What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Read Free Book Online

descending to her exposed neck and shoulders. And when in the pause between the two dances they stood facing each other (slightly breathless from their exertions, waiting for the music to start again, without her showing any sign of returning to her table), and he noticed tiny pearls of sweat on her upper lip, he pulled out one of his two handkerchiefs, not the one protruding from the top pocket of his tailcoat, but another, clean and ironed, from his inside pocket, and offered it to her spontaneously. She accepted the piece of folded white linen, scarcely dabbing her mouth with it before returning it to him, a little damp and smudged with lipstick. She did not even go over to the table for her bag, as Max had anticipated, to powder her nose. Max also wiped the sweat from his upper lip and brow (it did not escape her notice that he touched his lips first), then put away the handkerchief. The second tango started and theydanced as before in perfect harmony, only this time her gaze did not stray across the ballroom. After faultlessly executing a particularly complicated turn or step, they would pause for an instant and look straight at each other, before breaking the stillness on the next beat, and turning once more around the dance floor. Once, when he halted abruptly, in midmovement, cool and aloof, she clung to him, suddenly, swaying to one side then the other with a mature graceful elegance, as though fleeing his embrace without really wanting to. For the first time since he had become a professional ballroom dancer, Max felt the urge to brush the nape of her slender, youthful neck with his lips. It was then that he realized, with a casual glance, that his dance partner’s husband was sitting at the table, legs crossed, a cigarette between his fingers, watching them closely, despite his apparent indifference. And when Max looked back at her, he discovered golden reflections that seemed to explode into silences of eternal, ageless women. Keys to all the mysteries men could not fathom.

    The ship’s smoking room connected the first-class promenade decks on the port and starboard sides with the poop deck. Max Costa made his way there during the dinner break, knowing it would be almost empty at that hour. The waiter served him a double espresso in a cup bearing the Hamburg Südamerikanische crest. After loosening his white tie and starched collar, he smoked a cigarette next to the window, through which, amid the reflections of light within, the night outside was visible, the moon shining on the poop deck. As the dining room gradually emptied and passengers started to appear and fill the tables, Max got up to leave. In the doorway he stood aside to let a group of men holding cigars pass, among whom he recognized Armando de Troeye. The composer was unaccompanied by his wife, and as Max strolled along the starboard promenade deck, he searched for her among the groupsof ladies and gentlemen wrapped in overcoats, mackintoshes, and cloaks, taking the air or contemplating the ocean. It was a warm evening, but the sea was beginning to get choppy for the first time since they had set sail from Lisbon, and although the Cap Polonio was equipped with state-of-the art stabilizers, the roll of the ship brought expressions of concern. The ballroom was quiet that evening, and many of the tables remained empty, including that of the de Troeyes. The first cases of seasickness were occurring, and the musical entertainment was cut short. Max barely had a couple of waltzes, and could finish early.
    As he was about to descend to his cabin in second class, they bumped into each other next to the elevator, their reflections caught in the huge mirrors on the main staircase. She was wearing a gray fox fur cape and carrying a lamé purse. She was alone, on her way out to one of the promenade decks, and, with a swift glance, Max marveled at how steadily she walked in high heels despite the roll, for even the floor of a vessel that size took on