What We Become (16 page)

“Would you care to dance, Madam?”

Max eyed the glass pitcher of gin. In an emergency, he could turn it into a viable weapon by smashing the lip against the table. Only to gain time, or try to, while they made a getaway.

“I don't think . . .” he started to say in a low voice.

He was speaking to Mecha Inzunza, not the fellow who stood waiting. But she rose to her feet with complete calm.

“Yes,” she said.

She removed her gloves unhurriedly, leaving them on the table. The entire room was looking at her and her partner, who was waiting without showing the slightest impatience. When she was ready, he took her by the waist, placing his right hand on the gentle curve above her hips. She slipped her left hand over his shoulders, and without looking at each other they started to move among the other couples, heads closer than in a conventional tango, bodies acceptably far apart. Anyone would think they had danced together before, Max thought, and yet remembering the ease with which he and Mecha Inzunza had adapted to each other on the
Cap Polonio
lessened his surprise. She was certainly a very intuitive, intelligent dancer, capable of following anyone who danced well. The fellow moved with manly assuredness as he led the woman skillfully, tracing agile figures on an invisible musical stave. The couple swayed gently as she followed the rhythm of the music and the silent commands transmitted by the man's hands and gestures. All at once, the man performed a
corte
, lifting his right heel off the floor almost casually, tracing a semicircle with the tip of his shoe, at which Mecha Inzunza completed the turn with consummate ease, moving one way then the other, twice drawing closer to the man, only to pull away before becoming entangled with him once more, sliding her leg to either side of his with remarkable aplomb. She added a touch of classic lowlife elegance that was so convincing it drew gestures of approval from the onlookers at the tables.

“Good heavens,” Armando de Troeye jested, “I hope they don't end up making love in front of everyone.”

The remark riled Max, ruining his admiration for Mecha ­Inzunza's lack of inhibition on the dance floor. The man was showing off, enjoying himself, dark eyes staring into space and, beneath his mustache, mouth set in a grimace of feigned indifference, as if for him, hobnobbing with women of her class was a daily occurrence. All at once, in time to the music, he stepped to one side, came to an abrupt halt, and stamped his foot truculently. Utterly
unfazed, as if they had agreed on the move beforehand, Mecha Inzunza circled around him, rubbing against one side of his body then the other, totally compliant. A gesture of female submission that seemed to Max almost pornographic.

“My God,” he heard Armando de Troeye groan.

Glancing to the side, Max discovered to his astonishment that de Troeye did not look angry, but was watching the dancing couple, absorbed. Occasionally, he would take a sip of gin, and the liquor seemed to imprint a sardonic, vaguely satisfied smile on his lips. But Max hadn't much time to observe this, as the music stopped and the dance floor emptied. Mecha Inzunza strode over haughtily, escorted by the man. When she took her seat, as relaxed and composed as if she had just been enjoying a waltz, her partner gave a little nod and doffed his hat.

“Juan Rebenque, Madam,” he said in a calm, hoarse voice. “At your service.”

Then, barely glancing at de Troeye or Max, he wheeled around and sauntered back to the table where the two women were sitting. Watching him move away, Max knew instinctively that Rebenque—the Riding Crop—wasn't his real name, which was undoubtedly Funes, Sánchez, Roldán, but a gauchoesque moniker as outmoded as his appearance and the knife making his jacket bulge. The authentic characters he was imitating had vanished from the neighborhood fifteen or twenty years before, and, even among men like Rebenque, the revolver had long since replaced the gaucho's blade. This fellow was probably a carter who frequented these lowlife bars at night, dancing tangos, working the girls, and occasionally pulling out his antiquated knife to prove his manhood. Among men of his ilk, who were no more than neighborhood thugs, there was little sense of chivalry left, although they could still be dangerous.

“It's your turn,” Mecha Inzunza said to Max.

She had just taken a lacquered powder compact out of her bag.
Tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip had pearled her soft makeup. Out of gallantry, Max offered her the clean handkerchief from his top jacket pocket.

“Pardon?” he said.

She grasped the piece of folded white linen between her fingers.

“You wouldn't want things to end like this,” she replied coolly.

Max was about to say that's enough, I'll ask for the bill, and we'll leave, when he caught Armando de Troeye glancing at his wife in a way he had not seen him do before that evening, with a flash of contempt and defiance. It lasted only a moment before the mask of frivolous indifference descended once more, concealing everything. At which Max, changing his mind, turned with deliberate slowness toward Mecha Inzunza.

“Of course not,” he said.

She was looking straight at him. Her pale eyes, diluted perhaps by the gin, seemed more liquid than ever in the yellow glow from the electric lightbulbs. Then she did something strange. Keeping hold of his handkerchief, she picked up one of the gloves she had left on the table before going to dance, and tucked it into Max's top pocket, arranging it deftly until it resembled an elegant white bloom. Max pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked toward the table where the man and the two women were seated.

“With your permission,” he said to the man.

Rebenque looked at him with a mixture of defiance and curiosity, but Max was no longer looking at him. He had turned his attention to the blonde woman, who glanced at her older female companion (a coarse brunette) and then at the man, to see if he agreed. However, Rebenque went on staring at Max as he stood waiting politely, heels together, a faint smile on his lips, with the same careful courtesy he would have shown to any society lady at a tea dance in the Palace or the Plaza. At last, the woman stood up, embracing Max with the ease of a professional. She looked younger from close up than from a distance, despite the dark shadows
under her eyes, clumsily disguised by a thick layer of foundation. She had pale, slightly almond-shaped eyes, which, along with her pulled-back hair, accentuated her Slavic look. Possibly Russian or Polish, Max thought. As he put his arm around her, he could sense the intimacy of her body, the warmth of her tired flesh, the smell of tobacco on her clothes and hair, and on her breath the last sip of grappa and lemonade. Her skin smelled of cheap cologne: Agua Florida mixed with moist talcum powder and a woman's gentle perspiration after dancing for two hours with all kinds of men.

The orchestra struck up the first bars of another tango; despite the musicians' ragged playing, Max recognized it as “Felicia.” Other couples took the floor. He and the woman led off smoothly, Max allowing his instinct and experience to guide him. He realized after the first few steps that she was no great dancer, and yet she moved with a scornful, professional ease, her eyes gazing into the distance, and only occasionally glancing at his face to predict moves and intentions. Her body pressed inertly against Max, who could sense her nipples through her low-cut, cotton blouse, and obediently rotated her legs and hips around his waist in the most daring steps, guided by the music and his hands. She put no soul into her dancing, Max concluded. Like a sad but efficient robot, without energy or desire, like a prostitute who consents to the sexual act without experiencing the slightest pleasure. For a moment, he imagined her equally passive and compliant in a cheap hotel room like the one on that street, with the missing letter on the neon sign, while the mustachioed thug slipped the ten-peso payment into his jacket pocket. Taking off her clothes before lying down on a bed with used sheets and creaking springs. Acquiescing with the same air of weariness she now displayed as she performed the steps of the tango.

For some reason that he did not care to analyze, the idea excited him. What did tango danced that way signify if not the woman's submission, he reflected, amazed it hadn't occurred to him before, despite all that dancing, those tangos, those embraces. What was
this old way of dancing tango, far from ballrooms and evening dress, if not an absolute, complicit surrender? An arousal of old instincts, burning ritual desires, promises made flesh for a few brief moments of music and seduction. Old School Tango. If any style of dancing was perfectly suited to a certain type of woman, it was undoubtedly this. Looking at it from that point of view made Max feel an unexpected pang of desire toward the body moving obediently in his arms. The woman must have sensed it, because her blue eyes glanced at him questioningly, before her lips resumed their impassive expression and her gaze wandered off to the remote corners of the bar. For revenge, Max performed a
corte
, one leg fixed while the other simulated a step forward then back, obliging the woman, with the pressure of his right hand on her waist, to wrap herself around him once more, and, as she brushed the inside of each thigh against his stationary leg, to return to a state of utter submission. To the silent, starkly physical moan of the woman who surrenders and cannot possibly escape.

After that figure, intentionally obscene on the part of both dancers, Max glanced for the first time toward the table where the de Troeyes were sitting. She was smoking out of her ivory cigarette holder, impassive, staring at them intently. And at that moment, Max understood that the tango dancer in his embrace was a mere pretext. An obscure truce.

4

A
Woman's Gloves

I
T FINALLY HAPPENS,
the thing Max Costa has been waiting for with the assurance of someone preparing meticulously for the inevitable. He is sitting on the terrace at the Hotel Vittoria, near the statue of the naked woman who gazes out toward Vesuvius, having his breakfast in front of the luminous, blue-gray backdrop of the bay. Chewing contentedly on a piece of buttered toast, Dr. Hugentobler's chauffeur relishes the situation that for a few days has transported him back to the best moments of his former life, when everything was still possible, the world was there to be explored, and each day held the promise of a fresh adventure: hotel bathrobes, the aroma of good coffee, breakfast served on fine china sitting before vistas or women's faces that could only be attained with a certain amount of money or talent. Back in his element again, effortlessly resuming his old habits, Max sports a pair of Dr. Hugentobler's Persol sunglasses and is wearing his ­navy-blue
blazer, with a silk cravat beneath the unbuttoned collar of his ­salmon-colored shirt. He has just set down his coffee cup and is about to replace his sunglasses with a pair of spectacles, extending an arm toward the Naples edition of
Il Mattino
on the white linen tablecloth (containing an account of yesterday's game between Sokolov and Keller, which ended in a draw), when a shadow falls across the paper.

“Max?”

An impartial observer would have admired Max's nerve: he remains for a few seconds, eyes on the newspaper, and then looks up, his expression slowly changing from hesitation through surprise to recognition. Finally, removing his spectacles, he lifts the napkin to his lips and rises to his feet.

“My God . . . Max.”

The morning light causes Mecha Inzunza's eyes to sparkle, just as in the past. Faint blemishes and age spots are visible on her skin, as well as a cluster of tiny lines around her eyes and mouth, accentuated now by her astonished smile. Yet the ruthless passage of time has not succeeded in erasing the rest: her easy gestures, her sophisticated manner, the slender contours of her neck and arms, their leanness accentuated by age.

“All those years,” she declares. “My God.”

They are holding hands, gazing at each other. Max bows his head, raising her right hand to his lips.

“Twenty-nine, to be precise,” he adds. “Since autumn nineteen thirty-seven.”

“In Nice . . .”

“Yes. In Nice.”

He graciously offers her a chair, and she sits down. Max beckons the waiter and after a brief consultation orders more coffee. During these moments of neutral routine Max can sense her eyes observing him. Her voice is the same, too: calm, courteous. Exactly as he remembers it.

“You've changed, Max.”

He raises his eyebrows, accompanying the gesture with a wistful look: the slight, casual weariness of a man of the world.

“A lot?”

“Enough for me to have trouble recognizing you.”

He leans forward slightly, politely discreet: “When?”

“Yesterday, although I wasn't sure. Or rather I thought it impossible. A vague resemblance, I told myself. . . . But this morning I saw you from the doorway. I stood watching you for a while.”

Max studies her closely. Her mouth and eyes. They are identical, except for the signs of aging around them. The enamel on her teeth is less white than he remembers, no doubt affected by the nicotine of countless cigarettes. She has taken a packet of Murattis out of her cardigan pocket and is clasping it between her fingers, without breaking the seal.

“You, on the other hand, haven't changed a bit,” he says.

“Don't be silly.”

“I'm serious.”

Now it is her turn to study him.

“You've gained a little weight,” she concludes.

“More than a little, I'm afraid.”

“I remember you as being taller and slimmer. . . . And I never imagined you with gray hair.”

“But in your case, it suits you.”

Mecha Inzunza laughs out loud, a resounding laugh that is enough to rejuvenate her. As before and as always.

“Flatterer . . . you always did know how to sweet-talk women.”

“I don't know which women you are referring to. I only remember one.”

A moment's silence. She smiles and looks away, contemplating the bay. The waiter arrives opportunely with the coffee and Max pours some into her cup, filling it halfway. He glances at the sugar bowl, then at her. She shakes her head.

“Milk?”

“Yes, please.”

“You never used to take milk. No milk or sugar.”

She seems surprised that he should remember this.

“True,” she says.

Another silence, longer than the first. She continues to survey him pensively above the rim of the coffee cup as she takes small sips.

“What brings you to Sorrento, Max?”

“Oh . . . Well. I'm here on business, combined with a few days' holiday.”

“Where do you live?”

He gestures toward some vague place beyond the hotel and city.

“I have a house down there. Near Amalfi. . . . And you?”

“In Switzerland. With my son. I expect you know who he is, if you're a guest at the hotel.”

“Yes, I am. And I know who Jorge Keller is, naturally. Although the surname threw me off the scent.”

She puts down her cup, breaks the seal on the packet of cigarettes, and takes one out. Max picks up the book of matches with the hotel crest from the ashtray, leans forward, and lights her cigarette, shielding the flame with his hands. She also leans forward, and for a moment their fingers touch.

“Are you interested in chess?”

She has settled back in her chair, exhaling the smoke, which the breeze from the bay quickly disperses. Once more that look of curiosity, fixed on Max.

“Not in the slightest,” he replies, cool as can be. “Although I wandered through the room yesterday.”

“And you didn't see me?”

“I probably wasn't paying much attention. I only took a quick look.”

“So, you had no idea I was in Sorrento?”

Max shakes his head casually, with the old, professional aplomb.
Until a few days ago, he comments, he had no idea she had a son whose surname was Keller. Or that she even had a son. After Buenos Aires and what happened later in Nice, he lost track of her completely. Then the other war came, the big one. Half of Europe lost track of the other half. In many cases, forever.

“What I did know was what became of your husband. How he was killed in Spain.”

Ignoring the ashtray, Mecha Inzunza moves her cigarette to the side so that a neat portion of ash falls on the floor. A firm, delicate tap. Then she lifts it once more to her lips.

“He never got out of prison, except to be executed.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, betraying no bitterness or emotion, appropriate for speaking of something that happened many years ago. “A sad end, don't you think, for a man like that?”

“I'm sorry.”

Another puff of her cigarette. More smoke dispersed in the breeze. More ash on the floor.

“Yes. I suppose that is the right word. . . . I was sorry, too.”

“And your second husband?”

“An amicable divorce.” She allows herself another smile. “Between two reasonable people, and on good terms. For Jorge's sake.”

“Is he the father?”

“Of course.”

“I imagine you've enjoyed an easy life all these years. Your family had money. Not to mention your first husband.”

She nods, indifferently. She never had worries of that nature, she replies. Especially after the war ended. When the Germans invaded France, she moved to England. There she married Ernesto Keller, who was a Chilean diplomat: Max met him in Nice. They lived in London, Lisbon, and Santiago. Until their separation.

“Astonishing.”

“What do you find astonishing?”

“Your extraordinary life. Your son's story.”

For an instant, Max detects an unusual look in her eyes. A strange intensity: at once piercing and tranquil.

“What about you, Max . . . how extraordinary has your life been all these years?”

“Well. You know.”

“No. I don't know.”

He waves a hand at the terrace in an embracing gesture as if the proof lay there.

“Traveling here and there. Business . . . The war in Europe offered me some opportunities and took others away. I can't complain.”

“It doesn't seem you have. Any reason to complain, I mean . . . have you been back to Buenos Aires?”

The name of that city pronounced in her even voice makes Max shiver. Warily, like someone venturing into hostile territory, he studies her face once more: the tiny lines around her mouth, the dullness of her sagging skin. She is wearing no lipstick. Only her eyes are unchanged, as they were in the tango bar in Barracas or in the other places that came afterward. In the unique shared landscape of all that he remembers.

“I've lived almost entirely in Italy,” he invents on the spur of the moment. “And France and Spain.”

“Business, as you say?”

“But not the same line as before.” Max tries to muster the appropriate grin. “I was lucky, I raised some capital and things didn't go badly. Now I have retired.”

Mecha Inzunza is no longer looking at him in the same way. A somber smile appears on her face.

“Completely?”

He stirs, ill at ease. Seemingly. The pearls he saw the day before in room 429 flash through his mind with glimmers of revenge amid soft, hazy reflections. He wonders who has more unpaid debts with the other. Her or himself.

“I don't live the way I did before, if that's what you mean.”

She looks straight at him, unfazed.

“Yes, that is what I mean.”

“I haven't needed to for a long time.”

He says this without batting an eyelid. With complete calm. After all, he thinks, it isn't entirely untrue. In any case, she doesn't seem to be questioning that.

“Your house in Amalfi . . .”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad things have gone so well for you,” she says, looking at the ashtray as though seeing it for the first time. “I never thought you would lead a normal life.”

“Oh, well”—he flaps his hand, fingers in the air, in an almost Italian gesture—“I never thought you would, either. I guess we all settle down sooner or later. . . .”

Mecha Inzunza has delicately put out the remainder of her cigarette in the ashtray, carefully detaching the ember. As though purposefully lingering on Max's last words.

“You mean after Buenos Aires or Nice?”

“Of course.”

He can't help feeling a twinge of nostalgia. Memories come rushing back: whispered words like moans sliding over naked skin; long, graceful curves, caught in a mirror that duplicates the overcast sky outside, silhouetted against the gray window, which, like a fin de siècle French canvas, frames dripping palm trees, sea, and rain.

“How do you support yourself?”

Lost in thought (there is no pretense this time), it takes a moment for Max to hear the question, or to edge his way through to it. He is still busy rebelling inwardly at the overwhelming unfairness of the physical world: the woman's skin which he recalls with his five senses was smooth, warm, flawless. It can't possibly be the same one he sees before him now, scarred by time, he concludes with impotent rage. Someone must be accountable for such disrespect.

“Tourism, hotels, investments, that kind of thing,” he says at last. “I am also on the board of a clinic near Lake Garda,” he improvises once more. “I put some of my savings into it.”

“Did you marry?”

“No.”

She gazes with a distracted air at the bay beyond the terrace, as though ignoring Max's last response.

“I must be going now . . . Jorge is playing this afternoon, and it's hard work preparing everything. I only came down for a moment for some air while I had my coffee.”

“I read that you manage all his affairs. From when he was a child.”

“To some extent. I am his mother, his manager, and his secretary, arranging trips, hotels, contracts . . . that sort of thing. But he has his own team of assistants: the chess analysts with whom he prepares for each game and who accompany him everywhere.”

“Analysts?”

“A challenger for the world title doesn't work alone. These games aren't improvised. You need a team of coaches and specialists.”

“Even for chess?”

“Especially for chess.”

They rise to their feet. Max is too much of an old hand to push things any further. Events follow their own course, and to force them is a mistake. Many men have been undone by being too clever, he reminds himself. And so he smiles the way he always did, and his closely shaven face, lightly tanned by the Naples sun, is illuminated: a broad, simple flash of white, revealing a relatively good set of teeth, despite the two crowns, half a dozen fillings, and the false incisor filling the gap made by a policeman's fist at a nightclub on Cumhuriyet Caddesi in Istanbul. That winning smile, mellowed by age, of a nice fellow in his sixties.

Mecha Inzunza studies Max's smile, which she appears to recognize. Her gaze is almost one of collusion. Finally, she hesitates. Also seemingly.

“When are you leaving the hotel?”

“In a few days. When I've finished that business I mentioned.”

“Perhaps we should . . .”

“Yes. We should.”

Another hesitant silence. She has thrust her hands into the pockets of her cardigan, pulling it down slightly over her shoulders.

“Have dinner with me,” Max suggests.

Mecha doesn't reply to this. She is watching him, pensively.

“For a moment,” she says at last, “I saw you standing before me, in that ship's ballroom, so young and handsome, in your tailcoat. . . . My God, Max, you look a mess.”