EIGHTEEN
Who knew half of Victoria wanted to know about Argentine tea?
The small shop is packed when we arrive, and people are lined up out the door. I’ve never been in here before, but I like the floor-to-ceiling shelves, lined with black tins bearing names like Rose Burst and Midnight Mist. Alison would have loved it. I imagine her here right now, looking over my shoulder, chuckling at the names and crossing her fingers that this little bit of serendipity turns out to be all that I hope for—not that I know yet what I’m hoping for.
The long counter on one side of the shop reminds me of the pharmacy in a heritage village museum I went to once on a school field trip. At the back of the store, a table is set up on a small platform, and on the table is a round thing the size of an apple with a metal straw coming out of it, a metal thermos and another black tin labeled Yerba Maté. One of the employees is brushing invisible flecks of dust off the table.
Jeanette and I squeeze our way through the crowd toward the back. She was surprised at first when I asked if she’d come with me to a talk about tea, but I told her it was Argentine tea, and since the bandoneón comes from Argentina, I wanted to go.
“You’re getting into this tango-culture thing in a big way, eh?” she said and left it at that.
My mom, on the other hand, couldn’t figure out why I was interested, because she doesn’t know about my interest in tango. Her response to the tea talk was, “Your aunt’s rubbing off on you,” and I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, and I didn’t ask. I’ve been watching my step in my conversations with Mom lately, trying not to match her words to symptoms in the mental-health book. It’s becoming harder and harder to avoid though.
As Jeanette and I step into the tea shop, I’m not sure this was such a good idea. If this Facundo Moreno turns out to be who I think he is, meeting him will make it much harder for me to keep the bandoneón, and selling it to donate money to the soup kitchen is probably out of the question. I wish I’d thought of that before inviting Jeanette to this talk.
My aunt, of course, instantly agreed to come. She’s always interested in learning about stuff that has nothing to do with her life. Judging by the number of people she seems to recognize in this room, many of her friends are the same way.
While she stops to talk to someone, I head for the table to look at the round thing with the straw. I read a bit about maté before coming today. I know the round thing is traditionally made out of a gourd (a kind of squash with a hard shell), and the straw is called a bombilla.
“Got dragged along, did you?” a man says. I assume he works at the tea shop. His long brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he has a short beard and round glasses.
I look around and decide that, yes, he’s definitely talking to me. Adults often do that with the youngest person in the room. “I’m the one who dragged my aunt along, actually.” I wave a hand in Jeanette’s direction. She’s deep in conversation and doesn’t notice.
“Really?” He sounds surprised. “Do you have some sort of Argentine connection? Or a tea addiction?”
I laugh. “No, no tea addiction. I’m interested in Argentina though.”
“Oh?”
“I like tango music,” I say. “I’m learning to play it.”
“Wow. Now that’s something I don’t hear every day, especially from someone so young.” He has a slight accent, but I’m not sure where from. Quebec, maybe?
“My father played tango,” he continues, smiling. “One of my favorite photographs is of him playing something called a bandoneón—it’s like an accordion— with my mother clapping in the background.”
Understanding hits me like a wave, and even before he introduces himself, I know who he is. He doesn’t look like the stuffy, serious professor I imagined, and he seems happier than I thought possible, considering all he’s been through.
“I’m Facundo Moreno,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake his hand and introduce myself, my voice catching in my throat. I know so much about him that he doesn’t know I know, and I have no idea what to say that won’t sound weird. “I guess tango’s pretty popular in Argentina.”
“It is now,” he says. “Not so popular in my father’s day though. The government made it illegal for big groups of people to get together, so no one gathered to dance it. A lot of people forgot how.” His eyebrows pull together slightly, like he’s reliving a painful memory, and I look away to stop from confessing everything.