Romanci Di Campiña
Met Armando the second day when we all went out to dinner after the Sales award seminar, the office offered. We worked for an upcoming Italian shoe exporting Company and we had a seminar in Buenos Aires, in one of the new offices we were about to open.
| “Hello” He said, “I’m Armando Deluchi” a fellow introduced himself out of nowhere; He had an average height still a little taller than me. He had a contagious smile and attractive energy. I was stunned for a two-three minutes when I shook his hand, I didn’t expect the strong big hands with black and abundant hair, to hold me for that long (it was probably just seconds but it felt that long). |  |
He had an attractive Greek face though was Argentine. His jaw was square and adorned with a black shadow of his newly shaven beard that covered his rugby perfect face. He had dark eyebrows but surprisingly not very abundant. His eyes were dark and very penetrating when they stare at you, his pupils will follow your eyes everywhere, as if it was a sword match. His broad shoulders and puffed chest made me think that if there was an emblem with an “S” in the middle, he might as well be the superman I grew up with as a child.
He always wore Jeans with leather Italian shoes that matched the color of his belt, his Italian shirts always ironed and a corduroy jacket impeccably fitted at his hips. With his long legs he looked like the typical JQ model. My first reaction after I let go of his hand, was to kick him in the knee out of envy. I pictured his wife blond and gorgeous, cut out from one of those people magazines where they always take those pictures. I imagined him to be a spoiled son of an European millionaire immigrant, with all the money in the world and a life well suited to his perfect image. I never did actually ask him if it was true.
The next day I found him at a cafe across from the hotel. He was just sitting on a peeling dark green wooden chair that made me think of a vacation I took down in Colombia by the coffee region, some summers back. I saw him concentrated on a call and smiling warmly, with his face down. I wanted to avoid him and tried walking silently to the corner and cross the pedestrian zone so he would not see me. But when I was almost at the corner I heard him calling me, I tried to act like I was on my phone and didn’t hear him but he was waiting for me at the entrance of the cafe. It was one of the few cafes around that I liked. They had coffee from various regions of the world including one from Armenia (Colombia), which I was pleasantly surprised to have found in Buenos Aires. I have been living in Miami for the past 3 years and had some friends from Colombia that would bring a couple bags every time they visited. If not for that coffee, I would have continued down the street so I didn’t have to cross paths with him. I remember later, asking myself had I not met him I would have never known the full story or understood what happened.
 |
She walked in front of me the first day of the meeting, it generated a big impression on me, with her precious Italian profile: a soft white skin and pink cheeks that stood up softly on her beautiful face. But what most impressed me was her gazing smile that robbed every glare as she crossed paths with anyone. Every time she smiled her cheeks would paint some beautiful dimples on both sides of her cheeks, it was a remarkable view that for some reason filled my soul with joy. Also with anger, as her trance was always directed at anyone but me. |
I remember she walked past me with out any notice, and sat on the table right next to mine, her navy blue eyes, her black eyebrows and beautiful eyelashes contrasted perfectly in that gorgeous canvas. Her hair always tucked up, with thin cascades of angel hair coming down her neck, giving a more slim tone to her neck. Surprisingly she was not dressed as elegant as the rest of the group that day. She was wearing Jeans, shoes and a brown Italian leather jacket. Her name was Ana Belliri, according to her presentation card on the table. She was quiet, almost always focused on her blackberry as any other sales agent of this time. I spent several days watching her secretly; I loved to watch her tranquil, European profile and that lovely way of smiling.
For fives days, all of us 30 employees were trapped in this enchanted city, near Calle Florida. The nights were wonderful as we hung out in groups of 3 or 4 people at a time. We talked about everything, families, work, friends, the presentations, the new office, anything. The city offered as an unprecedented atmosphere at night. We moved like scouting ants everywhere in the city trying to find the best restaurants to eat out at. We visited La Bourgogne, Sipan, La Rosa Negra, Marcelo, Osaka, Sarkis always something different each time. We enjoyed each others company, joked around and even attended a football game at the “Bombonera” soccer stadium. It felt like time was stopped just for us.
It was in one of those food outings that, out of the blue and without any introductions, she told me that she was expecting me to go out with her and the group to find something to eat. I acted as if it was just a normal thing, and agreed to go, but it was totally strange and at the same time exciting that she approached me. I was totally sure she had me confused with some one else, I thought of putting Ana on the spot by challenging her if it was me that she was waiting for, but didn’t want to come across as weak. Later I found out that I was just a way to get to Armando. My fantasy of thinking that she was interested in me was short lived, but I didn’t care that much since it got me closer to both of them.
[embedyt width=”50″ height=”50″] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ic4PQ-tnwJw[/embedyt]
But it was the night when we went to the “Red Tango” show with several of the group that I realized that the story had already begun. The show was spectacular, the stage was very welcoming, and the artists were so skillful and beautiful. But it was the music that really got to me, of course, with the help of several glasses of wine from the Mendoza region. Such was the passion that ignited in me that as soon as I was back from the trip, I made good use of the old vinyl records my father kept in his library. Needless to say, “Carlitos” Gardel filled my ears for many months after that, my nights before bed, and my dreams of singing. Several times, I went to the roof of my building to shout out some of the Gardel songs. The adjacent building walls provided the perfect theatrical echo, like the symphonies that my parents used to drag me to, which I now regret not having enjoyed more. I have always thought that life sometimes is made backwards: When we are young, we have the energy and passion to last a couple of days without sleep and the stamina to love endlessly; but we lack the money to enjoy everything life has to offer and the knowledge and experience to really make love to a lady. And when we get older, we have the money and knowledge, but we lack the energy and stamina to love for hours on end.
It was there where I saw them dancing for the first time after the show. They seemed like the ideal couple, moving with such finesse to the rhythm of the “bandoneon” (an accordion), the piano, and the violin. It was as if they had fused into a single body, their hips glued together, their bodies gracefully touching in the same direction; they seemed to be gliding on air. I watched with intense curiosity how they looked at each other, the passion for their movements, the sudden change of directions but with a smooth flow; they looked like they had been practicing for centuries.
I kept watching them with curiosity and suspicion, as they were too happy with each other. I also wanted to be a protagonist in Ana’s life; I didn’t want this guy to dance as well as he did. I asked her to dance with me, but my steps didn’t quite keep with the songs. I often ran into her shoes; the time spent years before doing the cha-cha-cha or rumba were a total waste. When I was trying to follow the 1-2-3, I felt she was already on the 8,9,10; it was a total performance disaster. However, as enchanting as always, she made me feel as if nothing really happened. She kept smiling; she had that great ability to make you feel special regardless of the circumstances. I wonder how many more were dying to be with her, how many mistakenly took her sweetness as a sign of interest. Her Italian-Spanish accent was so attractive that I was sure the angels stopped blowing their trumpets anytime she pronounced something, just to hear her speak. How many may have fallen into the trap of thinking that her kindness, her way of reaching out with a touch, her penetrating smile was for something other than friendship. How many did she have to send to hell as easily as she let them step into her graciousness? I am assuming that just like any little angel, there’s also a little devil within her, with a black belt in tae-kwon-do and jiu-jitsu. A rejection look from her could be as bad as any catastrophic storm. I was not about to take that risk; I was just happy to hear her voice, her accent, to have her attention even for a small span.
Once, I caught a glimpse of how she would affectionately caress him, not with her hands but with her hair. I saw that during a small gathering after work, she let her hair all down to her shoulders and at the same time on Armando’s arm that was comfortably resting on the armchair next to Ana. I imagine that’s what they were doing, or at least from the distance, that’s how I felt. I felt how every time she moved her hair side-to-side, millions of her hair were touching my soul on that guy’s arm. I was very keen on watching how they move through the crowds to find each other’s company. Each of them would move through different groups, but often they crossed paths, touching each other softly with their hands, their backs, how they would look at each other with a flirtatious smile, with a connection as strong as steel but invisible to the naked eye. They would seduce each other with their eyes, with their smiles, even when sipping from a glass, as they would sometimes passionately caress a piece of ice from their drinks with their lips while looking at each other from a safe distance. I remember thinking that they might have as well made love right there in front of everyone; I was so jealous but at the same time so turned on by this that I actually enjoyed just watching them interact. I remember other instances when they were next to each other, and how he would give a friendly rub on her back and how she would arch her back with excitement and happiness, and how also she would lean back with force to remind him to do it again. I would get so envious of their happiness that once I acted as if I tripped on something and landed my drink on the side of his arm. I had the need to stop that invasion of her space. I wanted to feel the same way they did; I wanted to have that same experience of falling in love again, to dream, to sing, to feel the heart racing over my chest, to feel jealous, to feel the anxiety of not being close. I made it a point to meet Armando and confront him about what I saw. I ended up confessing to my envy, which led me to enticing him to tell me more.
Many times at night, I would fall asleep thinking about them, about their history, their suffering, their love agony. I felt horrible, but sometimes I created my own fantasy, but I would exchange Armando for me. I was the director of my own film with Ana and imagined her dancing with me, feeling her chest against mine, her dilated pupils fixed on mine, my lips caressing her neck and ears, but still maintaining the same subtlety, so no suspicion would be aroused, like Armando told me when I last visited him. Many nights I would change the scene; I would invite Ana to dance salsa, and we would dance in different cities: Paris, New York, Rio de Janeiro, Madrid, Milan, and many more. I imagined how my masculinity would feel against her thighs on a sudden change of direction as I twirl her on the dance floor. I also wondered if those conversations also took place during the late nights that they spent talking on the phone. Armando never went into any details, but he told me that his feelings were reciprocated.
| What he was absolutely clear about was that they never even kissed. He often wanted to find the opportunity to do so and confessed his intentions in secrecy to Ana during the day, but he never got around to doing it. |  |
He said that there was a particular episode when he made every effort to time when she would come out of her bedroom into the elevator, so that they could find themselves alone in that space. On that particular occasion, he was so eagerly awaiting for her to show up in front of the elevator that his heart was sinking as fast as the elevator door was closing in front of him. But, when it was almost closed, he suddenly heard some voices and decided to hit the open button again, with the hopes that it would be her. When she appeared in the elevator, he was more surprised than she was that his strategy actually worked. It was such a shock to him that his intentions to wrap her in his arms and kiss her eternally culminated in an unexpected silence. He was in such a stupor of confusion that he had no time to think, as she quickly disarmed him by holding him by the side of his elbow. As they both stood side by side, facing the elevator door, the only thing that came to him was to kiss her hand that was holding him, with so much passion that his watery eyes were the only sign of his defeat as he saw his plans vanishing as fast as the shaft was descending to the first floor.
For years, he had relived that moment and wished he had done something different. He wished he had pulled the stop button or pushed the button to the penthouse so he would have had the time and the courage to kiss her passionately. He tried to explain that the only piece that lacked in his strategy was that he would have thought of asking the universal energy to have gotten the elevator stuck, as it happened days before with a group of foreign visitors. He blamed himself for not thinking ahead since, according to him, all he had to do was wish for things, and they always turned out, just like the rest of his life. Now, I wonder if his illness was the result of a hidden desire.
I could not believe that for the past five years they would meet in different cities on special occasions and almost didn’t say anything to each other. They would have a romantic date to dance the Tango, to make love to the music with the back and forth of their movements. He assured me they never kissed, to make sure that they would not taint the promise they made to each other. She would wear the emerald pendant he gave her that first time they met, every time they met, as a symbol of their celestial love. It was a secret that remained locked until Armando told me. I can’t imagine not being able to tell a soul what they had, without being judged. At the same time, it was the secrecy and discretion that made this adventure the makeup of this love story.
Today, I am in a hurry to reach the post office to mail this letter to Ana, that Armando kindly requested me to draft almost two weeks ago. I never thought I would end up fulfilling his last dying wish. I write this memoir so as not to forget what happened here, to set in stone in the annals of this universe: that pure love can survive time, space, and even death. I do this with hopes that in their next life they could dance for many years and kiss until their exhausted bodies fall asleep forever.
I also write this story out of guilt for being so jealous of Armando’s life, for cursing his fortune. Also, because I forgot to find, in my own life, my own Ana—to find my own dancing partner, to learn how to make her fall in love with me again with my own kisses, my own ways. If I would have known back then what I know now, I would have found the way to help them be together, to hide; I would have been a messenger of their prayers; I would have been the matchmaker of their love.
Too late now….
___________________________________________________
Letter 1
Buenos Aires
Abril 2, 2010
Ana,
You never asked me about my life, and I understand. I was always happy with my wife and, although we never had children, she and I were happy. She is a wonderful woman, and she loved me a lot, perhaps more than I deserve. For my part, I kept my commitment until my dying day. I loved her for many reasons, and I thank her for that.
I don’t say farewell with tears, but with the joy of having had the chance to have met you. And I hope, as you promised, to be with you in the next turn. Do not hurry; time flies, and there is an eternity to love each other and dance as we did here many times.
P.D. You don’t need to bring the charm for our next date.
Ti amo,
Armando
___________________________________________________
Letter 2
In the stack of letters that Armando had left behind, there was one that captured a moment so vivid, so intimate, that I could almost hear the rustle of Ana’s dress and feel the warmth of their hands entwined. It detailed a rendezvous in Paris, the city where love itself seems to take a breath.
Ana, a brilliant and passionate fashion designer, was in Paris for a conference. Armando, ever the romantic schemer, had managed to contact an event coordinator through a web of acquaintances. He discovered the precise moment when Ana and her colleagues would be dining in one of the city’s most esteemed restaurants.
And so, Armando’s plot took shape. He charmed the chief steward of the restaurant—a man of stern disposition but a secret lover of grand romances—into allowing him to serve the dinner party. To further his disguise, Armando donned a wig, a carefully shaped mustache, and the air of a Parisian waiter.
As he navigated the restaurant, his eyes met Ana’s. He was just another face in the crowd to her, another waiter in a bustling Paris eatery. Armando, who had once shared secret touches and stolen glances with this woman, was now a mere shadow passing through her world. But as he passed her table, he slipped her a note—a simple piece of paper that held a universe of meaning.
“The charm of baby swans,” it read, a private reference to a necklace he had once gifted her, its pendant shaped like a pair of entwined cygnets.
Ana’s eyes widened subtly as she read, a knowing smile gracing her lips. She played her part perfectly, offering only the faintest of nods to acknowledge the message’s sender.
Throughout the evening, Armando, in his waiter’s guise, delivered more notes, each a breadcrumb leading her closer to the truth. His heart raced, not from fear of discovery, but from the thrill of this intimate game they were playing amidst a sea of oblivious diners.
Finally, as the night wore on and Ana’s colleagues prepared to depart, she sent Armando a note of her own through another waiter: “Wait for me under the silver moon,” she wrote, using their secret code for a moonlit rendezvous.
After her friends left, Ana lingered in the restaurant, feigning deep interest in her dessert until she and Armando were nearly alone. Then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, they found each other in the dim light of the closing restaurant.
Without a word, Armando led Ana to a hidden courtyard he had discovered days prior—an oasis of quiet in the bustling city. There, under the Parisian sky, they danced. Their bodies remembered each other, the rhythm of their love translating into a dance as tender as it was passionate. The night around them seemed to still, the stars above their silent audience.
Though they swayed close enough for their breaths to mingle, they honored their sacred promise: not even a kiss was shared. Their love was in their movements, their eyes, the way their hands fit perfectly together—as if molded for this very purpose.
As the sky began to lighten with the approach of dawn, Armando escorted Ana back to her hotel. At her door, he bowed deeply, the playful waiter once more, and with a wink, he turned to leave.
The letter ended with Armando’s reflection: “In that moment, as I walked away, I felt both profound joy and a piercing sadness,” he wrote. “For in the love we have, so pure and untainted, I have found both my greatest happiness and my most exquisite pain.”
___________________________________________________
Letter 3.
In a separate, more worn envelope than the rest, there was another letter. This one was rich with longing, a confession of vulnerability so deep it seemed to stain the paper it was written on. It described a stolen day and night in Venice, where water and love flowed in equal measure.
In this letter, Armando’s pen took us to Italy. He had learned through whispers and shared friends that Ana would be in Venice for a private showing of her latest fashion line, her designs inspired by the very city where they were to be showcased. Not able to resist, Armando devised a plan, as delicate and intricate as lace, to see her.
He wrote of how he arrived days before Ana, acquainting himself with the labyrinthine alleys and canals of the romantic city. Like a phantom, he wanted to be everywhere and nowhere, always close but just out of sight. Then, on the appointed day, he positioned himself in the crowd as Ana’s designs came to life on the runway, her soul spilled into every stitch and seam.
As the show reached its climax, and Ana emerged to a storm of applause, Armando’s heart swelled with pride and affection so fierce it ached. He noted how she looked radiant but also slightly melancholic, as though she sensed his presence in the ether around her.
Seizing a moment when fate seemed to hold its breath, he sent a single red rose to her dressing room, a note attached that read: “Meet me where reflections dance at midnight.” It was a riddle, but one he knew she would solve—it led to a specific canal bridge they had once dreamt of visiting together under a moonlit sky.
In the deep velvet of that Venetian night, Armando recounted, Ana appeared at the bridge as if conjured from the ripples in the water below. With eyes wide and bright as stars, she stepped into his embrace as though it were the most natural act in the world. They held each other tightly, the pent-up longing of their separate lives melting into that single, stolen moment.
Armando described how they spent that night wandering the city. No longer a mere spectator in her world, he was at her side, and Venice was their playground. He detailed their laughter echoing off stone walls, the stolen kisses on secluded corners, and how they danced to the tune of a lone violinist playing for late-night lovers.
He wrote extensively of one poignant moment, where, as dawn threatened their night with the coming day, Ana took his face in her hands, her eyes brimming with tears and whispered, “Why is life so bitterly sweet?” He could offer her no answer, only his silent vow to cherish these fleeting moments for a lifetime.
Before daybreak, as they drifted in a gondola steered by a knowing old man who’d seen countless lovers in his time, Armando took a delicate chain from his pocket. At its end was a small, intricate key—a symbol, he explained to Ana, of his heart and soul, which he knew were forever intertwined with hers. With trembling hands, Ana accepted the key and fastened the chain around her neck. They did not need words; their tearful eyes spoke volumes more than language ever could.
As the sun began to crown the horizon, Armando described their parting. It was tender and raw, like a wound both fresh and familiar. With a final, lingering kiss, they separated at the break of dawn, not knowing when they would be granted another stolen moment in each other’s arms.
Armando’s letter ended with a reflection: “As I watched her leave, the key to my heart hanging from her neck, I was struck by a profound realization,” he wrote. “Our love, it seems, is like Venice itself—beautiful, enduring, and defined by its canals that separate as much as they connect. We are both the dreamer and the dream, caught in a story that is as agonizing as it is exquisite.
___________________________________________________
Notes about the Story and Letters