What We Become (38 page)

He took a step toward her. Compelled by a sincere desire, this time.

“Mecha . . .”

“Don't come near me.”

She had slipped out of his jacket, letting it drop to the ground. A dark pool at Max's feet. The white shawl withdrew very slowly, ghostlike, amid the shadows of the pine trees.

“I want you out of my life and the lives of the people I know. As of now.”

As Max stood up clutching his jacket, he heard the engine of the Citroën start up, and the beam of the headlights cast his shadow against the parapet wall. Then the car drove off toward Nice with a screech of tires on the stony ground.

The walk back to the hotel along the road from Le Lazaret to the port was long and tedious, and Max turned up the collar of his tuxedo against the early morning chill. Amid the shadows on
the Cassini quayside, he was fortunate enough to find a coach, the driver asleep on his seat. Beneath the folded tarpaulin top as they climbed the hill at Rauba-Capeù, Max was lulled by the sway of the vehicle, aware of the horses' hooves on the firm tarmac while a ribbon of violet slowly separated the dark shadows of sea and sky. This is also the story of my life, he reflected, part of it anyway: searching in the early hours for a taxi, smelling of a woman or a wasted night, or both. In contrast with the sparse lighting in the port and the city's outskirts, as they came around the hill where the castle was, Max glimpsed the distant curve of street lamps illuminating the Promenade des Anglais, which seemed to stretch away into infinity. When they reached Les Ponchettes, he felt hungry and wanted a cigarette, so he paid off the driver and walked under the arches on the Cours Saleya, where the detritus from the flower market had a cemetery smell. He continued beneath the dark boughs of the young plane trees until he found a café that opened early.

He bought a pack of Gauloises for twelve francs and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of bread with a bowl of hot milk. He sat beside a window overlooking the street, smoking while the shadows outside faded to gray, and a couple of street cleaners connected a hose with a big, brass nozzle sluicing the ground after sweeping up the wilted stems and petals. Max reflected about the night's events and those that would take place during the coming days, doing his best to minimize the effect Mecha Inzunza's sudden appearance might have on his plans, and on his life. In order to regain control over his actions and feelings, he attempted to focus on the practical side of what awaited him, on confronting unforeseen dangers and possible variants. This was the only way, he told himself. To face his unease, the risk of making mistakes that could end in disaster. He thought of the Italian secret agents, of the man who called himself Fito Mostaza, and he wriggled uncomfortably in his chair, as if the early morning chill were seeping into his bones through the windowpane. There was too much at stake, he thought, for him to
allow the memory of Mecha Inzunza and its consequences to cloud his judgment. For the untimely alliance of what had taken place nine years ago and that very night to weaken his resolve, when he needed it to remain firm for so many reasons.

He considered briefly the possibility of fleeing. Going back to the hotel, packing his bags, and heading for new hunting grounds, in the hope of better times. As he pondered this alternative he glanced about, in search of ideas. He was looking for old certainties, useful assurances in a colorful profession and a life fraught with risk. There were two travel posters fixed to the wall with thumbtacks, one advertising the French railway, the other the Riviera. Max stared up at them thoughtfully, a cigarette hanging from his lower lip, eyes screwed up. He was fond of trains (he preferred them to transatlantic liners or the exclusive, closed society of commercial air travel), with their endless offer of adventure, life suspended between one station and the next, the possibility of establishing lucrative relationships, the sophisticated clientele of the dining car. Smoking as he lay on a narrow bunk in the sleeping car, alone or with a woman, listening to the sound of the wheels running along the tracks. He recalled one of his most recent journeys on a night train (the Orient Express from Istanbul to Vienna), climbing out at four one chilly morning in Bucharest, after dressing discreetly and quietly closing the door of his compartment that gave onto the corridor, leaving behind his suitcase and a fake passport in the conductor's safekeeping, carrying with him two thousand pounds' worth of jewelry bulging in his overcoat pockets. As for the other poster, he contemplated it with a grin. He recognized the place where the artist had made his illustration: a viewpoint amid a stand of pines overlooking Golfe-Juan and the plot of the land that, eighteen months before, for a generous commission and in partnership with an old Hungarian friend called Sandor Esterházy, Max had helped to sell to a wealthy American (Mrs. Zundel, owner of Zundel & Strauss, Santa Barbara, California). During the course of an
intimate relationship fueled by roulette, tangos, and moonlit nights, he had persuaded her to part with four million francs for it, failing to mention one crucial detail: the hundred-yard-wide strip of coast between Mrs. Zundel's land and the sea belonged to someone else, and wasn't included in the sale.

He wouldn't leave, he decided. The world was becoming too small, and the words
far away
were increasingly meaningless. Here was no worse than anywhere else; it was better even, having a mild climate and ideal neighbors. If war did break out in Europe, it would be a good place to weather the storm, or make money out of it. Max knew the Riviera like the back of his hand, he had no record here, and besides, wherever he went he would find policemen, risks, dangers. Every opportunity had a price, he decided. A roulette wheel to play. And that included Ciano's letters to Ferriol, Fito Mostaza's sinister smile, and the troubling seriousness of the Italian spies. And, in the last few hours, like an unsolved puzzle, Mecha Inzunza.

La vie est brève

Un peu de rêve

Un peu d'amour

Fini! Bonjour!

Max hummed to himself, absentmindedly. Fatalistic. No one said it would be easy to leave behind the tenement in Barracas, the hillside in Africa strewn with corpses where even the hyenas weren't in a laughing mood. There was a certain sort of man (and Max was one of them) who had no choice but to follow paths of no return. Unknown journeys on a one-way ticket. Holding that thought, he drained his coffee cup and rose to his feet, as his old professional poise, forged from within, came flowing back. Maurizio, the receptionist at the Hotel Danieli in Venice, who had seen some of the world's wealthiest men and women stand in front of his counter
and ask for their key, had said to him once, as he pocketed the generous tip Max had just given him: “Women are the only worthwhile temptation, don't you agree, Mr. Costa? Everything else is negotiable.”

A few dreams,

A little love . . .

Max left the café, hands in his pockets, a fresh cigarette in his mouth, and strolled along the wet pavement reflecting the gray dawn light until he reached the tram stop. Being happy feels good, he told himself. And realizing that you are when you are. Cours Saleya no longer smelled of rotting flowers, but of damp cobblestones and saplings dripping with morning dew.

Sitting among the audience, beneath the cherubs and blue skies painted on the ceiling of the main hall in the Hotel Vittoria, Max is following the game on the board on the wall where the players' moves are being reproduced. Since the last click of the chess clock (Jorge Keller's thirteenth move) the silence has been absolute. Besides the soft main light illuminating the dais upon which the table, two chairs, chessboard, and two players are situated, the rest of the room is almost in darkness. Outside, the evening is closing in, and the branches of the trees on the cliff top bordering the road down to the harbor, visible through the large picture windows, are tinged with a red glow.

Max hasn't managed to grasp the details of the game taking place before his eyes. He is aware, because Mecha Inzunza has explained it to him, that Jorge Keller, who is playing black, has to complete certain moves with his pawns and bishops in preparation for other, more risky and complex ones. That will be when the possible preplanned responses might start, depending on the informa
tion Sokolov has received from Irina, assuming she is the source. If so, after Keller sacrifices that pawn, Sokolov should expect Keller's bishop (which Max thinks is the one to the left of the white pieces on the board) to mount a dangerous attack on his knight. In which case, to fend off the attack, Sokolov should respond by moving one of his white pawns forward two squares.

“Those two squares would give Irina away,” Mecha had told him that afternoon, when they met in the foyer before the game commenced. “Any other move would point the finger at Karapetian.”

On Max's right, Captain Tedesco, his one good eye on the panel showing the placement of the pieces, is smoking a cigarette, using a paper cone for an ashtray. From time to time, at Max's request, he leans over to comment on a move or position. On his other side, fingers interlaced, twirling his thumbs, Lambertucci (who has put on a jacket and tie for the occasion) is closely following the progress of the game.

“Sokolov has complete control over the center of the board,” Tedesco says in a hushed voice. “I think Keller can only change the situation if he frees his bishop.”

“And will he?”

“I've no idea. Those guys can think many more moves ahead than I.”

Lambertucci, who hears what his friend is saying, agrees, also in a whisper: “Keller is preparing for one of his typical attacks. And, yes. If he manages to advance, he can do a lot of damage with his bishop.”

“What about the black pawn?” Max asks.

The other two men study the board then look at him, puzzled.

“Which black pawn?” says Tedesco.

Max is more focused on the players than on the board, where unknown forces are at play, the workings of which he doesn't understand. Sokolov, a cigarette burning down between his nicotine-­stained fingers, tilts his blond head dolefully, studying the position
of the pieces with his watery blue eyes. Facing him, Jorge Keller, tie loosened, jacket draped over the back of his chair, has just stood up (Max has noticed that he often does this when there is a long wait, to stretch his legs) and walked a few paces, hands in his pockets, a dreamy expression on his face, contemplating the floor as though measuring it out with long strides in his sneakers. When the game started, he walked in purposefully, without looking at anyone, holding his customary bottle of orange juice. He extended his hand to his opponent, who remained seated, put the bottle down on the table, and watched Sokolov make his opening gambit before moving one of his pawns. Mostly, he sits motionless, head resting on his arms, which are folded in front of the board, occasionally taking a swig of his orange juice out of the bottle, or standing up and walking a few paces, as he is doing now. The Russian hasn't left his seat once. Leaning back in his chair, gazing continuously down at his hands, as if the board were superfluous, he plays with tremendous calm: relaxed, unperturbed, living up to his nickname, the Soviet Wall.

The soft thud of felt on wood, followed by the click of the chess clock as Sokolov presses the button setting off his opponent's timer, bring Keller back to the board. A restrained, almost inaudible murmur sweeps around the room. Keller looks at the black pawn Sokolov has just taken, lined up next to the others. Instantly reproduced on the panel by the referee's assistant, the Russian's move seems to open the way for one of Keller's bishops, hitherto blocked.

“This doesn't look good,” murmurs Tedesco. “I think the Russian has made a mistake.”

Max glances at Mecha, who is sitting in the front row, but he can only see her cropped, silvery hair, her head completely still. Beside her, he sees Irina's face from the side. Her eyes aren't on the panel, but rather on the board and the players. Next to Irina, Emil Karapetian is watching, mouth half-open, absorbed. The other end of the first row, and part of the second row, is taken up by the entire
Soviet delegation—more than fifteen of them by Max's count. As he studies them one by one (fusty-looking clothes by Western standards, white shirts, thin ties, lighted cigarettes, inscrutable faces) he can't help wondering how many of them work for the KGB. Or whether any of them do.