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

a disconcerting three-dimensionality when the ocean was rough. Turning back, Max held the exterior door open for her until she was outside. She responded with a curt “thank-you” as she crossed the threshold. Max bobbed his head, closed the door, and walked back along the passageway, eight or ten steps. The last of these he took slowly, thoughtfully, before coming to a standstill. What the hell, he thought. Nothing ventured nothing gained, he concluded. Providing he trod carefully.
    He soon found her, walking along the upper deck, and stopped casually in front of her, beneath the muted glow of lights covered in sea salt. Doubtless she had come up for some air to avoid feeling seasick. Most of the passengers did the exact opposite, shutting themselves away in their cabins for days on end, prey to their own churning stomachs. For a moment, Max was worried she would walk past, pretending not to see him. But instead she stood still, gazing at him in silence.
    â€œI enjoyed our dance,” she blurted out.
    Max managed to stifle his astonishment almost instantaneously.
    â€œSo did I.”
    The woman went on gazing at him, perhaps quizzically.
    â€œHow long have you danced professionally?”
    â€œFor five years. But not all the time. The job is . . .”
    â€œAmusing?” she interrupted.
    They continued strolling along the deck, adapting their steps to the vessel’s slow sway. Occasionally they passed the dark figures or familiar faces of other passengers. The only parts of Max visible in the less illuminated areas were the white blotches of his shirtfront, waistcoat, and tie; the meticulous inch and a half of each starched shirt cuff; and the handkerchief in the top pocket of his tailcoat.
    â€œThat wasn’t the word I was looking for.” He smiled softly. “On the contrary. I was going to say part-time. It has its advantages.”
    â€œWhich are?”
    â€œWell . . . As you can see, it allows me to travel.”
    By the light of a porthole he could observe that she was the one smiling now, approvingly.
    â€œYou do it well, for something that’s only part-time.”
    Max shrugged.
    â€œFor the first few years it was more steady.”
    â€œWhere was that?”
    Max decided to omit part of his employment history, to keep certain names to himself. Including the red-light district in Barcelona and le Vieux Port in Marseille. And the name of a Hungarian dancer, Boske, who used to sing “La petite tonkinoise” while shaving her legs, and had a penchant for young men who woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, troubled by nightmares that led them to believe they were still in Morocco.
    â€œLuxury hotels in Paris in the winter,” he said, summing up. “And in the high season, in Biarritz and the C Ô te d’Azur . . . I also worked in the cabarets of Montmartre for a while.”
    â€œAh.” She seemed interested. “We may have bumped into each other.”
    â€œNo. I would remember you.”
    â€œWhat did you want to tell me?” she asked.
    For an instant he couldn’t think what she was referring to. Then he realized. After bumping into her below, he had caught up with her on the promenade deck, appearing before her without any explanation.
    â€œThat have I never danced such a perfect tango with anyone.”
    She was silent for three or four seconds, possibly contented. She had come to a halt (there was a lightbulb close by, screwed into the bulkhead) and was gazing at him through the briny blackness.
    â€œIndeed? . . . Well. You are very kind, Mr. . . . Max, isn’t that your name?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood. Believe me, I appreciate being flattered.”
    â€œIt isn’t flattery. You know that.”
    She laughed. A frank, healthy laugh. The same one as a few evenings before when he had jokingly calculated her age as fifteen.
    â€œMy husband is a