What We Become Read Online Free Page A

Blasco Ibáñez.
    â€œGood-bye. Enjoy your reading.”
    â€œThank 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 bottomof 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.
    â€œWell, if it isn’t Max. You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been a long time.”
    â€œAlmost four months.”
    â€œGood to see you.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI thought you’d given all that up.”
    â€œI have. This is different.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œJorge 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