What We Become (24 page)

“Marvelously authentic,” de Troeye said approvingly.

Mecha also seemed pleased with the place. She was studying
everything with a vague smile, eyes shining, mouth slightly open, as though breathing in that atmosphere stimulated her senses. Occasionally her eyes met those of Max, and revealed a mixture of excitement, appreciation, and promises. At such moments, Max's desire became more urgent and physical, eclipsing his anxieties about where they were and with whom. His eyes lingered pleasurably on Mecha's hips, right in front of him, as Margot led the group upstairs to a room with Turkish-style furnishings, including two green oil lamps on a low table, carpets with cigarette burns, and two large divans. A burly waiter with the air of a circus strongman brought in two bottles of alleged champagne, and two bundles of cigarettes, while the company installed themselves on the divans. All except for Rebenque, who left with Margot: to fetch food for the canaries, he said with a grin. By then Max had reached a decision, and he walked out into the corridor to wait for Rebenque, listening to the strains of “The Way to the Workshop” drifting up the stairway from the gramophone below. After a while, Rebenque reappeared carrying hashish cigarettes and six little bags, containing half-gram doses carefully folded in grease paper.

“I have a favor to ask,” said Max. “Man to man.”

The ruffian looked at him with sudden mistrust, trying to guess his intentions. His smile, ever-present beneath his criollo mustache, froze on his lips.

“I've been with the lady for a while,” Max went on, without batting an eyelid. “And her husband likes Melina.”

“So?”

“So, five is an uneven number.”

Rebenque appeared to reflect for a moment about even and uneven numbers.

“Hey, my friend,” he said at last. “Do you take me for a fool?”

Max was unperturbed by his brusque manner. So far. For the moment, they were simply two street dogs, one more dapper than
the other, sniffing each other in an alleyway. They were agreed on that.

“It will all be paid for,” he added, stressing the word
all
as he motioned toward the half-gram packages and the hashish. “This, and the other. Whatever it takes.”

“The husband is a stupid Spaniard,” said Rebenque, as though sharing his thoughts. “Did you see those boots? He has more dough than brains and dresses like a Frenchy.”

“He'll go back to his hotel with an empty wallet. You have my word.”

The last sentence seemed to please Rebenque, who looked at Max with renewed interest. In Barracas and La Boca, giving your word was something everyone understood. And people kept it more there than in Palermo or Belgrano.

“What about the lady's necklace?” the other man persisted, fingering the white scarf he wore in place of a tie. “All of a sudden she isn't wearing it.”

“Perhaps she lost it. But I don't think that comes into the equation. It's a separate matter.”

The ruffian went on looking him straight in the eye, still with a cold smile.

“Melina is an expensive dame. . . . Thirty pesos a night,” he said with a Buenos Aires drawl, as if the thought of money thickened his accent. “A real dame.”

“Of course. But don't worry. You'll be compensated.”

Rebenque touched the brim of his hat, tipping it back slightly, and reached for the cigar stub tucked behind his ear. He continued to look at Max, broodingly.

“You have my word,” repeated Max.

Rebenque leaned over without saying anything. He struck a match on the sole of his shoe and studied Max once more through the first puff of smoke. Max slid one hand into his trouser pocket, just below the bulk of the Browning.

“Why not have a drink downstairs?” he suggested. “Listen to some nice music and smoke a good cigar. And we'll see you later.”

Rebenque was looking at his concealed hand. Or perhaps he had noticed the bulge of the pistol.

“I'm a bit short on cash, my friend. Why don't you give me something on account.”

Max slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. Ninety pesos. That was all he had left, besides the four fifty-peso notes hidden behind the mirror in his room at the boardinghouse. Rebenque pocketed the money without counting it, and in exchange handed Max the six bags of cocaine. Three pesos each, he said coolly. The hashish is on the house. They would settle up later.

“Heavy on the bicarbonate?” Max asked, looking at the cocaine.

“No more than usual.” The ruffian tapped his nose with the long nail on his little finger. “But it goes in nice and smooth, like butter.”

“Let Milena kiss you, Max.”

Max shook his head. He was standing, jacket buttoned up, leaning against the wall between one of the divans and the open window overlooking the dark street. The fragrant smoke from the hashish drifting upward before dissolving into loose spirals made his eyes sting. He had only taken one small puff of the cigarette, which was burning down between his fingers.

“I would prefer it if she kissed your husband. She likes him more.”

“That's fine by me.” Armando de Troeye chuckled, draining the champagne glass he was holding to his lips.

De Troeye was sprawled on the other divan in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up over his wrists, tie pulled loose, jacket in a heap on the floor. The shades on the kerosene lamps shrouded the room in a dull, greenish light, giving the two women's skin an iridescent, oily sheen. Mecha was sitting next to her husband,
leaning back languidly on the fake damask cushions, arms bare, legs crossed. She had kicked off her shoes, and from time to time would raise her hashish cigarette to her lips, inhaling deeply.

“Go on, kiss him. Kiss my man.”

Melina was standing between the two divans. She had just performed a clumsy dance, supposedly in time to the music coming from downstairs, barely audible through the closed door. She was barefoot, light-headed from the hashish, her full breasts swinging beneath her unbuttoned blouse. Her black silk stockings and underwear lay scrunched up on the carpet, and after finishing her vulgar, silent dance, she was still holding her tight skirt halfway up her thighs.

“Kiss him,” Mecha insisted. “On the mouth.”

“Not on the mouth,” Melina protested.

“Either do it or get out.”

De Troeye laughed as Melina approached him, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her face as she climbed onto the divan, sat astride him, and kissed him on the mouth. In order to do so in that position, she had to hike up her skirt even farther, and the oily, green light of the kerosene lamp slid over her skin, and along her naked legs.

“You were right, Max,” de Troeye said, cynically. “She does like me more.”

He had slipped a hand under her blouse and was fondling a breast. Thanks to the two sachets already lying empty on the low, oriental table, de Troeye seemed to have sobered up, despite all the alcohol he must have had in his system. It only showed, Max observed with almost professional curiosity, in his slightly lumbering movements, and the way he paused midsentence, looking for a word.

“Are you sure you don't want to try?” de Troeye asked.

Max gave an evasive smile, composed yet cautious.

“Later, perhaps.”

Mecha was silent, the lighted cigarette smoking between her lips, as she swung one of her legs back and forth. Max realized she wasn't looking at Melina or de Troeye, but at him. Her face was expressionless, as though the scene between her husband and the other woman meant nothing to her, or she had brought it about for his benefit. Merely so she could watch him while it was taking place.

“Why wait?” she declared all at once.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, smoothing her dress almost ceremoniously, the hashish cigarette still in her mouth; seizing Melina by the shoulders, she forced her to stand up, shepherding her away from her husband, and toward Max. Melina let herself be led, meek as a lamb, her unbuttoned blouse wet with perspiration and sticking to her pendulous breasts.

“Pretty and vulgar,” said Mecha, looking straight at Max.

“I couldn't give a shit,” he replied, almost tenderly.

This was the first time he had uttered a swear word in front of the de Troeyes. She held his gaze for a moment, both hands on Melina's shoulders, before thrusting her gently forward until her damp, warm chest was pressing against Max.

“Be good to him,” Mecha whispered in the woman's ear. “He's a nice, local boy. . . . And a marvelous dancer.”

With a dazed expression, Melina clumsily sought out Max's lips, but he turned his head away in disgust. He had thrown his cigarette out the window and was looking back at Mecha, from close up, her eyes only half visible against the greenish glow of the lamps. She seemed to be staring at him with an almost mechanical coldness, he thought. An intense, almost clinical interest. Meanwhile, the other woman had unbuttoned Max's jacket and vest, and was busy undoing his suspenders and the top button of his trousers.

“A disturbingly nice boy,” Mecha added, mysteriously.

She pressed down on Melina's shoulders, forcing her to kneel
in front of Max, her face level with his sex. Just then, de Troeye's voice rang out behind the two women: “What about me, damn it?”

Rarely had Max witnessed the level of contempt that made Mecha's eyes flash, before she turned to her husband, staring at him without uttering a word. I hope no woman ever looks at me like that, he said to himself quickly. For his part, de Troeye shrugged, resigned to the role of onlooker, and topped up his glass with champagne, before draining it in one go and opening another sachet of cocaine. By then, Mecha had turned back toward Max, and while Melina, still kneeling submissively, took hold of the object of the exercise with a distinct lack of enthusiasm (at least her tongue is moist and warm, Max reflected), Mecha dropped her cigarette on the carpet and drew her lips close to those of Max, barely touching them, while her eyes seemed to take on the greenish tinge of the kerosene lamp. She stood like that for a while, gazing at him from up close, her head and neck silhouetted against the gloom, her mouth less than an inch from his, while his senses became immersed in her trembling breath, the closeness of her soft, slender frame, the lingering aroma of hashish, perfume, and perspiration on her skin. It was that, and not Melina's awkward performance that quickened his desire, and when his manhood finally grew firm, pushing out through his clothes, Mecha, who appeared to have been waiting for that moment, thrust the blonde woman aside, and greedily latched onto Max's mouth, dragging him over to the divan, while behind them, her husband's gleeful laughter rang out.

“Surely you aren't leaving already,” said Juan Rebenque. “So soon.”

His sinister smile hovered between them and the door, oozing hostility. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, a defiant expression on his face, hat tilted forward, hands in his trouser pockets. Every now and then, he would stare down at his shoes, as though making sure they were properly shined for the occasion.
Max, who had been prepared for this, glanced at the bulge on the left side of the man's jacket. Then he turned to de Troeye.

“How much money do you have on you?” he asked in a low voice.

De Troeye's face showed the ravages of the evening: bloodshot eyes, stubble beginning to appear on his chin, tie crooked. Melina had released his arm, and was leaning against the wall in the corridor, a bored listless expression on her face, as though all she cared about was finding a bed where she could sleep for twelve hours in one stretch.

“About five hundred pesos,” murmured the bewildered de ­Troeye.

“Give them to me.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

De Troeye was too dazed and weary from drink to argue. He obediently fumbled for his wallet in his inside jacket pocket, and allowed Max to empty the contents coldly. As he did so, Max could feel Mecha's eyes on him (she was standing a little farther back in the corridor, her shawl draped over her shoulders, observing the scene), but he did not even glance at her. He needed to focus on far more important, dangerous things. The first of these was how to reach the car where Petrossi was waiting for them, with the least amount of trouble.