What We Become by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

into Valentino’s ridiculous caricature of it on screen.”
    Max could feel her eyes on him. Avoiding them with as much calm as he could muster, he reached for his cigarette case and offered it to her. She took one of the Abdul Pashas, inserting it into her short ivory holder. De Troeye did likewise, and then lit his wife’s with his gold lighter. Leaning slightly toward the flame, she raised her eyes, looking once more at Max through the first puff of smoke, which the light from the window turned a bluish shade.
    â€œAnd in Buenos Aires?” asked Armando de Troeye.
    Max smiled. He had lit his own cigarette after tapping one end of it gently on the closed lid of the case. The turn in the conversation enabled him to meet Mecha’s eyes once more. He held her gaze for three seconds, maintaining his smile, then addressed her husband again.
    â€œIn the slums of the suburbs a few people still dance tango with the occasional quebrada and leg thrust. That is where the last of the Old School Tango survives. . . . What we dance is actually a watered-down version of that. A tasteful habanera.”
    â€œIs it the same with the lyrics?”
    â€œYes, but that’s a more recent phenomenon. At first tango was only music, or couplets sung in the theaters. When I was a boy it was still rare to hear tango sung, and when it was, the lyrics were always obscene, stories with double meanings told by shameless ruffians. . . .”
    Max paused, unsure if it was appropriate for him to carry on.
    â€œAnd?”
    It was Mecha who had posed the question, toying with one of the silver teaspoons. That decided him.
    â€œWell . . . you only have to consider some of the titles from back then: ‘Que polvo con tanto viento,’ ‘Seeds in the Wind; ‘Siete Pulgadas,’ ‘Seven Inches’; ‘Cara Sucia,’ ‘Dirty Face’—all of which have double meanings, or ‘La c . . . ara de la l . . . una,’ ‘The F . . . ace of the M . . . oon,’ written like that, with three dots in the title, which, forgive me for being crude, actually means ‘La concha de la lora,’ ‘The Floozie’s Muff.’ ”
    â€œFloozie?”
    â€œA word for ‘prostitute’ in Buenos Aires slang. The sort Gardel uses in his songs.”
    â€œAnd muff?”
    Max looked at Armando de Troeye, without replying. The husband’s amused expression gave way to a broad smile.
    â€œUnderstood,” he said.
    â€œUnderstood,” she repeated a moment later, without smiling.
    Sentimental tango, Max went on, was a recent phenomenon. It was Gardel who popularized those melancholy lyrics, filling tango songs with cuckolded hoodlums and fallen women. His voice turned the ruffian’s shamelessness to tears and regret. Poetic guff.
    â€œWe met him two years ago, when he was touring in Rome and Madrid,” said de Troeye. “Charming fellow. A bit of a gossip, but pleasant enough.” He looked at his wife. “With that fixed smile of his, remember? . . . As if he could never relax.”
    â€œI only saw him once, from a distance, eating chicken stew at El Tropezón,” said Max. “He was surrounded by people, of course. I didn’t dare approach him.”
    â€œHe certainly has a good voice. So langorous, don’t you think?”
    Max took a puff of his cigarette. De Troeye poured himself another brandy and offered Max some, but he shook his head.
    â€œActually, he invented the style. Before, there were only bawdy rhymes in brothels. . . . He had no real predecessors.”
    â€œWhat about the music?” De Troeye had raised his brandy to his lips and was looking at Max over the rim of the glass. “What, in your opinion, are the differences between old and new tango?”
    Max leaned back in his chair, tapping his cigarette gently so that the ash fell in