Searching for Dylan

 1

Blue Blot Tango

Jorge Braña

Dear brother,

How fool of me to have missed it, the clue was there all the time.  I know now that it was in Buenos Aires, behind the bohemian café in el barrio La Boca, where you killed him.  Oh, yes, because I’m convinced now that you killed him.  We all knew he couldn’t have disappeared without leaving a trace, or a word for mom.

“Death is like a splashing blue blot” you told me once, in your usual enigmatic language.  I paid no attention, another one of the strange visions painters have now and then, I thought.  How could have I guessed it meant anything more: your smile, sincere and devoid of any irony, the disarming stillness that you project, the air of resignation: impossible to reveal the internal fires from them.  But the signs are clear in your painting.  The light of the canvas - white intrusion against the surrounding dark motives – with its upside down umbrella.  I remember you used to pause every time before we entered the café, and look through the window: the umbrellas of the dancers hanging from a wooden shaft in the wall, the bright lights illuminating the dancing space, a beige oval parquet floor, while the tables remained almost in the dark.  The window contrasted with the narrow streets outside, full of alleys and shadows, an omen of hidden dangers for anybody but the locals.

Fabián was such a good dancer.  He would grab mom by the waist and turn her whichever way he wished, grazing her waist, her breasts, her buttock, nailing his eyes - hidden underneath his black hat and scarf - in everything that was revealing in her.  A pleasure to look at, no doubt.  But you and I would exchange a glance:  I could sense the uneasiness beyond your unrevealing face, and I am certain you could sense mine.  It was truly disheartening how our mother would fall for him time and time again, even tough he would take her and drop her 

Jorge Braña

at his will, without even bothering to fabricate excuses, as if life was no more than a tango and men could dispose of women when and where they wanted to.

I can imagine now what happened that night, after el día de los Reyes, when Fabián told us at the table he was leaving for Santa Fé that very moment.  It was a surprise to the four of us and a blow for mother:  she and Fabián were supposed to go to Mar del Plata the next morning and spend the whole week there.  Mom was in tears as Fabián stood ready to leave, without any further explanation, as usual. You then said you had to go to the bathroom and disappeared.  The lobster remained un-eaten at the table, that hidden lobster in your painting.  I was enraged and insulted him, but who pays attention to a skinny teenager, anyway.  He had the nerve of looking at me mockingly and say “you’ve got fire in you, pebeta; you’ll probably be a good fuck when you grow up, just like your mother”.  Oh, how I wished he was dead.  But then again, I didn’t realize how soon my wish would come true.  You must have waited behind the alley, where you knew he always walked, with the sculpting knife you had bought earlier that day.  His approaching steps must have echoed strongly in your mind, your heart beating 

 Searching for Dylan

frantically, and as he turned to take the usual shortcut, after a moment of hesitation, the jump, the arching movement of your arm, the metal slicing the flesh, the shout, ¡quién mierda!, the splash of blood in the brick wall.  There, where your arrow is pointing it out.  I don’t know whether you stabbed him from the front or from the back, whether you threw his body to the nearby dump or in the sewer, or just left it there for the rats to eat.  Little matters now, details to be forgotten.

This letter is just to let you know that I know, that your guilt is shared, so let it be.  Perhaps on a sleepless night the images will suddenly sneak into your conscience, the brick and wooden walls of La Boca, blue, red, brown and charcoal, the shadowy buildings, the smell of coffee mixed with yerba mate and cheap cigars, the sensuous steps of the dancers to the beat of the bandoneón, the scented neck of a woman offering an anchor to her pretender’s stare, the pain sweating from the passionate lyrics, the splash of blood, the blot of blue.  But for now, Dylan, let’s just lay it to rest, let’s agree he deserved it, let only the color in the canvas conceal (and reveal) our secret.

Love always,

Enid