Magic Spell Tango*

— a short story by Sheridan Stewart —

Watermelon-pink and green, lemon, aqua, tangerine. Wearing it always gave her a lift, a sense of celebration.

My “piñata dress.”

Tonight, she felt like a beautifully wrapped present, itching to be revealed. Hot pink shoestring straps that would come undone with the tiniest of tugs. The juicy lime skirt that was ready to slide down over her hips at the mere hint of encouragement. Magenta bra. Gone with a knowing glance. Only her greyed-out old full brief knickers reminded her of who she really was.

A bolder woman would have gone without, she thought.

Piñata. She googled it. A decorated container filled with candy and toys. The right side of her mouth twitched in a fairy floss smile.

I’m filled with sweetness.

The thought was a foreign one. Belligerent. Dry. Brittle. These words had become her self-portrait. Even in her youth, she’d never been soft, never malleable, never had an inch to give. She’d grown into an angular woman. Striking rather than pretty, and now that she was approaching her Crone years, she felt small children might gleefully whack her with sticks. She could see the disappointment on their cherubic, chubby-cheeked faces at Halloween.

No candy in this Old Bag.

Candy. Halloween. Was there no end to the Americanization of her country?

She barked her harsh laugh. Frowning at the familiar desert landscape of her inner terrain, her ridiculous piñata frock might be able to hide her ugly old undies, but it couldn’t hide the truth.

Then, a soft summer breeze gently filled her confectionary skirt and wrapped itself around her bare legs. She was again transported.

Magic Spell Tango.

They had spoken of Elena Kats-Chernin the previous evening, a chance meeting in the foyer of the Mildura Arts Centre during the Interval. A selection of Kats-Chernin’s work was being performed as part of the Contemporary Australian Composers Program in the Murray River Music Festival.

She’d driven five hours to be there, nearly nodding off as she crossed the Hay Plains. White-line fever and heat, combined with the poor air conditioning in her 1998 Ford Laser and a rough night’s sleep in an ironically named Country Comfort motel, had made her drowsy.

A deep, soft voice interrupted her ruminations.

‘What’s your favourite piece?’ She turned to find the owner of the voice leaning against the bar. Handsome.

‘Sorry, are you talking to…me?’ She glanced around, seeking a more likely target.

He’d simply nodded.

“Um, Kats-Chernin, ‘Magic Spell Tango’.”

“From Wild Swan.”

“You know it?”

He nodded again. “Surprised?”

“Yes, I mean, um, most only know ‘Deep Sea Dreaming.’ from the Sydney Olympics.”

“Or ‘Butterflying’ from the World Cup,’”he added. They had both laughed.

Now, less than 24 hours later, he was cooking for her. Who did that?  “Come by ’round seven.” A man of few words, this would-be lover with his big stockman’s hands and that Crocodile Dundee grin. She shook her head abruptly.

Don’t get silly ideas.

Instead, she filled her mind with a more likely scenario: not an intimate dinner for two but a gathering. A crowd of ebullient yet sophisticated friends, people who had known each other for decades and slipped confidently into comfortable conversation, wearing understated but expensive outfits.

He’d wonder why on earth he’d invited her as she stood shyly at the back of the room, shifting her weight awkwardly from one licorice allsorts sandaled foot to the other, embarrassed now by her ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ garish garb.

The sensuous summer breeze returned and whispered at the nape of her neck. Hush now.

She arrived.

No smart, shiny cars lined the driveway, only a lone wheelie bin perched precariously on the verge. No cacophony of party people, just soft classical music drifting from candlelit windows.

Magic Spell Tango.

Oh My.

At the front door, about to knock, she hesitated. She could hardly breathe as she stepped quickly out of her tattered old cottontails and ran lightly back out to the street, tossing them into the wheelie bin.

Spontaneously, she spun in a circle; a kaleidoscope of colour, and the breeze whispered, “It’s your time.”

*This story was published in the Australian Edition of the Chicago Quarterly Review (CQR) 2020.