What We Become Read Free Page B

studied the husband with the steady eye of a professional hunter. He was accustomed to observing the husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, and lovers of the women with whom he danced. Men, in short, who accompanied them with pride, arrogance, boredom, resignation, or other similarly masculine emotions. There was much useful information to be gleaned from tiepins, fobs, cigarette cases, and rings; from the thickness of wallets opened as waiters approached; from the quality and cut of a jacket, the pleat of a trouser leg, or the shine on a pair of shoes. Even from the way a tie was knotted. All these details allowed Max Costa to elaborate plans and goals to the rhythm of the music, or, expressed in more mundane terms, to progress from ballroom dancing to more lucrative prospects. Time and experience had finally persuaded him of the truth of the comment Count Boris Dolgoruki-Bragation (second lieutenant in the First Regiment of the Spanish Foreign Legion) had made to him seven years earlier in Melilla, a minute and a half after regurgitating an entire bottle of cheap brandy in the backyard of Fatima’s bordello:
    â€œA woman is never just a woman, dear Max. She is first and foremost the men she once had, those she has, and those she mighthave. Without them, she remains a mystery . . . and whoever discovers that information possesses the combination to the safe. The access to her secrets.”
    When the music had finished and he accompanied his partner back to her table, Max took a last, closer look at the husband: elegant, self-assured, in his forties. Not a handsome man, yet ­pleasant-looking with his dapper mustache, curly hair flecked with gray, and lively intelligent eyes that missed nothing, including what was taking place on the dance floor. Max had searched for his name on the reservations list before approaching the woman, when she was still unaccompanied, and the headwaiter had confirmed that he was the Spanish composer Armando de Troeye, traveling with his wife. They had a deluxe first-class stateroom and a table reserved in the main dining room next to that of the ship’s captain.
    â€œIt has been a pleasure, Madam. You dance magnificently.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He bobbed his head in almost military fashion, a gesture that always pleased the ladies, as did the graceful way he took their fingers and drew them to his lips, but she responded to his gesture with a quick, cold nod before sitting on the chair her husband had pulled out for her. Max turned around, smoothing his sleek, black hair back from his temples, first with his right hand then his left, and moved away, skirting around the people on the dance floor. He walked with a polite smile on his lips, his gaze directed at the room, all five foot ten of him in his impeccable tailcoat (on which he had sunk the last of his savings before boarding the liner with a one-way contract to Buenos Aires), aware of the female interest coming from the tables where a few passengers were already standing up to make their way to the dining room. Half the room hates me right now, he concluded with a mixture of boredom and amusement. The other half are women.

    The trio pauses in front of a store selling souvenirs, postcards, and books. Although in Sorrento some of the shops and restaurants and even a few of the luxury boutiques on the Corso Italia close at the end of the summer, the old quarter around Via San Cesareo remains a tourist haunt all year round. The street is narrow, and Max keeps a prudent distance, hovering outside a salumeria where a chalkboard propped on an easel in the doorway offers discreet protection. The girl with the braid enters the store while the woman in the hat stays outside talking to the young man, who has taken off his sunglasses and is smiling. He is dark-haired, good-looking. She must be fond of him, because on one occasion she strokes his face. Then he says something and the woman laughs out loud, the distinct sound