I was in a dark ballroom overrun by ghostly figures. The draperies and the walls glowed with a garish yellow, as if illuminated by gas lamps caked with dust. Pale-faced men in derby hats and red-lipped women in tight corsets moved in unison, prompted by the sultry cabaret act before us. Once in a while, a whiff of Absinthe tantalized us. We were lost souls, floating in wine and perfume, swimming in satin and sweat. Collectively, we were the spirit of Edward Gorey (1925-2000), an American artist.Last weekend, the Edwardian Ball returned to San Francisco. A tribute to an illustrator with a fondness for the whimsical and the macabre, the event was a welcome attraction for those who liked to indulge in costumes and characters, in illusions and fantasies. So, rounding up a few like-minded folks (among them, my neighbor Annie and her boyfriend Adam), I entered the Regency Ballroom, draped in a knee-length mandarin jacket.
Two hours into the evening, I was thoroughly drunk in the jazz sirens' silky harmonies and the growling saxophones accompanying them (a musical brew more seductive to me than alcohol). I had become separated from my friends. The last time I spotted them, two were dancing near the edge of the stage, and the other conversing with someone dressed like Dr. Fu Manchu.
"I think you guys are ready for a Tango," said the band's lead singer.
Then the unmistakable four-four beat begin, ushered in by accordion melodies. For a brief moment, the swirling pools of light on the floor convinced me that the ground beneath was coming to live, ready to open up and swallow me in whole.
Someone turned toward me.
"Do you know how to Tango?" she asked.
She had short hair, trimmed below her forehead like movie stars from the 50s. The sleeveless cocktail dress with delicate frills ended just above her knees.
"Ah, I think I can fake it," I said, counting on the five or six drop-in Argentine Tango classes I'd taken to come to my rescue.
She seemed doubtful, so I grabbed her waist and palm before she could change her mind. Then, I made an attempt to recreate the six-step routine I remembered. I'd selected this basic format because it was one that required very little space, minimizing the risk of us (mostly me) crashing into another couple.
But she wouldn't have it.
"Tango is all about the walk," she pointed out, gesturing me to open a path.
Off we went, with our arms pointed in one direction like a pair of daggers. As we forged ahead, the music picked up, becoming more frantic. I wasn't sure if I was leading or she was, but I distinctly remembered thinking:
We can't keep marching forward like the Charge of the Light Brigade; we have to turn back at some point.
But I couldn't remember how to turn. Fortunately, at the crucial moment (that is, before I collided with a mustached man in a straw hat), she gracefully made a few hip twists and redirected me towards the center of the floor.
Soon I stopped looking down, because the shifting patterns on the floor confused me. I simply tried to remain in position as I followed her lines.
The music ended, just as I was beginning to feel comfortable. Amidst a burst of applause, I involuntarily uttered, "Wow!"
"Thanks for the dance," I said, but I think I meant, "Thanks for putting up with me!"
Then I leaned over and gave her hand a kiss, not in an attempt to be chivalrous but in a genuine show of gratitude. After that, she stepped back into the moving shapes around us and disappeared.
A day later, as I was uploading the pictures from the Ball to my Facebook profile, I broadcast my status as:
Kenneth is wondering about the mysterious stranger who Tangoed with him last Saturday.
My overseas friend Emily, a no-nonsense redhead in Bristol, chided me, "You should have at least slipped her your number before she disappeared."
I replied, "She was terrific, I was horrible--I think I owe her an apology."
Emily snapped, "Well, go find her, My Dear Man! Surely photographs were taken ... or [there's] a guest list or something. Go do some investigation!"
So I'm now scouring the bulletin board frequented by those who're fans of the Edwardian Ball, hoping I might find my Tango dancer.
I wish she'd left behind a glass slipper. It might have made things a bit easier.
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