Max felt another stab of irritation. More acute this time.
“That’s not why I’m doing it.”
De Troeye was swinging his cane nonchalantly. He wore his cream-colored jacket unbuttoned, one thumb hooked onto the vest pocket from which a gold chain was dangling.
“I know it isn’t. That’s why I asked.”
“I told you, I don’t really know the reason,” said Max, fingering the brim of his hat awkwardly. “On board ship, you two . . .”
He paused deliberately, gazing at the rectangular patch of sunlight at the intersection of Corrientes and Florida. In fact, he was merely extricating himself from a tight spot. He walked on a few paces in silence, thinking about her: the bare flesh of her back, or beneath her gown brushing softly against her hips. And the pearls around her splendid neck, beneath the electric lights in the ship’s ballroom.
“She is beautiful, is she not?”
He knew without turning his head that Armand de Troeye was looking at him. He preferred not to speculate in what way.
“Who?”
“You know perfectly well who. My wife.”
Another silence. Finally, Max turned toward his companion.
“And what about you, Señor de Troeye?”
Max suddenly realized he didn’t like the fellow’s smile. Certainly not then. The way his mustache curled. Perhaps he had never liked it.
“Please, call me Armando,” said de Troeye. “We know each other now.”
“Very well, Armando. . . . What do you hope to get out of the visit?”
They had turned left, into Calle Florida, which after three o’clock was reserved for pedestrians, with automobiles parked on the corners and lots of storefronts. The entire street looked like a twin gallery of window displays. De Troeye flapped his hand toward them as if the answer obviously lay there.
“You know what. To compose an unforgettable tango. To offer myself that pleasure and caprice.”
He was gazing absentmindedly at men’s shirts in the window of Gath & Chaves as he spoke. They began making their way through the throng of passersby, mostly well-dressed women who were milling on the sidewalks. A newspaper kiosk displayed the latest edition of Caras y Caretas, with Carlos Gardel’s dazzling smile on the front cover.
“In fact, the whole thing started with a wager. I was at Ravel’s house in San Juan de Luz, and he made me listen to a crazy piece of music he had written for a ballet by Ida Rubinstein: a repetitive bolero, without development, based solely on a gradual crescendo of orchestral instruments. . . . If you can write a bolero, I told him, I can compose a tango. We laughed for a while, and then wagered each other a dinner. . . . And so, here I am.”
“I wasn’t only referring to tango music when I asked what you were hoping for.”
“You can’t compose a tango with music alone, my friend. Human behavior is important, too. It paves the way.”
“And how do I fit in?”
“In several ways. First of all, you are a useful means of entry into a milieu that interests me. Secondly, you are an excellent tango dancer. And thirdly, I like you. . . . You are different from most of the people born here, who are convinced that being Argentinian is a divine right.”
As he walked past the window of a store selling Singer sewing machines, Max glimpsed his reflection alongside de Troeye’s. Compared in this way, the famous composer was not noticeably superior. In fact, in terms of physique Max was the winner. Despite Armando de Troeye’s elegance and manners, Max was slimmer and taller, by almost a head. He had good posture, too. And although his clothes were more modest, or older, they looked better on him.
“What about your wife? . . . What does she think of me?”
“You ought to know that better than me.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I haven’t the faintest idea.”
They had paused, at de Troeye’s initiative, in front of the boxes outside one of the numerous bookshops in that part of the street. De Troeye hooked his cane over his arm, and without removing his gloves, touched a few of the volumes on display, although somewhat halfheartedly. Then he waved his hand dismissively.
“Mecha is an extraordinary woman,” he said. “She possesses more than simple beauty or elegance. Or rather, a lot more . . . don’t forget, I am a musician. However successful I may be, or however easy the life I lead might appear, my work comes between me and the world, and often Mecha is my eyes. My antennae, so to speak. She is the filter through which I see the universe. The fact is, I didn’t begin to learn properly from life, or from myself, until I met her. . . . She is one of those women who help us understand the times we live in.”
“What has that to do with me?”
De Troeye turned to look at him, calmly. Sardonically.
“I fear you’re giving yourself too much importance now, my dear fellow.”
He paused once more, leaning on his cane, and examining Max from head to toe, as though objectively weighing the dancer’s good looks.
“On second thought, perhaps not,” he added after a moment. “Perhaps you are giving yourself the precise amount of importance you merit.”
Suddenly he moved off again, adjusting his hat over his eyes, and Max had to catch up with him.
“Do you know what a catalyst is?” de Troeye asked without looking at him. “You don’t? . . . In scientific terms, it is something capable of producing chemical reactions or changes without altering the substances that produce them. . . . In simple terms, it facilitates or speeds up the development of certain processes.”
Max could hear him laughing now. Quietly, almost between his teeth. As though at a funny joke only he understood.
“You seem to me like an interesting catalyst,” he added. “And let me tell you something which I am sure you will agree with. . . . No woman, not even my wife, is worth more than a one-hundred-peso note or a sleepless night, unless you are in love with her.”
Max stepped aside to let a woman loaded down with parcels pass by. Behind him, at the junction they had just crossed, an automobile horn blared.
“Whatever game you’re playing, it’s a dangerous one,” Max remarked.
De Troeye’s laugh grew increasingly unpleasant before trailing off, as if running out of steam. He had halted once more, and was looking at Max, slightly at an angle due to the discrepancy in their height.
“You’ve no idea what game I am playing. But I will pay you three thousand pesos if you agree to take part in it.”
“That seems to me like a lot of money for a tango.”
“It’s far more than that,” he said, jabbing a forefinger at Max’s chest. “Will you take it or leave it?”
Max shrugged. They both knew there had never been any question about that. Not as long as Mecha Inzunza was involved.
“Barracas it is, then,” he said. “Tonight.”
Armando de Troeye nodded slowly. His serious expression belied the satisfied, almost cheerful tone in his voice:
“Splendid. Barracas.”
Hotel Vittoria, in Sorrento. The afternoon sun casts a golden glow on the curtains that have been drawn across the open windows in the spacious room, with its ornate ceiling and mirrors. At the far end, in front of eight rows of chairs occupied by members of the public, a set of lights illuminates the table situated on a dais, as well as a large wooden chessboard on the wall beside the referee’s table, where an assistant reproduces the moves. A solemn silence reigns inside the spacious room, broken at lengthy intervals by the whisper of a piece moving on the board followed by the immediate click of the chess clock, as each player presses his button, before noting down the move he has just made on the record sheet beside him.
Seated in the fifth row, Max Costa studies the two opponents. The Russian, dressed in a brown suit, white shirt, and green tie, leans back against his chair as he plays, head bowed. Mikhail Sokolov’s bro
ad head sinks into an excessively thick neck, seemingly constricted by his tie. Yet the coarseness of his features is softened by his watery blue eyes, which have a soft, sad expression. His thickset body and cropped fair hair give him the appearance of a gentle bear. Frequently, after making a move (he is Black at the moment), he takes his eyes off the board and stares lengthily at his hands. Every ten or fifteen minutes, he lights a fresh cigarette and in the intervals, the world champion picks his nose or gnaws on his cuticles, before becoming rapt once more, or else takes another cigarette out of the packet he keeps nearby, together with a lighter and an ashtray. In fact, Max observes, the Russian spends more time gazing at his hands, as though absorbed by them, than at the pieces.
Another click of the chess clock. On the other side of the table, Jorge Keller has just moved a white knight, and after unscrewing the cap of his fountain pen he jots down his move, which the assistant referee immediately reproduces on the wall panel. Each time one of the players moves a piece, an almost tangible thrill spreads through the audience, accompanied by expectant sighs and murmurs. They are halfway through the game.
Jorge Keller looks even more youthful when he is playing. His tousled black hair on his forehead, his blazer over his wrinkled khaki slacks, his loosely knotted narrow tie and incongruous sneakers give the Chilean a scruffy yet comforting appearance. Charming is the word. His whole demeanor suggests an eccentric student rather than the formidable chess player who in five months is to challenge Sokolov for the title of world champion. Max saw him arrive carrying a bottle of orange juice at the start of the game, when Sokolov was already waiting in his chair, then shake the Russian’s hand without looking at him, set the bottle down on the table, take his place, and make his first move instantaneously, almost without glancing at the board, as if he had planned his opening gambit hours or days in advance. Unlike Sokolov, the young man does not smoke and scarcely makes any other gestures while he meditates or waits, except to reach for the orange juice, which he drinks straight from the bottle. Occasionally, while waiting for Sokolov (both men take their time to calculate each move, but the Russian usually takes longer), Keller folds his arms on the edge of the table, and lays his head on them, as if he can see with his imagination better than with his eyes. He only raises his head once his opponent has moved, as though roused by the gentle thud of the enemy piece on the board.
Everything takes place too slowly for Max. Chess seems like a boring game to him, especially at this level and with all this rigmarole. He doubts his interest would grow even if Lambertucci and Captain Tedesco were to explain to him the intricacies of each move. But the situation gives him a unique vantage point to spy from. And not just on the players. Sitting in a wheelchair in the front row, accompanied by his helper and an assistant, is the benefactor of the contest, the millionaire industrialist Campanella, disabled ten years ago after crashing his Aurelia Spider on a bend between Rapallo and Portofino. In the same row, to the left, between Irina Jasenovic and the stocky man with the grizzled beard, sits Mecha Inzunza. From where Max is sitting, if he leans slightly to one side to avoid the head of the spectator in front of him, Max can see her almost in close-up, shoulders draped in the habitual fine wool cardigan, short gray hair revealing her slender neck, her features still well defined when she turns to whisper something to the stocky man on her right. And that gentle yet determined way of tilting her head, intent upon what is going on in the game, just as in the past she was absorbed by other things, Max reflects with a look of mournful longing, by other moves, no less complex than those now unfurling before them on the chessboard on the table and the other one on the wall, where the assistant referee continues to track each move.
“Here it is,” said Max Costa.
The limousine (a dark purple Pierce-Arrow with the badge of the Automobile Club on the radiator grille) stopped at the corner of a long brick wall, thirty yards from Barracas railway station. It was a moonless night, and when the chauffeur switched off the headlights the only light came from a solitary street lamp and four yellowish bulbs beneath the building’s tall awning. Toward the east, over streets lined with low houses extending to the docks of the Riachuelo River, night was extinguishing the last glimmer of reddish light in the dark sky over Buenos Aires.
“What a place,” commented Armando de Troeye.
“You wanted tango,” Max retorted.
He had climbed out of the automobile, and, after donning his hat, was holding the door open for de Troeye and his wife. By the light of the nearby street lamp, Max saw Mecha Inzunza gather her silk shawl and glance around impassively. Although not wearing a hat or jewelry, she had on a light-colored evening dress, midheeled shoes, and long white gloves. Still overdressed for that neighborhood. She seemed unfazed by the locale, with its lurking shadows and gloomy brick footpath stretching into the darkness between the wall and the elevated iron-and-concrete railway station. Her husband, on the other hand (in a double-breasted serge suit, with a hat and cane), glanced about anxiously. The atmosphere was clearly more than he had bargained for.
“Are you sure you know this place well, Max?”
“Of course. I was born three blocks away. In Calle Vieytes.”
“Three blocks? . . . Good Lord.”
Max leaned toward the chauffeur’s open window, to give him instructions. The man was a silent burly Italian, clean-shaven, with jet-black hair showing beneath his peaked uniform cap. The hotel had recommended him as a trustworthy, experienced driver when de Troeye had ordered a limousine. Max hadn’t wanted to attract too much attention by parking outside the venue. He and the couple would walk the rest of the way, and he told the chauffeur where to wait for them, within view of the place but at a safe distance. Lowering his voice slightly, he asked the man whether he was armed. The man motioned discreetly toward the glove compartment.
“Pistol or revolver?”
“Pistol,” came the brisk reply.
Max smiled.
“Your name?”
“Petrossi.”
“Sorry to make you wait, Petrossi. We will only be a couple of hours, at most.”
It didn’t cost anything to be friendly, and was an investment for the future. At night, in a place like that, a burly Italian with a pistol was invaluable. Extra security. Max saw the chauffeur nod again, curt and professional, although in the light of the street lamp he also glimpsed a flash of appreciation. He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder an instant, giving him a friendly pat before joining the de Troeyes.
“We had no idea this was your neighborhood,” the composer said. “You never mentioned it.”
“There was no reason to.”
“And did you always live here, before you went to Spain?”
De Troeye was keen to talk, doubtless to conceal his unease, which was evident anyway from his voice. Mecha Inzunza walked between the two men, her arm looped through her husband’s. She remained silent, observing everything around her; the only sound she made came from her heels clacking on the path. The three of them walked among the silent shadows of the neighborhood Max recognized at every step (the warm, moist air, the lush odor of weeds sprouting from the potholes, the muddy stench from the nearby Riachuelo), from the railway station to the squat dwellings that still preserved the old traditions of the working-class suburbs of Buenos Aires.
“Yes. I spent the first fourteen years of my life in Barracas.”
“You certainly are full of surprises.”
The echo of their footfalls multiplied as Max guided them through the railway tunnel toward the pool of light from another street lamp beyond the station. He turned to de Troeye.
“Did you bring the pistol you mentioned?”
Armando bellowed with laughter.
“Of course not. I was joking. I never carry a weapon.”
Max nodded in relief. The idea of de Troeye walking into a dive in the slums with a gun in his pocket, despite Max’
s advice, had been preying on his mind.
“Just as well.”
The district seemed almost unchanged since Max last went there twelve years before, despite having made several trips to Buenos Aires in between. At every moment he was retracing his own footsteps, remembering the tenement nearby where he spent his early childhood and youth, a slum like so many others in the neighborhood and the wider city. A chaotic, promiscuous place where any kind of privacy was unimaginable, crammed between the walls of a dilapidated two-story building, where people of all ages were crammed together: voices speaking Spanish, Italian, Turkish, German, or Polish. Rooms with doors that had never known a key, rented to large families or groups of single men, immigrants of both sexes who (if they were lucky) worked for the railway company Ferrocarril Sud, down at the Riachuelo docks, or in the nearby factories whose sirens sounded four times a day, punctuating the domestic routines of households where clocks were a rare possession. Women pounding wet clothes in bathtubs, swarms of children playing on the patio where the laundry hanging out at all hours was steeped in the smell of fried food or stews, which mingled with the stench from the communal latrines with their tarred walls. Homes where rats were like pets. A place where only the very young and a few youths smiled openly, the innocence of their tender years making them oblivious to the inevitable defeat life had in store for nearly all of them.
“There it is . . . La Ferroviaria.”
They had paused near the street lamp. Now on the far side of the railway station, they were out of the tunnel; nearly all the houses on the dark, straight street were low-roofed, except for the few two-story buildings. One of these bore a neon sign saying Hotel, the last letter missing. The place they were looking for was barely visible at the end of the gloomy street: a low edifice that looked like a store, with tin walls and roof, and a small yellow lantern above the entrance. Max waited until he saw the twin headlights of the Pierce-Arrow appear to his right, as it rolled slowly to a halt fifty yards away on the corner of the next block, where he had asked the chauffeur to park. When the headlights went off, Max observed the de Troeyes and noticed that the composer was gasping with excitement, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and that Mecha Inzunza was smiling, a strange glint in her eyes. Then, pulling his hat down slightly over his eyes, he said, “Let’s go,” and the three of them crossed the street.
What We Become Page 10
