by JoAnn

The couples swirled by me, resplendent in their tuxedos and ball gowns, the air behind them scented with the richness of the women's perfume, as they danced the waltz, all glittering and gold in their movements. I looked down at my simple starched black dress and full white apron, and felt a moment of envy...oh, to be beautiful like that, just once...but that was not for me, not for Maria de Jesus Ramirez, born on the "wrong side" of Buenos Aires and destined for no better than what I was, a waitress. I at least consoled myself with the thought that I worked in one of the most beautiful places in the city, where all the aristocracy gathered, and I lived much better due to their gratutities than I had ever hoped to do so in my mother's world, which consisted of taking in washing and sewing for los patrones. I wanted more...but knew that there was only so far I could fly. Or was that just a lie...

I saw her then...Evita Duarte Peron, once a girl, just like me. Look at her now, I thought, amazed and dazzled at her beautiful blonde hair, her white evening gown, the mink fur dangling carelessly off of one shoulder. At her side, El Presidente, handsome in his white tie and tails. Evita, I thought...if she could break from this life, then so can I...so can any of us. I lifted my chin a little higher, feeling a bit full of myself, when the gentleman seated in front of me brought me quickly down to earth.

"You, girl! Clear this table, I have already asked you once!" The grey-haired, mustachioed man glowered at me, obviously displeased that I had been less than quick in my response to his request. "Lo siento, Senor," I said, bending over the table to clear away the dinner plates of he and his wife. He leered down the front of my dress as I took his plate, and his eyes told me that he didn't care if I noticed. I was a peon to him...a nothing...good only for the pleasure I might provide. He would learn I could not be bought or had, at any price. His raven-haired wife, squeezed into a too-tight pink evening gown that made her resemble a sausage I had seen hanging in the local butcher shop, seemed oblivious to her husband's lecherous leanings. The man slid his hand up the back of my leg, edging up under my uniform, and I began to cry out, which would have meant making a scene and perhaps my firing...but at that moment, a strong voice said firmly, "Senor, I can see you are still wanting something...may I suggest something from the menu?" I looked up to see Che, a fellow waiter, his face set like granite and his ears a little red with supressed anger. The man stammered, flustered by being caught in his tactile perusal of my thigh.

"No, no, I am, I am....we are fine, thank you," he said, and he took his hand from me as if I were on fire. I looked up at Che and smiled slightly, thanking him with my eyes. He acknowledged me with a slight nod, but was still too angry to speak to me. The aristocracy angered him more and more each day, especially when the Perons came to the dinner club and held court. The aristocrats looked down on them, but allowed them to enter into their world in order to retain their power...or so they hoped. Che looked especially at Evita as somehow a traitor to the poor, and I still did not understand why. Didn't she rise above her poverty? Look at her, the first lady of Argentina! Surely she will help us, surely things will change for the better. I had a great deal of hope, now that El Presidente Peron had been elected. Che held no such hopes. His passions ran high, but he rarely discussed them. He was intense, mysterious, and totally fascinating to me. I probably fell in love with him from the first moment I saw him, but he held me, and all of us who worked at the club, at arm's length.

Our attention was drawn to a sudden burst of activity in the center of the ballroom...El Presidente and Evita held center stage, with a spotlight upon them, as the other couples backed away and they danced a waltz together. I stood in the shadows with Che and watched the scene, unable to keep a wistful look from my face. Che glanced down at me and crossed his arms.

"You enjoy watching this, Maricita?" he asked, looking at me with half-closed amber eyes that for a moment caused me to forget the question. I sighed and decided to answer truthfully. "Oh, yes, I do enjoy it...they are beautiful to watch," I remarked, earning me a rueful laugh from Che. "Oh, si, muy hermosa....meanwhile, the true beauty of justice lies crushed in the streets." I looked up at Che, and finally felt bold enough to ask him to tell me what his true thoughts on all of this were, explaining that I wanted to understand. He thought this over a moment, and then told me to stay late with him to clean up, and we would speak of it further. I nodded, and Che walked off slowly, picking up his serving tray and pushing open the door to the kitchen. I realized that, even after almost a year of knowing him, I had never been alone with Che, had never spoken with him seriously about these matters, and I looked forward to finally finding out who this man truly was. I did not question why now, of all times, he had chosen to allow me to enter into his mind, to know his private thoughts.

A few hours later, the grand ballroom was quiet, the dinner tables empty, the candelabras extinguished. Only the dim light from the chandelier lit Che and I, as we cleared the last of the tables and put fresh tablecloths out for the next day. He had said nothing to me, or to anyone else, for the rest of the evening. When I bid the rest of the employees a good night, leaving us alone, he still remained silent. I knew better than to begin the conversation myself, he seemed to be the type of man who would hold his own counsel until he deemed it was time to speak. I continued to fold tablecloths, trying my best to be patient, when at last he walked over to my worktable and took one of the chairs, turning it around to straddle it. I couldn't help letting my eyes travel up the length of his body...his black uniform suit was fitted to him perfectly, the white shirt open at the neck, with his untied bow tie dangling now around his neck. I could see a few curling black chest hairs peeking from the open white shirt, and I felt a blush of embarrassment for wanting to see more. He looked at me with a solemn expression, his dark eyes seeming to be evaluating me, questioning my very existence. He seemed to do that quite often, and at times, I found it unnerving. He ran a hand through the dark curls of his hair, and I found my fingers itching to do the same. What was wrong with me, why was I feeling so...aroused by him? He smiled at me, in a somewhat tired manner, and looked into my eyes.

"So, Maricita...you want to know what I think, eh? You want to understand, you said." He bent over and picked up the cigarette he had been smoking, and took a long drag from it. He let the smoke escape from his lips slowly, allowing it to hang like a small, hazy cloud over his head. The entire scene was somehow erotic, but I tried to bring my attention back to what he had said.

"Si," I answered, suddenly taking offense at his continued use of the diminutive with me. "But my name is Maria, not Maricita. I am not a child." I realized I was trying to convince myself of that almost as much as I wanted him to acknowledge it.

He smiled, amusedly. "You are not a child, Maricita? And yet you look at Evita and see only a fairy princess, like a child would see." I bristled at this, and put my hands on my hips. "Mira, Che...I asked you to tell me what you think of all this, not to feel free to list all the things you think you see wrong in me." Che stood up, pushing the chair out from under him. "It has everything to do with it, Maricita...because there are too many people who think just as you do. They think Evita and El Presidente "love" them, "care" for them, will 'help" them...when in the end, nothing changes...things only get worse, but no one acknowledges that, because the fairy tale has their attention, and the true story of horror and reality...ah, that lies unabated." He tossed his cigarette into the ashtray and turned his back to me, walking off to the center of the ballroom with his head down and his hands in his pockets. I followed him, determined to speak my piece as well.

"Oh, and you, Che, you know so much? Evita was once just as we are, and now she IS in a position to help us! El Presidente is influenced by her, he will be moved to come to our aid! Why are you so cynical?" Che turned on me, his eyes blazing for a moment, and I took a step back. "I am cynical, chica, because I have lived long enough to no longer believe in dreams, fairy tales, and wishes. You have not lived as I have, Maricita...you have not been beaten by the police for protesting the injustice, tortured by those who oppose our right to even think differently. You have not buried the dead while worried that at the same moment you will be shot, ending up in the same grave." I looked down, ashamed at myself, not realizing that Che had lived through a great deal more in his life than I had ever lived in mine, hard as it was...and I knew that I did not always see the world as it truly was. And yet, was that all that the world consisted of, sorrow, pain, death, and sadness? I did not think so. I put my hand on his arm, and he jerked, as if not used to being touched. "Che," I said, lowering my voice, "I told you...I do not understand things as you do. But I want to understand, I want to see, I want to live in reality. But I will not give up dreams, or wishes...because they are what makes life bearable sometimes. They lift our hearts and our minds. Can you not understand that?" He shrugged, and said quietly, "Dreams are burdens of the people...as long as they exist in their minds, the majority of the people will not fight for justice." I felt a sudden burst of anger inside me, and I grabbed his arm firmly, swinging him around towards me. "Burdens! I see the people ready to fight for justice! But I also see the people wanting what we all want...love, happiness, faith, beauty, the things that make even the most horrid life worth living!" Che took me by the shoulders, and said, "Love? What of the love for our people? For truth? For freedom? " I grabbed his elbows, and looked deeply into his eyes. "The love of our people is one thing...the love between a man and a woman, for a child, for a family, and the joy and wonder of these...that is another. We must have both, or be less, Che...much less."

Che let go of me and walked further across the ballroom, running both his hands into his hair in a frustrated motion. I stood still, not sure what was stirring in his heart and mind. He stood apart from me for several minutes, as if gauging what I had said, and taking it apart piece by piece in order to make sense of it. Finally he turned to me, with fire in his eyes, and said, "I have the love for my people! That is enough! That is all that is worth living and dying for." I walked across the ballroom, suddenly seeing him as he truly was, for the first time. I felt no fear. I stopped in front of him, only inches from his body, and gently put my hand on his face. The same reluctance to be touched seemed to go through him at first, but then I felt him gradually relax beneath my fingers. "Che," I said firmly, looking into his eyes and making him listen. "It is easy to love the people...it is easy to live and die and exhaust yourself to your last breath for the people." Che grabbed my wrist firmly, but did not remove my hand. His eyes blazed as he said, "EASY? You know what I have endured for them! Because of my love for them!" I felt a moment of reluctance to say what was in my heart, I had already angered him enough...but something within me urged me on. "Yes...but it is easy to love "the people"...not so easy to love a person, one single soul, with all your heart and mind and spirit, giving yourself into their keeping, holding nothing back, revealing your very soul to them. The people...the people you have suffered so much for...where are they? Do they stand beside you in the day? Do they lay beside you at night? Do they care for you when you are ill, do they love you and give themselves to you with abandon, do they give you passion and children and joy and laughter? No, they do not. They accept what you do for them, and give you their gratitude, and give you honor...but that is not love...the only thing that will bring joy to your life. You are like Evita...no, don't be angry, hear me out...Evita thinks the love OF the people will be enough for her. You think the love FOR the people will be enough for you...you are both wrong. I love my people, they ARE my people...I would work and live and die to give them freedom and a better life, just as you do. But when I am dead, they will go on, and no one will miss me after a moment's prayer for my soul. I need someone who knows me, loves me, stands beside me, gives me all of himself, his mind and heart and body, in this life, and will remember me when I am dead...and who will allow me to give him all of this in return. That is true vida, true amor, Che....the kind that makes everything else worthwhile. To love the people, yet never love another single soul as much as you love your own life, is to have never really loved at all."

Che stood for a moment, staring into my eyes, with an intense expression that seemed to reveal the battle going on within his mind. I worried that I had said too much, that I had revealed my heart to him and now it would be rejected as foolish and naive. Slowly, he lifted his left hand, and gently, barely touching me, he slid his hand up my right arm, coming to rest at my palm upon his cheek. I wondered if he was going to remove my hand, he would certainly be justified in doing so, after what I had just said to him. For a moment, just the tips of his fingers rested on the back of my hand, as if trying to decide what to do. Then, I saw an expression on his face that I had never seen before...a light came into his eyes, and gently, he lay his palm atop my hand and pressed them both to his cheek, firmly, like an embrace. He turned his head and closed his eyes as he laid a gentle kiss to the inside of my wrist, that he had gripped in anger just moments before. My heart leapt with joy, and I couldn't restrain the small "oh" that came from my lips. He lifted his head, and smiled at me, the first real smile I had ever seen him give anyone. "Maria," he whispered, as he reached down and brought my other hand up to encircle his neck. He bent his head slowly, and then captured my lips in a kiss, gathering me into his arms with a gentleness that I did not know he possessed, and I moaned softly as he pressed his body into mine. He lifted his head, looking down at me with desire in his eyes, and I felt myself quiver from the intensity.

"Maria," he said, taking my hand and pressing it against his lips, and then placing it over his heart. "I don't know how to love that way...but I want to know, to understand. I want that reality. Will you show me?" I felt tears come to my eyes, and I whispered, "Si, Che... but it may take a long time to show you...possibly the rest of our lives." He smiled and said, "Ah....then, let us begin...right now, mi amor." Smiling, he put his hand at my waist and lifted my right hand up, in a dancing position...and slowly, he began to waltz with me, there in the middle of the grand ballroom. It didn't matter that there was no music...there was music enough in the joy of our souls, joined now into one heart.

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