Tango on the Plateau

Author: Robert J. Waller
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: Shalimar, a land of ordinary wonders; a woman—beautiful, mysterious, enchanting; a man—who changes Shalimar, while also being changed by Shalimar and the beautiful woman. Such a hopelesslessly romantic story is now hard to find. Shalimar, a land of ordinary wonders; a woman—beautiful, mysterious, enchanting; a man—who changes Shalimar, while also being changed by Shalimar and the beautiful woman. Such a hopelesslessly romantic story is now hard to find. On the distant plateau, between the settlements of the Su people and the solitary mounds, amidst the towns and people slowly fading away, you can hear the wind singing. Behind the wind’s song, an old accordion hums a tango, and if it’s nighttime, you might hear the lonely rumble of drums, the wailing of warriors from a distant past. Behind the wind’s song, old and sawdust, sandalwood, and the smoke of ancient rituals, all exude a subtle fragrance. Some reviews have called, "Tango on the High Plains" a masterpiece of our time, unforgettable, deeply resonant, and irresistible. Robert J. Waller: an internationally renowned best-selling author, also a musician, photographer, and mathematician. "Tango on the High Plains" continues the legacy of "The Bridges of Madison County," and Random House Crown Group will release the English version in June, having already sold over a million copies! The rights to this book have been sold to over 30 countries and regions worldwide, and it will make its debut in November! Join us in composing a new myth!
Chapter
On a stormy night, though the sky wasn’t fully dark, it was in a time and place so distant and unheard of that the low-lying mounds were shrouded in wet clouds, wrinkling pale faces, and the long, straight road seemed to stretch endlessly toward somewhere. In settled places, no one would seek out true wilderness anymore. And yet, this was a place of wilderness. The signposts pointed west like a riddle. Why would an eagle die? Someone might remember, but no one mentions it. The red clay road intersected the main road at a right angle, plunging into the low grass, emerging after half a mile, then vanishing again. Every 30 miles, there stood a signpost, pointing in other directions, guiding travelers to cross invisible barriers and enter other realms of time and space. If the vehicle you were traveling in had enough power, you might stop beneath one signpost, just to stop, damn it. We all have such fleeting thoughts at some point. Culler MacMillan did just that. He wasn’t in a hurry, just traveling aimlessly, temporarily becoming a free-spirited wanderer. He turned off the engine of his brown Chevrolet on the westbound road, a road locals call Wolf Hill Road, and gazed southward, passing the signpost for Dead Eagle Valley. The truck slid to a stop, and he got out. It was a few miles from the nearest town, with August nearly over and a cool mist in the air. Culler MacMillan stood there for a long time, his boots soaked in grass, mist forming droplets on his face and hands. A light breeze swept past, then drifted away, repeating the cycle. All was silent. Where the wind passed, the cattails bent, and the yellow three-leaf clover rippled. Like a movie with the sound off—silence—deeper silence. More like a stone coffin, at dusk, with mourners gone, the earth pressing down on you. The Shoshone people believe this is a sacred place. "The Medicine of Laughter" thinks so too. The old eagle perched 30 fence posts to the south of Culler MacMillan also thinks so. Anyone who has ever been here thinks so. If,, the engine won’t start or a tire blows out and you don’t have a spare with enough air, the kind money here can bring you food and water, maybe even a sleeping bag. No one cares about you here, so it’s best to know that. No one cares if you live or die, whether you pay, or if you dance and make love on a warm Pacific beach. Here, there’s only silence and wind, and they’ll linger long after you leave. The mounds where ancestors are buried look like waves stretching across the prairie. When the continental shelf connected at high northern latitudes, they migrated from Asia across the ancient land bridge. A century ago, some were buried here. Buried in the war they were destined to lose—the Westward Movement. If you search carefully in the gravel, you can still find metal buttons from cavalry belts. You can also find other things: old knife handles, shoulder blades pierced by bullets and spears, metal pipes. If you dig deeper, you’ll find even more, more.