“My God,” murmured Armando, in astonishment. “That was a very lively evening.”
“You asked for Old School, didn’t you?”
Sunk deep in the leather seat, Mecha burst out laughing.
“I think I’m falling in love with Max. . . . You don’t mind, do you, Armando?”
“Not at all, my dear. I love him, too.”
Exquisite. Superb. Those were the exact words to describe the still, sleeping body of the woman Max was contemplating in the dimly lit room, as she lay on top of the crumpled sheets. There wasn’t a painter or photographer alive, he concluded, who could faithfully capture those splendid, flowing lines Mother Nature had brought together with absolute perfection to form her naked back, the clean angles of her arms as they hugged the pillow, the soft curve of her hips stretching seemingly endlessly down to her slender legs, slightly apart, revealing from behind where her pubis began. And the perfect focus for all those elongated lines and soft curves converged, exposed and vulnerable beneath her bobbed hair, was the nape of her neck, which Max had brushed with his lips before getting up, to make sure Mecha was asleep.
Almost dressed, Max put out the cigarette he had been smoking and went into the bathroom (marble and blue tiles) to knot his tie in front of the big mirror above the basin. After buttoning his vest, he went in search of his jacket and hat, which he had left in the small English-style sitting room in the enormous suite at the Hotel Palace. He found them between the lighted lamp and the mahogany sofa where Armando de Troeye lay fully clothed, starched collar unbuttoned, in his stockinged feet, curled up like a tramp asleep on a park bench. The noise of Max’s footsteps made him open his eyes, and he stirred groggily on the red velvet upholstery.
“What’s going on, Max?” he asked, his tongue thick with sleep.
“Nothing. Petrossi still has Mecha’s necklace and I’m going to fetch it.”
“Good boy.”
De Troeye closed his eyes and turned over. Max stood staring at him for a moment. His contempt for the man was almost as intense as his astonishment at what had happened during the past few hours. He felt a sudden urge to give the man a brutal, ruthless beating, and yet, he concluded coldly, that would not solve anything. Other, more pressing thoughts were on his mind. He had been reflecting about them at length as he lay motionless, beside Mecha’s spent, sleeping form. His recent memories and sensations crashed past like boulders swept along by a torrent: crossing the hotel foyer while propping up de Troeye, the night porter giving them the key, going up in the elevator and arriving in the room, the grunts and stifled giggles. And then, de Troeye watching with the glassy stare of a startled animal as his wife and Max tore their clothes off, colliding in an urgent, shameless embrace, kissing each other’s mouths and flesh, inching backward toward the bedroom, where, not even bothering to close the door, they flung themselves on the bed and he plunged into her with a frenzy that seemed more like an act of revenge than of passion, or love.
Max closed the door very quietly behind him and emerged into the corridor. The carpet muffled his footsteps, and he went past the elevator—descending the broad, marble staircase instead, as he pondered his next moves. He had lied about Petrossi still having Mecha’s necklace. After getting out of the car at the hotel entrance, Max had asked the chauffeur to wait in order to drive him back to the Caboto boardinghouse. He had given Petrossi his pistol back, retrieved the pearls, and without Mecha or her husband seeing, had slipped them into his own pocket. They had been there all along, and there they still lay, bulging beneath Max’s fingers as he felt the left inside pocket of his jacket. He crossed the lobby, greeted the night porter with a raise of his eyebrows, and went outside. He found Petrossi snoozing in the car beneath a street lamp, cap beside him on the seat over a folded edition of La Nación, head reclining against the leather rest. He sat up when Max tapped on the window with his knuckles.
“Drive me to Almirante Brown, please. . . . No, don’t put the hat on. Leave it. You can go home afterward.”
They didn’t exchange a word during the journey. From time to time, in the glow of a passing street lamp reflected off the façade of a building or a wall, and with the gray dawn light creeping in, Max glimpsed the chauffeur’s silent gaze in the rearview mirror and their eyes met. When the Pierce-Arrow came to a halt in front of the boardinghouse, Petrossi got out to open the door for Max, who stepped out of the car, hat in hand.
“Thank you, Petrossi.”
The man looked at him impassively.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Max took a step toward the entrance then stopped in his tracks, turning back.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
Max couldn’t be sure in that hazy light, yet he had the impression Petrossi was smiling.
“On the contrary, sir, the pleasure was all mine.”
Now it was Max’s turn to smile.
“That’s a fine Browning. Take good care of it.”
“I’m glad it came in handy.”
A look of bewilderment flashed across the chauffeur’s face as Max removed his Longines wristwatch.
“It isn’t much,” he said, giving it to him. “But I have no money on me.”
Petrossi turned the watch over in his hands.
“It isn’t necessary,” he protested.
“I know. And that makes it even more so.”
Two hours later, after packing his suitcase and hailing a cab outside the Caboto boardinghouse, Max Costa boarded the steamer linking the two banks of Río de la Plata. Not long afterward, having breezed through Customs and Immigration, he arrived in the city of Montevideo. The police investigation, which a few days later retraced the ballroom dancer’s steps in the Uruguayan capital, suggested that on the journey over from Buenos Aires, Max had met a Mexican woman, a professional singer at the Teatro Royal Pigalle, and had spent the night with her in a luxury room at the Victoria Plaza Hotel. The following morning he had disappeared leaving behind his luggage and a large bill (for the room, various services, dinner with champagne and caviar), with which the furious Mexican woman was confronted when a hotel clerk roused her. He was carrying the mink coat Max had bought her the previous afternoon at the most expensive furrier in Montevideo. Since he had no money on him at the time, he had asked for it to be delivered to the hotel the next day, when the banks opened.
By that time, Max had already bought his passage on a liner, the Conte Verde, sailing under the Italian flag to Europe with a stopover Rio de Janeiro. Three days later he disembarked in the Brazilian city, where the police lost all trace of him. The last thing they were able to discover was that, before leaving Montevideo, Max had sold the pearl necklace to a Romanian jeweler, a known receiver of stolen goods, who owned an antique store in Calle Andes. The man, called Troianescu, admitted in his statement to the police that he had paid three thousand pounds sterling for the pearls (two hundred perfect specimens)—just over half their market value. But the young man who sold them to him in Café Vaccaro, introduced to him by a friend of a friend, seemed eager to close the deal. An agreeable fellow, by the way. Well dressed and courteous. With a pleasant smile. Had it not been for the two hundred pearls, and the hurry he was in, Troianescu would have taken him for a perfect gentleman.
6
The Promenade des Anglais
AFTER DINING AT the hotel, they go out for a stroll, making the most of the mild weather. Mecha has introduced Max to the others (“A dear friend, from longer ago than I care to remember”), and he has effortlessly blended in, with the composure he always possessed when confronting any situation—that likable spontaneity, a mixture of politeness and discreet ingenuity, which had opened so many doors for him in the past, when each day was a challenge and a fight for survival.
“So, you live in Amalfi?” Jorge Keller asks.
Max’s calm is faultless.
“Yes. On and of
f.”
“It’s a beautiful place. I envy you.”
A pleasant young man, Max concludes. In good shape, like those all-American college boys who win trophies, only with the polish of a good European education. He has removed his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and, his jacket slung over one shoulder, he scarcely fits the idea people usually have of an aspiring world chess champion. He seems unconcerned about the adjourned game. During dinner he was relaxed and entertaining, sharing jokes with Karapetian, his mentor and trainer. When it was time for dessert, Karapetian insisted on withdrawing to analyze the variants of the sealed move, in advance of the work he and Irina Jasenovic would resume with Jorge Keller the following day after breakfast. It was Karapetian who, before retiring, suggested they go for a stroll. It’ll do you good, he told his protégé. And clear your head. Go and enjoy yourself for a while, and take Irina with you.
“How long have you two been together?” asked Max after Karapetian had left.
“Too long.” Keller sighed, with the mischievous air of someone talking about his teacher the moment his back is turned. “Meaning at least half my life.”
“He listens to Emil more than he does to me,” Mecha added.
The young man burst into laughter.
“You are just my mother. Emil is my jailer.”
Max looked at Irina Jasenovic, wondering to what extent she might be the key to that dungeon. She wasn’t exactly pretty, Max reflected. Attractive, perhaps, with her youthfulness, that miniskirt that evoked swinging London, and those big, brown, almond eyes. She appeared quiet and sweet-natured. A bright girl. She and Keller seemed more like friends than lovers—communicating through gestures and exchanging glances behind the grown-ups’ backs, as though chess were a shared transgression. A clever, complicated piece of mischief.
“Let’s have a drink,” Mecha suggests. “Over there.” They have been chatting as they make their way down Calle San Antonino and Via San Francesco toward the gardens of the Hotel Imperial Tramontano. On a bandstand lit by lanterns and surrounded by bougainvillea, palms, and magnolias, a band is performing to an audience of about thirty people dressed in polo shirts, miniskirts, and jeans, with sweaters draped over their shoulders. They are seated at tables around the dance floor, close to the cliff top, with the dark backdrop of the bay and the lights of Naples flickering in the distance.
“I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning you. . . . Where did you two meet?”
“On a liner bound for Buenos Aires, in the late twenties.”
“Max was the ship’s ballroom dancer,” Mecha adds. “His job was to dance with the ladies and young women, and he did it rather well . . . he played an important part in the famous tango my first husband composed.”
The young Keller responds with indifference to this information. Either he has no interest in tango, Max deduces, or he dislikes the allusion to his mother’s previous married life.
“Oh, that,” he says, coldly. “Tango.”
“What do you do now?” Irina asks.
Dr. Hugentobler’s chauffeur puts on a suitable face, halfway between convincing and evasive.
“I’m in business,” he replies. “I have a private clinic in the north.”
“That’s not bad,” Keller comments. “From tango dancer to owning a clinic and a villa in Amalfi.”
“With periods in between that weren’t always prosperous,” Max points out. “A lot can happen in forty years.”
“Did you ever meet my father? Ernesto Keller?”
A vague gesture, as though scouring his memory.
“It’s possible. . . . I’m not sure.”
Max’s gaze meets that of Mecha.
“You met him on the Riviera,” she says calmly. “During the Spanish Civil War, at Suzi Ferriol’s house.”
“Yes. That’s right . . . Of course.”
The four of them order refreshments: two soft drinks, a mineral water, and a Negroni for Max. While the waiter comes back with a full tray, there is a roll of drums and a clash of cymbals, two electric guitars start up, and the singer (an elderly fellow wearing a toupee and a sequined jacket), imitating the voice of Gianni Morandi, launches into “Fatti Mandare Dalla Mamma.” Jorge Keller and Irina exchange a brief kiss and get to their feet, moving agilely among the other dancers to the lively rhythms of a twist.
“Extraordinary,” says Max.
“What is extraordinary?”
“Your son. His manner. The way he handles himself.”
Mecha looks at him ironically.
“You mean the aspiring world chess champion?”
“Yes, him.”
“I see. I imagine you were expecting a pale, awkward youth with a chessboard for a brain.”
“Something like that.”
Mecha shakes her head. Don’t be misled, she tells him. The chessboard is there. He may not give that impression, but he is still playing the adjourned game. What makes him different from other players, perhaps, is the way he deals with it. Some grand masters are like monks, withdrawing from everything and everyone around them. But not Jorge. His style of play is precisely a projection of the game of chess onto the world and life. “Beneath his deceptively normal exterior, full of energy,” she says finally, “he has a conception of space and objects entirely different from yours, or mine.”
Max nods, looking at Irina Jasenovic.
“What about her?”
“She’s a strange girl. Even I can’t understand what goes on inside her head. There is no doubt she is a great player. Resourceful, intelligent . . . and yet I can’t tell how much of her behavior comes from her, or whether it is her relationship with Jorge that defines everything. I have no idea what she was like before.”
“I never thought women could make good chess players. I always assumed it was a man’s game.”
“Well, you’re mistaken. There are plenty of women grand masters, most of them from the Soviet Union. The trouble is very few make it to the world championships.”
“Why?”
Mecha takes a sip of her drink and reflects for a moment. Emil Karapetian has a theory about that, she says at last. Playing the odd game of chess isn’t the same as competing in a world tournament or championship. That requires sustained effort, extreme concentration, and tremendous emotional stability. It is far more challenging for women, who are often subject to hormonal fluctuations, to maintain that level of stamina. Things like motherhood and periods can upset that balance that is so crucial in a grueling chess tournament, which can last weeks or even months. That is why so few women reach a high level.
“And you agree with him?”
“To some extent, yes.”
“What about Irina?
“Absolutely not. She insists there is no difference.”
“And your son?”
“He agrees with Irina. He says it is a question of attitudes and habit. He believes things will change a lot in the coming years, in chess as in everything else . . . that things are already changing, with the youth revolution, the moon within our reach, music, politics, and everything else.”
“I am sure he is right,” affirms Max.
“You say that as if you weren’t sorry.”
She looks at him, her interest piqued. His words sounded more like a provocation than a casual remark. He responds with a wistful expression.
“Every time has its moment,” he says in a restrained voice. “And its people. Mine finished a long time ago, and I can’t stand drawn-out endings. They are undignified.”
Mecha looks younger when she smiles, he notices, as though it smoothed her wrinkles. Or perhaps it is that knowing glimmer in her eyes, which is identical now to the way he remembers it.
“You still know how to turn a good phrase, my friend. I often wondered where you picked them up.”
The former ballroom dancer makes a
dismissive gesture, as if the answer were obvious.
“Here and there, I suppose. . . . After that, it is a question of using them at the right moment.”
“Well, you haven’t forgotten your good manners. You are still the perfect charmeur I met forty years ago, on that dazzling white liner. I notice you didn’t include me in your speech about bygone eras just now.”
“You are still so vibrant. I only have to see you with your son and the others.”
His first sentence sounds almost resentful, and Mecha looks at him, thoughtfully. Perhaps with a sudden wariness. Max feels his façade weaken momentarily, and he plays for time, reaching across the table to fill her water glass. When he leans back in his chair, he is once more fully in control. Even so, she continues to watch him intently.
“I don’t understand why you talk like that. The bitterness in your voice. Things haven’t gone badly for you.”
Max makes a vague gesture. This is also a way of playing chess, he tells himself. Possibly he has spent his whole life doing that and nothing else.
“Perhaps world-weariness is the right description,” he replies cautiously. “A man has to know when it is time to quit smoking, drinking, or living.”
“Another well-turned phrase. Who said that?”
“I forget.” Max is smiling now, once again on safe ground. “It might even have been me. I am too old to know for sure.”
“And are you too old to know for sure when to quit a woman? . . . There was a time when you were expert at it.”
He looks at her with a deliberate mixture of tenderness and reproach. But Mecha shakes her head, rejecting his attempt at complicity.
“I don’t know what it is you regret so much,” she goes on. “Or what you pretend to regret. You led a dangerous life. You could have ended up very differently.”
“Penniless, you mean?”
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