The woman danced well, Max Costa realized. Easily and with a certain boldness. She followed him confidently when he tested her ability with a more complicated, inventive sidestep that a less nimble woman would have stumbled over. He guessed that she was about twenty-five. Tall and slender, with long arms, slim wrists, and legs that seemed to go on forever beneath her dark taffeta dress with violet overtones, cut low at the back. Thanks to the high heels she was wearing, which set off her gown, her serene face with its well-defined features was on a level with his. She wore her ash-blond hair crimped according to the prevailing fashion that season, and cut in a short bob that exposed her neck. As she danced, she kept her eyes fixed on a point above the shoulder of her partner’s tailcoat, where her left hand adorned with a wedding ring was resting. Their eyes had not met since he’d approached with a polite bow, offering to lead her in one of the slow waltzes they called a Boston. Hers were the color of liquid honey, almost translucent, enhanced by a perfect application of mascara (no more than was necessary, the same as with her lipstick) beneath the fine arc of her plucked eyebrows. She was nothing like the other women Max had accompanied that evening in the ballroom: middle-aged ladies reeking of musky perfumes such as lily and patchouli, or awkward young girls dressed in light-colored dresses with skirts below the knee, who bit their lips as they struggled to keep in step, blushed when he placed a hand on their waist or clapped to a hupa-hupa. And so, for the first time that evening, the ballroom dancer on the Cap Polonio began to enjoy his job.
Their eyes didn’t meet again until the Boston (called “What I’ll Do”) was over and the orchestra launched into a rendering of the tango “A media luz.” They had stood there facing each other for a moment in the middle of the half-empty dance floor. At the first bars, realizing she wasn’t intending to return to her table (where a man in a tuxedo, doubtless her husband, had just sat down), he opened his arms wide, and the woman instantly responded, impassive as before. She placed her left hand on his shoulder, extended her right arm slowly, and they began moving across the dance floor (gliding was the word, Max thought), her eyes once more gazing past the ballroom dancer without looking at him, even as she shadowed his movements with surprising precision, his slow, sure rhythm, while, for his part, he endeavored to maintain the proper distance, their bodies touching just enough to perform the figures.
“Was that all right?” he asked after a difficult figure eight, which the woman had followed effortlessly.
At this she finally afforded him a fleeting glance. Possibly even the semblance of a smile, which faded instantly.
“Perfect.”
In recent years, the tango, originally Argentinian but brought into vogue in Paris by the Apache dances, had been all the rage on both sides of the Atlantic. And so the floor was soon filled with couples twirling more or less gracefully, linking steps, embraces, and releases, which, depending on the dancers’ ability, could be anywhere from passable to grotesque. Max’s partner, however, responded with ease to the most complex moves, adapting to the traditional, obvious steps as well as to the occasional embellishments which, increasingly sure of his companion, he would improvise, always in that slow, restrained style, introducing breaks and delicate side steps, which she followed effortlessly, without missing a beat. It was obvious she too was enjoying moving to the music, from the smile she graced Max with each time they performed a difficult turn, and from her bright gaze that would occasionally stop staring into space and alight for a few seconds, contentedly, on the ballroom dancer.
As they twirled around the dance floor, Max studied the husband with the steady eye of a professional hunter. He was accustomed to observing the husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, and lovers of the women with whom he danced. Men, in short, who accompanied them with pride, arrogance, boredom, resignation, or other similarly masculine emotions. There was much useful information to be gleaned from tiepins, fobs, cigarette cases, and rings; from the thickness of wallets opened as waiters approached; from the quality and cut of a jacket, the pleat of a trouser leg, or the shine on a pair of shoes. Even from the way a tie was knotted. All these details allowed Max Costa to elaborate plans and goals to the rhythm of the music, or, expressed in more mundane terms, to progress from ballroom dancing to more lucrative prospects. Time and experience had finally persuaded him of the truth of the comment Count Boris Dolgoruki-Bragation (second lieutenant in the First Regiment of the Spanish Foreign Legion) had made to him seven years earlier in Melilla, a minute and a half after regurgitating an entire bottle of cheap brandy in the backyard of Fatima’s bordello:
“A woman is never just a woman, dear Max. She is first and foremost the men she once had, those she has, and those she might have. Without them, she remains a mystery . . . and whoever discovers that information possesses the combination to the safe. The access to her secrets.”
When the music had finished and he accompanied his partner back to her table, Max took a last, closer look at the husband: elegant, self-assured, in his forties. Not a handsome man, yet pleasant-looking with his dapper mustache, curly hair flecked with gray, and lively intelligent eyes that missed nothing, including what was taking place on the dance floor. Max had searched for his name on the reservations list before approaching the woman, when she was still unaccompanied, and the headwaiter had confirmed that he was the Spanish composer Armando de Troeye, traveling with his wife. They had a deluxe first-class stateroom and a table reserved in the main dining room next to that of the ship’s captain.
“It has been a pleasure, Madam. You dance magnificently.”
“Thank you.”
He bobbed his head in almost military fashion, a gesture that always pleased the ladies, as did the graceful way he took their fingers and drew them to his lips, but she responded to his gesture with a quick, cold nod before sitting on the chair her husband had pulled out for her. Max turned around, smoothing his sleek, black hair back from his temples, first with his right hand then his left, and moved away, skirting around the people on the dance floor. He walked with a polite smile on his lips, his gaze directed at the room, all five foot ten of him in his impeccable tailcoat (on which he had sunk the last of his savings before boarding the liner with a one-way contract to Buenos Aires), aware of the female interest coming from the tables where a few passengers were already standing up to make their way to the dining room. Half the room hates me right now, he concluded with a mixture of boredom and amusement. The other half are women.
The trio pauses in front of a store selling souvenirs, postcards, and books. Although in Sorrento some of the shops and restaurants and even a few of the luxury boutiques on the Corso Italia close at the end of the summer, the old quarter around Via San Cesareo remains a tourist haunt all year round. The street is narrow, and Max keeps a prudent distance, hovering outside a salumeria where a chalkboard propped on an easel in the doorway offers discreet protection. The girl with the braid enters the store while the woman in the hat stays outside talking to the young man, who has taken off his sunglasses and is smiling. He is dark-haired, good-looking. She must be fond of him, because on one occasion she strokes his face. Then he says something and the woman laughs out loud, the distinct sound reaching the ears of the man spying on them: a clear, forthright laugh that makes her seem much more youthful and awakens precise memories from the past that set Max aquiver. It is her, he concludes.
Twenty-nine years have passed since he last saw her. A light rain was falling then on a coastal landscape, in autumn: a dog was scampering across the wet pebbles on the beach, beneath the balustrade on Avenue des Anglais, in Nice. Beyond the white façade of the HÔtel Negresco, the city melted into the gray, misty landscape. All the years that have gone since then could confuse the memory. And yet, the ex-ballroom dancer, current employee, and chauffeur to Dr. Hugentobler is no longer in any doubt. It is the same woman—the identical way of laughing, of tilting her head to one side, her composed gestures. The casual elegance with w
hich she keeps one hand in the pocket of her cardigan. He would like to move nearer, to see her face close up, but he does not dare. While he wrestles with his indecision, the girl with the long braid emerges from the store, and the three of them walk back the way they came, past the salumeria where Max has quickly taken refuge. From inside, he sees the woman in the hat go by, studies her face in outline, and is absolutely certain. Eyes like liquid honey, he notes with a shiver. And so, carefully, at a safe distance, he follows them once more across Piazza Tasso to the hotel.
He saw her again the next day, on the boat deck. It was pure chance, as neither he nor she had any business being there. Like the other employees on the Cap Polonio who were not part of the ship’s crew, Max Costa was supposed to steer clear of the first-class area and promenade decks. In order to avoid the passengers in teak and wicker deck chairs taking the sun as it shone on the starboard side (those playing skittles and quoits, or skeet shooting, occupied the port side), he decided to climb a ladder to another deck, where eight of the sixteen lifeboats stood lined up on their chocks alongside the liner’s three gigantic red-and-white smokestacks. It was a peaceful place, a neutral area few passengers used, for the lifeboats were an eyesore and blocked the view. The only concession to anyone wanting to go there were a few wooden benches. On one of these, as he passed between a hatchway painted white and one of the huge ventilation outlets that sucked fresh air into the bowels of the ship, Max recognized his dance partner from the previous evening.
It was a bright, clear day, pleasantly warm for that time of year. Max had left his cabin without a hat, gloves, or cane (he was dressed in a gray suit with a vest, a soft-collared shirt, and a knitted tie) and so as he walked past the woman he simply bowed politely. She wore a smart flannel suit: a three-quarter-length jacket and a pleated skirt. She was reading a book resting in her lap, and as he walked in front of her, momentarily blocking the sun, she looked up at him, her oval face framed beneath the narrow brim of her felt hat. Perhaps it was the glimmer of recognition Max thought he detected in her eyes that made him pause for a moment, with the discretion appropriate to the situation and to their respective positions on the ship.
“Good morning,” he said.
The woman, who was lowering her gaze again toward her book, responded with another silent stare and a brief nod.
“I am . . . ,” he blurted, feeling suddenly awkward, on shaky ground, and already sorry he had spoken to her.
“Yes,” she replied calmly. “The gentleman from last night.”
She said gentleman instead of dancer, and he was secretly grateful for it.
“I don’t know whether I told you,” he added, “that you dance magnificently.”
“You did.”
She was already returning to her book. A novel, he noticed, glancing at the cover, which she was holding half-open on her lap: The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse by Vicente Blasco Ibáñez.
“Good-bye. Enjoy your reading.”
“Thank you.”
He moved on, unaware of whether her eyes remained glued to her book or if she was watching him leave. He did his best to walk nonchalantly, one hand in his trouser pocket. When he reached the last lifeboat, he paused beside it, took out a silver cigarette case (engraved with initials that weren’t his), and lit a cigarette. He took advantage of the gesture to cast a surreptitious glance toward the prow, to the bench where the woman was still reading, head down. Not interested.
Grand Albergo Vittoria. Buttoning up his jacket, Max Costa passes beneath the gold sign on the arched, wrought-iron gateway, nods at the security guard, and walks down the driveway bordered by ancient pines and every kind of tree and plant. The gardens are spacious, stretching from Piazza Tasso to the edge of the cliff, which looks out over Marina Piccola and the sea, and where the hotel’s three main buildings are perched. In the middle one, at the bottom of a small flight of steps, Max finds himself in the lobby, in front of the glass doors leading to the conservatory and the terrace, which (unusually for that time of year) is full of people enjoying an aperitif. To the left, behind the reception desk, is an old acquaintance: Tiziano Spadaro. Their association dates back to a time when the man who is currently chauffeur to Dr. Hugentobler was a guest in such places as the Hotel Vittoria. Many a generous tip, changing hands discreetly according to a set of unwritten codes, laid the basis for a friendship, which over time had become sincere, or complicit.
“Well, if it isn’t Max. You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been a long time.”
“Almost four months.”
“Good to see you.”
“And you. How is life?”
Spadaro shrugs (he has thinning hair, and his protruding belly strains under his black vest), reeling off the usual list of complaints about his job out of season: fewer tips, weekenders accompanied by aspiring young actresses or models, groups of loud Americans doing the Naples-Ischia-Capri-Sorrento-Amalfi tour, a night spent in each place, breakfast included, who are forever ordering bottled water because they don’t trust what comes out of the tap. Fortunately (Spadaro gestures toward the door to the bustling conservatory) the Campanella Cup has come to the rescue: the Keller-Sokolov duel has filled the hotel with chess players, journalists, and fans.
“I want some information. Off the record.”
Spadaro doesn’t remark “just like in the old days,” and yet his expression, surprised at first and then mocking, taken somewhat off guard, lights up with the familiar look of collusion. Close to retirement, with fifty years of experience behind him after starting as a bellhop in the Hotel Excelsior in Naples, Spadaro has seen everything. And that includes Max Costa in his prime. Or not yet past it.
“I thought you’d given all that up.”
“I have. This is different.”
“I see.”
The old receptionist appears relieved. Then Max asks him about an elegant older lady, accompanied by a girl and a good-looking young man, who entered the hotel ten minutes ago. Perhaps they are guests.
“They are, of course . . . the young man is none other than Keller himself.”
Max blinks absentmindedly. The girl and the young man are what least interest him.
“Who?”
“Jorge Keller, the Chilean grand master. Contender for the title of world chess champion.”
Max remembers at last, and Spadaro fills in the details. The Luciano Campanella Cup, held this year in Sorrento, is sponsored by the Turin multimillionaire, one of the biggest shareholders in Olivetti and Fiat. A great chess enthusiast, Campanella organizes an annual contest in landmark sites all over Italy, always in the most luxurious hotels, where he invites the most famous grand masters, whom he pays handsomely. The encounter takes place over four weeks, some months before the official contest for the world championship, and has come to be considered the unofficial world championship between the two best chess players of the moment: the titleholder and the most prominent challenger. In addition to the prize money (fifty thousand dollars for the winner and ten thousand for the runner-up), the prestige of the Campanella Cup resides in the fact that, so far, the victor of the contest has either gone on to win the world title or has retained it. Sokolov is the current champion; and Keller, who has beaten all the other candidates, is the challenger.
“That young man is Keller?” Max says, astonished.
“Yes. A pleasant lad, relatively normal, which is unusual in his profession. . . . The Russian is less friendly. Always surrounded by bodyguards and cautious as a fox.”
“What about her?”
Spadaro makes a dismissive gesture, the one he reserves for low-status guests. Those without much history.
“She’s the fiancée. And part of his team (the receptionist leafs through the hotel register to refresh his memory). Irina. Irina Jasenovic. The name is Yugoslav, but her passport is Canadian.”
“I meant the older woman. The one with
the short gray hair.”
“Ah, she’s the mother.”
“Of the girl?”
“No. Of Keller.”
He bumped into her again two days later, in the ship’s ballroom. Dinner was to be a black-tie affair: the captain was honoring some distinguished guest, and a number of male passengers had exchanged their customary black tuxedo for a tight-fitting tailcoat, starched bib front, and white bow tie. The diners had gathered in the ballroom, drinking cocktails and listening to the music before going on to dinner. After the meal a few of the youngest or more fun-loving would return there and stay on until the small hours. The orchestra started with the usual slow waltzes and smooth melodies, and Max Costa danced half a dozen sets, almost all of them with young girls and married women traveling en famille. Max reserved a slow fox-trot for an Englishwoman, past her prime but not bad-looking, who was there with a girlfriend. He had seen them whisper and nudge each other whenever he swept past their table. The Englishwoman was blonde, plump, with a rather abrupt manner. Although perhaps a little vulgar (he thought he detected too much My Sin on her) and festooned with jewelry, she was not a bad dancer. She had pretty blue eyes, too, and enough money to make her attractive: the clutch bag on the table was of gold mesh, he confirmed at a glance as he stood before her to invite her onto the dance floor; and the jewels looked real, in particular the sapphire bracelet and matching earrings, the stones of which, once removed from their settings, would fetch five hundred pounds sterling. He had discovered from the reservations list that her name was Miss Honeybee. Widowed or divorced, the headwaiter, a man called Schmöcker (nearly all the officers, seamen, and permanent members of staff on the ship were German) had hazarded, with the assurance of someone having fifty Atlantic crossings under his belt. And so, after a careful study of the woman’s responses to his manners and proximity, and without making a single inappropriate gesture—maintaining proper distance and a professional aloofness throughout, and ending as he returned her to her table with a splendid, manly smile (met with a perfunctory “so nice” from the Englishwoman)—Max placed Miss Honeybee on his list of possibles. Five thousand sea miles and a three-week crossing could provide rich pickings.