I don’t usually leave bars dancing in the streets. But then again, these are not usual times.
Perhaps it was my afternoon ballet class and the glee of my exhausted, pulsing muscles. Perhaps it was the waiter at La Biela who hung around our table and wanted to chat. Or the way he lulled me into that second, ill-advised Negroni. Or maybe it was our own conversation with its undercurrents of betrayal and resurrection. But whatever it was, it culminated in an unbridled and slightly drunken urge to dance it out.
In the impetuous way that Buenos Aires goes about its erratic business, the weather had turned from puffer jackets to shirt sleeves within a few hours. Blame it on the winds: if it’s blowing from Patagonia you will feel the barren massif in your bones but if it switches to the north you will feel the hot sticky clasp of Brazilian jungles. We knew it wouldn’t last for long: best to enjoy it with a stroll.
Walking toward Recoleta from Congreso along Avenida Callao we passed a church that neither of us had entered. I’m not a very good Catholic these days — if I ever was — but I do like to visit a nice church. I enjoy the calm that washes over me when I step inside.
I don’t take communion anymore because the Church and I have our differences (their bad not mine) but I still can’t resist the urge to dip my fingers in the holy water at the entrance and make a discrete sign of the cross.
Though the marble font was dry, someone had placed a pale green plastic food container in its center and this held the consecrated water. There was just enough to cover the few congregants who wandered in on a Friday evening.
The indescipherable rumor of mass being said at the alter reverberated through the nave. We took our seats in a pew at the back while the priest finished up. Afterwards, he stood in his white robes by the doors and greeted parishoners on their way out.
For our part, we walked to the front to admire the reredos which, like the rest of the church was made of deep brown marble set off with gold leaf details. A copper dome supported by jade columns covered the crucifix.
Before heading for the exit, I slipped some bills into a box soliciting funds for the upkeep of the church. I turned to nod to the priest but he had become serious and had his fingers pressed to the forehead of a woman holding some x-rays in her hand.
Properly humbled before the Almighty and marveling at the vastness of creation, we continued toward our final destination and the promised refreshment.
—
La Biela has long been the territory of dreamers untouched by the daily rut. Before 1950, it was called Aeroclub, or just Aero, as it was a popular hangout for pilots like Jorge Newbery whose daring feats earned him the nickname Sr. Coraje (Mr. Courage). Later, when Argentina produced the world’s greatest racecar driver, Juan Manual Fangio, and the passion for automobile racing swept the country, the café changed it’s name to La Biela.
La Biela means connecting rod. It is the metal arm that connects the piston to the drive shaft in an internal combustion engine. Every chair in the café — and there are many as it is a vast place — has a “biela” engraved on the seat back. There are photos and memorabilia dedicated to Fangio. Incongruously there is also a bright blue portrait of the Argentine songwriter and mystic Facundo Cabral, who lived only in hotels and described himself as a “vagabond, first-class” and whose life story defies gravity.
Having had a bad experience on my last visit to La Biela (my Manhattan came in an Irish coffee mug), I questioned the waiter about the bartender’s abilities and best concoctions.
“I suggest a Negroni,” he said. “It’s our most popular drink.”
“Perfect!” I said. “Then a Negroni it is!”
—
A lot happened that night. Things were said, hands were clasped, tears were shed. The waiter kept looking over at us benignly with priestly concern. When there was a lull he grabbed my empty glass and looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, please,” I said.
A Negroni is a potent cocktail, equal parts gin, sweet red vermouth and Campari. It had it’s effect. A certain loosening of the tongue and a willingness to cross boundaries comes with the territory.
But we left buoyed by the night, the booze and the kindness of strangers. Walking back home, Buenos Aires held us in its gentle embrace. I couldn’t contain myself and unleashed several sidewalk temps de flèche that my ballet teacher would have been proud off. At least, I didn’t crash to the ground.
Later the next day I realized that I had left my backpack under the table at the café. Though full of irreplaceable items, I knew that no harm would come to me.
I went back to the café and explained myself to the cashier who in Buenos Aires is always the man in charge. He stooped down under the counter and with a knowing wink handed my possession back to me.
I looked at him trying my best to fathom his meaning. I had the feeling that they were all in on it; that I was the only one unaware. But I also knew that I would be safe because they were looking after me and they would guide me back.
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