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rung on the musical ladder), he was clearly making an effort to be friendly. Despite his obvious reservations, his manner was far from the superciliousness of previous evenings, when Max had danced with his wife in the first-class ballroom.
    â€œI assure you I was watching you carefully. And you are close to perfection.”
    â€œIt is kind of you to say so. Although you exaggerate.” Max gave a courteous half-smile. “These things depend on one’s partner, too. . . . Your wife is a marvelous dancer, as you well know.”
    â€œUndoubtedly. I don’t deny it. She is a remarkable woman. But the initiative came from you. You marked out the territory, so to speak. And that can’t be improvised.” De Troeye picked up the glass the waiter had placed on the table and held it to the light, as though mistrusting the quality of a vermouth in second class. “May I ask you a professional question?”
    â€œOf course.”
    A tentative sip, then a satisfied expression beneath the trim mustache.
    â€œWhere did you learn to dance tango like that?”
    â€œI was born in Buenos Aries.”
    â€œYou surprise me.” De Troeye took another sip. “You don’t have an accent.”
    â€œI was a youngster when I left. My father was from Asturias and emigrated there in the nineties. . . . Things went badly for him, and he ended up returning to Spain, where he became ill and died. Before that, he had time to marry an Italian woman, have children, and take them all back with him.”
    De Troeye leaned over the arm of the wicker chair, attentive.
    â€œHow long did you actually live in Buenos Aires?”
    â€œUntil I was fourteen.”
    â€œThat explains everything. The authentic feel of those tangos. . . . Why are you smiling?”
    Max shrugged, unaffectedly.
    â€œBecause there is nothing authentic about them. Real tango is different.”
    The composer was genuinely surprised, or so it appeared. Perhaps it was nothing more than polite interest. The glass was hovering between the table and de Troeye’s half-open mouth.
    â€œReally . . . In what way?”
    â€œIt is faster, played by folk musicians from the poor neighborhoods. Lascivious rather than artful, to put it simply. Made up of cortes and quebradas danced by whores and lowlifes.”
    The other man burst out laughing. “And it still is in some circles,” he added.
    â€œNot really. Original tango changed a lot, above all when it became fashionable in Paris ten or fifteen years ago with the Apache dances of the underworld. . . . The upper classes started imitating them, and it came back to Argentina frenchified, transformed into a polished, almost respectable dance.” Max gave another shrug,drained his glass, and looked straight at de Troeye, who was smiling affably. “I hope what I say makes sense.”
    â€œIndeed. And it’s most interesting. . . . You are a pleasant surprise, Señor Costa.”
    Max did not recall telling de Troeye or his wife his surname. It was possible he had seen it on the staff list. Or looked for it there. He held that thought for a moment, without analyzing it too much, before continuing to indulge the composer’s curiosity. He explained that, thanks to its Parisian stamp of approval, the Argentinian upper class, who had hitherto rejected tango as an immoral dance that belonged in the bordellos, instantly adopted it. Tango, no longer reserved for the hoi polloi from the slums, became the rage in dance halls. Prior to that, genuine tango, the tango danced in Buenos Aires by whores and ruffians from the poor neighborhoods, was frowned upon in polite society: it was something young well-to-do girls played in secret on their pianos at home, from sheet music brought to them by boyfriends and dissolute, carousing brothers.
    â€œAnd yet,” objected de Troeye, “you dance modern tango, so to