Free Dancing with the Tiger by Lili Wright Page B

her head. “I am always chasing a tiger.”
    He introduced himself. Salvador Flores. A painter. His studio was three blocks off the
zócalo
. He invited her to stop by. Anna wondered whether he found her attractive or whether he pulled the same charming-artist routine for all the
extranjeras
, like the spindly Argentinean she’d met in San Miguel de Allende who’d invited her to see his yarn paintings. She’d gone to his apartment—how had she been so innocent, so trusting?—but there were no paintings, just yellowing newspaper clippings about an opening a decade before. They talked. He’d tried to kiss her, his breath reeking of sugar and smoke. She got up to leave, worried he might forcibly stop her, but he’d just watched her go, as if she didn’t matter at all.
    â€œYou’ve come to the right place for masks.” He leaned in. “Did you know a mask is not considered authentic unless it is danced? Such a romantic idea. If you really want to meet carvers, you should hire a guide. Someone who knows the villages, speaks the language. I give tours, if you are interested.”
    So that was what he was after. Of course. Anna slid her finger around her spoon.
    â€œI can manage.”
    â€œYou speak Spanish?”
    â€œMe defiendo.”
I defend myself. I get by.
    â€œYou have a car?”
    Anna shook her head.
    â€œYou have been to Oaxaca before?”
    â€œJust as a girl.”
    â€œNo car, no Spanish, no experience. Oh”—he nodded with fresh understanding—“so it’s a guide for tourists.”
    Anna felt compelled to defend her nonexistent book. “No, I hate tourists.”
    This was a ridiculous claim, and Anna blamed the painter for driving her to it. She looked like the quintessential tourist, with her flowered dress and margarita, an authentic drink turned cliché, ruined yet delicious. Anna liked to see herself as a traveler, not a tourist, but this was like claiming you were spiritual, not religious.
    â€œWith beginner Spanish, how can you ask good questions—about the soul of their animals, how God enters the wood, what it feels like to dance the dances of their ancestors? Or will you just ask everyone out for a margarita?”
    He had a point, though it was rude of him to make it. Her father had complained of this very thing. Carvers were shy. They mumbled. Some spoke only Nahuatl. They didn’t trust Americans, didn’t want their pictures taken.
    Two waifs in dusty clothes approached, selling gum. The painter brushed the girls away. “
No,
niñas
. Tell your mother you should be in school.”
    He pulled in his lips, as if something were hurting him. Anna softened.
    â€œMaybe you’re right,” she conceded. “But before I hire a guide, I’d need to check his credentials.”
    He sat up. “Of course.”
    â€œHow well do you know San Juan del Monte?”
    â€œI was born there.”
    â€œDo you have a car, or just a motorcycle?”
    â€œI have a car.”
    â€œDo you speak Spanish?”
    â€œMe defiendo.”
    â€œWhat’s the most beautiful place in Oaxaca?”
    â€œIf I told everyone, it would no longer be beautiful.”
    â€œLast question. Do you know Thomas Malone?”
    The painter set down his cup. “Thomas Malone?”
    â€œThe art collector.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    The painter flagged the waiter, who produced his check on a tiny tray. The painter’s mood had abruptly shifted, teasing replaced by irritation. He didn’t look at Anna, not even through his shades. Anna was surprised she cared, but she did. She saw the ball around his neck was a globe. She wanted to unclasp it and slip it in her pocket.
    â€œYou’re leaving?”
    â€œI have work.” The implication was clear: He had real work and she didn’t. The painter plunked down a gold ten-peso coin.
    â€œWait,” Anna said. “Do you