What We Become (26 page)

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

T
he Promenade des Anglais

A
FTER 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 off.”

“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?”

“Or in prison.”

“I have been in one or two,” he admits. “Not often or for long, but I have been there.”

“I'm amazed you managed to turn your life around. How did you do it?”

Once again Max pulls an ambiguous face that embraces every imaginary possibility. The smallest detail can often wreck the best cover.

“I had a couple of lucky breaks after the war. Friends. Business opportunities.”

“And the odd wealthy woman, perhaps?”

“I don't think so . . . I forget.”

At that moment, the man Max once was would have created a timely pause, lighting a cigarette with easy elegance. But he no longer smokes, and besides, the gin in his Negroni has upset his stomach. So he does his best to look impassive, wishing he could dissolve a teaspoon of liver salts in a glass of warm water.

“Don't you feel any nostalgia for those days, Max?”

She is looking at Jorge and Irina, who are still dancing beneath the lanterns in the park. To a rock number, this time. Max watches them move on the floor then stares at the leaves, yellowing in the darkness, or lying shriveled on the ground, next to the tables.

“I feel nostalgia for my youth,” he replies, “or rather for what was attainable because of it. . . . On the other hand, I have found that autumn brings calm. At my age it makes me feel safe, far removed from the shocks of spring.”

“Don't be so ridiculously polite. Say
our
age.”

“Never.”

“Idiot.”

A pleasant silence, once more conspiratorial. Mecha reaches into her jacket pocket for some cigarettes, leaves the packet on the table without lighting one.

“I know what you mean,” she says at last. “I feel the same. One day I realized there were more unpleasant people around, hotels were no longer as elegant, and traveling was less fun. Cities were uglier, and men more ill-mannered, less attractive . . . and then the war in Europe swept away the last remnants.”

She falls silent again for a moment.

“Fortunately, I had Jorge,” she adds.

Max nods absentmindedly, reflecting on what she has said. He doesn't say so, but she is mistaken. At least in his case. His problem isn't nostalgia for the good old days, but rather something far more clichéd. He spent most of his life struggling to survive in that milieu, to adapt to a world, which, when it collapsed, would end up dragging him down as well. And when that happened, he was too old to start again: life had ceased to be a vast hunting ground abounding in casinos, expensive hotels, transatlantic liners, and luxurious railway trains, where an ambitious young man's fortunes could be decided by the way he parted his hair or lit a cigarette. Hotels, traveling, cities, ill-mannered, unattractive men, as Mecha had said, with remarkable precision. The old Europe of dance halls and palaces, Ravel's “Bolero,” and the “Old School Tango” could no longer be contemplated through a champagne glass.

“My God, Max . . . You were a handsome devil. That composure, so refined and roguish at the same time.”

She gazes at him intently, as though scouring his aged features for the attractive youth she once knew. Tamely, with an air of graceful stoicism (on his lips the gentle expression of a man who has accepted the inevitable), he submits to her examination.

“An exceptional story, don't you think?” she says at last, softly. “You and me . . . Us, the
Cap Polonio
, Buenos Aires, Nice.”

Perfectly calm, without uttering a word, Max leans forward slightly, seizes her hand, and kisses it.