Tango by Alan Judd Page B

talked, trying to shield them both with the small umbrella. Her bare arm was across her breast, clutching the shawl.
    It was a while before he realised that the chrome handles on each side of the bonnet served instead of a bonnet catch. Propping one side open, he switched on the torch he had brought. The engine
looked massive and intractable.
    ‘I’ll have a look at the other side.’
    The second side didn’t seem to open properly and he struggled for a time before realising he had to close the first. From the other side the engine seemed to be mainly metal pipes.
‘Try to start it.’
    It gave a groan and expired. ‘Would you like to try?’ she asked.
    There was some pleasing awkwardness with the umbrella as she got out to make way for him. Her dress rustled and she wore an arousing perfume – whether cheap or expensive he had no idea,
but it was obvious, which was how he liked it. He sat on the leather seats and contemplated the wooden dash-board. The ignition light was on but the key wouldn’t turn.
    ‘No, no, you press this.’ Her bare arm, which had a few dark hairs on it, reached across him.
    He pressed the button marked S but nothing happened. He pulled the button marked C, presumably for choke, and again pressed S, again without result. He remembered his father’s countless
old cars. ‘Does it have a starting-handle?’
    They found one in the boot. It was heavy and long. He had to get down on his knees in the wet road and struggle to slot it in. ‘Make sure the car’s out of gear.’ He was
impressed by how masterful he sounded. He tried to turn the handle. ‘Are you sure it isn’t in gear?’
    ‘Yes, quite sure.’
    He tried again. It felt as if he were trying to rotate the whole car.
    ‘Shall I help you?’ she called.
    ‘No, no, it’s all right.’ He paused to regain control of his breathing and then put both hands on the handle, one on top of the other. He had learned from his father to grip
with thumb and fingers together rather than opposed in case the handle kicked back on firing. He remembered stories of broken thumbs and wrists. Straining with both hands, he had moved it nearly
half a turn when there was a violent cough. He was thrown sideways and left sitting in the road. The handle spun harmlessly in its socket. The car shook and spluttered, relapsed, then heaved itself
into life with a great clattering roar as the handle fell out. The back of his right hand started to hurt.
    ‘William, where are you?’ Theresa called above the noise. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes.’ He wanted to get up elegantly and quickly, but couldn’t before she reached him. Water from her umbrella dripped on to his head.
    ‘William, your hand. You can’t be all right.’
    There was a little blood. He got to his feet protesting that there was nothing wrong. He liked to hear her use his name.
    She touched his arm. ‘Come inside and clean it. You must be poisoned.’
    ‘No. Okay.’
    She led him to a house in the corner of the square. An unlit board outside announced that it was Maria’s Tango Club. Inside it seemed a mixture of club, bar, dance hall and
somebody’s house. The worn furnishings had once been good and the rooms were large, each giving on to another. In one was a bar, in another a band, in another tables and food. There were
drinkers of most ages, nearly all of whom greeted Theresa as she passed. William followed, feeling uncouth in his duffel-coat and holding his now aching hand as inconspicuously as possible. The
glances which fell upon Theresa flipped back on to him like branches that had parted before her. In a hall they passed a huge sofa on which seven or eight colourfully dressed and made-up girls were
sitting. They greeted Theresa in an uneven chorus.
    She swept through, her shawl fluttering. They went down some stairs, past a noisome lavatory and into a dressing-room strewn with women’s clothes. Three or four women were in various
stages of dressing. None paid him any