Kathleen Turner (27:02)
El Capitan and the woman Nina Eloisa, had danced together so many years that they had achieved perfection. Each could sense the other's next movement, divine the exact instant of the next turn, interpret the most subtle hand pressure or deviation of a foot. They had not missed a step once in 40 years. They moved with the precision of a couple used to making love and sleeping in a close embrace. This is what made it so difficult to believe that they had never exchanged a single word. The Little Heidelberg is a tavern a certain distance from the capital, located on a hill surrounded by banana groves. There, besides good music and invigorating air, they offer a unique aphrodisiac stew made heady with a combination of spices too heavy for the fiery climate of the region, but in perfect harmony with the traditions that activate the proprietor, Don Rupert. Before the oil crisis, when there was still an illusion of plenty and fruits were imported from other latitudes, the specialty of the house had been apple strudel. But now that nothing is left from the petroleum but a mountain of indestructible refuse and a memory of better times, they make the strudel with guavas and mangoes. The tables, arranged in a large circle that leaves an open space in the middle for dancing, are covered with green and white checked cloths. The walls display bucolic scenes of country life in the Alps. Shepherdesses with golden braids, strapping youths, immaculate bovines, the musicians, dressed in lederhosen, woolen knee socks, Tyrolean suspenders and felt hats that, with the sweat of the years have lost their dash and from a distance resemble greenish wigs, sit on a platform crowned by a stuffed eagle that, according to Don Rupert, sprouts new feathers. From time to time one plays the accordion, another the saxophone, and the third, through some feat of agility involving all his extremities, simultaneously manipulates the bass drum, snares and top hack. The accordion player is a master of his instrument, and he also sings in a warm tenor voice that suggests, vaguely Andalucia. Despite his foolish Swiss publican's garb, he is the favorite of the female faithful, and several of These senoras secretly nurture the fantasy of being trapped with him in some mortal adventure, a landslide, say, or a bombing in which they would happily draw their last breath, folded in the strong arms capable of tearing such heart, rendering sobs from the accordion. The fact that the medium age of these ladies is nearly 70 does not diminish the sensuality stirred by the tenor it merely adds the gentle breath of death to their enchantments. The orchestra begins playing shortly after sunset and ends at midnight, except on Sundays and Saturdays, when the place is filled with tourists and the trio must keep playing until near dawn, when the last customer leaves. They play only polkas, mazurkas, waltzes, and European folk dances, as if, instead of being firmly established in the Caribbean, the little Heidelberg were located on the shores of the Rhine. Dona Borgel, Don Rupert's wife, reigns in the kitchen, a formidable matron whom few know because she spends her days amid stew pots and mounds of vegetables, lost in the task of preparing foreign dishes with local ingredients. It was she who invented the strudel with tropical fruits and the aphrodisiac stew capable of restoring dash to the most disheartened. The landlord's two daughters wait on the tables, a pair of sturdy women smelling of cinnamon, clove, vanilla, lemon, along with a few local girls, all with rosy cheeks. The clientele is composed of European emigres who reach these shores escaping poverty or some war or other businessmen, farmers and tradesmen, a pleasant and uncomplicated group of people who may not always have been so but who, with the passing of time, have eased into the benevolent courtesy of healthy old people. The men wear bow ties and jackets, but as the exertion of the dancing and the abundance of beer warms their souls, they shed superfluous garments and end up in their shirt sleeves. The women wear bright colors and antiquated styles, as if their dresses had been rescued from bridal trunks brought with them from their homeland. From time to time a gang of aggressive teenagers stops by. Their presence is preceded by the thundering roar of motorcycles and the rattle of boots, keys, chains. They come with the sole purpose of making fun of the old people, but the event never goes any further than a skirmish, because the drummer and the saxophonist are prepared to roll up their sleeves and restore order. On Saturdays about nine, when all present have enjoyed their servings of the aphrodisiac stew, the and abandon themselves to the pleasures of the dance. La Mexicana arrives and sits alone. She is a provocative 50ish woman with the body of a galleon, proud Bow, rounded keel, ample stern, a face like a carved figurehead who displays a mature but still firm decolletage and a flower over one ear. She is not, of course, the only woman dressed like a flamenco dancer, but on her it looks more natural than on ladies with white hair and resigned waistlines who do not even speak proper Spanish. La Mexicana, dancing the polka, is a ship adrift on a storm tossed sea. But to the rhythms of the walls she seems to breast calm waters. This is how El Capitan sometimes espies her in his dreams and awakens with the nearly forgotten restiveness of adolescence. They say that this captain sailed with a Nordic line whose name no one could decipher. He was an expert on old ships and sea lanes, but all that knowledge lay buried in the depths of his mind with no possible application in a land where the sea is placid aquarium of green crystalline waters, unsuited to the intrepid vessels of the North Sea. El Capitan is a leafless tree, a tall, lean man with straight back and still firm neck muscles. A relic clothed in a gold button jacket and the tragic aura of retired sailors. No one has ever heard a word of Spanish from his lips, nor any other recognizable language. Thirty years ago, Don Rupert argued that El Capitan must be finished because of the icy color of his eyes and the unremitting justice of his gaze. As no one could contradict him, everyone came to accept his opinion anyway. Language is secondary at the Little Heidelberg, for no one comes there to talk. A few of the standard rules of conduct have been modified for the comfort and convenience of all. Anyone can go onto the dance floor alone or invite someone from another table if they wish to. The women can take the initiative and ask the men. This is a fair solution for unaccompanied widows. No one asks La Mexicana to dance because it is understood that she considers it offensive. The men must wait, trembling with anticipation, until she makes her request. She deposits her cigarette in an ashtray, uncrosses the daunting columns of her legs, tugs at her bodice, marches toward the Chosen one and stops before him without a glance. She changes partners every dance, but always reserves at least four numbers for El Capitan. He places a firm helmsman's hand at her waist and pilots her about the floor without allowing his years to curtail his inspiration. The oldest client of the Little Heidelberg one, who in half a century has never missed a Saturday, is Nina Eloisa, a tiny lady, meek and gentle, with rice paper skin and a corona of baby fine hair. She has earned a living for so many years making bonbons in her kitchen. She is permeated with the scent of chocolate and always smells of birthday parties. Despite her age, she has retained some of her girlish mannerisms, and she still has the strength to spend the entire evening whirling around the dance floor without disturbing a curl of her top knot or skipping a heartbeat. She came to this country at the turn of the century from a village in the south of Russia, accompanied by her mother, who was then a raving beauty. They lived together for years, making their chocolates completely indifferent to the rigors of the climate, the century or loneliness without husbands, family, or major alarms. Their sole diversion, the little Heidelberg. Every weekend when her mother died, Nina Eloise came alone. Don Rupert always received her at the door with great deference and showed her to her table as the orchestra welcomed her with the first chords of her favorite waltz. At some tables, mugs of beer were raised to greet her because she was the oldest person there and undoubtedly the most beloved. She was shy. She never dared invite a man to dance, but in all those years she had never needed to do so. Everyone considered it a privilege to take her hand, place his arm delicately so as not to break a crystal bone around her waist and lead her to the dance floor. She was a graceful dancer, and besides, she had that sweet fragrance that recalled to any who smelled it his happiest childhood memories. El Capitan always sat alone and always at the same table. He drank in moderation and showed no enthusiasm for Dona Brugal's aphrodisiac Stewart. He tapped his toe in time for the music, and when Nina Luisa was unengaged, he would invite her to dance, stopping smartly before her with a discreet click of his heels and a slight bow. They never spoke. They merely looked at each other and smiled between the gallops, skips, and obliques of some old time dance. One December Saturday, less humid than others, a tourist couple came into the little Heidelberg. These were not the disciplined Japanese they had been seeing recently, but tall Scandinavians with tanned skin and pale eyes. They took a table and watched the dancers with fascination. They were merry and noisy. They clinked their mugs of beer. They laughed heartily and chattered in loud voices. The stranger's words reached the ear of El Capitan at his table, and from long way away, from another time and another world, came the sound of his own language, as whole and fresh as if it had just been invented, words that he had not heard for several decades but retained intact in his memory. An unfamiliar expression softened the features of this ancient mariner. He wavered several minutes before, between the absolute reserve in which he felt comfortable and the almost forgotten delight of losing himself in conversation. Finally, he rose and walked toward the strangers behind the bar. Don Rupert observed El Capitan as he leaned forward slightly, hands clasped behind his back, and spoke to the new arrivals. Soon the other customers, the waitresses, the musicians, realized the man was speaking for the first time since they had known him, and they too fell silent in order to hear him better. He had a voice like a great grandfather, ready and deliberate, but he uttered each phrase with clear determination. When he had poured out the contents of his heart, the room was so silent that Dona Borgel hurried from the kitchen to find out whether someone had died. Finally, after a long pause, one of the tourists emerged from his astonishment, summoned Don Rupert, and asked him in rudimentary English to help translate the captain's words. The Nordic couple followed the elderly seaman to the table where Nina Eloisa sat, and Don Rupert trailed along, removing his apron on the way. With the intuition that this solemn event was about to occur, El Capitan spoke a few words in his language. One of the strangers translated it into English, and Don Rupert, his ears pink and his mustache trembling, repeated it in his hand to for Spanish. Nina Eloisa asks El Capitan, will you marry him? The fragile old lady sat there, her eyes round with surprise and her mouth hidden behind her batista handkerchief, while all waited, holding their breath until she was able to find her voice. Don't you think this is a little sudden? She whispered. Her words were repeated by the tavern keeper and then the tourist, and the answer traveled the same route in reverse. El Capitan says He has waited 40 years to ask you, and that he could not wait again until someone come who speak his language. He says please to do him the favor of answering now. All right, Nina Eloisa whispered faintly, and it was not necessary to translate her answer because everyone understood. A euphoric Don Rupert threw his arms in the air and announced the engagement. The capitan kissed the cheeks of his fiance. The tourists shook everyone's hands. The musicians struck up a ringing triumphal march, and the guests formed a circle around the couple. The women wiped away tears, and the men offered sentimental toasts. Don Rupert sat down at the bar and buried his head in his arms, shaken with emotion, while Dona Virgeil and her two daughters uncorked bottles of their best rum. The trio began to play the Blue Danube Waltz, and the dance floor emptied. El Capitan took the hand of the gentle lady he, he had wordlessly loved for so many years, and walked with her to the center of the room where they began to dance with the grace of two herons. In their courtship dance, El Capitan held Nina Eloise in his arms with the same loving care with which in his youth he had caught the winds in the sails of an ethereal sailing ship, gliding with her around the floor as if they were skimming the calm waves of a bay, while he told her in the language of blizzards and forests all the things his heart had held silent until that moment. Dancing, dancing. El Capitan felt as if time were flowing backwards, as if they were growing younger, as if with every step they were happier and lighter on their feet. Turn after turn, the chords of the music grew more vibrant, their feet more rapid, her waist more slender, the weight of her tiny hand fainter in his, her presence less substantial. El Capitan danced on as Nina Luisa turned to lace, to froth, to mistake, until she was but a shadow and then finally, nothing but air. And he found himself whirling, whirling with empty arms, his only companion. A faint aroma of chocolates. The tenor indicated to the musicians that they should continue playing the waltz because he realized that with the last note the Capitan would awake from his reverie and the memory of Nina Eloisa would disappear forever. Deeply moved, the elderly customers of the Little Heidelberg sat motionless in their chairs, until finally La Mexicana, her arrogance transformed into affection and tenderness, stood and walked quietly toward the trembling hands of El Capitan to dance with him.
