What We Become

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  “Of course not,” he said at last. “I mean of course you can’t.”

  The man hesitated, as if he had been expecting a different response. He hadn’t stopped smiling but looked somewhat flustered and pensive. He wasn’t very tall, Max thought, and calculated that if he stood up, he would be a head higher. The man had a neat, inoffensive appearance, accentuated by his spectacles, and the brown suit he wore with a waistcoat and bow tie, all of which seemed to hang loosely from his bony, delicate-looking frame. His hair was parted in the middle, seemingly with a ruler, dividing his black, slicked-back hair into two precise halves.

  “I fear I got off to a bad start,” the stranger said, smiling doggedly. “Please forgive my clumsiness, and give me another chance.”

  At which, casually, without awaiting a response, the man walked away a few paces and then returned. Suddenly he no longer seemed so innocuous, thought Max. Or so fragile.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Costa,” he said calmly. “My name is Rafael Mostaza and I have something important I wish to discuss with you. If you’ll allow me to sit down, we can talk more easily.”

  The smile was identical, only now Max observed an additional, almost metallic glint, behind his spectacles. Max had set his fork down on his plate. Having regained his composure, he leaned back in the wicker chair, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “We have mutual interests,” the other man went on. “In Italy as well as here in Nice.”

  Max looked at the waiters in their white aprons standing far off, next to the potted plants beside the entrance. There was no one else in the restaurant.

  “Do sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the strange fellow ensconced himself in the chair and began emptying his pipe, tapping the bowl lightly against the window frame, Max realized where he had seen him before. In fact, he had seen the man twice in the past few days: once while he was talking to the Italian agents at Café Monnot, and again when he was lunching with Baroness Schwarzenberg on the terrace of La Frégate, opposite the Promenade.

  “Please, carry on eating,” the man said, shaking his head at one of the waiters, who was walking toward them.

  Leaning back in his chair, Max studied him with veiled unease.

  “Who are you?”

  “I just told you. Rafael Mostaza, commercial traveler. Call me Fito, if you prefer. Everyone else does.”

  “And who is everyone?”

  The man winked, without replying, as if they shared an amusing secret. Max had never heard the name before.

  “A commercial traveler, you say.”

  “Just so.”

  “What sort of commerce?”

  Mostaza’s smile broadened slightly. He seemed to wear it with the same ease he wore his bow tie: openly, pleasantly enough, and possibly a little loose. Yet the metallic glint remained, as though the lenses in his glasses chilled his gaze.

  “All commerce is related nowadays, don’t you think? But never mind about that. What’s important is the story I am about to tell you. A story involving the financier Tomás Ferriol.”

  Max registered the name calmly as he raised his glass of wine (a splendid burgundy) to his lips. He replaced it on the exact spot where it had left an indentation on the white tablecloth.

  “I beg your pardon. Whom did you say?”

  “Oh, come now. Believe me, it is an interesting story. Allow me to tell it to you.”

  Max touched the wineglass, without picking it up this time. Despite the open window, he felt suddenly flushed. Uncomfortable.

  “You have five minutes.”

  “Don’t be grudging. Listen first, and you’ll see how you grant me more time.”

  In a hushed voice, occasionally biting down on his unlit pipe, Mostaza began his tale. Tomás Ferriol, he said, was among the group of monarchists who, the year before, had supported the military uprising in Spain. In fact, it was Ferriol who bore the initial cost, and had continued to finance the rebels. It was common knowledge that his immense fortune had turned him into the rebels’ unofficial paymaster.

  “Admit it,” Mostaza broke off, pointing the stem of his pipe at Max, “my story is beginning to intrigue you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I told you. I’m good at telling stories.”

  Mostaza resumed his tale, saying that Ferriol’s opposition to the Republic wasn’t simply ideological: he had made several failed attempts to reach an agreement with successive republican governments. But they didn’t trust him, and they were right. In 1934, a judicial investigation would have sent him to prison had he not used his money and influence to avoid a sentence. After that, his political position could be summed up in the words he pronounced at a private dinner among friends: “The Republic, or me.” And that was what he had been doing for the past year and a half: destroying the Republic. Everyone knew he had bankrolled the July uprising. After a meeting held in San Juan de Luz with a messenger sent by the conspirators, Ferriol had paid out of his own pocket, through an account at the Kleinwort bank, for the plane and the pilot that flew Franco from the Canary Islands to Morocco. And while that plane was in the air, five Texaco oil tankers on course to deliver twenty-five thousand tons of crude to the Spanish state oil company Campsa changed direction and headed to the area under rebel control. The order conveyed by telegram said, Don’t worry about payment. Tomás Ferriol had footed the bill and was continuing to do so. It was estimated that in fuel alone he had already given the rebels a million dollars.

  “But this isn’t only about fuel,” Mostaza resumed after pausing for a moment so that Max could assimilate the information. “We know Ferriol had a meeting with General Mola at his headquarters in Pamplona in the early days of the uprising. During that meeting Ferriol showed Mola a list of guarantees he had signed, totaling six hundred million pesetas. Interestingly, true to Ferriol’s style, he didn’t give or offer Mola any money. He simply showed him his solid credentials as a guarantor. Proposing to bankroll everything. And that included using his commercial and financial contacts in Germany and Italy.”

  Mostaza fell silent, sucking on his unlit pipe, his eyes fixed on Max, as a waiter came to take away Max’s empty plate while another arrived with the second course—entrecÔte à la niçoise. The square of light had moved up from the floor onto the white tablecloth. The brightness was now illuminating Mostaza’s face from below, revealing an ugly scar Max hadn’t noticed before on the left side of his neck, below the jaw.

  “The conspirators,” Mostaza went on, after the waiters had left, “also needed aircraft. Tactical air support, to transport the Moroccan rebel troops to the peninsula, and for bombing raids. Four days after the uprising, General Franco sent a message to the German High Command via their military attaché to France and Portugal, asking for ten Junker aircraft. Ferriol took care of the Italians.” Mostaza leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Do you see how the different strands come together?”

  Max had forced himself to carry on eating normally, but he was finding it hard. After two mouthfuls, he placed his knife and fork side by side on his plate, at the precise angle of five o’clock. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin, rested his starched cuffs on the edge of the tablecloth, and looked straight at Mostaza, without saying a word. “The Italian offer,” his interlocutor went on, “went through the Foreign Minister, Count Ciano. Initially in a private conversation he and Ferriol had in Rome, then via an exchange of letters detailing the operation. Italy had twelve Savoia Marchetti aircraft on standby in Sardinia, and Ciano, after consulting with Mussolini, promised they would be in Tetuán at the rebels’ disposal by the first week of August, pending receipt of a million pounds sterling. Neither Mola nor Franco had that much money, but Ferriol did. And so he advanced part of the sum and guaranteed the remainder. On July 30, the twelve aircraft took off bound for Morocco. Three went down over the sea, but the ot
hers arrived in time to transport the Moroccan troops and legionnaires to the peninsula. Four days later, the Italian merchant vessel Emilio Morlandi, which was chartered by Ferriol and had left La Spezia carrying ammunition and fuel for those aircraft, docked in Melilla.

  “I told you the Italians wanted a million pounds for their aircraft, but Ciano is a man with a lavish lifestyle. Extremely lavish. His wife, Edda, is Il Duce’s daughter, and while that brings many advantages, it also incurs a great deal of expense. Do you follow?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good, because now we get to the part where you come in.”

  A waiter came to remove Max’s plate, almost untouched. He sat motionless, his hands resting on the edge of the table, staring at Mostaza.

  “And what makes you think I have anything to do with this?”

  The other man did not reply at once. He was gazing at the bottle of wine laying in its raffia basket.

  “What are you drinking, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Chambertin,” Max replied impassively.

  “Which year?”

  “Nineteen eleven.”

  “And the cork held up?”

  “Yes it did.”

  “Splendid . . . I’d like to try some, if I may.”

  Max signaled to the waiter, who brought over another glass and filled it. Mostaza set his pipe down on the table and studied the wine in the light, admiring the intense red of the burgundy. Then he raised the glass to his lips, savoring the wine with visible pleasure.

  “I’ve been tailing you for some time,” he blurted, as though suddenly remembering Max’s question. “Those two Italian fellows . . .”

  He broke off, leaving it up to Max to imagine exactly when one trail had led to another.

  “Then I found out as much as I could about you.”

  Mostaza resumed his narrative. Hitler and his government detested Ciano. For his part, Ciano, who was no fool, had always favored Italy keeping its distance from some of Berlin’s ambitions. And he was still of that opinion. Which is why, being a cautious man, he kept several secret safe-deposit boxes in suitable locations. For political reasons, a large account he held at an English bank had to be moved, and his money was currently in continental banks, mainly Swiss.

  “Ciano demanded four percent commission for the Savoia Marchetti deal. Forty thousand pounds. Almost a million pesetas, guaranteed by Ferriol at the Société Suisse in Zurich until it was paid with gold confiscated from the Banco de España in Palma de Mallorca. What do you say to that?”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “More importantly,” Mostaza said after taking another sip of wine, “it’s a major political scandal.”

  Despite his composure, Max was no longer bothering to conceal his interest.

  “I see,” he said. “Once the information is made public, you mean.”

  “Precisely.” Mostaza placed his finger on the stem of his glass to prevent a drop of wine from running down onto the tablecloth. “The people who told me about you, Mr. Costa, said you were a good-looking, clever fellow. I couldn’t care less about your looks. I am, on the whole, a man of conventional tastes. But your intelligence speaks for itself.”

  He paused, savoring another mouthful of burgundy.

  “Tomás Ferriol is a sly fox,” he went on, “and he wanted everything in writing. There were time pressures, this was a safe deal, and Ciano’s commissions are no secret in Rome. His father-in-law knows about them, and raises no objections providing things are done discreetly, as they have been up until now. And so Ferriol contrived to generate written evidence of the aircraft deal, which included three letters where Ciano, in his own handwriting, mentions the four percent commission. You can imagine the rest.”

  “Why do they want those letters back now?”

  Mostaza contemplated his nearly empty glass with a satisfied expression.

  “There could be numerous reasons. Tensions within the Italian government, where Ciano’s position is currently contested by other fascist families. Perhaps Ciano is simply being cautious about the future, now that a rebel victory in Spain isn’t unthinkable. Or he wants to divest Ferriol of evidence that he could use as diplomatic leverage. The fact is, Ciano wants those letters, and you have been hired to get them.”

  It was all so glaringly obvious that Max set aside his original misgivings.

  “I still have a question, which I may also have posed to others. Why me? Surely Italy has spies of its own.”

  “The way I see it is simple.” Mostaza had picked up his pipe, and, after taking out an oilcloth pouch, he proceeded to fill the bowl, tamping the tobacco down with his thumb. “We are in France. The international situation is delicate. You are a man with no political affiliation. Stateless, in a sense.”

  “I have a Venezuelan passport.”

  “Not meaning to boast, but I can buy a dozen of those things. Moreover, you have a criminal record, proven or not, in several European and South American countries. . . . If something went wrong, you would be arrested. In which case they could deny everything.”

  “And whose side are you on in all this?”

  Mostaza, who had fished out a box of matches and lit his pipe, looked at Max, almost with astonishment, through the first puffs of smoke.

  “Well. I thought you would have guessed that by now. I work for the Spanish Republic. I am one of the good guys. Assuming there are any in a situation of this kind.”

  A casual reader (on ocean liners, trains, and in hotels) of serialized fiction published in illustrated magazines, Max associated the word spy with sophisticated international adventuresses and sinister men skulking around under cover of darkness. Hence his surprise at the easy way Fito Mostaza offered to accompany him back to his hotel, enjoying an agreeable (Mostaza’s choice of adjective) stroll along the Promenade. Max raised no objection, and for part of the way they chatted like two acquaintances about nothing in particular, just like all the other people coming and going at that time of day between the hotels on one side and the beach on the other. And so, puffing calmly on his pipe, Mostaza finished explaining the details of the affair, while answering the questions occasionally posed by Max (who despite the apparently relaxed situation, did not lower his guard).

  “In brief: we will pay you more than the fascists. Not to mention the Republic’s debt of gratitude.”

  “For what that’s worth,” Max allowed himself to comment, ironically.

  Mostaza gave a soft, almost good-natured laugh, jaw clenched. The scar below his chin gave his laughter an ambiguous quality.

  “There is no need to be spiteful, Mr. Costa. After all, I represent the legitimate Spanish government. You know, democracy versus fascism.”

  Swinging his cane, the former ballroom dancer cast a sidelong glance at Mostaza. The man looked even smaller and more delicate when he was moving on his feet, and if it weren’t for his spectacles, he would seem like a jockey in civvies. However, in Max’s profession one automatic reflex was to classify men and women by what they didn’t say. In his shadowy world, a conventional word or gesture was as valueless, in terms of useful information, as the expression on the face of an experienced cardsharp who knows his adversary’s hand. These were the codes Max had learned over the years. And the three quarters of an hour he had spent in Fito Mostaza’s company were enough to tell him that the man’s friendly tone, his likable openness when he claimed to be one of the good guys, could be more deceptive than the surliness of the two Italian agents. Whom, as a matter of fact, Max was surprised not to have seen skulking behind a newspaper on a bench along the Promenade, tailing them only to discover, with understandable annoyance, that Fito Mostaza was upsetting their plans.

  “Why not steal the letters yourselves?”

  Mostaza walked on a few steps without replying. Then gave a shrug.

  “Do you know what To
más Ferriol would say? That he isn’t interested in buying politicians before they are elected, because it is cheaper to buy them once they are in power.”

  He fell silent, puffing vigorously on his pipe and leaving behind him a trail of tobacco smoke.

  “We are in a similar situation,” he said at last. “Why organize an expensive, risky operation when we can take advantage of one that is already under way?”

  With that, Mostaza continued walking, laughing softly as before. He seemed pleased with the way the conversation was going.

  “The Republic doesn’t have money to burn, Mr. Costa. The peseta is depreciating fast. There is an almost poetic justice in the fact that Mussolini will be the one paying most of your fee.”

  Max was contemplating the Roll-Royces and Cadillacs parked outside the Palais de la Méditerranée’s impressive façade, among the line of expensive hotels that seemed to stretch along the gentle sweep of the Bay of Angels into infinity. There was nothing in that part of Nice to challenge the wealthy visitor’s comfortable view of the world. There were only hotels, casinos, bars, the magnificent beach, the nearby city center with its cafés and restaurants, and the luxury villas in the surrounding hills. Not a single factory or hospital. The workshops, the humble dwellings of domestic servants and laborers, the prison and the cemetery, even the demonstrators who had begun clashing in the street of late under the watchful eyes of the gendarmes, singing “The Internationale” or “The Marsellaise” and handing out copies of Le Cri des Travailleurs, or shouting “death to the Jews,” were a long way from there. In neighborhoods where the majority of those strolling along the Promenade des Anglais would never set foot.

  “And what is to stop me from refusing your offer? Or informing the Italians about your proposal?”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” admitted Mostaza evenly. “You see how far we are willing to play fairly, within reason. Without resorting to threats or blackmail. It is entirely up to you whether you collaborate or not.”

  “What if I don’t do as you ask?”

  “Ah, that’s another matter. If you refuse, you must understand that we will do our best to influence the course of events.”