Secret Shared

12 DAUPHINE

THE DAYS OF only seeing photos of beautiful places were over. That was the first thought that came to me when I woke as Captain Nathan, in his soothing accent, announced the plane’s descent. I was expecting to see pasture out the window, but when I peered out, the sun was rising over a carpet of city, Buenos Aires stretching as far as I could see. Its scope took my breath away. I had read about the dazzling sprawl, but I was actually seeing it, and from high up. I’d never seen any city from this vantage point before, and it felt otherworldly, like having a superpower. Soon, I would be more than a mere observer. I’d be immersed in the city itself, the Paris of South America.

I privately thanked S.E.C.R.E.T. and, while disembarking, quite publically thanked my pilot by kissing him on the cheek as I passed.

“That’s for helping me,” I said.

“The pleasure was all mine,” said Captain Nathan, tipping his pilot cap.

Two drivers stood behind a placard with my name on it: one would take me to the hotel; the other would bring Carolina’s painting to a secure facility until the auction. Waiting for me in the back seat of a limo was a bowl of chilled fruit, pastries and hot coffee, which I savored along the way. I was ravenous, for food, for people, for life, my eyes scanning every detail out the window, as wide as saucers.

All in one block, I saw neoclassical French facades, Italianate cupolas, art nouveau gates and modernist glass block rectangles wedged between six-story walkups, laundry strewn over every balcony. I couldn’t keep up with the feast of curves and cornices. People seemed oblivious to traffic lights, a hazard in a place where a quick turn off an eight-lane avenue could send you down a narrow one-way street with no sidewalks. So this is what it’s like, I thought, to be a stranger on an adventure in a new place. My senses were alive, my whole body tingling with possibility.

My driver, Ernesto, was an eager tour guide, pointing out all the relevant signposts, like when the highway from the airport turned into Avenida 9 de julio, one of the widest streets in the world.

“It is … comemorativo,” he said with a crisp accent, “this one celebrating Argentina’s independencia. Most streets in Buenos Aires are named in celebration of something or someone.”

Approaching the hotel, we cruised through the heart of a dense and hectic neighborhood called Recoleta, a posh part of town, Ernesto said, where people still lined up to pay homage to Eva Perón in its famed cemetery.

Stopping in front of the Alvear Palace Hotel felt like we were pulling up to a castle. I chastised myself for feeling like a princess, something from which I thought my workaholic tendencies had inoculated me. But there I was stepping out of the long, sleek car with Ernesto’s help, feeling utterly prized. A line of international flags whipped loudly in the wind, highlighting the fact that the hotel took up nearly an entire city block.

“This will be your home for the next little while,” he said, removing his cap and bowing slightly.

I caught a better look at his face. His creamy dark skin and slightly Asian eyes were an alluring mix; for someone so young, he had an air of gravitas about him.

“It’s beautiful, thank you.”

My bags disappeared through the gold doors and I quickly followed them. That regal feeling was heightened when I took the elevator to my eighth-floor suite, where I kicked off my shoes. My sitting room faced a street already choked with morning rush-hour traffic, but the triple-paned windows meant it was as silent as a tomb. Good lord, this was a real suite, the kind where you ate in a room separate from where you slept. I flung open the heavy, gold floor-to-ceiling curtains, my bare feet caressing the deep pile of the Oriental rug. The porter left clutching his tip, and I stood for a moment in the middle of the rooms, squeezing my fists. Then I let out a high-pitched cry of joy, ran to the bed and flung myself onto it.

It was still a few days until the auction, the responsibility of which suddenly flooded my body. I was on a kind of mission, like a woman of mystery and intrigue, I decided. If I were afraid of anything, I would just pretend to be that woman, the fearless kind, the kind who took delicious pleasure thirty thousand feet up and received a suite of rooms for her daring.

After a hot shower, I peeled back the downy layers of bedding and slid between the heavy covers. Just a quick nap, I thought. I hadn’t slept well on the plane. I closed my eyes and woke three hours later to a gentle knock on the door. I opened it to a bellhop, who rolled in a trolley. Perched between a carafe of coffee and a tray of crustless sandwiches was a thick, square envelope, Dauphine spelled out in that familiar S.E.C.R.E.T. scroll. It was odd, if not a little discombobulating, seeing something familiar in a place so far from home. I plucked the card off the tray and sliced it open with a butter knife. Step Four was traced out on one side of the heavy card stock, the word Generosity on the other, and beneath it the line “We are with you every Step, Dauphine.”

It was happening! Another one.

Suspended on a hook above the trolley was a thick garment bag that felt hefty as I carried it to the bed. I unzipped it, exposing a fanciful red dress, sequins on the bodice, cascading to a riot of feathers around the hips and legs. It looked like a giant crimson swan. I held it up against my body in front of a full-length mirror. An invitation to a midnight tango show came drifting out of its wings.

Dancing? No. Not dancing. I avoided it almost as much as I avoided flying. As much as I loved music, I could never do more than nod to the beat in the dark corners of the clubs. Sometimes I danced alone in my apartment. I danced for Luke once, until I undermined the seduction by hamming it up, too self-conscious to pull off a real striptease. But the idea of dancing in front of strangers curdled my stomach. I wasn’t lean or graceful, unlike my sister.

“If Bree only had Dauphine’s discipline, or Dauphine Bree’s thighs, we’d have had a ballerina in this family,” my mother often said. I think she thought it was a compliment, but it gutted me.

I set aside my terror for a moment to marvel at the dress, the bodice’s expert construction, hand-stitched and lined strategically to soften the boning that held it stiff. Its asymmetrical hem suggested tango, for sure, and while red looked good on me, I can’t say that this dress was my style. No. Not at all. A sweat broke across my brow. I could not, would not, dance in front of people. Not with my body, in that dress. And S.E.C.R.E.T., as Cassie and Matilda kept reminding me, was about doing everything you want, nothing you don’t.

It was hours before the tango show. I hit the streets wearing my trench coat and comfortable shoes. Buenos Aires was cool, loud and busy, the mix of old and new clashing on every corner. And porteños seemed to love their outdoors spaces as much as New Orleanians. Even on a crisp fall day, the Plaza San Martín was full of strollers and cyclists, and dogs of various sizes were pulling on dozens of leashes held by incredibly strong walkers. I felt a warmth overcome me. Were it not for S.E.C.R.E.T., I’d never be sitting in the middle of a plaza across from the Casa Rosada watching old men—wearing well-made tweed coats—playing chess, while nearby couples caressed each other in the sun.

I walked the neighborhoods from Recoleta to Palermo, from San Telmo to Boca, scouring second-hand shops, finding out who their suppliers were and how they priced goods. First thing I noticed in a city of tall, thin brunettes with aquiline noses (some inherited, most purchased) is that my curvy ”Americanness” stood out. Nothing I tried on in the vintage stores fit, which left some of the shop girls more mortified than I was.

“Lo siento, señora,” said the tiny, nervous proprietor of a beautifully curated vintage store near the Recoleta cemetery. At another store I couldn’t do up a pencil skirt.

“My darling,” said a kind, elderly store clerk in his perfect English. He’d sensed my funk while cashing out a set of tea towels and a linen tablecloth. “Do not let your body make you sad. It is a good body.”

Thanking him, I left, carefully navigating the narrow sidewalks with the other pedestrians, trying unsuccessfully to act like a local as I tripped over the potholes while ogling the gargoyles and cupolas on some of the more stunning buildings.

In La Boca, eating sweet alfajores and sipping mate, a kind of tea, I watched an elderly couple dancing a slow public tango. He was a few inches shorter than her and twice as small, and she was wearing too much makeup for daytime. But these oddities made them more attractive, more compelling. Their dance was achingly intimate, the way they performed for a crowd of strangers gathering in the square at dusk. I was moved nearly to tears by the music, and the expressions of pain and love on their faces. If she could be so vulnerable in front of so many people, in broad daylight, what the hell was I afraid of? Maybe that was true generosity. Giving of yourself, just as you are, for the sake of a dance.

That night I actually needed Ernesto’s proffered hand to help me out of the back seat of the limo and to unravel the mass of red feathers surrounding my tango dress. I was not at all surprised that the dress fit perfectly, but I was shocked at how flattering it was. The bodice encased me snugly, my breasts spilling over the top. Below the dropped waist, the dress tufted into a mass of feathers that floated down to my calves. I felt like a goddess emerging from a scarlet ocean.

“Gracias.”

“Por nada,” he said, bowing again. “You look … lindísima in that dress, Señorita Dauphine.”

I gave Ernesto a nervous smile and glanced down the narrow alley towards the tango club’s neon entrance. Very few people were on this secluded street at midnight.

“I meet you right here … after?”

He motioned me forward with his white-gloved hands. I’ll be okay, I’ll be okay. As I inched closer to the mournful, lilting music wafting out of the dark club, a kind-faced doorman, also gloved, opened a gap in the velvet curtains hanging in the entrance.

“We’ve been waiting for you, Dauphine.”

Oh dear. I ducked inside, feeling faint. A dozen couples turned to look my way, as though they had been expecting me. I was led around the tiny tables to a banquette against the far wall. As I took my seat, a sprightly waitress wearing a white tutu and black-and-white-striped stockings dropped a pink drink in front of me.

“We’re about to begin, Dauphine,” she said, in what sounded like a French accent. “Can I get you anything?”

Before I could open my mouth, a small, dimly lit band to the right of the stage struck up a ballad. The musicians were wearing blindfolds, their heads dipping and swaying as they played their instruments. Why were their eyes covered? The audience turned their attention to the band and the lone spotlight now illuminating the stage. I sank back into my velvet banquette, hoping just to watch. I could feel my heart pounding against my bodice, certain everyone could hear it too. Then I heard a low, gravelly a cappella voice.

A stunning woman in a dress exactly like mine, but black, slowly moved from the wings of the stage to center herself under the spotlight. Her hands surrounded the microphone, her lips a glistening ruby red. The song was in Spanish, but I could tell its lyrics were sad. Her eyes squeezed shut as she sang something about a girl and her heart and some broken dreams, I think. One of the couples rose from the front row, fell into each other’s arms, dipped low in those familiar turns of the tango—each holding the other up, a leg jutting out, kicking here and there, no light between them. Another woman, in the tight blue dress slit to her waist, pulled her tuxedoed date onto the floor. Their dance released a cascade of four more couples, until the singer was surrounded by a dozen bodies moving in circles to the music. Then the singer turned to look my way, directing her passion to … to me?

The song was about passing time, about a woman who had regrets for a life not lived. Or maybe for living a life half-awake. The singer was mesmerizing. I squirmed in my seat, uncertain how to react to her gaze. She seemed to be very publically seducing me. Or maybe this was just the nature of the tango. Feeling by turns charmed and embarrassed by her attention, I was relieved when a tanned hand beckoned me to stand.

“Va a aceptar este paso?”

The hand belonged to a tall man with short, black curly hair and beautiful black eyes. He smiled, displaying a row of white perfect teeth set against the olive of his perfectly smooth skin. I felt my knees would dissolve to pudding if I stood.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance,” I said, as loudly and politely as I could without being louder than the singer.

“No importa,” he said, still smiling, adding, “just give yourself to me and the rest will follow. We will take care of you.”

We? He pulled me to my feet, overwhelming me with the expanse of his chest, a black shirt tight across his perfect torso, tucked into black pants that fit his dancer’s legs perfectly. Give yourself to him, Dauphine. This is about Generosity.

“I accept,” I said, my gut lurching.

Grasping my hand, he led me onto the dance floor.

He threw his arm around my back and drew me in until I was fully pressed against him, my heels between his shoes. He grabbed my other hand and held it aloft. Suddenly, I felt someone against my back. I turned, shocked to see the beautiful singer, her eyes closed, her hand joining ours aloft, her fingers entwining with mine. Her other hand crept up and around to my middle, just below my breasts, pulling me back into her, and her rose perfume mixed with my dance partner’s soft musk.

“Let her help you. Feel how her body moves behind you,” my partner whispered. “Move as she does.”

She bent her left knee, bending mine too, her left hand caressing down my leg. Facing my partner, I felt the woman behind me pull up my skirt to reveal the top of my black garters. Before I knew what was happening, she was sliding a warm hand along my thigh, dipping me backwards against her body. The band picked up the tempo. I could feel her breasts against my back and the male dancer’s chest brushing lightly against the front of me. We moved in heady unison around the floor. I felt carried along, a part of their dance. I was doing it! Soon, the other couples began to recede from the stage into the dark, and it was just the three of us.

Then, lesson over and timed to a flourish of the guitar, the singer twirled away from me and fell into the arms of a beautiful blond woman who appeared out of the shadows. Her hair was pulled tightly back, and she wore a mask and black tuxedo pants. She was taller than the singer, her white halter highlighting her lean, tanned arms. My male partner pulled me fully to his body, his hand tracing down my back, over my buttocks, as he pressed his pelvis into me. That had made him hard, and I could feel him pulsing against my side. As he lifted me off the floor, my legs scissored in the air, and after a quarter turn, he deposited me in front of the two female dancers. The blonde moved like a panther, her hand on the singer’s lower back, their arms a limber vine.

“Watch them,” my partner whispered. “What the singer is doing, you will do, and what she is feeling I will make you feel.”

I mimicked the singer’s hips, pivoting, one, two, three, knee up, as my partner caught me, pulling me against him and down, my hands on his chest. Then I watched as the women pressed together, step, step, stop and pivot, the blonde’s hand moving down the front of the singer’s body as she bent backwards, her eyes shut. It was so hot. They were hot, both of these women, clutching each other. This was turning me on as much as my own partner’s hands. Then the blonde slowly unzipped the singer’s dress, letting it die at her feet. She was in stay-up stockings and garters, no underwear, her pale pink nipples peaking over the top of her black demi-cup bra, dark hair cascading around her shoulders. I took in her beautiful body and the soft line of pubic hair highlighted against the tawny flesh of the blonde’s hand as it traveled over her, fingers quivering. I felt my partner behind me, inching me closer to the singer. Then I heard it, the sound of my zipper as my dress slipped off and pooled around my ankles. The singer and I stood facing each other, both nearly naked, a foot apart, in garters and bras. I’d never been with a woman before, but her desire for me was obvious … and intoxicating. I wanted her, and him, all of it.

While our partners moved behind us, the singer pulled me in for an urgent kiss, and I let her! I was kissing a beautiful woman, her soft mouth humming, her tongue darting into mine. Her lips traveled eagerly down my neck, while her blond partner’s fingers teased her, her long red nails now a blur of circles over her clitoris. Watching the blonde pleasure the singer, feeling the singer’s ragged breath on my skin as her orgasm coursed through her, my own body heated and pulsed, arousing my partner behind me. Even after she came, she didn’t stop swirling my nipples in her cool mouth, while my partner’s warm, firm hands slid over my stomach, my pelvis, encircling me, his fingers finding my own wetness, using the same driving rhythm as the singer’s tongue on me. I was gorgeously pressed between them, thrashing with pleasure; in a matter of seconds I felt it too, and my whole body quaked. I took what they were so generously giving me. With one hand in the singer’s thick hair, I watched the tip of her pink tongue flicking my nipples as my partner’s fingers fiercely massaged the knot of my clit in perfect circles, driving me crazy, releasing me, making me come, my orgasm crashing over my body in wave after wave.

“Oh … yes.”

“Hermosa,” the singer murmured.

My partner clutched me tight, his hand cupping me as I shook, then subsided. I felt faint as he kissed my shoulder and gently released me to the floor in a spent pile next to my beautiful dress.

As the band struck up a new tempo, the blonde tugged the singer into a stiff tango silhouette and they danced away from me, into the dark wings of the stage. My partner exited behind them, blowing me a singular kiss, stopping to touch the stage once with his hand, as if in gratitude.

Then he too was gone.

Good lord, what just happened?

I blinked, breathless, hearing the blindfolded band still playing as though to a full house. I felt coated in bliss, warm beneath the spotlight, my red swan dress sleeping next to the singer’s ebony feather mass. Then I saw it, small and round and glinting on the floor of the stage where my partner had placed his hand: my Step Four charm.

Hermosa.