We found when we came back out onto the sidewalk that the very awning over our heads was groaning beneath the weight of the water coming down. A more or less slick sheet of it cascaded from each side of the convex canvas. I felt we were inside a constantly descending comber at some famous Hawaiian surfing spot.

Out on the Avenida Díaz Vélez, rain battled the pavement, lit by the headlamps of the heavy traffic. There were, as always in this city, numerous taxis, but they all seemed occupied or traveling so quickly that it would be impossible for their drivers to see the blur of an imploring hand waving for attention in the midst of the storm. I knew I'd be soaked in seconds if I moved further into the avenue to make my presence known. There was a flash of lightning, an immediate bang of thunder and, like shrapnel falling from heaven, hail. I glanced at Bea. She smiled, but I could tell she was as intimidated as I.

It was then that Narigón came to our aid.

The doorman had noticed our plight and whistled for Narigón. He came out of the dark. About 23, he was an over-the-hill street urchin. His name is Buenos Aires slang for "Big Nose," and there was an Italianate heaviness to his own. His nose was, actually, muscular. In twenty years, it would have the look of a much-used doorstop. He looked like a laborer from contemporary Rome, his broad face already shaded with the beginnings of a dark beard. His hands were very large, as were his teeth, and they were similarly soiled. He had been out in the rain and, although his clothing appeared for the most part only damp, his shoulder-length black hair was pasted in meanders to his cheeks.

At first I was intimidated by him because, though he was only of average height, there was a severe, even angered look in his eyes that made me think he could take a swipe at me with a club when my back was turned in order to get to my wallet. He'd been waiting outside the club for someone such as us, lost tangueros intent on a cab, but not so intent on one that we'd run out into the flood.

"Che, man, ¿taxi?" he said.

He was wearing an old coat, old pants, and running shoes without socks. His voice was "muy arrabalero," a phrase that in Buenos Aires means "very much of the rough neighborhood," as though he'd already smoked way too many cigarettes and drunk a good deal too much whiskey. It's a voice you hear everywhere on the streets of Buenos Aires and frequently in tango. An example of it can be found in Daniel Melingo, whose milonga — a variation of the tango — "Narigón" came to mind as our Narigón began a negotiation with me over whether we wanted a taxi. For a moment, I wondered whether the milonga was named after him or vice versa. "Neither" is the answer.