Free What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

resourcefulness, like a warrior preparing for battle. That vague awareness of the past, the familiar whiff of expectation, of imminent combat, now soothes his rediscovered sense of pride, as he dons a pair of cotton underpants, gray socks (which take a bit of effort to put on, bending over on the edge of the bed), and the shirt from Dr. Hugentobler’s wardrobe, slightly loose at the waist. In the last few years snug clothes have been in fashion, flared trousers, tight-fitting jackets and shirts, but Max, who cannot conform to such trends, prefers the classic cut of the Sir Bonser pale-blue silk shirt with button-down collar that looks like it was made for him. Before buttoning it up, his eyes linger on the small, star-shaped scar an inch in diameter on the left side just below the rib cage—courtesy of a bullet fired by a cop from the Rif in Taxuda, Morocco, on November 2, 1921, which narrowly missed his lung, and, following a spell in the hospital at Melilla, brought to an end the short-livedmilitary career of the legionnaire who five months earlier had enlisted in the 13th Company of the First Battalion of the Spanish Foreign Legion as Max Costa, thus renouncing forever his original name: Maximo Covas Lauro.

    Tango, Max explained to the composer and his wife, was a coming together of several strands: Andalusian tango, Cuban habanera, Argentine milonga, and black slave dances. When the Argentinian gauchos first brought their guitars to the bars, stores, and brothels on the outskirts of Buenos Aires, they brought with them the rural milonga, based on songs, and eventually the tango, which began as a milonga dance. The black elements were important, because in those days couples danced farther apart than they do now, with cross and back steps, simple or more elaborate turns.
    â€œBlack tango?” Armando de Troeye seemed genuinely surprised. “I didn’t realize there were black people in Buenos Aires.”
    â€œThere used to be. Former slaves, of course. They were decimated at the turn of the last century by a yellow fever epidemic.”
    The three of them were still seated at the table that had been set up in the couple’s double stateroom. It smelled of fine leather trunks and eau de cologne. Through a large window they had a view of the calm blue ocean. Max, who wore a gray suit, soft-­collared shirt, and paisley necktie, had knocked on the door at two minutes past twelve, and, after a few initial moments during which Armando de Troeye alone seemed to be at ease, the lunch (sweet pepper soup, lobster salad, and a chilled Rhine wine) had passed in an atmosphere of pleasant conversation. At first it was conducted almost entirely by de Troeye, who, after recounting a few of his own anecdotes, once again expressed interest in Max’s childhood in Buenos Aires, the return to Spain, and his time as a ballroom dancer in luxury hotels and transatlantic liners. Habitually circumspect when talking about his own life, Max had skirted aroundthe issue with brief remarks and deliberate vagueness. Finally, over coffee and cognac, at de Troeye’s request, he had resumed their discussion about tango.
    â€œThe white Argentines,” Max explained, “who at first only watched the blacks, soon adopted their way of dancing, but slowed down steps they couldn’t imitate and introduced movements from the waltz, the habanera, or the mazurka. . . . Remember at that time tango wasn’t so much a kind of music as a way of dancing, or playing music.”
    From time to time, as Max spoke, his cuffs with their silver cuff links resting on the edge of the table, his eyes met those of Mecha Inzunza. The composer’s wife had remained silent throughout most of the meal, listening to their conversation, and only occasionally commenting briefly or slipping in a question and awaiting the reply with polite interest.
    â€œThe tango danced by Italians and European immigrants,” Max went on,