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

composer. I am surrounded by music and dance. But you are an excellent partner. It’s easy to follow your lead.”
    â€œI wasn’t leading you. You were yourself. I know the difference.”
    She nodded, thoughtfully.
    â€œYes. I suppose you do.”
    Max placed his hand on the wet gunwale. Between rolls, he could feel the throb of engines deep inside the ship vibrating through the deck beneath his feet.
    â€œDo you smoke?”
    â€œNot now, thank you.”
    â€œMay I?”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    He fished the silver case out of his inside jacket pocket, took out a cigarette, and raised it to his lips. She watched him.
    â€œEgyptian?” she asked.
    â€œNo, Turkish. Abdul Pashas . . . With a hint of opium and honey.”
    â€œThen I’ll have one.”
    He leaned forward holding the book of matches, and cupped the flame with his hand as he lit the cigarette she had inserted into a small ivory cigarette holder. Then he lit his. The wind quickly carried the smoke away, smothering the taste. She seemed to be shivering with cold beneath her fur cape. Max gestured toward the door of the nearby palm court, a conservatory-like room with a large light on the ceiling, furnished with wicker chairs, low tables, and potted plants.
    â€œDancing professionally,” she commented as they went in. “That seems like a strange occupation, for a man.”
    â€œI don’t see the difference. . . . We make a living from it just as easily, as you can see. Dancing isn’t always about intimacy or amusement.”
    â€œAnd is what they say true? That a woman expresses her true nature when she dances?”
    â€œSometimes. But no more than a man.”
    The room was empty. She sat on one of the chairs, casually allowing her cape to slip open. Examining her reflection in the lid of a vanity case she had pulled from her bag, she applied a touch of pale red Tangee lipstick. Her sleek hair gave her face an alluringly angular, androgynous appearance, while the black satin dress, Max thought, clung to her body in a fascinating way. Aware that he was looking at her, she crossed one leg over the other, rocking it slightly back and forth, and propping one elbow on the arm of the chair, raised the hand in which she was holding the cigarette (her nails were long and manicured, painted the same color as her lips). Every now and then, she flicked the ash onto the floor, Max noticed, as if all the ashtrays in the world were nothing to her.
    â€œI mean strange seen from close up,” she said after a while.“You’re the first ballroom dancer I’ve exchanged more than two words with: thank you and good-bye.”
    Max had brought over an ashtray and was standing, his right hand in his trouser pocket. Smoking.
    â€œI enjoyed dancing with you,” he said.
    â€œLikewise. I would do it again, if the orchestra was still playing and there were people in the ballroom.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to stop you doing so now.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    She studied his smile as if analyzing an impertinence. But the professional dancer held her gaze, unflustered. You look like a good fellow, both the Hungarian woman and Boris Dolgoruki had told him, agreeing about that although they had never met. When you smile like that, Max, no one could ever doubt that you are a damn good fellow. Try to use that to your advantage.
    â€œI’m sure you can imagine the music.”
    Once again, she flicked her ash on to the floor.
    â€œYou are very forward.”
    â€œCould you do that?”
    It was her turn to smile this time, with a hint of defiance.
    â€œOf course I could.” She blew out a puff of smoke. “I’m married to a composer, remember. My head is full of music.”
    â€œHow about ‘Mala Junta’? Do you know it?”
    â€œPerfect.”
    Max stubbed out his cigarette, then smoothed down his vest. She remained motionless for a moment: she