What We Become (13 page)

“He certainly knows something about them,” said Mecha.

De Troeye glanced at her, mildly surprised, as though wondering how much information his wife had about Max that he was unaware of.

“Of course,” he said darkly, as if to put an end to the matter. Then he smiled in a perfectly natural way, and sank his nose into his glass, as though what was important in life remained outside it.

Max and Mecha Inzunza looked straight at each other for a moment. Earlier, they had taken to the dance floor as before, her gaze drifting somewhere above his right shoulder, their eyes scarcely meeting, or possibly avoiding each other. Since the silent tango in the palm court, there was something hovering between them that changed their way of communicating as they danced: a calm complicity, made up of silences, movements, and attitudes (they performed some of the
cortes
and side steps by mutual consent, with a hint of shared, almost subversive humor), and also of implicit glances, or apparently straightforward situations, such as when Max offered her an Abdul Pasha and lit it for her hesitantly, turning to speak to her husband as if he were in fact addressing her, or when he stood waiting, heels together, with an almost military air, while Mecha Inzunza rose from her chair, casually extending a hand toward his, placing the other on the black lapel of his tailcoat as the two of them started to move in perfect harmony, skillfully avoiding the clumsier or less attractive couples already swaying on the dance floor.

“It will be fun,” Armando de Troeye said, draining his glass. It sounded like the conclusion to a long inner debate.

“Yes,” she agreed.

Bewildered, Max didn't know what they meant. He wasn't even sure they were talking about the same thing.

The clock in the smoking room at the Hotel Palace in Buenos Aires said a quarter past four when Max saw them crossing the lobby: Armando de Troeye was sporting a boater and a cane; his wife wore an elegant georgette ruffled dress with a leather belt and a wide-brimmed sun hat. He picked up his own Knapp-Felt hat (perfectly acceptable if a little shabby) and went over greet them. De Troeye apologized for their lateness (“You know, the Jockey Club and that excessive Argentinian hospitality, everyone talking about frozen meat and English thoroughbreds”), and as Max had been waiting so long, Armando suggested they go for a walk to stretch their legs and have a coffee somewhere. Mecha Inzunza made her excuses, declaring she was tired, and arranged to meet them at dinnertime, then proceeded toward the elevators as she pulled off her gloves. Max and de Troeye left the hotel together, chatting as they strolled beneath the arcades along Leandro N. Alem, the landscaped avenue opposite the port bordered by ancient trees that spring had festooned with yellow and gold blossoms.

“Barracas, you say,” de Troeye commented after listening with rapt attention. “Is that a street, or a neighborhood?”

“A neighborhood. I think that would be best . . . Or we could try La Boca.”

“Which would you suggest?”

Max said he thought Barracas was better. They both had corner cafés and brothels, but La Boca was too close to the port, and therefore swarming with sailors, dockworkers, and passing immigrants. Dives full of foreign riffraff, for want of a better word. There they played and danced a frenchified tango in the Parisian style, interesting but less pure. Barracas, on the other hand, with its
Italian, Spanish, and Polish immigrants, was more authentic. Even the musicians were. Or seemed to be.

“I understand,” de Troeye smiled, contented. “An immigrant's dagger is more tango than a sailor's switchblade.”

Max burst out laughing.

“Something like that. Only don't be deceived. A knife can be equally dangerous in one place as in the other. . . . Besides, nowadays almost everyone prefers to carry a gun.”

They turned left on the corner of Corrientes, near the Stock Exchange, leaving behind the arcades. Farther down the street, a stretch of asphalt road had been dug up as far as the old Post Office, in preparation for the new underground railway.

“What I would ask,” Max added, “is that both you and your wife dress discreetly. As I said, no flashy clothes or jewelry. And no bulky wallets.”

“Don't worry. We'll be discreet. I wouldn't want to get you into any trouble.”

Max halted, letting his companion go ahead of him around a workmen's trench.

“If there's trouble, we'll all be in it together. . . . Is it absolutely necessary for your wife to accompany us?”

“You don't know Mecha. She would never forgive me for leaving her behind at the hotel. Our outing to the slums excites her like nothing else.”

Max considered the implications of the verb “to excite” with a feeling of irritation. He detested the way the de Troeyes used certain words so glibly. Then he recalled the glint in Mecha Inzunza's eyes on board the
Cap Polonio
when she contemplated their trip to the poor neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Perhaps, he concluded, some words were more appropriate than they seemed.

“Why have you agreed to escort us there, Max? . . . Why are you doing this for us?”

Taken off guard, Max glanced at de Troeye. The question had
sounded sincere, spontaneous. And yet the composer's face was blank. As if he were asking out of politeness, mere formality, his thoughts elsewhere.

“I'm not really sure.”

They continued walking up the street beyond Reconquista and San Martin. Workmen were digging more trenches below the tramcar cables and electric street lamps, and numerous automobiles and carriages for hire circulated between them, slowing whenever they reached a narrow part of the street. The sidewalks were teeming with people.

“Needless to say, I'll reward you generously.”

Max felt another stab of irritation. More acute this time.

“That's not why I'm doing it.”

De Troeye was swinging his cane nonchalantly. He wore his cream-colored jacket unbuttoned, one thumb hooked onto the vest pocket from which a gold chain was dangling.

“I know it isn't. That's why I asked.”

“I told you, I don't really know the reason,” said Max, fingering the brim of his hat awkwardly. “On board ship, you two . . .”

He paused deliberately, gazing at the rectangular patch of sunlight at the intersection of Corrientes and Florida. In fact, he was merely extricating himself from a tight spot. He walked on a few paces in silence, thinking about her: the bare flesh of her back, or beneath her gown brushing softly against her hips. And the pearls around her splendid neck, beneath the electric lights in the ship's ballroom.

“She is beautiful, is she not?”

He knew without turning his head that Armand de Troeye was looking at him. He preferred not to speculate in what way.

“Who?”

“You know perfectly well who. My wife.”

Another silence. Finally, Max turned toward his companion.

“And what about you, Señor de Troeye?”

Max suddenly realized he didn't like the fellow's smile. Certainly not then. The way his mustache curled. Perhaps he had never liked it.

“Please, call me Armando,” said de Troeye. “We know each other now.”

“Very well, Armando. . . . What do you hope to get out of the visit?”

They had turned left, into Calle Florida, which after three o'clock was reserved for pedestrians, with automobiles parked on the corners and lots of storefronts. The entire street looked like a twin gallery of window displays. De Troeye flapped his hand toward them as if the answer obviously lay there.

“You know what. To compose an unforgettable tango. To offer myself that pleasure and caprice.”

He was gazing absentmindedly at men's shirts in the window of Gath & Chaves as he spoke. They began making their way through the throng of passersby, mostly well-dressed women who were milling on the sidewalks. A newspaper kiosk displayed the latest edition of
Caras y Caretas
, with Carlos Gardel's dazzling smile on the front cover.

“In fact, the whole thing started with a wager. I was at Ravel's house in San Juan de Luz, and he made me listen to a crazy piece of music he had written for a ballet by Ida Rubinstein: a repetitive bolero, without development, based solely on a gradual crescendo of orchestral instruments. . . . If you can write a bolero, I told him, I can compose a tango. We laughed for a while, and then wagered each other a dinner. . . . And so, here I am.”

“I wasn't only referring to tango music when I asked what you were hoping for.”

“You can't compose a tango with music alone, my friend. Human behavior is important, too. It paves the way.”

“And how do I fit in?”

“In several ways. First of all, you are a useful means of entry
into a milieu that interests me. Secondly, you are an excellent tango dancer. And thirdly, I like you. . . . You are different from most of the people born here, who are convinced that being Argentinian is a divine right.”

As he walked past the window of a store selling Singer sewing machines, Max glimpsed his reflection alongside de Troeye's. Compared in this way, the famous composer was not noticeably superior. In fact, in terms of physique Max was the winner. Despite Armando de Troeye's elegance and manners, Max was slimmer and taller, by almost a head. He had good posture, too. And although his clothes were more modest, or older, they looked better on him.

“What about your wife? . . . What does she think of me?”

“You ought to know that better than me.”

“Well, you're wrong. I haven't the faintest idea.”

They had paused, at de Troeye's initiative, in front of the boxes outside one of the numerous bookshops in that part of the street. De Troeye hooked his cane over his arm, and without removing his gloves, touched a few of the volumes on display, although somewhat halfheartedly. Then he waved his hand dismissively.

“Mecha is an extraordinary woman,” he said. “She possesses more than simple beauty or elegance. Or rather, a lot more . . . don't forget, I am a musician. However successful I may be, or however easy the life I lead might appear, my work comes between me and the world, and often Mecha is my eyes. My antennae, so to speak. She is the filter through which I see the universe. The fact is, I didn't begin to learn properly from life, or from myself, until I met her. . . . She is one of those women who help us understand the times we live in.”

“What has that to do with me?”

De Troeye turned to look at him, calmly. Sardonically.

“I fear you're giving yourself too much importance now, my dear fellow.”

He paused once more, leaning on his cane, and examining Max from head to toe, as though objectively weighing the dancer's good looks.

“On second thought, perhaps not,” he added after a moment. “Perhaps you are giving yourself the precise amount of importance you merit.”

Suddenly he moved off again, adjusting his hat over his eyes, and Max had to catch up with him.

“Do you know what a catalyst is?” de Troeye asked without looking at him. “You don't? . . . In scientific terms, it is something capable of producing chemical reactions or changes without altering the substances that produce them. . . . In simple terms, it facilitates or speeds up the development of certain processes.”

Max could hear him laughing now. Quietly, almost between his teeth. As though at a funny joke only he understood.

“You seem to me like an interesting catalyst,” he added. “And let me tell you something which I am sure you will agree with. . . . No woman, not even my wife, is worth more than a one-hundred-peso note or a sleepless night, unless you are in love with her.”

Max stepped aside to let a woman loaded down with parcels pass by. Behind him, at the junction they had just crossed, an automobile horn blared.

“Whatever game you're playing, it's a dangerous one,” Max remarked.

De Troeye's laugh grew increasingly unpleasant before trailing off, as if running out of steam. He had halted once more, and was looking at Max, slightly at an angle due to the discrepancy in their height.

“You've no idea what game I am playing. But I will pay you three thousand pesos if you agree to take part in it.”

“That seems to me like a lot of money for a tango.”

“It's far more than that,” he said, jabbing a forefinger at Max's chest. “Will you take it or leave it?”

Max shrugged. They both knew there had never been any question about that. Not as long as Mecha Inzunza was involved.

“Barracas it is, then,” he said. “Tonight.”

Armando de Troeye nodded slowly. His serious expression belied the satisfied, almost cheerful tone in his voice:

“Splendid. Barracas.”