What We Become

What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

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Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
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the illustrated magazines with photographs of young officers—CaptainSo-and-so of the Army, Lieutenant Such-and-such of the Spanish Foreign Legion, or of the Cavalry—who died heroically (they all died heroically in the society pages of La Esfera or Blanco y Negro ) in Sidi Hazem, Ketama, Bab el Karim, and Igueriben.
    â€œDo you mean in Morocco? . . . Melilla, Annual, and all those dreadful places?”
    â€œYes. All those places.”
    He was leaning back against the rail enjoying the cool breeze on his face, squinting in the bright sunlight reflecting off the sea and the white lifeboat. As he slipped his hand inside his blazer and retrieved the cigarette case engraved with a stranger’s initials, he noticed Mecha Inzunza watching him intently. She continued to stare at him as he offered her a cigarette from the open case, and shook her head. Max took out an Abdul Pasha, snapped the case shut, and tapped one end of the cigarette on the lid before placing it between his lips.
    â€œWhere did you learn those manners?”
    He had taken out a book of matches embossed with the Hamburg Südamerikanische crest, and was trying to light his cigarette in the lee of the lifeboat. This time, too, his reply was sincere.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean.”
    She had taken off her dark glasses. Her eyes seemed much paler, more translucent in that light.
    â€œDon’t be offended, Max, but something about you puzzles me. You have flawless manners, and you are blessed with good looks, of course. You are a wonderful dancer and more dapper than many gentlemen I know. And yet you don’t seem . . .”
    He smiled to disguise his awkwardness, and struck a match. Despite cupping his hands around the flame, the wind blew it out before he could light his cigarette.
    â€œEducated?”
    â€œThat isn’t what I meant. You don’t display the clumsy exhibitionism of a social climber, or the crude affectation of those pretending to be what they are not. You don’t even possess the natural arrogance of a handsome young man. You seem to please everyone, without even trying. And I am not only referring to the ladies. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œAnd yet the other day you told us about your childhood in Buenos Aires and your return to Spain. Life doesn’t seem to have been very kind to you then. . . . Did things improve after that?”
    Max struck another match, successfully this time, and looked at her through the first puff of smoke from his cigarette. All of a sudden, he no longer felt threatened by her. He remembered the red-light district in Barcelona, La Canebière in Marseille, the sweat and fear in the Legion. The bodies of three thousand men, baking in the sun, scattered along the road between Annual and Monte Arruit. And the Hungarian woman, Boske, in Paris, her sublime body, naked in the moonlight that poured in through the only window in the attic on Rue de Furstenberg, onto the crumpled sheets amid silvery shadows.
    â€œSomewhat,” he replied at last, looking at the sea. “Or rather, I improved somewhat.”

    The sun has hidden behind the Punta del Capo, and the Bay of Naples is growing slowly darker with a last shimmering glow upon the water. In the distance, beneath the dark folds of Vesuvius, the first lights are being turned on along the coast stretching from Castellammare to Pozzuoli. It is dinnertime, and the terrace at the Hotel Vittoria is gradually emptying. From his chair, Max Costa sees the woman rise and walk toward the glass door. Their eyes meet again momentarily, but her gaze, casual and distracted, passes over his face with indifference. This is the first time in Sorrento that Max sees her from close up, and he notices that although she still shows traces of her former beauty (especially her eyes andthe delicate shape of her lips), time has left its mark on her: her

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