Brazil - True Stories of Life on the Road

Argentino

by Terri Hinte

An Americana and a stranger move as one in a samba’s embrace.

Marcos and Marinha Nascimento were taking me to a Christmas party. I had arrived in Belo Horizonte the night before, our visit having been arranged by Zé, my host in Rio. True to his promise, they made me warmly welcome.

Laconic Marcos, with his cap of tight black curls and wiry frame, stood in contrast to his copper-haired wife, affectionate and expansive and gordinha (a little meat on her bones). The couple’s three children shared Marinha’s ruddy coloring, especially the toddler Hipolita, a Titian cherub; the kids and their friends watched my every move, this blonde Americana with her inexplicable Rio accent. From the Nascimentos’ modest apartment, filled with the creations of painter and craftsmen friends, I took in the rolling emerald expanse of Belo, capital of the mountainous interior state of Minas Gerais.

As we arrived at the party at the home of the Passarinhos that perfect summer evening, I felt the gears in my brain start grinding in preparation for social chatter. My Portuguese served me well enough one-on-one but tended to stall when required to produce quick banter in large groups. Marinha was my safe harbor while I sized up this gathering.

I found the refreshments and helped myself to a cold chopinho, then walked outside for some air. Typically, the Passarinhos’ house was enclosed by a high solid wall that afforded security and privacy from the street. Partygoers were thus mingling in the front and side yards, the sultry air perfumed by jasmine and the flamboyant trees in flagrant, scarlet bloom.

Strings of tiny lights illuminated the yard as darkness finally fell and the music rose from background to main event. The irresistible sounds of samba brought a number of people to their feet, and started mine itching as I sat sipping my beer. It wasn’t long before I was invited to dance, by an ardent bear of a man named Tadeu. He was sweaty and sour-smelling and a bit drunk, but I was quite thrilled to be up and moving with the crowd. Tadeu, in fact, was dancing by himself, off in his own sensory world, and so, therefore, was I. But that was fine with me. In a fundamental way, I had traveled thousands of miles to be doing exactly this—seeking some kind of intimate knowledge of the samba, with the body as hierophant and the soul the ecstatic recipient of its gifts.

While conversing with the rhythms on the dance floor in the vicinity of the frenetic Tadeu, I scanned the yard, savoring the styles of the dancing couples. One man in particular was making the samba all his own with movements of wonderful finesse and a captivating swing (or sue-wing-ghee, in the local parlance). As soon as the record was over, I bade Tadeu adeus with a thank-you-man and wasted no time in approaching the evening’s prize dancer.

“Quer dançar?” I proposed, a bit breathless with anticipation.

“Lógico,” he smiled, taking my hand. But of course!

His right hand alighted on my blue-draped hip, my left on his shoulder; our remaining hands found each other high in the air, laced loosely, as hips and legs and feet began to respond in unison to the tensile rhythms. It was simple, and sublime.

We introduced ourselves not long into our maiden dance—his name was Argentino, a handsome man of mocha complexion, slender build, and uncommon grace. He described himself as a poet. I was Teresa the Americana, as usual the only one present and therefore charged with the burden of explaining American politics. But Argentino offered instant expiation; like everyone I’d met in Brazil, he brightened at the mention of San Francisco, my home base, and offered the requisite compliments on my Portuguese (“Você fala muito bem!”).

Frankly, though, talking got in the way of the purity of the dance. We were a team now. As each record ended, we remained poised for the next, grinning, relishing our glorious calibration.

Doubtless there are men in the world who love to dance and are good at it and who can lead a woman partner through an experience where two are one and aren’t even thinking about taking off their clothes. I had just never met such a man. Dancing with men meant dancing near them or at them, as with Tadeu, or leading them, as with my friend Jim, who could expertly follow my every step and spin.

But here with Argentino, it wasn’t even a matter of his leading me; it was more like his moves were my moves, we were just making them together at precisely the same moment. Moreover, his sue-wing-ghee was of a piece with mine—closer to the pulse of the music, right in it rather than spurting out from it. Peripherally I could see many such gushing dancers in the yard, exhausting themselves after one go-round. Argentino and I, we kept percolating, marveling at the persuasiveness of a hip with intent, exploring the rich dimensions of movement in the smallest possible space. We were the heartbeat of samba.

How many hours passed? We hadn’t left each other’s company all evening, nor had the smiles left our faces. But the music had quieted down, the party was rapidly thinning out, madrugada was settling in. Marinha and Marcos were saying their good-byes to the Passarinhos, and that meant I would have to bid farewell to Argentino.

We faced each other with this task, still aglow. “Você dança como um anjo,” I said helplessly. You angel you.

Not missing a beat: “Aprendi esta noite contigo,” he replied, the picture of serenity. I learned tonight with you.

In English the concept of speaking with someone is self-evident, but in Portuguese you also learn with someone, not from them, and you dream with someone, not about them, suggesting that these are not solitary activities. Clearly Argentino and I had both dreamed of a mutual surrender to the music on a tropical Christmas night. As we danced together, we learned how to make our dreams come true.

Born in New York and “actualized” in California, Terri Hinte fell in love with samba and bossa nova many years ago and studied Portuguese in order to travel to Brazil. She has worked as a music business publicist for more than twenty years, and contributed to the Brazilian music section of The All Music Guide. Whenever she travels, she pines for her garden and her Siamese cat, Eartha.

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