What We Become

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Max was unperturbed by his brusque manner. So far. For the moment, they were simply two street dogs, one more dapper than the other, sniffing each other in an alleyway. They were agreed on that.

  “It will all be paid for,” he added, stressing the word all as he motioned toward the half-gram packages and the hashish. “This, and the other. Whatever it takes.”

  “The husband is a stupid Spaniard,” said Rebenque, as though sharing his thoughts. “Did you see those boots? He has more dough than brains and dresses like a Frenchy.”

  “He’ll go back to his hotel with an empty wallet. You have my word.”

  The last sentence seemed to please Rebenque, who looked at Max with renewed interest. In Barracas and La Boca, giving your word was something everyone understood. And people kept it more there than in Palermo or Belgrano.

  “What about the lady’s necklace?” the other man persisted, fingering the white scarf he wore in place of a tie. “All of a sudden she isn’t wearing it.”

  “Perhaps she lost it. But I don’t think that comes into the equation. It’s a separate matter.”

  The ruffian went on looking him straight in the eye, still with a cold smile.

  “Melina is an expensive dame. . . . Thirty pesos a night,” he said with a Buenos Aires drawl, as if the thought of money thickened his accent. “A real dame.”

  “Of course. But don’t worry. You’ll be compensated.”

  Rebenque touched the brim of his hat, tipping it back slightly, and reached for the cigar stub tucked behind his ear. He continued to look at Max, broodingly.

  “You have my word,” repeated Max.

  Rebenque leaned over without saying anything. He struck a match on the sole of his shoe and studied Max once more through the first puff of smoke. Max slid one hand into his trouser pocket, just below the bulk of the Browning.

  “Why not have a drink downstairs?” he suggested. “Listen to some nice music and smoke a good cigar. And we’ll see you later.”

  Rebenque was looking at his concealed hand. Or perhaps he had noticed the bulge of the pistol.

  “I’m a bit short on cash, my friend. Why don’t you give me something on account.”

  Max slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. Ninety pesos. That was all he had left, besides the four fifty-peso notes hidden behind the mirror in his room at the boardinghouse. Rebenque pocketed the money without counting it, and in exchange handed Max the six bags of cocaine. Three pesos each, he said coolly. The hashish is on the house. They would settle up later.

  “Heavy on the bicarbonate?” Max asked, looking at the cocaine.

  “No more than usual.” The ruffian tapped his nose with the long nail on his little finger. “But it goes in nice and smooth, like butter.”

  “Let Milena kiss you, Max.”

  Max shook his head. He was standing, jacket buttoned up, leaning against the wall between one of the divans and the open window overlooking the dark street. The fragrant smoke from the hashish drifting upward before dissolving into loose spirals made his eyes sting. He had only taken one small puff of the cigarette, which was burning down between his fingers.

  “I would prefer it if she kissed your husband. She likes him more.”

  “That’s fine by me.” Armando de Troeye chuckled, draining the champagne glass he was holding to his lips.

  De Troeye was sprawled on the other divan in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up over his wrists, tie pulled loose, jacket in a heap on the floor. The shades on the kerosene lamps shrouded the room in a dull, greenish light, giving the two women’s skin an iridescent, oily sheen. Mecha was sitting next to her husband, leaning back languidly on the fake damask cushions, arms bare, legs crossed. She had kicked off her shoes, and from time to time would raise her hashish cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply.

  “Go on, kiss him. Kiss my man.”

  Melina was standing between the two divans. She had just performed a clumsy dance, supposedly in time to the music coming from downstairs, barely audible through the closed door. She was barefoot, light-headed from the hashish, her full breasts swinging beneath her unbuttoned blouse. Her black silk stockings and underwear lay scrunched up on the carpet, and after finishing her vulgar, silent dance, she was still holding her tight skirt halfway up her thighs.

  “Kiss him,” Mecha insisted. “On the mouth.”

  “Not on the mouth,” Melina protested.

  “Either do it or get out.”

  De Troeye laughed as Melina approached him, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her face as she climbed onto the divan, sat astride him, and kissed him on the mouth. In order to do so in that position, she had to hike up her skirt even farther, and the oily, green light of the kerosene lamp slid over her skin, and along her naked legs.

  “You were right, Max,” de Troeye said, cynically. “She does like me more.”

  He had slipped a hand under her blouse and was fondling a breast. Thanks to the two sachets already lying empty on the low, oriental table, de Troeye seemed to have sobered up, despite all the alcohol he must have had in his system. It only showed, Max observed with almost professional curiosity, in his slightly lumbering movements, and the way he paused midsentence, looking for a word.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to try?” de Troeye asked.

  Max gave an evasive smile, composed yet cautious.

  “Later, perhaps.”

  Mecha was silent, the lighted cigarette smoking between her lips, as she swung one of her legs back and forth. Max realized she wasn’t looking at Melina or de Troeye, but at him. Her face was expressionless, as though the scene between her husband and the other woman meant nothing to her, or she had brought it about for his benefit. Merely so she could watch him while it was taking place.

  “Why wait?” she declared all at once.

  Slowly, she rose to her feet, smoothing her dress almost ceremoniously, the hashish cigarette still in her mouth; seizing Melina by the shoulders, she forced her to stand up, shepherding her away from her husband, and toward Max. Melina let herself be led, meek as a lamb, her unbuttoned blouse wet with perspiration and sticking to her pendulous breasts.

  “Pretty and vulgar,” said Mecha, looking straight at Max.

  “I couldn’t give a shit,” he replied, almost tenderly.

  This was the first time he had uttered a swear word in front of the de Troeyes. She held his gaze for a moment, both hands on Melina’s shoulders, before thrusting her gently forward until her damp, warm chest was pressing against Max.

  “Be good to him,” Mecha whispered in the woman’s ear. “He’s a nice, local boy. . . . And a marvelous dancer.”

  With a dazed expression, Melina clumsily sought out Max’s lips, but he turned his head away in disgust. He had thrown his cigarette out the window and was looking back at Mecha, from close up, her eyes only half visible against the greenish glow of the lamps. She seemed to be staring at him with an almost mechanical coldness, he thought. An intense, almost clinical interest. Meanwhile, the other woman had unbuttoned Max’s jacket and vest, and was busy undoing his suspenders and the top button of his trousers.

  “A disturbingly nice boy,” Mecha added, mysteriously.

  She pressed down on Melina’s shoulders, forcing her to kneel in front of Max, her face level with his sex. Just then, de Troeye’s voice rang out behind the two women: “What about me, damn it?”

  Rarely had Max witnessed the level of contempt that made Mecha’s eyes flash, before she turned to her husband, staring at him without uttering a word. I hope no woman ever looks at me like that, he said to himself quickly. For his part, de Troeye shrugged, resigned to the role of onlooker, and topped up his glass with champagne, before draining it in one go and opening another sachet of cocaine. By then, Mecha had turned back toward Max, and while Melina, still kneeling submissively, took hold of the object of the exer
cise with a distinct lack of enthusiasm (at least her tongue is moist and warm, Max reflected), Mecha dropped her cigarette on the carpet and drew her lips close to those of Max, barely touching them, while her eyes seemed to take on the greenish tinge of the kerosene lamp. She stood like that for a while, gazing at him from up close, her head and neck silhouetted against the gloom, her mouth less than an inch from his, while his senses became immersed in her trembling breath, the closeness of her soft, slender frame, the lingering aroma of hashish, perfume, and perspiration on her skin. It was that, and not Melina’s awkward performance that quickened his desire, and when his manhood finally grew firm, pushing out through his clothes, Mecha, who appeared to have been waiting for that moment, thrust the blonde woman aside, and greedily latched onto Max’s mouth, dragging him over to the divan, while behind them, her husband’s gleeful laughter rang out.

  “Surely you aren’t leaving already,” said Juan Rebenque. “So soon.”

  His sinister smile hovered between them and the door, oozing hostility. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, a defiant expression on his face, hat tilted forward, hands in his trouser pockets. Every now and then, he would stare down at his shoes, as though making sure they were properly shined for the occasion. Max, who had been prepared for this, glanced at the bulge on the left side of the man’s jacket. Then he turned to de Troeye.

  “How much money do you have on you?” he asked in a low voice.

  De Troeye’s face showed the ravages of the evening: bloodshot eyes, stubble beginning to appear on his chin, tie crooked. Melina had released his arm, and was leaning against the wall in the corridor, a bored listless expression on her face, as though all she cared about was finding a bed where she could sleep for twelve hours in one stretch.

  “About five hundred pesos,” murmured the bewildered de ­Troeye.

  “Give them to me.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  De Troeye was too dazed and weary from drink to argue. He obediently fumbled for his wallet in his inside jacket pocket, and allowed Max to empty the contents coldly. As he did so, Max could feel Mecha’s eyes on him (she was standing a little farther back in the corridor, her shawl draped over her shoulders, observing the scene), but he did not even glance at her. He needed to focus on far more important, dangerous things. The first of these was how to reach the car where Petrossi was waiting for them, with the least amount of trouble.

  “Here you are,” he said to Rebenque.

  The ruffian counted the notes coolly. When he had finished, he tapped them for a moment with the fingers of one hand, pensively. Then he slipped them into his pocket and his smile broadened.

  “There were other expenses,” he said with an exaggerated drawl. He wasn’t looking at de Troeye, but at Max. As though this were a private matter concerning the two of them.

  “I don’t think so,” said Max.

  “Well, I suggest you think again, my friend. Melina is a pretty girl, isn’t she? . . . And I had to get hold of the raviolis and everything else (he looked barefacedly at Mecha). The lady over there, and this dupe here, they had a good time tonight, didn’t they? I just want to be sure we all do.”

  “There’s no more dough,” said Max.

  Rebenque seemed to pause at the last word, and he grinned even more, as though appreciating his native slang.

  “What about the lady?”

  “She hasn’t any.”

  “I believe there was a necklace.”

  “There isn’t now.”

  The thug slid his hands out of his pockets and unbuttoned his jacket. As he did so, the ivory handle of his knife protruded from the arm of his waistcoat.

  “Then we’ll have to look into that,” he said, ogling the gold chain glinting beneath de Troeye’s jacket. “But first I’d like to know what time it is, my watch seems to have stopped.”

  Max glanced at Rebenque’s shirt cuffs, then his pockets.

  “It doesn’t look to me like you have a watch.”

  “It stopped working years ago. . . . Why would I carry around a broken watch?”

  Max thought that it wasn’t worth killing anyone for a watch. Or a pearl necklace for that matter. And yet there was something about the thug’s smirking face that riled him. Too arrogant, perhaps. And too cocksure, this Juan Rebenque, because he thought he was the only one on his home ground.

  “I told you I was born in Barracas, in Calle Vieytes, didn’t I?”

  The ruffian’s smile faded, as though his criollo mustache had cast a shadow over it. What has that to do with anything, his expression seemed to say. At this late stage in the game.

  “You keep out of this,” he replied brusquely.

  The expression on his face made his sudden use of the familiar tu seem more intimidating. Max contemplated him at length, placing the threat in the context of where it had been made. Rebenque’s manner, the hallway, the front door, the vehicle waiting in the street outside. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Rebenque had a henchman standing by, ready to lend a hand.

  “As far as I remember, there was a code of honor,” Max resumed, standing his ground. “People kept their word.”

  “Meaning?”

  “When you wanted a watch, you had to pay for it.”

  The smile had vanished from the ruffian’s face. Giving way to a menacing expression. That of a ferocious wolf, preparing to attack.

  “Are you for real or a phony?”

  One of Rebenque’s thumbs touched his waistcoat, as if edging toward the ivory handle. Max calculated the distances instantly. He was three steps away from the ruffian’s knife, which he would have to unsheathe. Max shifted almost imperceptibly to the right, so that he was facing Rebenque’s left side, and better placed to defend himself with his right arm and hand. He had learned how to position himself surreptitiously in the Legion’s brothels in Africa, while broken bottles and knives were flying. If there was going to be a fight, it was best to start off at an advantage.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. . . . Stop all this posturing,” Mecha’s voice rang out behind him. “I want to go to bed. Give him the watch and let’s get out of here.”

  This wasn’t posturing, Max knew, but this was no time for explanations. Something was already sticking in Rebenque’s craw, and Mecha herself was probably the cause, doubtless from the first time he saw her. Since they danced that tango. He had resented being excluded that night, and the drink he had taken while he waited hadn’t helped matters. The watch, the necklace Max had entrusted to Petrossi, his ninety pesos, and the five hundred de Troeye had just parted with were mere pretexts for the knife tickling the ruffian’s armpit. He wanted to show off his manliness, for Mecha’s benefit.

  “Leave,” Max said to them, without turning around. “Go straight to the car.”

  Perhaps it was his tone. Or the way he was holding Rebenque’s shifty gaze. But Mecha did not say another word. A few seconds later, Max noticed out of the corner of his eye that she and her husband were now standing beside him, closer to the door, their backs against the wall.

  “What’s the hurry, my friend?” said the ruffian. “We have all the time in the world.”

  I despise him because I know him right down to the soles of his shoes, thought Max. He could be me. His mistake is that he believes a tailored suit makes us different. That it erases the memory.

  “Get outside,” he repeated to the de Troeyes.

  The ruffian’s thumb drew closer to the knife. It was a few centimeters from the ivory handle when Max thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and found the warm metal of the 6.35 caliber pistol into whose chamber he had discreetly inserted a bullet before coming downstairs. Without taking the gun out of his pocket, he flipped the safety catch off with one finger. Rebenque lowered the brim of his hat, his dark, brooding eyes following Max’s every move. Behind them, ami
d the smoky air in the back room, the gramophone started to play “Hand to Hand.”

  “No one leaves here,” the ruffian declared brazenly.

  Then he took a step forward, threatening a flash of steel in the air. His right hand was reaching into the arm of his waistcoat when Max pushed the Browning in his face. Right between his eyes.

  “Since they invented this,” he said calmly, “bravery is a thing of the past.”

  He spoke in a hushed tone, without gloating, as if this were a friendly exchange between compadres. Trusting at the same time that his hand was steady. Rebenque stared into the black hole at the end of the barrel with a serious, almost contemplative expression. Like a gambler calculating how many trump cards he held, Max reflected. Not many, he must have decided, for after a moment his fingers uncurled from around the handle of his knife.

  “You wouldn’t be so brave either if we were evenly matched,” he said, staring straight at him, eyes flashing.

  “You’re quite right,” said Max.

  Rebenque held his gaze for a moment. Finally, he gestured with his chin toward the door.

  “Beat it.”

  The smile had returned to his lips. As stoical as it was sinister.

  “Get in the car,” Max ordered Mecha and her husband, still aiming the pistol at Rebenque.

  The tough did not even glance at the de Troeyes as they left—with a swift tap-tap of a woman’s heels on the wooden floor. His eyes were still fixed on Max, brimming with ominous, implausible conjectures.

  “How about it, my friend? . . . There are plenty of blades around here. Weapons for real men, you know. Someone could lend you one.”

  Max gave a faint, almost complicit smile.

  “Another time, perhaps. I’m in a hurry now.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Indeed.”

  He went out into the street without haste, slowly pocketing the pistol, inhaling the cold, damp early morning air with a sense of joyous relief. The Pierce-Arrow was waiting by the entrance, engine purring, headlights on, and when Max got in, slamming the door behind him, Petrossi released the handbrake, put the car in gear, and drove off with a loud screech of tires. The jolt caused Max to fall onto the backseat, between the de Troeyes.