Who in the vast world of Tango had not danced there, had not visited once or at least had not heard about the famous daily milongas and noon practicas of “Confiteria Ideal” in the world’s Capital of El Tango?

It was late in the morning and I found myself walking up calle Corrientes in direction to “El Obelisco”, I got to Corrientes and Suipacha, one of the most emblematic corners of Buenos Aires and I took a look to my watch … 11:00am… a little too late to go anywhere else and a little too early to go and say hello to my dear friends and Tango teachers Pablo Nievas and Valeria Zunino. So I decided to have a cup of espresso at “Havanna Café” and wait for the popular practica and milonga of “La Ideal” that star, as every day of the week, at 12 noon. Looking trough the wide windows while sipping my coffee I could not help to remember the times when Carina Lozano, now a respected teacher, performer and organizer in Washington DC and Jose Garofalo, today the owner of “Porteno y Bailarin”one of B.A. most famous milongas, started to hold there theirs first work-shops and practicas… about 10 or 12 years ago.

Today an important part of the rich history of Buenos Aires “La Ideal” is here and everywhere in the world, synonymous of TANGO and means and represents Tango for everyone, regardless if they are tangueros or they are not. To myself and to many others “La Ideal” is nothing more and nothing less than an international Tango institution! How many of the actual tango teachers and tangueros in Buenos Aires and everywhere else have danced on its floor their first tango steps? This place has been and is still today the school of many of the actual teachers or tango professionals in every corner of the world and … take the word of an old milonguero who has been there a thousand times… everyone of them remember it and honor it with love and veneration… as the authentic Tango Cathedral of Buenos Aires!

A knock, light and airy, opens a creaky door wide, and Love enters to waken those languorous corridors of the soul and the timid heart too.

As from a newly reddened rose, a heady perfume rises on a sweet-scented summer breeze, intoxicating those who breath it and driving them to glorious, exquisite madness.

That visage, only a moment past, an unremarkable face among faces, but now quite transformed...the smile sweeter, brighter; the eyes inviting; the form slimmer, and that awkward gesture of the hand, the head, now a graceful movement beautiful to behold.

THE SECRET GARDEN

The chauffeur’s visored cap caught Anne-Marie's eye, and she started to giggle. Maybe I should tell him he has it on backwards, she said to herself. The giggle was a nervous reaction. In the back seat of the Rolls, the exotic smell of expensive, well-rubbed leather and burnished oak paneling, although not unpleasant, made her uncomfortable, as did everything connected with this sudden plunge into unaccustomed luxury.

It began the morning the Rolls pulled up to her apartment on La Rue de Vaugirard. The chauffeur hopped out and tipped his hat as he opened the door for her. "Bonjour, mademoiselle," he said, "The Countess is expecting you. Should you care for breakfast, you’ll find coffee, des croissants and des tartes in the cabinet by the table. Or, should you prefer something cold, there’s some excellent champagne in the refrigerator."

Through the widows of the Rolls, the tree-lined borders of N5, leading into the French countryside, slipped by noiselessly, while a Chopin mazurka spilled softly from speakers in the back seat. The countess must have a madman for a butler or secretary or whatever he prefers to call himself, Anne-Marie thought. He insisted the invitation was not a mistake. "The Countess Barca does not make mistakes in the pursuit of her social functions," he had said in haughty tones over the phone.

When she had found the invitation to tea in her mailbox, Anne-Marie was certain it had been intended for someone else. She knew the Countess Barca only by reputation, and she and the Countess definitely did not travel in the same circles.

Madame Olivier, who persuaded Anne-Marie to wear one of the gorgeous black tea gowns from her store in La Place des Vosges, also could not understand how this could happen. "Even if the invitation is a mistake, why not go and meet the Countess anyway. What is there to lose?" she had said.

The Rolls turned off of N5 onto a secondary road, winding through ripe green meadows. Perfectly parallel rows of yellow corn stretched to the crest of gently rolling slopes, and rippling seas of golden wheat played with the wind.

They entered a small village where a stone fountain saluted the sun; and the dark, undulating finger of the church tower played across rows of moss-covered granite slabs, growing from green shadows on the dark, moist earth. They were quite near the château, now, the chauffeur told Anne-Marie.

As the moment of her meeting with the Countess neared, Anne-Marie anxiety began to fade. She would simply be herself, and if that displeased the Countess, to hell with her. The Rolls turned right, into a leaf-shaded country lane, and in the distance, at the crest of a forest-covered slope, Anne-Marie saw the château. Its silhouette rose majestically on the horizon over a wide expanse of green lawn.

As they drove slowly through the forest, sunlight filtered through the leafy green canopy and blinked above the treetops, like a celestial semaphore. But as the trees thickened, the sun surrendered to the forest, and gradually it grew darker.

"Darkness!" The fortuneteller had said, with unsmiling lips and half closed eyes. The Fortuneteller paused…..then continued…"Night and her lover moon have too long ruled the past. Darkness, pain and misfortune have too long been your unwelcome companions." The Fortuneteller caressed her crystal ball lightly with the tips of her fingers, as one might caress the smooth contours of a lover’s face. "I see the fortress of night yielding to the warm light of a brilliant sun. It is written that a door will open into a secret garden where sunlight, music, laughter and happiness reign. I see a beautiful princess, strolling fragrant garden pathways, where live glorious gray ghosts, frozen by the hands of ancient Gods into silent immortality, as malevolent time flows slowly about them. And there too, in the garden, love will touch the heart of the beautiful young woman, and….."

Anne-Marie suddenly burst into tears. Rising from the table and sobbing, she buried her face in her hands. From beneath her hands, wet with salty tears, her muffled voice cried out…"That beautiful woman…that…that’s not … me! I’m ugly. UGLY! No one could love me. EVER!" She ripped her veil from her face and, turning towards the fortuneteller, shouted….SEE! SEE!" A thin smile appeared on the fortuneteller lips. She looked into Anne-Marie's tearful eyes. And her gaze roamed the deep, purple valleys of Anne-Marie's scarred face. "So is it written," she whispered. Natasha stepped forward, put an arm around Anne-Marie’s shoulders and kissed her hair. "Come with me sweet Anne-Marie," she told her, as she led her from the Fortuneteller's booth. "We shall drink a glass of champagne together."

The Rolls slowed at a park-like clearing and stopped before a low, vine-covered stone fence. An imposing wrought iron gate, displaying the family’s rusty coat of arms, marked the entrance to the garden. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for Anne-Marie. "It’s only a short walk to the château," he told her, "and the Countess thought you might enjoy a stroll in the garden before tea-time. There will be someone here shortly to escort you to the château, mademoiselle."

As Anne-Marie walked along the grassy cobblestone path leading to the garden gate, she heard the faint tinkle of a harpsichord and, overhead in the treetops, the chirping music of courting birds. Passing under the rusty coat of arms into the garden’s interior, she sat down on a bench facing the old fountain. Although cracked and crumbling, the fountain still had life. Water gurgled playfully from the smooth top of a richly ornamented, purple-stained pedestal which rose like an appendage of Neptune from the center of the fountain. And a vine coiled around the tall pedestal like a green serpent.

The bright baroque quarter-notes, carried on the tin-like twang of the harpsichord, glide from the window of the music room and leap the hedges bordering the long expanse of sculptured lawn. They float down fragrant pathways leading to the garden where Anne-Marie is seated. The fourth movement of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony finds her ear and brings moisture to her eyes. The image of Jupiter, staring at her in the distance from his temple in a grove of maple trees, did not help either. Apollo and Dianne were there too. They and other larger-than-life gods and goddesses, carved from the finest Italian marble, roamed the garden like gray ghosts. It’s just as the Fortune Teller said. How could she know these things?

On calm summer days when the air is still, a visitor approaching the château may hear the curious, faint tinkle of a harpsichord and follow it to the stone portico at the entrance. There, the visitor is swept away by a towering wave of contrapuntal strains flying from the open window of the music room and up the fluted vaults of the portico, where they hang suspended in space and time. Then, in a fantastic display of musical fireworks, the baroque cords burst open, releasing a delicious shower that rains down and invades the brain.

The tall widows of the music room face the lawn and look toward the morning sun. The straight-back profile of the Countess Barca may be seen through the window as her fingers race down the keyboard of her harpsichord. She wears a long, black dress with a tight bodice that encircles her narrow waist and constrains her small breasts beneath a white lace collar. Her dark hair is combed straight back and gathered into a circular knot at the back of her head. Her features are clear and sharp, and her cheekbones ride high on her half-moon, powdered profile.

Anne-Marie felt the presence of someone else in the garden. She turned slowly…and her eyes grew wide. She leaped to her feet and retreated from the stone bench. On the other side of the bench stood a man, casually dressed in a brown sports coat. "Wait," he said, "please don’t run away. I mean you no harm. I am Carlyle Barca," he said, smiling. "Welcome to our garden. My friends and I once played here as children. We called this our secret garden. It was easy to hide behind the marble statues, when mama wanted us to come to the château to meet her guests."

The young Count’s words, spoken in tones so friendly and quiet, were disarming, and his manner and look so calm and unperturbed that Anne-Marie felt her guard begin to crumble. But she was not yet prepared to trust him.

"There’s been some kind of mistake…I must go…I must get back to Paris…right away…because…I don’t belong here. I’m sure Countess Barca’s invitation was intended for someone else."

"There has been no mistake, mademoiselle. It was I who sent the invitation…and my mother, of course, was very much in favor of this."

"But why? What can she want of me …I don’t know the Countess. Nor do I know you, monsieur."

"But I know you, mademoiselle. You have been on my mind for some time. I realize this may seem strange to you, but when I first saw you dancing the Mazurka at The Artist’s Ball, you were exquisite. You passed close to me, and your perfume was like Aphrodite’s sweet breath. Will you allow me to escort you to the apartments of my mother, who wants very much to meet you?" I must be dreaming, Anne-Marie thought. Yes, it’s a dream.

"When I looked into your eyes at the ball, I knew I had to meet you," the young count said, "but when I tried to speak to you in the metro, you ran away. I’m sorry if I frightened you."

"But at the Bal des Beaux Arts, I wore a veil," Anne-Marie said. "I can’t believe you still wanted to meet me when you saw beneath the veil."

"I saw beneath the veil, even while you wore it at the ball…and what I saw was a Botticelli angel. Please, mademoiselle, take my arm. And do not be frightened by the stone gods and goddesses that roam the garden. My father believed that by populating the garden with marble images of ancient gods, he could somehow share their immortality. He sought to challenge time’s sluttish rule with impervious stone. But even stone Gods do not last. They will also crack and crumble. When my father’s time came, all the gilded monuments in the garden could not help him, and he went not gently into his long night. Death and Love…when one is, the other is not, and of that…Gods of stone could not have known."

Anne-Marie allowed the young count, who smelled of whiskey, tobacco and horses, to take her arm. Death? Thought Anne-Marie, as they walked toward the Château. Why does he talk of death? And of his father’s stone Gods?

As the wings of a butterfly may fan a tiny spark into a raging blaze, the subtle pressure of Anne-Marie's arm brought a delicious heat into the young count’s heart, where it smoldered before bursting into flames.

Love! It is madness. But such a fine madness.…the most delicious madness of all…a madness we willingly die for, fight, sweat and sacrifice ourselves for, like salmon fighting swift-running currents, eager for their upstream rendezvous with life and with death…and, in a sense, we and the salmon are not greatly different."