salida

She taught Sark the dance, feet bare on the cool red tiles of a villa in Montevideo, the radio playing a tinny version of Augustia.

Fifteen years old, suddenly awkward with his arms around the most beautiful woman in his world. All his normal grace and surety deserted him. He didn't even understand why she wanted him to learn it. His tutors had taught him other dances.

But Irina insisted, flipping on an old radio to an Argentine station, telling him to listen to music until he could feel it.

"Carlos Gardel," she breathed, kicking off her sandals. "Perfect."

Sometimes he was convinced there was nothing in the world she didn't know.

She was still taller than him.

He stumbled and she laughed.

"It's not about your feet, Sark," she said. "Maybe it would be easier if I lead."

"That will make me look good at the Club Aleman."

But it was easy then, for him, and after, even when she disappeared into the hands of the CIA and Sark found himself solo. Dizzying freedom, spinning in place, waiting for her return. Even separate, he knew each step, moved to the rhythm that reunited them in Panama.

It was all nuance with Irina. A dance that she led, prompting the next move so subtly her partner never felt it, only moved as she wished, even as he thought he was leading.

On the pista she made it effortless, fluid, fast or slow, following every improvisation instantly, perfectly in synch with him.

And he matched her, couldn't imagine not, no matter what it would cost him.

He found a club in Stockholm, filled with solemn-faced Swedes doing the tango, and danced late into the night, existing in the moment the way Irina had taught him. He wished he could have danced with her again, but instead took a woman as blond as himself back to his hotel room later, knowing what Irina had planned meant it would be his last tango.