Or the rumba.
Which is African. Studied teleology, stylized candor, libido embedded in the music, suspended in cadences, arrested, sustained—beyond intellect, this side of ecstasy. It is a sophistication that northern countries never knew of—a primitive deliberation, a hot-blooded coolness. For not knowing, they are punished by going without—and in other, obscure fashions. Very few northern women and fewer men, excepting among the young, are able to discover the essence.
They rumba—they say.
They wave their tails like pennants, the oscillating flesh corrupt in Christian purity.
Yvonne was one of the few.
She came honestly by the name, I thought.
"Huguenots," she said when we sat down. "On mother's side."
How can the Americans ever cleanse themselves?
I ordered our dinner.
Again, she tried to lead—to change her mind—to demur—to say she wasn't hungry—then to consider the cold roast beef.