What We Become (53 page)

“We want you to come with us.”

He has a Slavic accent. Almost certainly Russian. What else would it be. Max walks backward, toward the telephone on the night table. The lank-haired man watches him, expressionless.

“It wouldn't be wise to make a scene, sir.”

“Get out.”

Max points to the door, which remains open with the other man out in the corridor. He is short, his shoulders ominously broad, like those of a wrestler, bulging beneath a tight, black leather jacket. His arms hang loosely by his sides, ready to tackle any unexpected event. The man raises the hand with the ring, as if it were holding up an irrefutable argument.

“If you'd prefer the Italian police, that's no problem. It's your choice. We just want to talk.”

“What about?”

“You know perfectly well what about.”

Max thinks for five seconds, trying not to yield to panic. His heart is racing and his legs feel like jelly. He would slump onto the bed, except that this would be seen as a sign of surrender or guilt. An implicit confession. He curses himself silently for a moment. Staying at the hotel was a foolish, unforgivable mistake, like a
mouse enjoying the cheese while the trap is springing shut. He never imagined they'd identify him so quickly.

“Whatever this is about, we can discuss it here,” he ventures at last.

“No. There are some gentlemen who'd like to speak to you at a different location.”

“And where might that be?”

“Not far. About five minutes' drive.”

As he says this, the man with lank hair taps with one finger the dial of his watch, as if it were proof of reliability and precision. Then he glances at the man in the corridor, who enters the room, closes the door quietly, and begins searching the room.

“I refuse to go anywhere,” Max protests, with a determination he is far from feeling. “You have no right.”

Unperturbed, as though his interest in Max were momentarily suspended, the man with lank hair allows his colleague to carry out his duty. The other one riffles through the chest of drawers and makes a thorough search of the wardrobe. Then he looks under the mattress and the bed. Finally, he shakes his head and says four words in a Slavic language, of which Max can only understand the Russian
nichivó
: nothing.

“That no longer matters,” the man with lank hair says, resuming the interrupted conversation. “Rights or no rights . . . the choice is yours. Either you talk to the gentlemen I mentioned or to the police.”

“I have nothing to hide from the police.”

The two intruders are quiet and motionless now, staring at him coldly, and Max is more alarmed by their stillness than by their silence. After a moment, the man with lank hair scratches his nose. Thoughtful.

“I tell you what we'll do, Mr. Costa,” he says at last. “I'm going to take one of your arms, and my friend here will take the other, and together we'll walk downstairs, through the foyer to the car we have
waiting outside. You may or may not agree to come quietly. . . . If you don't, there'll be a scene, and the hotel will call the Sorrento police. In which case, you can acknowledge your responsibility and we'll acknowledge ours. But if you come with us, everything will take place discreetly and without any violence. . . . Which do you prefer?”

Max is trying to win time. To think. To list possible or impossible solutions, ways of escape.

“Who are you? Who sent you?”

The man with lank hair looks impatient.

“We've been sent by some peace-loving chess enthusiasts, who want to discuss a couple of suspect moves with you.”

“I know nothing about that. I have no interest in chess.”

“Really? . . . You don't give that impression. You've gone to a great deal of trouble for someone your age.”

While he is speaking, the man with lank hair picks up Max's jacket, which was on the chair, and hands it to him with an impatient, almost brusque gesture. As if his last reserves of courtesy are almost exhausted.

The suitcase lay open on the bed, ready to be closed: shoes in flannel bags, undergarments, folded shirts, three suits doubled over in the lid. A fine leather travel bag, matching the suitcase. Max was getting ready to leave Mecha Inzunza's house in Antibes for the railway station in Nice, where he had a seat reserved on the Blue Train. Count Ciano's three letters were hidden in his suitcase, the lining of which he had unglued and carefully reglued back together. He hadn't decided what to do with them, although keeping them in his possession was a risky business. He needed time to assess the significance of what had occurred the previous night at Susana Ferriol's villa, and in the apartment on Rue Droite. And to weigh the possible consequences.

He had just knotted his tie and was in his shirtsleeves, the buttons of his vest still undone, and was looking at himself in the bedroom mirror: his hair slick with pomade parted off center, his freshly shaven face smelling of Floïd cologne. Fortunately, he bore few marks of his struggle with Fito Mostaza: the swelling on his lip had gone down, and a little makeup (Max had used some of Mecha's face powder) had covered the bruising under his eye.

When he turned around, doing up all but the bottom button on his vest, she was standing in the doorway, dressed, holding a cup of coffee. He hadn't heard her come in, and had no idea how long she'd been watching him.

“What time does your train leave?” asked Mecha.

“Seven-thirty.”

“Are you sure you want to leave?”

“Yes.”

She took a sip, gazing pensively at the cup.

“I still don't know what happened last night. . . . Why did you come here?”

Max spread his hands. Nothing to hide, his gesture said.

“I already told you.”

“You told me nothing. Only that you'd had a serious problem and couldn't stay at the Negresco.”

He nodded. He had been preparing for this conversation for a while. He knew she wouldn't let him leave without asking questions, and it was true she deserved some answers. The memory of her flesh and her mouth, her naked body entwined with his, agitated him once more, throwing him for a moment. Mecha Inzunza was so beautiful that leaving her felt almost like an act of violence. For an instant, he reflected about the limitations of the words
love
and
desire
amid all this uncertainty, the doubts and the urgency of fear, with no guarantees about the future or the present. That dismal flight, to where and with what consequences he did not know, eclipsed everything else. Only after he had escaped could he
ponder the effect Mecha had on his body and mind. It could have been love, of course. Max had never loved before, and so he didn't know. Possibly love was that unbearable wrench, the emptiness at his looming departure, the overwhelming sadness that almost supplanted his instinct to flee and survive. Perhaps she loved him as well, he thought suddenly. In her own way. Perhaps, he thought, too, they would never see each other again.

“Yes,” he said, at last, “a serious problem. Or rather, a lethal one. Which ended in a rather nasty fight. Hence the need for me to disappear for a while.”

She looked at him almost without blinking.

“What about me?”

“You'll stay here, I imagine.” Max made a gesture with his hand that could have embraced that room or the whole of Nice. “I'll know where to find you when things have calmed down.”

Still fixed on him, Mecha's eyes radiated a deadly seriousness.

“Is that all?”

“Listen,” Max said, slipping on his jacket. “Without wanting to be dramatic, my life could be at stake here. In fact, there's no could about it. It is.”

“Is someone looking for you? Who?”

“It'd take too long to explain.”

“I have time. I can listen to however much you care to tell me.”

On the pretext of making sure his luggage was in order, Max avoided her eyes. He closed his suitcase and pulled the straps tight.

“Then you're lucky. I have neither the time nor the energy. I'm still confused. There are things I wasn't expecting . . . matters I don't know how to handle.”

The distant sound of a telephone reached them from somewhere in the house. It rang four times and stopped suddenly, without Mecha taking any notice.

“Are the police looking for you?”

“Not that I know of.” Max held her gaze with sufficient composure. “I wouldn't risk taking the train if they were. But things can change, and I don't want to be around when that happens.”

“You still haven't answered my question. What about me?”

The maid appeared. Madam was wanted on the telephone. Mecha handed her the coffee cup and they disappeared down the corridor. Max put his suitcase on the floor, closed his travel bag, and placed it next to the suitcase. Then he went over to the dressing table to pick up the things he had left there: wristwatch, fountain pen, wallet, lighter, and cigarette case. He was fastening the Patek Philippe around his left wrist when Mecha came back. He glanced up and saw her leaning against the door frame, exactly as she had been before she went off, and he knew straightaway something was wrong. She had news, and it wasn't good.

“That was Ernesto Keller, my friend from the Chilean consulate,” she said with total calm. “He tells me someone broke in to Suzi Ferriol's villa last night.”

Max remained stock-still, his fingers busy fastening the clip on his watch.

“How terrible . . .” he managed to say. “And how is she?”

“She's fine.” Her voice was icy. “She was out when it happened, at a dinner party in Cimiez.”

Max looked away, reached out a hand, and picked up his Parker pen, with as much calm as he could muster. Or conjure.

“Did they take anything of value?”

“That's for you to tell me.”

“Me? . . .” He made sure the cap was on properly before slipping the pen into his inside jacket pocket. “How should I know?”

He looked straight at her, fully composed now. Without moving from the doorway, she folded her arms.

“Spare me the customary excuses, pretense, and lies,” she commanded. “I'm in no mood for this nonsense.”

“I assure you I haven't—”

“Damn you. The moment I saw you at Suzi's place I knew you were up to something. Only I never thought it would be there.”

She strode over to Max. For the first time since he'd met her, he saw her face contorted with rage. An acute exasperation that tensed her features, clouding her expression.

“She's my friend. . . . What have you stolen from her?”

“You're making a mistake.”

Motionless before Max, almost enraged, she glowered at him. It was all he could do not to recoil.

“The same mistake I made in Buenos Aires, you mean?”

“It isn't what you think.”

“Tell me what it is, then. And what this robbery has to do with the state you were in last night. With your wound and the bruises on your face. . . . Ernesto said that when Suzi got home, the thieves had already fled.”

He didn't reply. He was trying to hide his unease while apparently verifying the contents of his wallet.

“What happened afterward, Max? If there was no violence there, where did it take place? And with whom?”

He still said nothing. He had no more excuses not to look her in the eye, because Mecha had picked up his cigarette case and lighter and was lighting a cigarette. Then she hurled both objects onto the table. The lighter bounced off and landed on the floor.

“I'm going to report you to the police.”

She exhaled into his face, from close up, as though spitting the smoke at him.

“And don't look at me like that, because I'm not afraid . . . not of you or your accomplices.”

Max stooped to pick up his lighter. The knock had dented the top, he noticed.

“I don't have any accomplices.” He slipped the lighter into his vest pocket and the cigarette case into his jacket. “And it wasn't a robbery. I got mixed up in something I didn't go looking for.”

“You've spent your whole life looking, Max.”

“Not this time. I assure you.”

Mecha remained very close, staring at him sternly. And Max knew that he couldn't evade her questioning. On the one hand, she had a right to know some of what had happened. On the other, leaving her behind angry and bewildered in Nice was to add unnecessary risks to his already precarious situation. He needed a few days' peace. A few hours, at least. And then possibly he could manage her. After all, like the rest of womankind, she only needed persuading.

“It's a complicated matter,” he confessed, exaggerating the difficulty of his admission. “I was used. I had no choice.”

He paused for a moment, timing it to perfection. Mecha listened, waiting attentively, as if her life and not Max's hung in the balance. And then, after hesitating a little longer, before relating the rest, he told her the truth. Perhaps it was a mistake to go this far, he told himself. But he had no time to reflect about it and could not imagine another way out.