What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

kept him awake the previous night. On the radio, which he has left on, a woman’s voice rings out from the other end of the corridor. She is singing “Resta Cu’Mme” as if the words were truly making her suffer. Max becomes distracted for a moment, listening to the song. When it has finished he returns to his bedroom, opens the drawer where he keeps his checkbook, and verifies his bank balance. His meager savings. Just enough, he thinks, to cover the necessities. The basics. Amused by the idea, he opens his wardrobe and surveys the contents, imagining probable situations, before making his way to the master bedroom. Max isunaware of it, but he walks with a relaxed spring in his step. With the same agile, self-assured gait he possessed years before, when the world was still a dangerous, thrilling adventure: a constant challenge to his wit and ingenuity. He has finally made a decision, which simplifies things, joining past and present in a surprising circle that seems to make everything fall into place. In Dr. Hugentobler’s bedroom a golden glow is seeping in through the curtains. As Max draws them back, light floods the room, revealing the view over the bay, the trees, the neighboring villas clustered on the hillside. He turns toward the closet, takes down a Gucci suitcase from the top shelf, and opens it on the bed. Hands on hips, he contemplates his boss’s well-stocked wardrobe. Dr. Hugentobler and he have more or less the same neck and chest measurements, and so he selects half a dozen silk shirts and a couple of jackets. The shoes and trousers aren’t his size, because Max is taller than Hugentobler (he sighs: he will have to pay a visit to the expensive men’s shops along the Corso Italia), but a brand-new leather belt is, and he puts it in the suitcase together with half a dozen pairs of soberly colored socks. After a final glance, he adds a couple of silk neckerchiefs, three attractive ties, a pair of gold cuff links, a Dupont lighter (although he gave up smoking years ago), and an Omega Seamaster De Ville wristwatch, also gold. Back in his own room, suitcase in hand, he hears the radio again: now Domenico Modugno is singing “Vecchio frac” (“The Old Tuxedo”). Incredible, he reflects. As if this were a good omen, the coincidence makes the former ballroom dancer smile.

2
    T angos to Cry for and Tangos to Die for
    H AVE YOU GONE mad?”
    Tiziano Spadaro, receptionist at the Hotel Vittoria, leans across the desk to take a look at the suitcase Max has placed on the floor. Then he eyes Max from the bottom up: brown, Moroccan leather shoes; gray flannel trousers; silk shirt and cravat; navy-blue blazer.
    â€œOn the contrary,” the newly arrived guest replies evenly. “I just felt like a change of scenery for a few days.”
    Spadaro strokes his bald head thoughtfully. His suspicious eyes meet those of Max, scouring them for hidden intentions. Dangerous connotations.
    â€œHave you forgotten what a room costs here?”
    â€œOf course not. Two hundred thousand lire a week . . . So what?”
    â€œI told you: we have no vacancies.”
    Max’s smile is friendly and self-assured. Almost benevolent. In it there is a trace of old loyalties and unshakable belief.
    â€œTiziano . . . I have been staying in hotels for forty years. There is always a vacancy.”
    Spadaro lowers his gaze grudgingly toward the polished mahogany counter. Max has put a sealed envelope containing ten ten-thousand-lira notes in the space between his hands. The hotel receptionist at the Vittoria contemplates it the way a baccarat player might hesitate before turning the cards he has been dealt. Finally, he moves his left hand slowly toward the envelope, brushing it with his thumb.
    â€œCall me a bit later. I’ll see what I can do.”
    Max likes the gesture: fingering the envelope without opening it. Old codes.
    â€œNo,” he says gently.