I rely on the hope, as yet too many times satisfied, of not being right.
Jorge Luis Borges - Universal History of Infamy

There is no denying it: the prismatic reality brings up wonders like a conveyor belt, in spite of the persistent precession of the equinoxes, the down of book-trade, the unintelligible Economic Plan or whatever would still be nagging the prolonged apathy of the unavailable Average Man.
As amazing as the anti-newtonian somersauts by the Daring Raùl and Torquato, the Without Safety Net Duo from the Palumbo Circus (since last month, the Daring Raùl only), rumours came to me today about the updated vogue of the Tango Milonguero. Not intimidated at all by the smooth ups and downs of the Argentine Peso, the tourist avalanche has contrived a further form of recreation. Pending better times, even Batman gets about the city by bus. On the other hand, sufficed it to spread the news that the best dancer in Buenos Aires, whose applauded name good taste prevents me from revealing, had consolidated his old project of writing the Ultimate Tango Scrapbook by the title, as long as i don't change my mind, of Quarterly Review, to induce my disciples the Tangueros to pass from the glorious stage boards to their rudimental desk, as quick as human torpedos.
Well done, boys! I won't resent that. I've long since hanged up my dancing shoes by now and my celebrated walk, which is currently improved by the modern Felix wheelchair, is not timed anymore to the Tango's devilish rhythm, but to a dull gnik-gnik.
Don't be sad, impulsive reader: the sun was shining also for us old milongueros... at least every tuesday afternoon in the Cafè Celta's Intermittent Atheneum. I have always told the reluctant Cortazar, the creator of the overvalued Rayuela (Hopscotch) step, that the appearances are deceptive: the Celta's eupeptic atmosphere was not frustrated by its close resemblance to the pauper's grave at the Chacarita. And the location! Usefully situated at the picturesque corner between Sarmiento and Rodriguez Peña, at a stone's throw from the pulsative Avenida Corrientes, the Cafè was not totally unworthy to lodge the Sultans of Tango's sharp foils and their harsh, maraschino-stimulated disputations.
The House Special Cutlet's unforgettable smell that my tweed jacket sheltered for the rest of the week, didn't stop us from plunging into drunkard quarrels, during which the detailed recalling of not unknown episodes was corroborated by our imaginative memory.
The Tango, muchachos, and its malleable past are in our hands - used to decree every two minutes Piola Casares the Mameluke, right him! who once tried to emulate my labyrinthine triple castling gancho and had his legs knotted like a Shiraz carpet.
The painful disciplinary measures promulgated by the Cafè Celta anavoidable cashier, who claimed an apanage consisting of one: full payment of the bill and two: a noisy tip, interfered with the Select Commitee's sessions headed by Lugones, the omissible milonguero rat-catcher and Guru of the brothel ophidians.
It didn't do any bad to us, quite the opposite!, the predictable scism and subsequent mutual expulsion with the New Gaucho movement, which was consistently represented by the Big Pastime for Horses, alias Hernandez & Guiraldes, who insisted till the last man on placing all those insipid handkerchief tricks among the basic steps.
We the Porteño Internationalists, the Nativeness Bulwarks, definitely couldn't acknowledge either such stylistic diluitions or any distraction due to the local colour, since we were involved in providing the Meticolous Dancer with the final opus.
We encouraged therefore the defection of the Heroes and Tombs (mostly tombs) Wing leaded by Ernesto Domingo, who has always been a midget at the milonga, and we acquiesced in Loco Arlt and His Madmen Six's resignation without thinking twice.
At last, and it was about time, after thousands of sleepless nights at the solid Palumbo printery and the previous swap of some of my auriferous teeth, a first run of three hundred numbered copies of "The Celta Conversations - the Tango Milonguero Prolegomena" came to light, edited by the yours truly undersigned only.
In handmade imitation-paper, elegant Bristol board binding and embellished with a rare grattage by Carnaza, the edition sold out from dawn to dusk and became ipso facto the chimerical gold nugget that many idealists hope to find even today in the soundless antique bookshop or amid the multiform Plaza Dorrego's bric-à-brac in San Telmo.
From that matchless epitome of fictional erudition, and thanks to the indulgence of the Celta's boss who is holding three hundred issues of it as a protective measure, i retype and transfer with pleasure to my friends Tangueros the following, negligible notes.

© Juan Luis Borges - 1995

COVER            VERSIONE ITALIANA