Tired but happy that night, after the work-shop, I was invited to a wonderful dinner and milonga at “Taqueria Guadalajara”, but what it was more important for me that night, was the fact that I had the invaluable chance to intimate and to share my dance and my tango with all this local fans and true milongueros. Carlos Pfeifer for instance who, besides dancing tango with all his hart and his energies, is the web site manager of the group and the person who has the very important task of keeping the contacts and the fluid communications among all Monterrey’s tangueros. Carlos not only dance tango in Monterrey he also enjoy dancing tango in USA and he loves dancing in Rome. Juan Ney “the milonguero photographer” was also there taking a lot of pictures for theirs web page and, how can I ever forget the pleasure of dancing with Africa Nunez a nice girl and a very promising dancer, as well as Thai Morilllo, that beautiful and swift Philippine girl that told me that she stop being afraid to dance tango since she took my work-shop. As usual in this occasions I was invited to open the dance with Maestra Rita, the leader and teacher of all this tangueros, with a sort of exhibition followed by a couple of good tangos “bien, pero bien Milongueros“. Still tired for the work-shop and dancing after this wonderful milonga, everybody went to sleep… except myself and a group of milongueros with whom we decided to dance the rest of the night away… at the Bar of my Hotel!

The dedication of these peoples is so incredible that…. While writing an article about Tango in Mexico in July of 2005 in my column of “La Vida Tango”. when it was time to mention Monterrey I wrote: “Monterrey is a very important center of Tango in Mexico and another vivid example of how much, some times and in some places, “El Tango” is capable of doing for us men and women and, what is much more important in this case … How much Us, women and men are willing and capable of doing for “El Tango!”

"The Countess is a whore, a slut and a degenerate nymphomaniac. Those were the words spoken at The Ambassador's Club diner last night by that drunken young fool, Gaylord.

The handsome imbecile and the Countess had had a lover's quarrel, and the Countess decided to cast him off," Jean-Claude reported to the old Count. "SHE'S BEEN WHORING FOR YEARS! Monsieur Gaylord shouted to the ensemble of diner guests, and the Count is the only one who doesn't know it."

"I’m your closest friend, Maxim, and the only one who would risk telling you these things. Your dear wife, the Countess, does these things behind your back. You’re so trusting, and she knows it. Now you’ve got to act. There is no other way."

"Yes. Yes, I must act," the Count replied. "You will be my Second, Jean-Claude. You will please pursue the arrangements to restore my honor. When Monsieur Gaylord has sobered up enough to choose his seconds, you will present my card and request we meet in the garden by the fountain at….let’s see….I’ve got an appointment on Monday. So that’s no good. And I’ve got a fitting at my tailors on Tuesday. So that’s out. Wednesday. Yes. Wednesday will be good. No. That’s won't work. I have obligations Tuesday night, and I most likely will not get to bed until after two. No Alors! Arrange that we meet on Thursday. Early. Say five O’clock. So, let’s meet Thursday, around five in the morning. Yes. That’s a good time."

The old Count, his family and his aristocratic friends lived at the center of a peculiar anachronism. Outwardly, they navigated the swift currents of Twentieth Century society; however, within their own circle, they cruised the carefree harbors of ‘La Belle Époche’, their compass having been set long ago in ancestral drawing rooms. The Countess liked to dress in long, turn-of-the-century gowns, with the bodice cinched around her wasp waist so she appeared to be leaning into a stiff breeze. And from her hat collection, she could choose anything from a yellow, black-banded straw boater to an enormous, frivolously flowered garden hat that she tied under her chin with a violet scarf.

Other reminders of a bygone age could be seen about the château. A larger than life portrait of the Count’s great grandfather hung from the wall in the study. The curve of his long gray sideburns and the sweep of his proud mustache did not hide the jagged dueling scar that ran down his left cheek. Nor did he wish to hide it. As a youth, during his year at Heidelberg, he had been honored with coveted membership in the University’s most exclusive dueling club, where he gained the envied status of premier rapier and was known widely as a duelist extradinaire.

This tradition of settling a score on the dueling field has remained a manly preoccupation in the family, except that now pistols were the weapons of choice. Resting on the glass shelf of a cabinet in the library, a beautiful, matched set of balanced, smooth bore, flintlock dueling pistols bore testimony to this practice. Within the Count’s antediluvian circle, duels were still the accepted and, indeed, the obligatory way of settling irreconcilable differences among men, particularly those involving slanderous remarks directed against women of the sacred aristocracy.

Strictly speaking, the law prohibits duels, although the mandatory death sentence, proclaimed by Henry IV for this offense, has since been considerably relaxed. And the original set of 26 rules, specified in The Duelist Code of Honor, has been amended. Now, no one gets hurt. The distance between duelists is now regulated at an impossible 40 meters. And the challenger and the challenged are obliged to fire into the trees, thus preserving honor while ensuring body integrity and more or less lawful conduct.

Thursday. The day of the duel and the restoration of the Count's sacred honor. The Count folded his copy of Le Figaro and sank lower into the warm comfort of his bath. He heard the ‘slap-swish-slap’ of a straight razor being honed against a leather strap as his valet prepared for the Count’s morning barbering. The maid knocked on the bedroom door and entered with a breakfast tray loaded with grapefruit, a soft-boiled egg, toast and coffee. This was more than the Count normally ordered for breakfast, especially when several guests were expected for a formal luncheon that afternoon. But this was the menu recommended by the Count’s dueling master, who advised the Count that croissants and coffee would not provide the necessary reserve of energy when the Count faced his opponent on the field of honor.

Even though everyone understood the gentleman’s agreement to fire above the head of one’s adversary, staring into the bore of a large caliber pistol can be unnerving. The Count had had trouble, in the course of previous duels, controlling his bladder and his cowardly knee twitching, when it came time to lift his pistol from the ornate teakwood gun case held by his Second. But with an effort of will he had conquered this weakness and now controlled himself well, relegating his nervousness to an indiscernible flicker of the eye that barely rose above the background noise of his daily routine.

The count finished his breakfast. He allowed his valet to adjust his long, black coat and the incline his white, formal bow-tie to the requisite, careless angle. Four-forty-five. Time to set off for the Field-of Honor in the grassy meadows behind the garden. But first, I must have a last look in the nursery, the Count said to himself.

Young Carlyle was still peacefully asleep in his crib, when the Count opened the door. His friends, as well as the Countess, had been surprised when it was discovered he would sire a child. The chances of starting a family at his age was unexpected. The birth of young Count Carlyle had wakened joy in the old Count's heart and opened a door to future years of unanticipated happiness.

Jean-Claude appeared at the door to the nursery. He wore formal dress and held his white, silk gloves in one hand and the slim, teakwood case, with its red velvet lining nesting the twin, flint-lock pistols, in the other. "It's time, Maxim," he said in a low voice.

"Gentlemen, do you wish to abrogate, or do you choose to proceed?" shouted Count Barca's second. "Proceed," replied the challenged. "Proceed," echoed the challenger. "Gentlemen, prepare to duel," the second shouted. Clackkkkk-click. The duelists ratcheted back the stiff flintlock hammers and cocked their weapons. A moment of silence, and then the second began to count off the fateful twenty paces.

At the requisite forty meters, the duelists turned unhurriedly and faced each other. Their pistols pointed upwards towards the pale yellow moon hovering high in the early morning sky. After an interminable two seconds, the count slowly lowered his pistol, until it pointed to a tree above the head of his opponent, and squeezed the trigger.

KA-POW! The pistol discharged. A flaming nucleus of burning cordite exploded from the gun barrel and floated onto the dewy field of honor in a ring of blue gun smoke. Forty meters from where the Count stood on the field of honor, his adversary heard the ball snap through the trees above his head and watched the severed leaves float to the ground.

Standing with feet apart and his left hand on his hip, young Gaylord brought his pistol down and leveled it at the Count’s chest. The Count stiffened. A look of incredulity crossed his face, and he began backing away, slowly at first, then more rapidly when the pistol in his adversary’s outstretched hand did not waver.

He stumbled and fell backwards onto the green lawn. Jean-Claude, accompanied by his assistant, rushed to where the Count sat on the grass. "Get up, Maxim. You must get up," they said in hushed tones to the Count. "It’s not over. He wants to frighten you. You must face him."

"Yes, yes," the count said, "the dear boy wants to make a clown of me, so he can shout to his friends that I’m a fool." The count allowed himself to be led back to his former place on the field of honor and stood facing his opponent, waiting for the big lead ball to whistle through the trees above his head. In the distance, he saw a white puff of smoke belch from the pistol in his adversary’s hand. A second later he heard the retort and felt the blow of an invisible fist strike him hard in the chest.

The half-inch ball missed the Count’s heart, but it smashed through three ribs. Bone fragments penetrated his heart and ripped through his right lung. A look of surprise appeared on the Count's face. His grip on the butt of his pistol relaxed; it slipped from his hand and dangled by the trigger guard from his index finger for a second, before sliding off and dropping to the ground. The Count looked down at the hole in his ruffled white blouse and at the expanding scarlet circle surrounding it. Jean-Claude, standing at the edge of the field of honor, stared in disbelief at the grapefruit sized hole at the back of the count’s shirt.

Pain rose against a barrier of shock, and a formidable bellow, like the agonized bleating of a butchered cow, burst from the count’s throat, growing louder with each agonized, rattle of breath. As he was laid upon the ground, his body twitched uncontrollably. His extremities grew cold, and his eyes grew round. With a final agonizing scream that would be forever heard in the minds of those around him, the Count sat up abruptly on the green grass of the Field of Honor, stained bright red with his blood, and died.