back against him. "Tell me, what's your name?"
He chuckled deeply. "Come now, I know you are not interested in my name, Roxanne."
She turned in his arms and glanced up at him, slightly surprised. "Ah, already a fan? I have not seen you before."
"Perhaps because this is my first time here and we have never met."
"Not the last, I hope?"
He pursed his lips to fight the smile. "We shall see."
She laughed at this, reaching up to run her hands through his hair. "Come, senor. You know my name but I know not what to call you."
The smile escaped and burst full across his face as he moved away from her. "We have a dance!" he called out, motioning to the small band in the corner. He turned back towards her and offered his hand. "A tango."
Coyly, she accepted his hand. Her touch raced up his arm like wildfire, causing his mouth to suddenly go dry. He felt exhilarated and heady all at once.
She burns, that one.
She stepped onto the dance floor once again as the tango began.
END CHAPTER TWO
Nota: I beg forgiveness for the lack of promptness in getting this up. I've been greatly distracted by one-shot fics and scholarship essays. Felt reinspired today for some reason and sat down and wrote almost the entirety of this chapter in one sitting.
The song used is "Inevitable" by Shakira.
A few translations for those who are not familiar with Spanish. I'm not even that great at it.
canallos- boys
cantinera- barmaid
Conac-brandy
mi hermosa-my beauty
Eres tu-it is you
mierde-shit
Bebe-baby
Que-what