What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

weather. It was the hour of the lunchtime aperitif, and a dozen waiters in scarlet jackets were swerving in and out of tables, holding aloft trays of drinks and snacks, while a uniformed headwaiter made sure everything ran as smoothly as expected.
    â€œThe waiters look friendly,” she remarked. “Contented . . . Perhaps it’s the sea air.”
    â€œWell, I can assure you they aren’t. They live in fear of the chief steward and the ship’s officers. Looking friendly is part of the job: they are paid to smile.”
    She looked at him with renewed curiosity. Differently.
    â€œYou seem to know a lot about it,” she ventured.
    â€œI do. But we were talking about your husband. About his music.”
    â€œOh, yes . . . I was going to tell you that Armando likes delving into the apocryphal, inventing anachronisms. He enjoys working with a copy more than with the original. With nods to other composers, whether they be Schumann, Satie, Ravel . . . To dissimulate by pretending he’s making a pastiche. Parodying above all the parodists.”
    â€œAn ironic plagiarist?”
    She studied him again in silence. Intensely. Sizing him up him both inside and out.
    â€œSome call that modernism,” he backtracked, afraid he had gone too far.
    His had a well-rehearsed smile, that of an honest fellow—or a perfect dancer as she had called him earlier. After an instant, he saw her turn away, shaking her head.
    â€œDon’t be mistaken, Max. He is an extraordinary composer, who deserves his success. He pretends to explore what he has already discovered, or to disregard details he has already inserted with precision. He knows how to be vulgar, yet even his vulgarity is sophisticated. In the way elegant people sometimes dress deliberately nonchalantly. . . . Do you know the introduction to his ‘Pasodoble for Don Quixote’?”
    â€œI’m afraid not. My musical knowledge doesn’t extend much beyond ballroom dancing.”
    â€œWhat a pity. You would understand better what I just said. The introduction to the ‘Pasodoble’ doesn’t lead anywhere. It’s a brilliant joke.”
    â€œToo complicated for me,” he said candidly.
    â€œYes.” The woman studied him carefully again. “I daresay it is.”
    Max was still leaning over the white rail. His left hand was six inches away from her right hand, which was clasping her book. He looked down at the passengers in first class. His long years oftraining allowed him to feel only a twinge of rancor. Nothing he couldn’t live with.
    â€œWill the tango your husband composes also be a joke?” he asked.
    In a sense, she replied. But not only that. Tango had become vulgar. It was all the rage, as much in fancy ballrooms as in popular theaters, the movies, and local dance halls. Armando’s idea was to play with that vulgarity, to give people back its original meaning, filtered through the irony they had just been talking about.
    â€œDissimulating in his usual way,” she concluded. “With his enormous talent. A tango that will be a pastiche of pastiches.”
    â€œA chivalry novel to end all chivalry novels?”
    For a moment she looked astonished.
    â€œHave you read Don Quixote , Max?”
    He quickly weighed his chances. Best not to take the risk, he decided. Out of senseless pride. It is easier to catch a clever impostor than an honest fool.
    â€œNo.” The same irreproachable smile, spontaneously rehearsed. “But I have read things about it in newspapers and magazines.”
    â€œPerhaps end is the wrong word. But certainly one that goes beyond them. Something that can’t be surpassed, because it has everything. A perfect tango.”
    They moved away from the rail. Over the water, gradually turning from gray to blue, the sun was dissolving the last traces of surface mist. The eight starboard lifeboats, painted white and