What We Become

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “So why is he so good?”

  Lambertucci looks quizzically at Max.

  “Have you got the whole day?”

  “Yes. My boss has gone away for a few days.”

  “In that case stay to dinner . . . eggplant parmigiana washed down with a nice little Taurasi.”

  “Much obliged, but I have a few things to do at the villa.”

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you show any interest in chess.”

  “Well . . . you know how it is.” Max smiles wistfully. “The Campanella Cup and all that. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  Tedesco narrows his one good eye again, pensively.

  “You can say that again. Who’ll get their hands on it?”

  “Why is Keller so good?” Max insists.

  “He has a natural talent and is well taught,” replies Lambertucci. Then he shrugs and looks at Tedesco, leaving it to him to fill in the details.

  “He’s a tenacious young fellow,” Tedesco says, mulling it over for a while. “When he was starting out, many of the grand masters played a conservative, defensive game, but Keller changed all that. He defeated them with his spectacular assaults, astonishing sacrifices of his pieces, daring gambits . . .”

  “And now?”

  “That’s still his style: bold, brilliant, heart-stopping endgames. . . . He plays like someone immune to fear, with terrifying casualness. Occasionally he makes seemingly sloppy, incorrect moves, yet his opponents are confounded by his complex strategies. . . . His ambition is to be world champion, and the contest here in Sorrento is considered a preliminary competition, a warm-up for the championship being held in Dublin five months from now.”

  “Will you be attending the games here?”

  “We can’t afford it. The Vittoria is reserved for moneyed folk and journalists. . . . We’ll have to follow the games on the radio and television, with our own chessboard.”

  “And is it all as important as they say?”

  “It is the most anticipated meeting since the Reshevsky-Fischer head to head in sixty-one,” Tedesco explains. “Sokolov is a hardened veteran, coolheaded and rather dull: his best games usually end in a draw. They call him the Russian Wall, just imagine. . . . The fact is there is plenty at stake. The prize money, of course. But politics as well.”

  Lambertucci gives a shrill laugh.

  “They say Sokolov has rented an entire apartment house next to the Vittoria, and is surrounded by advisers and KGB agents.”

  “What do you know about the mother?”

  “Whose mother?”

  “Keller’s. She’s mentioned in all the magazine and newspaper articles.”

  Tedesco remains pensive for a moment.

  “Well, only what I’ve heard: that she is his manager. That when she saw her son’s talent she got the best teachers for him. Chess is an expensive sport until you make a name for yourself. All that traveling, hotels, inscription fees . . . You need to have money, or to obtain money. It seems she had some. I believe she is in charge of everything: his team of trainers, his physical fitness. She even keeps his accounts. . . . People say he is her creation, but I think they exaggerate. Regardless of any help they get, players of genius like Keller create themselves.”

  Their next encounter on the Cap Polonio took place on the sixth day at sea, before dinner. Max Costa had been dancing for half an hour with female passengers of various ages, including the American woman who tipped him five dollars, and Miss Honeybee, when the headwaiter Schmöcker led Mrs. de Troeye to her usual table. She was alone, as she had been on the first evening. When Max passed close by (at that moment he was dancing with one of the young Brazilian girls to “La Canción del Ukelele”), he saw a waiter bringing her a champagne cocktail while she lit a cigarette in a short ivory holder. She wasn’t wearing the pearl necklace this time, but one made of amber. Her black satin dress was cut away at the back, and her hair, smoothed down like a boy’s, sleek with brilliantine, a thin line of kohl slanting her eyes. Max glanced at her several times, unable to catch her eye. He exchanged a few words with the musicians as he went by, and when they obligingly struck up a tango that was all the rage (“Adiós Muchachos”), Max took his leave of the young Brazilian girl and walked up to her table during the opening bars. Bowing his head briefly, he smiled and stood there motionless as a few other couples got to their feet. Mecha Inzunza de Troeye looked up at him, and for an instant he feared she would turn him down. But a moment later he saw her deposit her cigarette in the ashtray and stand up. It took her an eternity to do so, and the action of placing her left hand on his right shoulder seemed unbearably languorous. Then the tango, already in full swing, swept them both up, and Max knew instantly that the music was on his side.

  He realized yet again that she danced outstandingly. The tango did not demand spontaneity, but rather implicit intentions carried out swiftly, in sullen, almost resentful silence. And that was the way they moved, embracing and separating, performing calculated quebrados, and following a shared instinct that allowed them to glide effortlessly around the floor, amid couples tangoing with the obvious clumsiness of novices. As a professional, Max knew it was impossible to perform the tango without a skilled partner capable of following a dance whose flow would suddenly stop, the man slowing the rhythm, reenacting a struggle, in which, entwined around him, the woman would continually attempt to flee, only to yield each time, proud and defiant in her submission. Mecha Inzunza de Troeye proved to be that sort of partner.

  They danced two tangos in a row (the second was called “Champagne Tango”), during which neither of them uttered a word, surrendering completely to the music and the pleasure of the dance, to the occasional brush of her satin against his flannel and to the heat Max could feel coming from his companion’s youthful body, the outline of her face and combed-back hair descending to her exposed neck and shoulders. And when in the pause between the two dances they stood facing each other (slightly breathless from their exertions, waiting for the music to start again, without her showing any sign of returning to her table), and he noticed tiny pearls of sweat on her upper lip, he pulled out one of his two handkerchiefs, not the one protruding from the top pocket of his tailcoat, but another, clean and ironed, from his inside pocket, and offered it to her spontaneously. She accepted the piece of folded white linen, scarcely dabbing her mouth with it before returning it to him, a little damp and smudged with lipstick. She did not even go over to the table for her bag, as Max had anticipated, to powder her nose. Max also wiped the sweat from his upper lip and brow (it did not escape her notice that he touched his lips first), then put away the handkerchief. The second tango started and they danced as before in perfect harmony, only this time her gaze did not stray across the ballroom. After faultlessly executing a particularly complicated turn or step, they would pause for an instant and look straight at each other, before breaking the stillness on the next beat, and turning once more around the dance floor. Once, when he halted abruptly, in midmovement, cool and aloof, she clung to him, suddenly, swaying to one side then the other with a mature graceful elegance, as though fleeing his embrace without really wanting to. For the first time since he had become a professional ballroom dancer, Max felt the urge to brush the nape of her slender, youthful neck with his lips. It was then that he realized, with a casual glance, that his dance partner’s husband was sitting at the table, legs crossed, a cigarette between his fingers, watching them closely, despite his apparent indifference. And when Max looked back at her, he discovered golden reflections that seemed to explode into silences of eternal, ageless women. Keys to all the mysteries men could not fathom.

  The ship’s smoking room connected the first-class promenade decks on the port and starboard sides with the poop deck. Max Costa made his way there during the dinner break, knowing it would be almost empty at that hour. The waiter served him a double espresso in a cup bearing the Hamburg Süd
amerikanische crest. After loosening his white tie and starched collar, he smoked a cigarette next to the window, through which, amid the reflections of light within, the night outside was visible, the moon shining on the poop deck. As the dining room gradually emptied and passengers started to appear and fill the tables, Max got up to leave. In the doorway he stood aside to let a group of men holding cigars pass, among whom he recognized Armando de Troeye. The composer was unaccompanied by his wife, and as Max strolled along the starboard promenade deck, he searched for her among the groups of ladies and gentlemen wrapped in overcoats, mackintoshes, and cloaks, taking the air or contemplating the ocean. It was a warm evening, but the sea was beginning to get choppy for the first time since they had set sail from Lisbon, and although the Cap Polonio was equipped with state-of-the art stabilizers, the roll of the ship brought expressions of concern. The ballroom was quiet that evening, and many of the tables remained empty, including that of the de Troeyes. The first cases of seasickness were occurring, and the musical entertainment was cut short. Max barely had a couple of waltzes, and could finish early.

  As he was about to descend to his cabin in second class, they bumped into each other next to the elevator, their reflections caught in the huge mirrors on the main staircase. She was wearing a gray fox fur cape and carrying a lamé purse. She was alone, on her way out to one of the promenade decks, and, with a swift glance, Max marveled at how steadily she walked in high heels despite the roll, for even the floor of a vessel that size took on a disconcerting three-dimensionality when the ocean was rough. Turning back, Max held the exterior door open for her until she was outside. She responded with a curt “thank-you” as she crossed the threshold. Max bobbed his head, closed the door, and walked back along the passageway, eight or ten steps. The last of these he took slowly, thoughtfully, before coming to a standstill. What the hell, he thought. Nothing ventured nothing gained, he concluded. Providing he trod carefully.

  He soon found her, walking along the upper deck, and stopped casually in front of her, beneath the muted glow of lights covered in sea salt. Doubtless she had come up for some air to avoid feeling seasick. Most of the passengers did the exact opposite, shutting themselves away in their cabins for days on end, prey to their own churning stomachs. For a moment, Max was worried she would walk past, pretending not to see him. But instead she stood still, gazing at him in silence.

  “I enjoyed our dance,” she blurted out.

  Max managed to stifle his astonishment almost instantaneously.

  “So did I.”

  The woman went on gazing at him, perhaps quizzically.

  “How long have you danced professionally?”

  “For five years. But not all the time. The job is . . .”

  “Amusing?” she interrupted.

  They continued strolling along the deck, adapting their steps to the vessel’s slow sway. Occasionally they passed the dark figures or familiar faces of other passengers. The only parts of Max visible in the less illuminated areas were the white blotches of his shirtfront, waistcoat, and tie; the meticulous inch and a half of each starched shirt cuff; and the handkerchief in the top pocket of his tailcoat.

  “That wasn’t the word I was looking for.” He smiled softly. “On the contrary. I was going to say part-time. It has its advantages.”

  “Which are?”

  “Well . . . As you can see, it allows me to travel.”

  By the light of a porthole he could observe that she was the one smiling now, approvingly.

  “You do it well, for something that’s only part-time.”

  Max shrugged.

  “For the first few years it was more steady.”

  “Where was that?”

  Max decided to omit part of his employment history, to keep certain names to himself. Including the red-light district in Barcelona and le Vieux Port in Marseille. And the name of a Hungarian dancer, Boske, who used to sing “La petite tonkinoise” while shaving her legs, and had a penchant for young men who woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, troubled by nightmares that led them to believe they were still in Morocco.

  “Luxury hotels in Paris in the winter,” he said, summing up. “And in the high season, in Biarritz and the CÔte d’Azur . . . I also worked in the cabarets of Montmartre for a while.”

  “Ah.” She seemed interested. “We may have bumped into each other.”

  “No. I would remember you.”

  “What did you want to tell me?” she asked.

  For an instant he couldn’t think what she was referring to. Then he realized. After bumping into her below, he had caught up with her on the promenade deck, appearing before her without any explanation.

  “That have I never danced such a perfect tango with anyone.”

  She was silent for three or four seconds, possibly contented. She had come to a halt (there was a lightbulb close by, screwed into the bulkhead) and was gazing at him through the briny blackness.

  “Indeed? . . . Well. You are very kind, Mr. . . . Max, isn’t that your name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Believe me, I appreciate being flattered.”

  “It isn’t flattery. You know that.”

  She laughed. A frank, healthy laugh. The same one as a few evenings before when he had jokingly calculated her age as fifteen.

  “My husband is a composer. I am surrounded by music and dance. But you are an excellent partner. It’s easy to follow your lead.”

  “I wasn’t leading you. You were yourself. I know the difference.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully.

  “Yes. I suppose you do.”

  Max placed his hand on the wet gunwale. Between rolls, he could feel the throb of engines deep inside the ship vibrating through the deck beneath his feet.

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Not now, thank you.”

  “May I?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He fished the silver case out of his inside jacket pocket, took out a cigarette, and raised it to his lips. She watched him.

  “Egyptian?” she asked.

  “No, Turkish. Abdul Pashas . . . With a hint of opium and honey.”

  “Then I’ll have one.”

  He leaned forward holding the book of matches, and cupped the flame with his hand as he lit the cigarette she had inserted into a small ivory cigarette holder. Then he lit his. The wind quickly carried the smoke away, smothering the taste. She seemed to be shivering with cold beneath her fur cape. Max gestured toward the door of the nearby palm court, a conservatory-like room with a large light on the ceiling, furnished with wicker chairs, low tables, and potted plants.

  “Dancing professionally,” she commented as they went in. “That seems like a strange occupation, for a man.”

  “I don’t see the difference. . . . We make a living from it just as easily, as you can see. Dancing isn’t always about intimacy or amusement.”

  “And is what they say true? That a woman expresses her true nature when she dances?”

  “Sometimes. But no more than a man.”

  The room was empty. She sat on one of the chairs, casually allowing her cape to slip open. Examining her reflection in the lid of a vanity case she had pulled from her bag, she applied a touch of pale red Tangee lipstick. Her sleek hair gave her face an alluringly angular, androgynous appearance, while the black satin dress, Max thought, clung to her body in a fascinating way. Aware that he was looking at her, she crossed one leg over the other, rocking it slightly back and forth, and propping one elbow on the arm of the chair, raised the hand in which she was holding the cigarette (her nails were long and manicured, painted the same color as her lips). Every now and then, she flicked the ash onto the floor, Max noticed, as if all the ashtrays in the world were nothing to her.

  “I mean strange seen from close up,” she said after a while. “You’
re the first ballroom dancer I’ve exchanged more than two words with: thank you and good-bye.”

  Max had brought over an ashtray and was standing, his right hand in his trouser pocket. Smoking.

  “I enjoyed dancing with you,” he said.

  “Likewise. I would do it again, if the orchestra was still playing and there were people in the ballroom.”

  “There’s nothing to stop you doing so now.”

  “Pardon me?”

  She studied his smile as if analyzing an impertinence. But the professional dancer held her gaze, unflustered. You look like a good fellow, both the Hungarian woman and Boris Dolgoruki had told him, agreeing about that although they had never met. When you smile like that, Max, no one could ever doubt that you are a damn good fellow. Try to use that to your advantage.

  “I’m sure you can imagine the music.”

  Once again, she flicked her ash on to the floor.

  “You are very forward.”

  “Could you do that?”

  It was her turn to smile this time, with a hint of defiance.

  “Of course I could.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “I’m married to a composer, remember. My head is full of music.”

  “How about ‘Mala Junta’? Do you know it?”

  “Perfect.”

  Max stubbed out his cigarette, then smoothed down his vest. She remained motionless for a moment: she was no longer smiling, and was watching him thoughtfully from her chair, as if to make sure he wasn’t joking. Finally, she left the cigarette holder smeared with lipstick in the ashtray, stood up very slowly, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on him, and placed her left hand on his shoulder and her right hand in his, as it hovered, outstretched. She remained like that for a moment, erect, tranquil, unsmiling, until Max, after gently squeezing her fingers twice to indicate the first bar, leaned slightly to one side, moved his right foot forward, and the couple started to dance in silence, closely embraced, looking straight at each other, amid the wicker chairs and potted plants in the palm court.