Forbidden pleasure

Mark Cartwright

The same friend helped me translate this tango some weeks ago.  It turned out to be fitting after what she had said about her own upbringing:  the girl from a good family who seeks out pleasure in life where she shouldn't.  Perhaps there is irony then that the title of the tango is 'Como has cambiado pebeta':  How you have changed, girl.  And yet, in the grander scheme of things, how much do girls change?  This friend still seeks pleasure in the milongas.  To many, all that entwined dancing and partner swapping still sounds risque and to some, and downright morally untoward.

It was during this translation that I realised it is the things that are culturally un-British that are hardest to translate.  As, between dances, we made progress with certain phrases, her eyes shone as she explained.  Perhaps it was the topic of forbidden desires. Her voice was rich with delight and the enjoyment of revelation.   I love the lyrics of this song.  The last verse is like the shutter of a camera clicking - cameos from which the reader must draw their own conclusions.   Without the music it stands very well as a poem. 

Tango, the dance and even the music was and still is forbidden to some. My father disapproves that I dance. Whenever he has generously given me money it is always with the proviso that none of it goes on tango, and I am not extravagant with dance. If shoes are the indicator of this particular addiction, I have only ever had 3 pairs of heels and two of these have years in them.  "I mean travel", I can just hear him saying.  

My husband tolerates my hobby but never mentions it. I met a woman whose grandmother, in the 1920s was forbidden anything to do with tango and only found freedom much later in playing the music after the death of her parents and husband.  But tango is more innocuous than many non dancers think. There is a lovely line in Bill Swan’s book: Sex is just a crude substitute for tango . (Interactive version here.): "divorce leads to tango, not the other way around". In the same book I laughed aloud at:

The pedestrians are seldom aware that they rank just below broken tiles in terms of their desirability on the dance floor. Waiters are the worst. They think that it is first and foremost their place of work and their territory. People who are not at the moment ordering, consuming, or paying are an unnecessary and inappropriate inconvenience. Making matters worse are the teachers... 

In the milonga I asked Isabella:  

"But why does it say “the night is thirsty”?

Thirsty for you! For people! she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. The night wants to drink them all up! 

Incidentally, 'Vuaturés' is an Argetinian corruption of the French “Voiturettes”. These were a kind of early car - just the sort of exciting novelty a girl like this pebeta would love to go for an, undoubtedly illicit, spin. According to a discussion on Todotango, they were later banned as they were - evidently thrillingly - dangerous. 

In correspondence, Santiago mentioned this interesting snippet: 

By the way, it is not the only tango mentioning vuaturé in its lyrics. The original text of Gloria (although that part is not sung by Nina Miranda in its famous Raciatti version as far as I recall) says also:

" Yo no quiero farras ni champán

ni vivir en un petit-hotel

y a la voituré que vos me das

yo prefiero un coche de alquiler"

I don't want parties nor champagne

nor to live in a little hotel

and as to the voiturette you give me

I prefer a rental.

¡Cómo has cambiado pebeta! Vos sos              La que ayer iba cantando un amor, Y al pasar eras feliz, Tu charlar, tu reír Tu gozar de la vida. ¡Cómo has cambiado pebeta! Vos sos La que ayer iba cantando un amor, Hoy fingís mientras pensás, Que el vivir es penar, Es sufrir y es traición. Pero tu historia es vulgar, Novela de arrabal Mil veces repetida... Niña bien, “vuaturés”, Mentiras a mamá Y óperas de sueño ausente. Bailes de matiné, Juramento al bailar Amando en tiempo presente. Tiene la noche sed, Esquinas sin farol Boca sin rouge al partir.

How you have changed, girl. You who Yesterday went singing of love And as you went by, were happy Your chat, your laugh Your pleasure in life How you have changed, girl.  You who Yesterday went singing of love Today only pretend.  Really, you think That life is pain, Is suffering and betrayal But your story is commonplace, A trashy novel Repeated a thousand times A girl from a good family, “Voiturettes” Lying to mama And going about drugged from lack of sleep Afternoon dances Promises to dance Loving in the here and now The night is thirsty Unlit street corners A mouth without lipstick upon leaving