What We Become

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  Asia Schwarzenberg continued to observe Max closely, as though weighing his chances. She didn’t look willing to lay a five-franc bet on him.

  “Ferriol,” she went on, after a brief pause, “isn’t the sort of man who will tolerate anyone fooling around with his little sister.”

  Max calmly acknowledged the warning.

  “Is he here in Nice?”

  “He comes and goes. I bumped into him a few times about a month ago. Dining at La Réserve, and then at a party in the Antibes villa that Dulce Martínez de Hoz rented this summer. But he spends most of his time traveling between Spain, Switzerland, and Portugal. He has close ties with the Nationalist government in Burgos. They say, and I believe it, that he continues to bankroll General Franco. Everyone knows he financed the early stages of the military insurrection in Spain . . .”

  Max was looking beyond the tables at the cars parked alongside the pavement and the figures strolling continuously up and down the Promenade. Sitting at a nearby table was a couple with a skinny, cinnamon-colored dog with a noble bearing. The young woman had on a flimsy dress and a silk turban hat and was pulling at the dog’s leash to stop it from licking the shoes of the man at the next table, who was busy filling his pipe and staring at the sign above the Thomas Cook travel agency.

  “Give me a couple of days,” the baroness said. “I have to find the right strategy.”

  “I don’t have much time.”

  “I’ll do what I can. I suppose you will cover my costs.”

  Max nodded absentmindedly. The man at the nearby table had lit his pipe and was looking at them, perhaps inadvertently, and yet it made Max feel uncomfortable. There was something familiar about that stranger, he decided, although he couldn’t pin it down.

  “It won’t be cheap,” the baroness went on. “You have set your sights high with Suzi Ferriol.”

  Max looked back at her.

  “How high? . . . I was thinking six thousand francs.”

  “Eight thousand, darling. Everything is so expensive these days.”

  The man with the pipe appeared to have lost all interest in them, and was smoking as he watched the figures strolling along the Promenade. Max took out the envelope he had prepared from his inside jacket pocket, and, using the table as a shield, added another thousand francs from his wallet.

  “I’m sure you’ll make do with seven thousand.”

  “Yes, I’ll make do,” the baroness said with a grin.

  She slipped the envelope into her bag and took her leave. Max stood waiting while she moved away, then paid the bill, put on his hat, and made his way between the tables, passing the man with the pipe, who appeared not to notice him. A moment later, on the last of the three steps leading from the terrace to the pavement, he remembered. He had seen the man that morning, sitting outside Café Monnot having his shoes shined, while Max was talking to the two Italian secret agents.

  “There’s a problem,” Mecha blurts out.

  They have been strolling for a while, chatting idly, near the San Francesco cloister and the gardens of the Hotel Imperial Tramontano. The late-afternoon sun is sinking behind the cliffs overlooking the Marina Grande on their left, casting a golden glow on the haze above the bay.

  “A serious problem,” she adds after a moment.

  She has just finished her cigarette, and after loosening the ember on the iron safety rail, she throws the remains over the side. Her tone of voice and manner surprise Max, and he studies her motionless expression from the side. She narrows her eyes, staring obstinately at the water.

  “That move of Sokolov’s,” she says at last.

  Max continues to look at her, puzzled. Not knowing what she is talking about. The adjourned game ended yesterday in a draw. A half-point for each player. That is all he knows.

  “Bastards,” mutters Mecha.

  Max’s bewilderment gives way to alarm. Her tone is one of disdain, with a hint of anger. Something he has never seen in her before, he concludes. Although perhaps that isn’t entirely true. Voices from a distant shared past bubble up gently out of nowhere. Max has already experienced this. In another world, another life. That cold, polite disdain.

  “He already knew the move.”

  “Who did?”

  Hands thrust into the pockets of her cardigan, she shrugs as if the answer was obvious.

  “The Russian, of course. He knew the move Jorge was going to make.”

  It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

  “Are you telling me . . . ?”

  “That Sokolov was prepared. And this isn’t the first time.”

  A long, stunned silence.

  “But he is the world champion,” Max says, struggling to digest the information. “Surely it’s only normal for these things to happen.”

  Mecha looks away from the bay and fixes him with a silent gaze. There is nothing normal, her eyes are saying, about these things happening or being done in this way.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asks.

  “You in particular?”

  “Yes.”

  She lowers her head, pensive.

  “Because I might need your help.”

  Max is the one who is stunned now, and he rests his hand on the cliff-top rail. There is an unsteadiness about his gesture, like the sudden awareness of an unexpected, almost threatening, attack of vertigo. The social life Dr. Hugentobler’s chauffeur has invented in Sorrento has a specific purpose, which doesn’t involve Mecha Inzunza needing him. On the contrary.

  “What for?”

  “All in good time.”

  He tries to gather his thoughts. To plan what to do in this unknown situation.

  “I wonder . . .”

  Mecha Inzunza cuts across him, calmly.

  “I have been asking myself these past few days what you might be capable of.”

  Her voice as she speaks is soft, and she holds his gaze, as though watching for him to reply in kind.

  “With regard to what?”

  “To me.”

  A casual gesture of protest, barely expressed. This is the reformed Max, the successful Max, who now acts a little offended. Dismissing any conceivable doubts about his reputation.

  “You know perfectly well . . .”

  “Oh no I don’t.”

  She has stepped away from the rail and is strolling beneath the palm trees toward the cloister. After an almost theatrical pause, Max follows and draws level with her, walking alongside her in reproachful silence.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Mecha repeats, pensive. “But that isn’t my main concern.”

  Max’s curiosity gets the better of his pretense at wounded pride. He politely extends an arm to steer his companion clear of a pair of voluble Englishwomen taking photographs of each other.

  “Is this about your son and the Russians?”

  Mecha doesn’t reply straightaway. She has come to a halt at the corner of the convent, in front of a small archway leading to the cloister. She appears to hesitate about whether to keep walking, or to say what she then says: “He has an informant. Someone on the inside who is telling them how Jorge prepares his games.”

  Max blinks in astonishment.

  “A spy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here in Sorrento?”

  “Where else?”

  “But that’s impossible. There is only you, Karapetian, and Irina . . . unless there is someone you haven’t told me about.”

  Mecha shakes her head.

  “No one. Just the three of us.”

  She walks under the archway and Max follows her. After crossing the gloomy corridor, they step into the greenish luminosity of the deserted cloister, amid the columns and pointed stone arches that surround the trees in the garden. There was that sealed move, Mecha explains in hushed tones. The one her son
placed in the envelope and handed to the referee after the game was adjourned. The whole of that night and the next day were spent going over the move and its consequences, examining each of Sokolov’s possible responses. Jorge, Irina, and Karapetian carried out a systematic analysis of all the variants, preparing countermoves for each one. They all agreed that, after studying the board for no less than twenty minutes, Sokolov would most likely respond by taking a pawn with a bishop. This would give Jorge the chance to lay a trap with his knight and queen, and Sokolov’s only way out would be a risky move with his bishop—a kamikaze style of play that was typical of Keller but not of his conservative opponent. When the referee opened the envelope and played the sealed move, Sokolov, as predicted, walked straight into the trap by taking the pawn with his bishop. After which Keller played his knight and queen as agreed. And then, without batting an eyelid, analyzing for only eight minutes something it had taken Keller, Irina, and Karapetian all night to come up with, Sokolov played the risky variant with his bishop. The very move they were sure he would never attempt.

  “Could it be a coincidence?”

  “There are no coincidences in chess. Only right and wrong moves.”

  “Are you saying Sokolov already knew what your son was planning and how to counter it?”

  “Yes. Jorge’s idea was quite obscure and brilliant. Not the most logical move. Impossible to fathom in eight minutes.”

  “And couldn’t there be other people involved, an employee at the hotel, for example? Or hidden microphones?”

  “No. I’ve checked. It’s an inside job.”

  “Really? Goodness me. Then it’s either Karapetian or the girl.”

  Mecha remains silent, contemplating the trees in the little garden.

  “That’s incredible,” says Max.

  She turns toward him, almost brusquely, a mixture of astonishment and scorn on her face.

  “Why incredible? It’s simply part of life, with its customary betrayals.” Her expression has grown suddenly dark. “That should come as no surprise to you, of all people.”

  Max chooses to sidestep her comment.

  “I suppose it must be Karapetian.”

  “It could equally well be Irina.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She replies with a cold, halfhearted smile that lends itself to a host of different interpretations.

  “Why on earth would Jorge’s trainer or his girlfriend betray him?” asks Max.

  Mecha makes a weary gesture, as though disinclined to spell out the obvious. Then she lists the various possible motives in an impassive voice: personal, political, financial, adding a moment later that the reasons for the betrayal are immaterial. There will be time enough to find that out. The important thing is to protect her son. The Sorrento tournament is reaching its halfway mark, and the sixth game will be played tomorrow.

  “All this, and the world title just around the corner. Imagine the damage. The devastation.”

  The two Englishwomen taking photographs have just entered the convent. Mecha and Max move away from them, through the cloister.

  “If our suspicions hadn’t been aroused, we would have been sold down the river long before we got to Dublin.”

  “Why are you confiding in me?”

  “I told you before,” she said, with the same icy smile. “I might need your help.”

  “I don’t see how. Chess isn’t my . . .”

  “This isn’t just about chess. I also said, all in good time.”

  They have come to a halt once more. Mecha leans back against one of the columns, and Max feels a stab of his old fascination. Despite the years that have passed, Mecha Inzunza retains the stamp of her former beauty. She isn’t as splendid as she was thirty years ago, and yet she still reminds him of a serene gazelle, harmonious and agile in her movements. Realizing this, Max gives a gentle, melancholy smile. By staring at her so intently, he has miraculously conflated the features of the woman before him with those of the person he remembers: one of those unique creatures for whom, in a now distant past, sophisticated high society became a willing accomplice, a resigned servant, and a brilliant stage. The magic of all her former beauty blossoms once more before his astonished eyes, almost triumphant amid the drooping flesh, skin blemishes, and other signs of aging.

  “Mecha . . .”

  “Be quiet. Don’t.”

  He remains silent for an instant. We weren’t thinking about the same thing, he concludes. Or so it seems.

  “What will you do about Irina, or Karapetian?”

  “My son spent last night mulling it over, and we discussed it this morning. . . . A decoy move.”

  “Decoy?”

  The Englishwomen are approaching through the garden, and so Mecha lowers her voice to a whisper. It involves planning a particular move or series of moves in order to check your opponent’s response, she explains. Depending on what Sokolov does, it might be possible to deduce whether one of his analysts has warned him beforehand.

  “Is it foolproof?”

  “Not completely. The Russian might conceal the fact that he already knew by pretending to be flummoxed or in difficulty. Or even work the problem out by himself. But it could give us a clue. Sokolov’s own self-confidence might also be of some use. Have you noticed how condescending he is toward Jorge? My son’s youth and audacity infuriate him. That may be one of the world champion’s weak points. He thinks he has this sewed up. And now I am beginning to understand why.”

  “Who will you try this out on, Irina or Karapetian?”

  “Both. Jorge has come up with two theoretical innovations, two new ideas for the same, very complex, position, which have never been put into practice by any grand master. They both relate to one of Sokolov’s favorite opening gambits, and Jorge intends to use them to lay his trap. He will ask Karapetian to analyze one, and Irina the other, but insist they don’t discuss the problem with each other on the pretext of avoiding contamination.”

  “And then by playing one or the other he will unmask the traitor. Is that the idea?”

  “Roughly speaking, yes. Although it isn’t quite that simple. Depending on Sokolov’s response, Jorge will know which of the two moves he was prepared for.”

  “You seem very sure that Irina doesn’t suspect what your son is up to. To share a bed is to share intimacies.”

  “Is that the voice of experience talking?”

  “It’s the voice of common sense. For men and women.”

  You don’t know Jorge, she replies, a faint smile on her lips. His ability to be secretive, where chess is concerned. His mistrust of everything and everyone. His girlfriend, his trainer. Even his mother. And that is on a normal day. Imagine what he is like now, with this worry hanging over him.

  “Amazing.”

  “No. Just chess.”

  Now that he has at last understood, Max reflects calmly on the possibilities: Karapetian or the girl, secrets that survive pillow talk, suspicion and betrayal. Life’s lessons.

  “I still don’t know why you are telling me about this. Why you confide in me. We haven’t seen each other for thirty years. I am practically a stranger.”

  She has stepped away from the column, drawing her face nearer to his. She almost brushes against his cheek as she whispers, and for a moment, despite all the years, the ravages of time and old age, Max feels the murmur of the past, as a shudder of excitement passes through him at the closeness of Mecha’s body.

  “The decoy move for Irina and Karapetian isn’t the only one we have planned. Failing all else, there is another, which an analyst with a sense of humor might call the Inzunza Defense or the Max Variant. And that, my dear, will be played by you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You know why. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you are so stupid that you really don’t know.”

  7

  Of Thieves and Spie
s

  THE BAY OF Angels was still a deep shade of blue. The high rocks beneath the chateau of Nice offered protection from the mistral wind, which barely riffled the water on that part of the shoreline. Leaning against the parapet wall at Rauba-Capeù, Max turned his gaze from the white sails of a sloop moving away from the port and looked at Mauro Barbaresco, standing next to him with his jacket unbuttoned, his necktie loosened, hands thrust in the pockets of his crumpled trousers, hat tipped back on his head. He had dark shadows under his eyes, and his face needed the attentions of a barber.

  “There are three typewritten letters,” he was telling Max. “They’re in a folder Ferriol keeps in the safe in his study at his sister’s villa. No doubt there are other documents in there. But we’re only interested in the letters.”

  Max glanced at the other man, Domenico Tignanello, who had the same disheveled appearance as his colleague. He was standing a few yards away, leaning with a weary air against the door of a dilapidated black Fiat 514 with French plates and a dirty mudguard, gazing gloomily up at the monument to the dead of the Great War. Both men looked as if they had spent an uncomfortable night. Max imagined them lying awake, earning their meager salary as small-time spies, tailing someone (possibly him), or driving through the night from the nearby border, chain-smoking in the glare of the headlights along the twisting black ribbon of asphalt, bordered by streaks of white paint on the trees lining the road.

  “Don’t take the wrong letters,” Barbaresco went on. “We want those three and no others. Double-check before taking them, and make sure you put the file back where it was. The longer it takes Ferriol to find out they’re missing, the better.”