What We Become (44 page)

“Perhaps it's your way of smiling,” Keller adds. “With your mouth, I mean. Your eyes appear to be somewhere else.”

“Well, your smile is similar.”

No sooner has Max spoken than he regrets his remark. To hide his frustration at his own clumsiness, he pretends to study the balls intently.

“That's why I said it,” Keller says, evenly. “It's as if I'd seen that smile before.”

He remains silent for a moment, reflecting seriously about what he has just said.

“Or possibly,” he goes on, “it's the way my mother looks at you sometimes.”

Concealing his unease, Max leans over the table, strikes the three cushions, and misses the shot.

“Melancholy?” Keller chalks his cue. “A complicit sadness? Could that be how to put it?”

“Perhaps. I don't know.”

“I dislike that look my mother gives you. How can sadness be complicit?”

“I don't know that either.”

“I'd like to know what happened between you. Although this isn't the time or the place.”

“Ask her.”

“I have. . . . All she says is: ‘Ah, Max.' When she clams up, there's no way of making her talk.”

Abruptly, as if he has suddenly lost interest in the game, Keller puts the chalk down on the rail of the table. Then he walks over to the rack on the wall and replaces his cue.

“We were talking about seeing cannons or moves just now,” he says after a moment. “And that's been my problem since I first saw you: there's something about your game I don't trust. I'm already threatened from all directions. . . . I'd ask you to stay out of my
mother's life, but that would be going too far. It's not for me to say. And so I'll ask you to stay out of mine.”

Max, who has put down his own cue, lifts his hands in a gesture of polite protest.

“I never meant to . . .”

“I believe you. I do. But it makes no difference. . . . Keep away from me, please.” Keller points at the table as if his contest with Sokolov were taking place right there. “At least until this is over.”

Toward the east, beyond the lighthouse in Nice harbor and Mont Boron, scattered clouds gathered over the sea. Leaning forward to light his pipe out of the wind, Fito Mostaza exhaled a few puffs of smoke, glanced up at the hazy sky, and winked at Max from behind his tortoiseshell spectacles.

“The weather's about to break,” he said.

They were standing below a statue of King Charles Felix, near the iron guardrail along the edge of the road with a view over the harbor. Mostaza had asked Max to meet him at a small café, which was closed when Max arrived, and so he was waiting on the road, looking at the boats moored along the dockside, the tall buildings in the background, and the huge sign advertising Galeries Lafayette. At a quarter past, he saw Mostaza's small, agile figure strolling toward him up the hill from Rauba-Capeù, hat casually tipped back on his head, jacket open over the same shirt and bow tie, hands in his trouser pockets. Seeing the café was closed, Mostaza had shrugged with silent resignation and reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch. He proceeded to fill his pipe as he positioned himself beside Max, glancing about with vague curiosity, as if to confirm what Max had been looking at while he waited.

“The Italians are getting impatient,” Max said.

“Have you seen them again?”

Max was certain Mostaza already knew the answer to his own question.

“We had a brief chat yesterday.”

“Yes,” Mostaza conceded after a moment, between puffs. “That's what I thought.”

He was contemplating the moored boats, as well as the packages, barrels, and crates piled up next to the railway line that ran alongside the quays. Finally, without taking his eyes off the harbor, Mostaza turned his head.

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

“What I have done is to tell them about you. About your proposal.”

“That's only natural.” A philosophical smile appeared around Mostaza's pipe stem. “You're covering your back as best you can. I appreciate that.”

“How nice to find you so understanding.”

“We're all human, my friend. With our fears, our ambitions, our cautiousness . . . How did they respond to the revelation?”

“They didn't. They listened carefully, looked at each other, and we changed the subject.”

Mostaza nodded, approvingly.

“Good lads. Professionals, needless to say. I wouldn't have expected any less. . . . It's a pleasure to work with people like that. Or against them.”

“I admire all this fair play,” Max remarked sarcastically. “The three of you could meet up, come to some agreement, or stab each other in a friendly way. It would make my life a lot easier.”

Mostaza burst out laughing.

“All in good time, my friend . . . Meanwhile, tell me, what have you decided in the end? Fascist dictatorship or Republic?”

“I'm still thinking it over.”

“Very well. But you're running out of time. When do you plan to break into the house?”

“In three days' time.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“A dinner party at someone's house. I know Susana Ferriol will be out for several hours.”

“What about the servants?”

“I'll worry about them.”

Mostaza was looking at Max while sucking on his pipe, as though gauging the significance of each reply. Finally, he removed his spectacles, pulled the handkerchief out of the top pocket of his jacket, and began polishing them energetically.

“I'm going to ask you a favor, Mr. Costa. . . . Whatever you decide, tell your Italian friends that in the end you have decided to work for them. Tell them as much about me as you can.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

Mostaza held his spectacles up to the light and put them on again, satisfied.

“There's more,” he added. “I actually want you to work for them. Fair and square.”

Max, who had reached for his cigarette case and opened the lid, paused in midmovement.

“You mean I should hand the documents over to the Italians?”

“That's right,” Mostaza replied, calmly holding Max's astonished gaze. “It's their operation, after all. They're paying for it. I think it only fair, don't you?”

“What about you?”

“Oh, don't worry. I'm my own boss.”

Max put the case back in his pocket without taking a cigarette. He had lost all desire to smoke, or to be in Nice, for that matter. Which part of the trap is most lethal? he was thinking. Where in this spider's web will I be ensnared? Or eaten alive?

“Did you ask me here to tell me that?”

Mostaza touched Max's elbow lightly, drawing him closer to
the railing separating them from the sheer drop into the harbor.

“Come here. Look,” he said almost tenderly. “Down there is Quai Infernet. Do you know who Infernet was? The officer in command of the
Intrépide
during the Battle of Trafalgar. He refused to flee with Admiral Dumanoir and went on fighting until the end. Do you see that merchant ship moored there?”

Max said he could (it was a black-hulled freighter with two blue stripes on its smokestack). Mostaza went on to give a brief history of that ship. The
Luciano Canfora
was carrying war matériel intended for Franco's troops: ammonia salts, cotton, tin and copper ingots. It was scheduled to set sail for Palma de Mallorca in a few days' time, and it was more than likely Tomás Ferriol who had paid for the cargo. The whole thing had been set up, Mostaza added, by a group of Francoist secret agents based in Marseille who had a shortwave radio station on a yacht moored in Monte Carlo.

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Max.

“Because you and the
Luciano Canfora
have things in common. The shipping agents think it is going to sail to the Balearic Islands, unaware that unless things go badly wrong, its next port of call will be Valencia. I am currently busy persuading the captain and his chief engineer that they will benefit more all 'round if they work for the Republic. . . . As you can see, Mr. Costa, you aren't the only cause of my sleepless nights.”

“I still don't understand why you're telling me this.”

“Because it's true . . . and because I'm sure that, in a fit of cautious honesty, you'll pass it on to your Italian friends at the first opportunity.”

Max removed his hat, and ran his hand through his hair. Despite the clouds gathering over the sea and the easterly breeze, he felt suddenly, uncomfortably hot.

“You're joking, of course.”

“Not at all.”

“Wouldn't that endanger your operation?”

Mostaza pointed his pipe at Max's chest.

“My dear friend, this is all part of the same operation. Keep watching your back and let me take care of the dirty work. . . . All I ask is for you to continue being what you are: a nice fellow loyal to everyone who approaches him, who is trying to get out of this situation as best he can. No one is going to blame you for anything. I'm sure the Italians will appreciate your forthrightness as much as I do.”

Max looked askance at him.

“Have you ever thought they might try to kill you?”

“Of course I have.” Mostaza laughed between gritted teeth, as if it were all obvious. “In my line of work, it's one of the added risks.”

Then he fell silent for a moment and contemplated the
Luciano Canfora
before turning to Max.

“The problem in this sort of mess,” he went on, fingering the scar below his jaw, “is that sometimes it's the other people who die. And, in one's own modest way, one can be as dangerous as the next man. Has it never occurred to you to be dangerous?”

“No, not really.”

“That's a shame.” Mostaza studied him with renewed interest, as though glimpsing a quality he hadn't noticed before. “I can see something in your nature, you know? A certain predisposition.”

“I get by quite well being peaceful.”

“Has it always been so?”

“You only have to look at me.”

“I envy you. Truly. I'd like to be like that, too.”

Mostaza took a couple of unrewarding puffs on his pipe, then removed it from his mouth, examining the bowl with a frown.

“Do you know something?” he went on. “Once I sat up all night in a first-class compartment, chatting with a distinguished gentleman. An extremely pleasant fellow, moreover. You remind me of him. We hit it off well. At five o'clock in the morning, no
ticing the time, I decided I knew enough and stepped out into the corridor to smoke a pipe. Then someone waiting outside entered the compartment and shot the pleasant distinguished gentleman in the head.”

He had fished out a box of matches and was relighting his pipe, absorbed by the process.

“It must be marvelous, don't you think?” he said finally, shaking the match to put it out.

“I don't know what you mean.”

Mostaza looked at him with interest, exhaling thick puffs of smoke.

“Do you know anything about Pascal?” he asked unexpectedly.

“About as much as I know about spies,” Max confessed. “Probably less.”

“He was a philosopher. He wrote about the power of flies. They win battles.”

“I don't understand.”

Mostaza's face broke into a benevolent smile, at once ironic and melancholy.

“I envy you, believe me. How reassuring to be that third man surveying the scene with indifference. To believe yourself far removed from your fascist friends and from me. Intent upon being honest with everyone, not taking sides, and then sleeping peacefully. Whether alone or in company is no concern of mine. But peacefully, all the same.”

Max was edgy, exasperated. He felt the urge to punch that cold, absurdly knowing smile, an arm's length from his face. But he was aware that, despite the fragile appearance of its owner, that smile wasn't the kind to let itself be punched easily.

“Listen,” he said, “I'm going to be rude.”

“Don't worry, go ahead.”

“I couldn't give a damn about your war, your ships, and your letters from Count Ciano.”

“I admire your bluntness,” Mostaza conceded.

“I don't care if you admire it or not. Do you see this watch? This suit made in London? Do you see my tie purchased in Paris? I worked hard to achieve all this. To wear it with ease. I sweated blood to get where I am. . . . And now that I've arrived, a whole bunch of people, in one way or another, are intent upon making things difficult for me.”

“I understand. . . . Your coveted, lucrative Europe is drooping like a fading lily.”

“Then give me time, damn you, to enjoy it a little.”

Mostaza appeared to reflect calmly about that.

“Yes,” he said. “Perhaps you're right.”

Clutching the rail, Max leaned out above the harbor, as though seeking to breathe in as much of the sea air as possible. To clear his lungs. Beyond La Réserve, he could make out Susana Ferriol's house on the rocky shoreline, in the distance, amid the ocher-and-white villas dotting the green hillside of Mont Boron.