Page 1 of 116

“And yet a woman like you is not often destined to coincide on earth with a man like me.”

Joseph Conrad

In November 1928, Armando de Troeye went to Buenos Aires to compose tango. He could afford such a trip. The forty-three-year-old author of “Nocturnes” and “Paso Doble for Don Quixote” was at the zenith of his fame, and there was not an illustrated magazine in Spain that did not include photographs of the composer hand in hand with his beautiful wife on board the transatlantic liner Cap Polonius of the Hamburg-Süd company. . The most successful photo was in the magazine “Blanco and Negro” under the heading “ Elite": on the first class deck there are the Troeje couple; the husband (wearing an English mackintosh on his shoulders, one hand in his jacket pocket, a cigarette in the other) sends a farewell smile to those gathered on the pier; the wife is wrapped in a fur coat, and her light eyes, twinkling from under an elegant hat, acquire, in the enthusiastic opinion of the author of the subtext, “a delightful golden depth.”

In the evening, when the coastal lights had not yet disappeared from sight, Armando de Troeye was changing clothes for dinner, having delayed getting ready a little due to an attack of a mild migraine that did not immediately subside. However, he insisted that his wife wait for him not in the cabin, but in the salon, from where music could already be heard, while he himself, with his characteristic thoroughness, spent some time transferring the cigarettes into a gold cigarette case, hiding it in the inner pocket of his tuxedo, and stuffing everything into the others. necessary for the evening vigil - a gold watch with a chain and a lighter, two carefully folded handkerchiefs, a box of pepsin tablets, a crocodile leather wallet with business cards And small bills for tips. Then he turned off the overhead light, closed the door to the luxury cabin behind him and, adjusting his step to the soft rocking of the deck, walked along the carpeted path that muffled the roar of the machines that shuddered and rumbled somewhere deep below, in the very bowels of the huge ship, carrying him into the Atlantic. darkness.

Before going into the salon, from where the head waiter was already hurrying towards him with a list of guests, Armando de Troye was reflected in the large mirror of the hall with the starchy whiteness of his shirtfront and cuffs, and the glossy gloss of his black shoes. The evening suit, as always, emphasized the fragile grace of his figure - the composer was of average height, with regular but expressionless facial features, which were made attractive by intelligent eyes, a well-groomed mustache and curly black hair, in some places already touched with early gray hair. For a moment, Armando de Troeye, with the sensitive ear of a professional, caught the orchestra leading the melody of a melancholy gentle waltz. Then he smiled, slightly and condescendingly - the execution was correct, although nothing more - he put his hand in his trouser pocket, answered the master’s greeting and followed him to the table reserved for the entire duration of the voyage in the best part of the salon. They recognized the celebrity and followed him with intent gazes. The eyelashes of a beautiful lady with emeralds in her ears fluttered from surprise and admiration. When the orchestra began the next piece - another slow waltz - de Troye sat down at the table, on which an untouched champagne cocktail stood under the motionless flame of an electric candle in a glass tulip. From the dance floor, now and then obscured by the couples twirling in the waltz, his young wife smiled at the composer. Mercedes Inzunza de Troeye, who had appeared in the salon twenty minutes earlier, was spinning in the arms of the stately young man in a tailcoat - professional dancer, by duty, by ship's role, obliged to entertain and entertain first class passengers traveling alone or without a gentleman. Smiling in response, Armando de Troeye crossed his legs, with somewhat exaggerated pickiness, chose a cigarette and lit it.

1. Gigolo

In the old days, each of his kind had a shadow. He was the best. He moved impeccably on the dance floor, and outside of it he was not fussy, but agile, always ready to support the conversation with an appropriate phrase, a witty remark, a successful and timely remark. This ensured the favor of men and the admiration of women. He earned his living ballroom dancing- tango, foxtrot, waltz-Boston - and when he spoke, he had no equal in his ability to set off verbal fireworks, and when he was silent, to evoke a pleasant melancholy. Behind long years successful career he had almost no misfires or blunders: any wealthy woman, regardless of age, found it difficult to refuse him, no matter where the dance party was held - in the halls of the Palace, Ritz, Excelsior, on the terraces of the Riviera or in the salon of the first transatlantic liner class. He belonged to that breed of men who sit in a pastry shop in the morning in a tailcoat, inviting the servants from the very house where the night before she had served dinner after the ball for a cup of chocolate. He had such a gift or quality of nature. At least once, it happened that he squandered everything in the casino and returned home penniless, standing on the tram platform and whistling with feigned indifference: “The one who broke the bank in Monaco...” And so elegantly he knew how to light a cigarette or tie a tie , the sparkling cuffs of his shirts were always ironed so impeccably that the police dared to take him in no other way than red-handed.

I'm listening, master.

You can take your things to the car.

Playing on the chrome parts of the Jaguar Mark X, the sun of the Bay of Naples hurts the eyes in the same way as before, when the metal of other cars flashed dazzlingly under its rays, whether Max Costa himself drove them or someone else. Yes, but not so: this too has changed beyond recognition, and even the former shadow cannot be found anywhere. He looks at his feet and, moreover, moves slightly from his place. No result. He cannot say exactly when exactly this happened, and it doesn’t really matter. The shadow left the stage, remained behind, like so much else.

Wrinkling his face - either as a sign that nothing can be done, or simply because the sun is shining directly in his eyes - he, in order to get rid of the painful sensation that rolls over him every time nostalgia or the melancholy of loneliness manages to clear up in earnest, tries to think about something specific and urgent: about the tire pressure at full weight and curb weight, about whether the gearshift lever moves smoothly, about the oil level. Then, after wiping the silver-plated beast on the radiator with a suede cloth and sighing deeply, but not heavily, he puts on a gray uniform jacket folded on the front seat. He buttons it up, adjusts the knot of his tie, and only after that he leisurely climbs the steps leading to the main entrance, on both sides of which there are headless marble statues and stone vases.

Tango old guard Arturo Perez-Reverte

(No ratings yet)

Title: Tango of the Old Guard
Author: Arturo Perez-Reverte
Year: 2012
Genre: Foreign romance novels, Contemporary foreign literature, Contemporary romance novels

About the book “Tango of the Old Guard” by Arturo Perez-Reverte

Arturo Pérez-Reverte is a Spanish writer and journalist who wrote 13
works, of which 195 were published in 5 languages. He wrote such novels as The Dumas Club, or The Shadow of Richelieu, The Flemish Board, The Queen of the South,
Eagle's Shadow, King's Gold and many others.

One of the sensational novels was “Tango of the Old Guard.” In it, the author talks about love that lasted forty long years: true love-dance and love-struggle. The author worked on this novel for more than twenty years, resulting in a work with a very interesting, exciting plot.

The main character of the novel "Tango of the Old Guard" Max is a professional dancer and tango expert, a swindler, an adventurer and a seducer of women, accustomed to living alone, having nothing to his name. One day, during a cruise on a transatlantic liner, he met a married couple - famous composer Armando de Troeye and his beautiful young wife Mercedes - beautiful, rich and luxurious woman. The composer dreamed of writing a real tango and wanted to see how it was danced. Max suggested married couple his services as a dancer and dance teacher, deciding to show them the real tango - the tango of the old guard. He chose Mercedes as his dance partner and student.

Will the composer allow his wife to dance with an incredibly handsome and young dancer? Will Max be charmed by the beautiful Mercedes? Will tango be the confession that will begin their forty-year love story? Will they help strong feelings the main characters to reshape their lives, crossing out the past? Will they meet after a while? Will old memories come back to life? Will there be a continuation of love years later? What will Mercedes have left in memory of her loved one? Is it eternal? real love? The reader will find answers to these questions in the wonderful novel “Tango of the Old Guard” by the Spanish author Arturo Perez-Reverte, which is endlessly pleasant and exciting to read.

The book “Tango of the Old Guard” fully reflects the Spanish style and way of life: it is literally imbued with chic, luxury, danger and passion. It mixed the smell of tobacco smoke and the aroma of perfume, the taste of expensive alcohol and coffee, as well as the sweet bitterness of past years and memories of stormy youth.

A tangle of bodies dancing a silent tango beautiful dresses and the incredible talent of the master - all this is woven together in the tango of the old guard.

In his book, Arturo Perez-Reverte managed to reveal incredible story great love a clever thief and a talented dancer to his only and most beloved, but femme fatale. Reading a novel is so captivating that you want to read the book in one go until the end, without stopping halfway through.

On our website about books you can download the site for free without registration or read online book"Tango of the Old Guard" by Arturo Perez-Reverte in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. Buy full version you can from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Quotes from the book "Tango of the Old Guard" by Arturo Perez-Reverte

I began to be angry, you know, in the petty and disgusting way that only we women can do when we feel bad...

A person must clearly understand when the moment comes to quit drinking... smoking... or living.

Tango requires not spontaneity, but a clear plan, which is instilled in the partner and carried out instantly in gloomy, almost evil silence.

And I also think that in today's world the only possible freedom is indifference.

It takes a hell of a lot of work to be number one. Especially if you know that you will never become.

Courtesy, as we know, is cheap but highly valued: with courtesy you invest in the future.

This is chess. The art of lies, murder and war.

It takes a lot of intelligence to own feelings pass off as a fake.

Buenos Aires has many faces. But it has two main faces: it is a city of success and a city of failure.

Only doubt keeps a person young. Certainty is something like a malicious virus. It infects you with old age.

Download free book “Tango of the Old Guard” by Arturo Perez-Reverte

In format fb2: Download
In format rtf: Download
In format epub: Download
In format txt:

“And yet a woman like you is not often destined to coincide on earth with a man like me.”

Joseph Conrad

In November 1928, Armando de Troeye went to Buenos Aires to compose tango. He could afford such a trip. The forty-three-year-old author of “Nocturnes” and “Paso Doble for Don Quixote” was at the zenith of his fame, and there was not an illustrated magazine in Spain that did not include photographs of the composer hand in hand with his beautiful wife on board the transatlantic liner Cap Polonius of the Hamburg-Süd company. . The most successful photo came out in the magazine “Blanco and Negro” under the heading “High Society”: the Troeye couple are standing on the first class deck; the husband (wearing an English mackintosh on his shoulders, one hand in his jacket pocket, a cigarette in the other) sends a farewell smile to those gathered on the pier; the wife is wrapped in a fur coat, and her light eyes, twinkling from under an elegant hat, acquire, in the enthusiastic opinion of the author of the subtext, “a delightful golden depth.”

In the evening, when the coastal lights had not yet disappeared from sight, Armando de Troeye was changing clothes for dinner, having delayed getting ready a little due to an attack of a mild migraine that did not immediately subside. However, he insisted that his wife wait for him not in the cabin, but in the salon, from where music could already be heard, while he himself, with his characteristic thoroughness, spent some time transferring the cigarettes into a gold cigarette case, hiding it in the inner pocket of his tuxedo, and stuffing everything into the others. necessary for the evening vigil - a gold watch with a chain and a lighter, two carefully folded handkerchiefs, a box of pepsin tablets, a crocodile skin wallet with business cards and small bills for tips. Then he turned off the overhead light, closed the door to the luxury cabin behind him and, adjusting his step to the soft rocking of the deck, walked along the carpeted path that muffled the roar of the machines that shuddered and rumbled somewhere deep below, in the very bowels of the huge ship, carrying him into the Atlantic. darkness.

Before going into the salon, from where the head waiter was already hurrying towards him with a list of guests, Armando de Troye was reflected in the large mirror of the hall with the starchy whiteness of his shirtfront and cuffs, and the glossy gloss of his black shoes. The evening suit, as always, emphasized the fragile grace of his figure - the composer was of average height, with regular but expressionless facial features, which were made attractive by intelligent eyes, a well-groomed mustache and curly black hair, in some places already touched with early gray hair. For a moment, Armando de Troeye, with the sensitive ear of a professional, caught the orchestra leading the melody of a melancholy gentle waltz. Then he smiled, slightly and condescendingly - the execution was correct, although nothing more - he put his hand in his trouser pocket, answered the master’s greeting and followed him to the table reserved for the entire duration of the voyage in the best part of the salon. They recognized the celebrity and followed him with intent gazes. The eyelashes of a beautiful lady with emeralds in her ears fluttered from surprise and admiration. When the orchestra began the next piece - another slow waltz - de Troye sat down at the table, on which an untouched champagne cocktail stood under the motionless flame of an electric candle in a glass tulip. From the dance floor, now and then obscured by the couples twirling in the waltz, his young wife smiled at the composer. Mercedes Inzunza de Troye, who had appeared in the cabin twenty minutes earlier, was spinning in the arms of a stately young man in a tailcoat - a professional dancer, by duty, by ship's role, obliged to entertain and entertain first-class passengers traveling alone or without a gentleman. Smiling in response, Armando de Troeye crossed his legs, with somewhat exaggerated pickiness, chose a cigarette and lit it.

1. Gigolo

In the old days, each of his kind had a shadow. He was the best. He moved impeccably on the dance floor, and outside of it he was not fussy, but agile, always ready to support the conversation with an appropriate phrase, a witty remark, a successful and timely remark. This ensured the favor of men and the admiration of women. He earned his living by ballroom dancing - tango, foxtrot, Boston waltz - and when he spoke, he had no equal in his ability to set off verbal fireworks, and when he was silent, to evoke a pleasant melancholy. Over the many years of his successful career, he had almost no misfires or blunders: any wealthy woman, regardless of age, found it difficult to refuse him, no matter where the dance party was held - in the halls of the Palace, Ritz, Excelsior, on the terraces Riviera or in the first class cabin of a transatlantic airliner. He belonged to that breed of men who sit in a confectionery shop in the morning in a tailcoat, inviting the servants from the very house where she had served dinner after the ball the previous evening for a cup of chocolate. He had such a gift or quality of nature. At least once, it happened that he squandered everything in the casino and returned home penniless, standing on the tram platform and whistling with feigned indifference: “The one who broke the bank in Monaco...” And so elegantly he knew how to light a cigarette or tie a tie , the sparkling cuffs of his shirts were always ironed so impeccably that the police dared to take him in no other way than red-handed.

I'm listening, master.

You can take your things to the car.

Playing on the chrome parts of the Jaguar Mark X, the sun of the Bay of Naples hurts the eyes in the same way as before, when the metal of other cars flashed dazzlingly under its rays, whether Max Costa himself drove them or someone else. Yes, but not so: this too has changed beyond recognition, and even the former shadow cannot be found anywhere. He looks at his feet and, moreover, moves slightly from his place. No result. He cannot say exactly when exactly this happened, and it doesn’t really matter. The shadow left the stage, remained behind, like so much else.

Wrinkling his face - either as a sign that nothing can be done, or simply because the sun is shining directly in his eyes - he, in order to get rid of the painful sensation that rolls over him every time nostalgia or the melancholy of loneliness manages to clear up in earnest, tries to think about something specific and urgent: about the tire pressure at full weight and curb weight, about whether the gearshift lever moves smoothly, about the oil level. Then, after wiping the silver-plated beast on the radiator with a suede cloth and sighing deeply, but not heavily, he puts on a gray uniform jacket folded on the front seat. He buttons it up, adjusts the knot of his tie, and only after that he leisurely climbs the steps leading to the main entrance, on both sides of which there are headless marble statues and stone vases.

1

Arturo Perez-Reverte

Tango of the old guard

“And yet a woman like you is not often destined to coincide on earth with a man like me.”

Joseph Conrad

In November 1928, Armando de Troeye went to Buenos Aires to compose tango. He could afford such a trip. The forty-three-year-old author of “Nocturnes” and “Paso Doble for Don Quixote” was at the zenith of his fame, and there was not an illustrated magazine in Spain that did not include photographs of the composer hand in hand with his beautiful wife on board the transatlantic liner Cap Polonius of the Hamburg-Süd company. . The most successful photo came out in the magazine “Blanco and Negro” under the heading “High Society”: the Troeye couple are standing on the first class deck; the husband (wearing an English mackintosh on his shoulders, one hand in his jacket pocket, a cigarette in the other) sends a farewell smile to those gathered on the pier; the wife is wrapped in a fur coat, and her light eyes, twinkling from under an elegant hat, acquire, in the enthusiastic opinion of the author of the subtext, “a delightful golden depth.”

In the evening, when the coastal lights had not yet disappeared from sight, Armando de Troeye was changing clothes for dinner, having delayed getting ready a little due to an attack of a mild migraine that did not immediately subside. However, he insisted that his wife wait for him not in the cabin, but in the salon, from where music could already be heard, while he himself, with his characteristic thoroughness, spent some time transferring the cigarettes into a gold cigarette case, hiding it in the inner pocket of his tuxedo, and stuffing everything into the others. necessary for the evening vigil - a gold watch with a chain and a lighter, two carefully folded handkerchiefs, a box of pepsin tablets, a crocodile skin wallet with business cards and small bills for tips. Then he turned off the overhead light, closed the door to the luxury cabin behind him and, adjusting his step to the soft rocking of the deck, walked along the carpeted path that muffled the roar of the machines that shuddered and rumbled somewhere deep below, in the very bowels of the huge ship, carrying him into the Atlantic. darkness.

Before going into the salon, from where the head waiter was already hurrying towards him with a list of guests, Armando de Troye was reflected in the large mirror of the hall with the starchy whiteness of his shirtfront and cuffs, and the glossy gloss of his black shoes. The evening suit, as always, emphasized the fragile grace of his figure - the composer was of average height, with regular but expressionless facial features, which were made attractive by intelligent eyes, a well-groomed mustache and curly black hair, in some places already touched with early gray hair. For a moment, Armando de Troeye, with the sensitive ear of a professional, caught the orchestra leading the melody of a melancholy gentle waltz. Then he smiled, slightly and condescendingly - the execution was correct, although nothing more - he put his hand in his trouser pocket, answered the master’s greeting and followed him to the table reserved for the entire duration of the voyage in the best part of the salon. They recognized the celebrity and followed him with intent gazes. The eyelashes of a beautiful lady with emeralds in her ears fluttered from surprise and admiration. When the orchestra began the next piece - another slow waltz - de Troye sat down at the table, on which an untouched champagne cocktail stood under the motionless flame of an electric candle in a glass tulip. From the dance floor, now and then obscured by the couples twirling in the waltz, his young wife smiled at the composer. Mercedes Inzunza de Troye, who had appeared in the cabin twenty minutes earlier, was spinning in the arms of a stately young man in a tailcoat - a professional dancer, by duty, by ship's role, obliged to entertain and entertain first-class passengers traveling alone or without a gentleman. Smiling in response, Armando de Troeye crossed his legs, with somewhat exaggerated pickiness, chose a cigarette and lit it.

In the old days, each of his kind had a shadow. He was the best. He moved impeccably on the dance floor, and outside of it he was not fussy, but agile, always ready to support the conversation with an appropriate phrase, a witty remark, a successful and timely remark. This ensured the favor of men and the admiration of women. He earned his living by ballroom dancing - tango, foxtrot, Boston waltz - and when he spoke, he had no equal in his ability to set off verbal fireworks, and when he was silent, to evoke a pleasant melancholy. Over the many years of his successful career, he had almost no misfires or blunders: any wealthy woman, regardless of age, found it difficult to refuse him, no matter where the dance party was held - in the halls of the Palace, Ritz, Excelsior, on the terraces Riviera or in the first class cabin of a transatlantic airliner. He belonged to that breed of men who sit in a confectionery shop in the morning in a tailcoat, inviting the servants from the very house where she had served dinner after the ball the previous evening for a cup of chocolate. He had such a gift or quality of nature. At least once, it happened that he squandered everything in the casino and returned home penniless, standing on the tram platform and whistling with feigned indifference: “The one who broke the bank in Monaco...” And so elegantly he knew how to light a cigarette or tie a tie , the sparkling cuffs of his shirts were always ironed so impeccably that the police dared to take him in no other way than red-handed.

I'm listening, master.

You can take your things to the car.

Playing on the chrome parts of the Jaguar Mark X, the sun of the Bay of Naples hurts the eyes in the same way as before, when the metal of other cars flashed dazzlingly under its rays, whether Max Costa himself drove them or someone else. Yes, but not so: this too has changed beyond recognition, and even the former shadow cannot be found anywhere. He looks at his feet and, moreover, moves slightly from his place. No result. He cannot say exactly when exactly this happened, and it doesn’t really matter. The shadow left the stage, remained behind, like so much else.

Wrinkling his face - either as a sign that nothing can be done, or simply because the sun is shining directly in his eyes - he, in order to get rid of the painful sensation that rolls over him every time nostalgia or the melancholy of loneliness manages to clear up in earnest, tries to think about something specific and urgent: about the tire pressure at full weight and curb weight, about whether the gearshift lever moves smoothly, about the oil level. Then, after wiping the silver-plated beast on the radiator with a suede cloth and sighing deeply, but not heavily, he puts on a gray uniform jacket folded on the front seat. He buttons it up, adjusts the knot of his tie, and only after that he leisurely climbs the steps leading to the main entrance, on both sides of which there are headless marble statues and stone vases.

Arturo Perez-Reverte

Tango of the old guard

“And yet a woman like you is not often destined to coincide on earth with a man like me.”

Joseph Conrad

In November 1928, Armando de Troeye went to Buenos Aires to compose tango. He could afford such a trip. The forty-three-year-old author of “Nocturnes” and “Paso Doble for Don Quixote” was at the zenith of his fame, and there was not an illustrated magazine in Spain that did not include photographs of the composer hand in hand with his beautiful wife on board the transatlantic liner Cap Polonius of the Hamburg-Süd company. ["Hamburg-Süd" (full name - Hamburg Südamerikanische Dampfschifffahrts-Gesellschaft) is a German shipping company founded in 1871.]. The most successful photo came out in the magazine “Blanco and Negro” under the heading “High Society”: the Troeye couple are standing on the first class deck; the husband (wearing an English mackintosh on his shoulders, one hand in his jacket pocket, a cigarette in the other) sends a farewell smile to those gathered on the pier; the wife is wrapped in a fur coat, and her light eyes, twinkling from under an elegant hat, acquire, in the enthusiastic opinion of the author of the subtext, “a delightful golden depth.”

In the evening, when the coastal lights had not yet disappeared from sight, Armando de Troeye was changing clothes for dinner, having delayed getting ready a little due to an attack of a mild migraine that did not immediately subside. However, he insisted that his wife wait for him not in the cabin, but in the salon, from where music could already be heard, while he himself, with his characteristic thoroughness, spent some time transferring the cigarettes into a gold cigarette case, hiding it in the inner pocket of his tuxedo, and stuffing everything into the others. necessary for the evening vigil - a gold watch with a chain and a lighter, two carefully folded handkerchiefs, a box of pepsin tablets, a crocodile skin wallet with business cards and small bills for tips. Then he turned off the overhead light, closed the door to the luxury cabin behind him and, adjusting his step to the soft rocking of the deck, walked along the carpeted path that muffled the roar of the machines that shuddered and rumbled somewhere deep below, in the very bowels of the huge ship, carrying him into the Atlantic. darkness.

Before going into the salon, from where the head waiter was already hurrying towards him with a list of guests, Armando de Troye was reflected in the large mirror of the hall with the starchy whiteness of his shirtfront and cuffs, and the glossy gloss of his black shoes. The evening suit, as always, emphasized the fragile grace of his figure - the composer was of average height, with regular but expressionless facial features, which were made attractive by intelligent eyes, a well-groomed mustache and curly black hair, in some places already touched with early gray hair. For a moment, Armando de Troeye, with the sensitive ear of a professional, caught the orchestra leading the melody of a melancholy gentle waltz. Then he smiled, slightly and condescendingly - the execution was correct, although nothing more - he put his hand in his trouser pocket, answered the master’s greeting and followed him to the table reserved for the entire duration of the voyage in the best part of the salon. They recognized the celebrity and followed him with intent gazes. The eyelashes of a beautiful lady with emeralds in her ears fluttered from surprise and admiration. When the orchestra began the next piece - another slow waltz - de Troye sat down at the table, on which an untouched champagne cocktail stood under the motionless flame of an electric candle in a glass tulip. From the dance floor, now and then obscured by the couples twirling in the waltz, his young wife smiled at the composer. Mercedes Inzunza de Troye, who had appeared in the cabin twenty minutes earlier, was spinning in the arms of a stately young man in a tailcoat - a professional dancer, by duty, by ship's role, obliged to entertain and entertain first-class passengers traveling alone or without a gentleman. Smiling in response, Armando de Troeye crossed his legs, with somewhat exaggerated pickiness, chose a cigarette and lit it.

In the old days, each of his kind had a shadow. He was the best. He moved impeccably on the dance floor, and outside of it he was not fussy, but agile, always ready to support the conversation with an appropriate phrase, a witty remark, a successful and timely remark. This ensured the favor of men and the admiration of women. He earned his living by ballroom dancing - tango, foxtrot, Boston waltz - and when he spoke, he had no equal in his ability to set off verbal fireworks, and when he was silent, to evoke a pleasant melancholy. Over the many years of his successful career, he had almost no misfires or blunders: any wealthy woman, regardless of age, found it difficult to refuse him, no matter where the dance party was held - in the halls of the Palace, Ritz, Excelsior, on the terraces Riviera or in the first class cabin of a transatlantic airliner. He belonged to that breed of men who sit in a confectionery shop in the morning in a tailcoat, inviting the servants from the very house where she had served dinner after the ball the previous evening for a cup of chocolate. He had such a gift or quality of nature. At least once, it happened that he squandered everything in the casino and returned home penniless, standing on the tram platform and whistling with feigned indifference: “The one who broke the bank in Monaco...” And so elegantly he knew how to light a cigarette or tie a tie , the sparkling cuffs of his shirts were always ironed so impeccably that the police dared to take him in no other way than red-handed.

I'm listening, master.

You can take your things to the car.

Playing on the chrome parts of the Jaguar Mark X, the sun of the Bay of Naples hurts the eyes in the same way as before, when the metal of other cars flashed dazzlingly under its rays, whether Max Costa himself drove them or someone else. Yes, but not so: this too has changed beyond recognition, and even the former shadow cannot be found anywhere. He looks at his feet and, moreover, moves slightly from his place. No result. He cannot say exactly when exactly this happened, and it doesn’t really matter. The shadow left the stage, remained behind, like so much else.

Wrinkling his face - either as a sign that nothing can be done, or simply because the sun is shining directly in his eyes - he, in order to get rid of the painful sensation that rolls over him every time nostalgia or the melancholy of loneliness manages to clear up in earnest, tries to think about something specific and urgent: about the tire pressure at full weight and curb weight, about whether the gearshift lever moves smoothly, about the oil level. Then, after wiping the silver-plated beast on the radiator with a suede cloth and sighing deeply, but not heavily, he puts on a gray uniform jacket folded on the front seat. He buttons it up, adjusts the knot of his tie, and only after that he leisurely climbs the steps leading to the main entrance, on both sides of which there are headless marble statues and stone vases.

Don't forget your travel bag.

Don't worry, master.

Dr. Hugentobler doesn't like it when the servants call him "Doctor." In this country, he often repeats, if you spit, you won’t end up in dottori, but in cavalieri or commendatori [A polite address customary in Italy to a person who has graduated from a university (dottore); awarded high government awards (commendatore) or occupying a high position in society (cavaliere).]. And I am a Swiss doctor. This is serious. And I don’t want to be mistaken for one of them - the nephew of a cardinal, a Milanese industrialist, or someone else like that. And all the inhabitants of the villa in the vicinity of Sorrento address Max Costa himself simply by his first name. And this never ceases to amaze him, because throughout his life he managed to bear many names: depending on the circumstances and requirements of the moment - with and without aristocratic titles, sophisticated or the most common. But it’s been quite a long time since his shadow waved his handkerchief goodbye - like a woman who disappears forever in the clouds of steam clouding the window of a sleeping car, and you still don’t understand whether she’s now disappeared from sight or has long since begun move away - he is called by his own, real name. In place of the shadow, the name returned: the same thing that, before the forced, relatively recent and to a certain extent natural solitude measured by a prison sentence, was listed in the thick dossiers collected by police in half the countries of Europe and America. One way or another, he thinks now, putting a leather bag and a Samsonite suitcase in the trunk, never, never, no matter how salty it was, it was even impossible to imagine that at the end of his days he would say “I’m listening, master,” responding to his godfather name.

Let's go, Max. Did you put the newspapers down?

At the rear window, master.

Doors slam. When seating a passenger, he puts on, takes off, and puts on his uniform cap again. Sitting behind the wheel, he puts her on the next seat and looks in the rearview mirror with an old, inescapable coquetry, before straightening his gray, but still lush hair. And he thinks that this cap, like nothing else, emphasizes the sad comedy of the situation and marks that meaningless shore where the waves of life threw him after a disastrous shipwreck. But nevertheless, every time in his room at the villa he shaves in front of the mirror and, like the scars left by passions and battles, he counts the wrinkles, each of which has a name - women, roulette, dawns of uncertainty, afternoons of glory or nights of failure, - he winks encouragingly at his reflection, as if he recognizes this tall and not yet decrepit old man with dark tired eyes as a long-time and faithful accomplice to whom nothing needs to be explained. In the end, the reflection tells him familiarly, a little cynically and not without gloating, it is simply necessary to admit that at sixty-four years old, and with such cards in his hands, that in Lately gives you life, it’s simply a sin to complain. In similar circumstances, others - Enrico Fossataro, for example, or old Sándor Esterházy - had to choose between turning to a charitable welfare service or making a noose out of his own tie and twitching for a minute in the bathroom of a squalid hotel room.

What do you hear in the world? says Hugentobler.

From the back seat comes the sluggish rustle of pages being turned. This is not a question, but rather a comment. In the mirror, Max sees the owner’s downcast eyes, his reading glasses pushed to the tip of his nose.

The Russians haven't dropped the atomic bomb yet?

Hugentobler is joking, of course. Swiss humor. When the doctor is in the mood, he likes to joke with the servants - perhaps because he, a single man, has no family who will laugh at his wit. Max parts his lips, indicating a polite smile. Discreet and, when viewed from a distance, quite appropriate.

Nothing special: Cassius Clay won another fight... The Gemini XI astronauts returned home safe and sound... The war in Indochina breaks out.

In Vietnam, you mean?

Yes Yes. In Vietnam. And in local news, a chess match for the Campanella Prize begins in Sorrento: Keller vs. Sokolov.

“Jesus Christ...” says Hugentobler with absent-minded sarcasm. - Ah-ah-ah, what a pity that I won’t be able to attend. What people don't do...

No, just imagine - all your life staring at chessboard. You will certainly lose your mind. Sort of like this Bobby Fischer.

Take the lower road. There is time.

The crunch of gravel under the tires subsides - the Jaguar has left the iron fence and slowly rolls along the concrete of the highway, lined with olive, mastic and fig trees. Max gently slows down sharp turn- and behind it a quiet shining sea opens up, looking like emerald glass against the light, silhouettes of pine trees, houses clinging to the mountainside, and Vesuvius on the other side of the bay. Forgetting for a moment about the presence of a passenger, Max strokes the steering wheel, completely surrendering to the pleasure of driving, fortunately the two points are located in time and space so that you can relax a little. The wind rushing through the window is filled with honey, resin, and the last aromas of summer - in these places it always resists death, innocently and affectionately fighting with the leaves of the calendar.

Wonderful day, Max.

Blinking, he snaps back to reality and looks up at the rearview mirror again. Dr. Hugentobler, putting the newspapers aside, raises a Havana cigar to his mouth.

Indeed.

When I return, everything will be completely different.

Let's hope not. Just three weeks.

Along with a puff of smoke, the Hugentobler emits an inarticulate rumble. This red-faced, handsome man owns a sanatorium in the vicinity of Lake Garda. He owes his fortune to rich Jews who woke up in the middle of the night because they dreamed that they were still in a camp barracks, the barking of guard dogs could be heard outside and the SS men were about to lead them to the gas chamber. Hugentobler, together with his partner, the Italian Bacchelli, for the first time post-war years treated them, helped them forget about the horrors of Nazism and get rid of nightmare visions, and at the end of the course recommended a trip to Israel, organized by the directorate, and sent astronomical bills - thanks to them, he can now maintain a house in Milan, an apartment in Zurich and a villa in Sorrento with five cars in the garage. For three years now, Max has been driving them and is responsible for the technical condition, and also makes sure that everything is in good condition and in order in the villa, where, in addition to him, there is also a gardener and a maid - the Lanza couple from Salerno.

No need to go straight to the airport. Let's go through the center.

I'm listening, master.

Glancing briefly at the Festina dial on his left wrist - the watch in the fake gold case works correctly and is cheap - Max joins the rare stream of cars rushing along the Avenue of Italy. Indeed, there is more than enough time for the doctor to travel by motorboat from Sorrento to the other side, bypassing all the twists and turns of the road leading to Naples airport.

Yes, master?

Stop at Rufolo's and buy me a box of Montecristo No. 2.

Labor Relations between Max Costa and the future employer were settled instantly, at first glance, with which the psychiatrist surveyed the applicant, immediately losing interest in the flattering - and probably false - recommendations of his predecessors and rivals. Hugentobler, a practical man, firmly confident that professional instinct and worldly experience will never let you down and will help you understand the peculiarities of the “condition humaine” [Conditions of human existence ( fr.); here - “human nature.”], decided that the elegant, albeit somewhat shabby man standing in front of him with an open, respectful and calm demeanor, with well-mannered restraint, visible in every gesture and word, is the personification of decency and decency, the embodiment of dignity and competence. And who else, if not him, should be entrusted with the care of what the doctor from Sorrento is so proud of - a magnificent collection of cars, which included a Jaguar, a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud II and three antique curiosities, including “ Bugatti 50T coupe." Of course, Hugentobler could not even imagine that in old times his current driver himself drove cars no less luxurious - his own or someone else's. If the Swiss's information had been more complete, he would perhaps have reconsidered his views and would have considered it necessary to find himself a charioteer with a less impressive appearance and a more ordinary biography. And if I thought so, I would have miscalculated. For anyone who is versed in the reverse side of phenomena understands: people who have lost their shadow are like women with a rich past signing a marriage contract: there are no more faithful wives - they know what they are risking. But, of course, it’s not Max Costa’s place to enlighten Dr. Hugentobler on the fleeting nature of shadows, the decency of whores, or the forced honesty of those who were first gigolos and then so-called thiefs with white gloves. However, they did not always remain white.

When the motor boat Riva leaves the Marina Piccola landing stage, Max Costa stands for a few more minutes, leaning on the breakwater fence and looking after the boat gliding along the blue blade of the bay. Then he unties his tie, takes off his uniform jacket and, throwing it over his arm, goes to the car parked near the headquarters of the Financial Guard, at the foot of a steep mountain rising towards Sorrento. Having slipped fifty liras to the boy who was looking after the Jaguar, he gets behind the wheel and slowly drives out onto the road, along a closed curve that rises to the town. On the square, Tasso stops to let the trio leave the Vittoria Hotel - two women and a man - and absently watches how, keeping almost close to the radiator, they pass by. All three have the appearance of rich tourists - the kind who prefer to come not during the peak season, when it is so crowded and noisy, but later, in order to calmly enjoy the sea, sun and good weather, fortunately it lasts here until late autumn. The man - dark glasses, a jacket with suede patches on the elbows - looks to be about thirty years old. His younger companion is a pretty brunette in a miniskirt; long hair gathered in a ponytail. The eldest is a woman more than mature years- in a beige cardigan, in a dark skirt, in a man's tweed hat on a very short-cropped silver-gray head. A high-flying bird, Max determines with a trained eye. Such elegance is achieved not by the clothes themselves, but by the ability to wear them. This is above the average level which, even at this time of year, is found in the villas and good hotels of Sorrento, Amalfi and Capri.

There is something about this woman that makes you involuntarily follow her with your eyes. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself, how slowly and confidently she walks, with her hand casually thrust into the pocket of her knitted jacket: this manner is characteristic of those who, all their lives, tread firmly on the carpets that cover the world that belongs to them. Or maybe in the way she turns her head to her companions and laughs at some of their words or says something herself, but what exactly cannot be heard behind the raised car windows. One way or another, but for one swift moment, as happens when scattered fragments of a forgotten dream suddenly rush through your head like a whirlwind, Max imagines that he knows her. What some old, distant image, gesture, voice, laughter recognizes. All this surprises him so much that, only shuddering from the demanding horn heard from behind, he comes to his senses, engages first gear and drives a little forward, not taking his eyes off the trio, who have already crossed Piazza Tasso and, without looking for shade, have taken a table on the veranda bar "Fauno"

Max is almost at the corner of Corso Italia, when his memory is again awakened by familiar sensations, but this time the memory is more specific - the face is clearer, the voice is clearer. An episode or even a series of scenes appears more clearly. Surprise gives way to stupefaction, and he presses the brake pedal so sharply that the driver of the rear car again honks at his back, and then gesticulates indignantly when the Jaguar suddenly and rapidly goes to the right and grinds to the side of the road.

Max takes the key out of the ignition and sits motionless for a few seconds, looking at his hands on the steering wheel. Then he gets out of the car, pulls on his jacket and, under the palm trees that line the square, walks to the bar’s terrace. He's worried. He, one might even say, is frightened that reality is about to confirm his vague intuition. The trio is still sitting in the same place and busy lively conversation. Trying not to be noticed, Max hides behind the bushes of a small square, about ten meters from the table, and now the woman in a tweed hat is facing him in profile: she is chatting with her companions, unaware of how closely she is being watched. Yes, she was probably very beautiful in her time, Max thinks, her face even now, as they say, retains traces of its former beauty. Maybe this is the one I’m thinking about, he thinks, tormented by doubts, but it’s impossible to say for sure. Too much female faces flashed by in a time that announced both a “before” and a long, long “after.” Still hiding behind the bushes, he peers, catching some elusive features that can refresh his memory, but he still cannot come to any conclusion. Finally he realizes: if he hangs around here any longer, he will certainly attract attention to himself - and, going around the terrace, he sits down at a table in the back. Orders a Negroni [Negroni is an aperitif cocktail made with gin and vermouth. Named in honor of the inventor, French general Pascal-Olivier Count de Negroni.] and for another twenty minutes he studies the woman, comparing her manners, habits, gestures with those that his memory preserves. As the three leave the bar and cross the square again, heading towards Via San Cesareo, Max finally recognizes her. Or he thinks he found out. Keeping his distance, he follows. His old heart had not beaten so strongly for a hundred years.