by Harriet Hahn
James was now standing beside me. I gave him a long look, then I began to laugh. “Splendid,” I cried.
He gave me a wink and began to roll on the floor.
“A dead mouse in the tub, that really wasn’t nice,” I said, trying to be stern. It was no use. I was rocking on the sofa laughing. Shortly Mrs. March and María appeared, wreathed in smiles. We all celebrated with a little sherry. Then Mrs. March went back to the office, María went off to clean the apartment and James went off to supervise.
That night James and I spent comfortably together. We ate curried chicken with chutney and had some white wine and then watched the news. It was the last quiet night for some time to come.
The next morning Peter Hightower called to report that a certain Augustus Hendler had indeed gone to Buenos Aires in 1902 to establish an accounting firm. It took only a little effort to find the Argentine Embassy office in London. I received helpful attention and I was supplied with the name and address of R. Hendler y Asoc, Contador, with offices in the Bank of Boston building on the corner of Florida and Av. Roque Saenz Peña in Buenos Aires.
I called Peter to report.
“Thwaites has a small office in Buenos Aires,” said Peter, “with a perfectly charming fellow, Alberto Ocampo Dure, in charge. I know him and I’ll call him today and see if he can find out anything. It will take a while—there’s a four-hour time difference at this time of year.”
“I’m very grateful,” I said, “but I think I’ll have to go and see what I can find out in person, whatever he says.”
“I think so too,” said Peter.
My next call was a long-distance one to the man who wanted to own the models. I reported my progress. He took no time to consider.
“Do whatever you have to in order to find those models if they still exist. Money is no object. And make life easy for yourself—go first class all the way,” he said and hung up. He is like that. His name is George Leffingwell and he is known to many in the art world as “old G. L.” for Got Lots, or, some irreverent souls say, “Gluttony Lust.”
One problem remained: James. I needed him. I needed his eye to be sure of what I had. I would never have found those tiny monograms by myself. Mrs. March reluctantly agreed to let James go. I now had to smuggle him out of England, into Argentina, and back into England again. Perhaps the most difficult part would be the return to England because of its stringent quarantine rules.
Things were somewhat simplified when I discovered that British Airways had inaugurated a direct flight between London and Buenos Aires. I booked a first-class seat for the following evening. That night I discussed the trip with James. At first he was not very interested. I finally got Mrs. March to produce an old atlas. “Here we are in London,” I said. “Tomorrow night we will get on an airplane and fly to Argentina, where it is winter. It will take all night. After breakfast we will arrive in Buenos Aires and go on to our hotel.”
James nodded. His ears pricked up, and he began to look interested.
“Now I am sorry to say we are going to have to break the rules on this trip,” I said. James grinned. “You see, the airlines will not let me take a cat with me and even if they would, England would not let you come back in without waiting in a kennel for three months and that would not do. So, with your help, I am going to smuggle you out of and back into the country. Do you want to try?”
James nodded, his eyes alert.
“Fine,” I said and hoped it would be. “Remember, do exactly as I say whenever I give you a command.”
James nodded impatiently. Did I think he was stupid?
I was secretly afraid of his impulsiveness.
Peter contacted Alberto Ocampo Dure, who was delighted at the prospect of a fine-art hunt, and he agreed to meet us at the airport and be our guide and companion during our stay. Now it would be a matter of luck.
I packed a bag I could carry onto the plane so I would not have to wait for luggage. I had no real problem with clothing. Even though it was winter in Buenos Aires, the temperature would be no colder than on a cool, rainy day in May in London. I took a topcoat and James in his carry-bag hidden by a sweater or two laid on top of him. I had forgotten all about security, but James had his own ideas and at last I deferred to his better judgment and let him out of the bag as soon as I knew the gate number. We walked together to the departure lounge. I was sitting with the somewhat hidden carry-bag open by my chair, when the boarding announcement came over the loudspeaker. I felt, rather than saw, a bulge in the bag. I placed my sweater over the top and heard the slightest purr.
In due time we were boarded. I placed the carry-bag at my feet. The first-class section was not full, so I had two seats to myself. I moved to the aisle seat and placed a blanket on the window seat. Soon, what looked like a pillow had grown under the blanket and when I lifted a corner two golden eyes peered at me. We took off. I relaxed.
We were served a quite acceptable dinner and I managed to share enough with James to make him comfortable. After dinner I helped him to a little of my brandy, and then I put on my sleep mask and James wrapped himself in the blanket and we ignored the movie. I slept pretty well, all things considered.
I was awakened early by a charming stewardess with orange juice. I picked up the carry-bag and headed for the lavatory.
“Sorry, James,” I said, “that I can’t give you more privacy but it’s all we’ve got.”
James just shrugged. He is, I discovered, an excellent traveller.
We landed. With James absolutely silent and immobile in the carry-bag, I walked through Immigration, had my passport stamped, received my visitor’s pass and then proceeded through the nothing-to-declare line of Customs. No one paid any attention to me, and once through the barrier I was greeted by a very tall, curly-haired young man in a well-cut business suit holding a sign that read JAMES.
I waved to him. “Welcome,” he said. “How was your flight and where is this James?”
“James is right here,” I said, relieved that we had gotten to Buenos Aires without incident.
“Bring along the bag and the cat and I’ll take you to your hotel,” he said.
Once in the car, James wriggled out of the carry-bag and sat on my lap. I introduced him properly.
“I have booked you a room in the Claridge Hotel,” said Alberto. “If you like, I can come up with you while you get settled and cleaned up, and I’ll tell you what I know and then we can make plans.”
“Splendid,” I said, and this is what we did. The Claridge is a delightful hotel in downtown Buenos Aires, a block from Florida, a pedestrian street full of shops and beautiful baroque buildings. It was a cool day, but sunny. The downtown streets were full of people.
While I was dressing after my shower and James was stretching and grooming himself, Alberto filled us in on what he had discovered.
He knew the Hendlers. They were among the finest families in the city, and their business was very successful. The founder, Augustus, came with his wife to Buenos Aires in 1902 at the age of thirty-five. He had two children, Augustus II and Elizabeth, both born in Germany. Elizabeth never married and died in 1983 at the age of eighty-nine. Augustus II married an Argentine heiress. They had one child, Ricardo, now in his seventies. He comes to the office from time to time, but his son, Augustus III, who is now about forty, runs the business. Ricardo married the daughter of a wine maker in Mendosa, so the family has very extensive properties in the city of Buenos Aires and the surrounding countryside.
“Augustus III’s children, who are in their teens and early twenties, spend a lot of time in Europe,” Alberto continued. “Augustus III has a sister Elena. She never married and was particularly close to her great-aunt Elizabeth. That’s the family. I regret to say they have such wealth that they buy at auctions rather than sell, and I can think of no reason why they would part with your models if they still have them. In fact, I don’t know of a way we could even ask. Augustus III sometimes bids in London auctions on Victorian landscapes—I don�
�t know why. If he wants something he buys it. Price is not a consideration. He has never offered anything through us or, as far as I could tell, through anyone else in England or the Continent. There is no market here.”
I looked over at James. He had found a windowsill and was looking out over the rooftops of the city, taking it all in. It was a great day, crisp air, blue sky, glittering sun. A wonderful day to find yourself hopelessly defeated.
Alberto and I looked at each other for a few moments. Then he stood up and clapped his hands.
“I am taking the day off,” he exclaimed. “You have come all these miles to my beautiful city. We will spend the day visiting it.” He looked at his watch. “We will start out with a walk downtown to see the president’s palace and the tomb of our liberator, San Martin, in the cathedral. Then we will proceed to a most unusual cemetery, called La Recoleta. After a visit there we will have a delicious luncheon at one of the restaurants nearby and then see what the afternoon brings.”
There being nothing else to do, I agreed and the three of us set off on a walking tour of downtown Buenos Aires.
It is a beautiful city with splendid baroque buildings side by side with dreadful modern ones and an unusually large collection of handsome girls. The pink presidential palace was impressive and it was evident by the number of old churches that the country was largely Catholic. After a delightful walk we returned to the hotel and picked up Alberto’s car. We drove through charming old streets till we reached a parking area in a park. We got out of the car and entered La Recoleta. We passed through white marble columns and found ourselves in a small city of stone tombs in the shape of houses. These tombs, called bovedas, are set as close together as possible along streets that meet at a boulevard that bisects the cemetery. This boulevard has cypress trees lining it and occasional stone benches. The bovedas all have doors with glass panes in them permitting anyone to look inside to see a small altar and, often, a casket or two.
Only the oldest and finest families of the country lie in this cemetery. While some of the bovedas are simple, most are very elaborate, with marble figures towering over the roofs. On the sides next to the doors are plaques in brass donated by friends, relatives and business associates of the deceased. Many presidents of Argentina are buried in bovedas, as are numerous generals and rich businessmen.
I was awed. I sat for a moment on one of the stone benches and listened to the silence. La Recoleta is not very large and the city bustles outside its four high walls, but no sound penetrates. It is very peaceful in the shade of the cypresses. I felt composed. I was almost beginning to feel reconciled to living a good life without the models when James, who had disappeared into the side streets, suddenly came racing down the main boulevard and tugged at my leg. Alfredo and I followed him down a side street, where we saw a middle-aged woman standing in front of a moderately elaborate boveda.
James stopped us. Then he walked very slowly up to the woman and stopped right next to her. He did not make a sound. He just sat. She looked down at him. He was wearing his gold earrings and they glinted in the sun.
“You nice cat,” she said. She reached down and patted James. He purred in a dignified way. “What attractive earrings you have,” she said, and stroked him. He sat and purred. All of a sudden she sat on the stone street and hugged him. He melted into her arms.
“You are really a darling,” she said. “You aren’t a stray, I’m sure of that. You are so well fed and neat and you have those earrings on.”
I saw James flick his tail and I motioned to Alfredo. We strolled along until we came to the woman and the cat.
“Buenos días,” Alfredo said, and bowed.
“Buenos días,” she replied, standing up with James in her arms and then, guessing I was English, said, “Good day.”
“Good day,” I said. “You speak English?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, almost laughing, “and French and German, too.”
I looked for a minute at James and saw that he was staring at the small altar that was visible through the door of the boveda. To my astonishment, on the altar were what appeared to be two terra-cotta statues about twenty-four inches high. One looked like a Scottish warrior, dressed in a kilt, with his arm upraised in a fierce gesture of attack. The other depicted a middle-aged man sitting on a bench playing a lyre in his bedroom slippers and nightcap.
I blinked. I looked again. They were still there. In the meantime the woman was stroking James and he was snuggling against her as though she were Helena.
“May we introduce ourselves?” I asked.
“By all means,” she said. “I am Elena Hendler, a lonely old woman feeling sorry for herself this morning. This is the Hendler boveda and I’m just going to put fresh flowers on the altar for Tante Elizabeth. I am the only one who cares anymore.”
I gulped. Alfred, however, did the honors and introduced us all. “I’m glad you like James,” he said. “He clearly doesn’t think you are an old woman.”
Miss Hendler smiled. She had a very nice smile that lightened her heavy features. She was a stocky woman in expensive but dull clothes and sensible walking shoes.
“Could we help, or at least keep you company while you refresh the flowers?” I asked.
“How nice of you. Then I can keep the cat a little longer.”
She put James down and he sat quietly next to her. She took out a key and opened the door. In the center of the altar was a glass bowl full of dead flowers which she emptied. She had brought a pail full of fresh carnations and arranged them in the bowl as Alfredo and I watched. I was staring at the statues, more and more convinced that they were the ones we were looking for.
“Those pieces are quite interesting,” I said in a neutral voice.
“Oh, them,” she said angrily.
“You don’t like them?” I asked.
“They are totally inappropriate. I do wish more than anything that I had a pair of white marble angels,” she said. Then she replaced the bowl, closed the door and locked it.
Alfredo looked at his watch. “It is nearly lunchtime,” he said. “Would you consider it at all possible to come as our guest for lunch? I’m sure it would give James great pleasure and give our visitor from England a chance for a conversation with a real Argentinian.”
I thought she would refuse, but instead she smiled delightedly and said, “I should like that very much indeed.” I bent to pick up the pail.
“Leave that,” she said. “My maid will get it later. I like to arrange the flowers myself but she does the real cleaning.”
“May I carry your cat?” she asked as an afterthought.
“Indeed, yes,” I said. James adapted himself to her arms and purred happily.
We left La Recoleta and walked to a restaurant close by where Miss Elena was well known and catered to, and there was no question but that James was to have lunch with the rest of us.
“Shall we have a drink before we order?” Alberto asked.
“That would be nice,” said Elena. “I should love a whiskey with ice, and none of your Argentine whiskeys.”
“Johnny Walker black label?” Alberto asked.
“Splendid,” said Elena, her sallow cheeks turning pink.
“Miss Hendler, I believe your father would prefer that you drink sherry,” said the captain uneasily.
She waved him away. “Whiskey it is,” she said, and whiskey it was.
All this time James had been sitting on her lap, purring very quietly. She stroked his soft fur from time to time.
“Would you like a taste of my drink?” she asked. James nodded gently and she poured a little whiskey on a plate. He lapped. She beamed at him.
The captain returned and we ordered an adequate lunch.
“Would you like some wine?” Alberto asked.
“Splendid!” said Elena, who had gotten quite pink by now. “But none of your Argentine stuff—either French or Chilean.”
The captain looked very unhappy, but Alberto had been studying the wine list
. He ordered by number and waved the captain away.
Then Miss Elena began to talk. Her life story—interrupted with occasional sips of whiskey and later a delicious Chilean white wine, comments to James, and, once, hiccups—was filled with frustration.
“I was born ugly to a mother who, like many Argentine women, was devoted to looking tall, thin and tanned. I was short and fat, and had pale skin that burned and peeled in the sun, so Mother paid no attention at all to me. My father left the children and the home to Mother, the way all Argentine men do. We two children saw him occasionally. My brother, who is tall and handsome, delighted my mother, but I found a friend, my great-aunt Elizabeth. She was short and blond and never went near the sun. She was ugly but very smart. She taught me French and English. I went to the German school, where we spoke German and Spanish. Of course, we spoke Spanish at home, but I enjoyed sometimes lapsing into French to annoy my mother.” She grinned a most engaging grin.
So she grew up ignored by her parents. She spent her time with Tante Elizabeth, as she called her great-aunt. She became a devout Catholic, much more deeply committed to the Church than her parents or brother. At one point she wanted to become a nun, but her father would not permit it. As she grew older and it became evident that she would never marry, her father began to organize her life for her.
“He decides what I can eat, and drink, and where I can go.” She grinned again. “You see, pussy, this lunch is special because he isn’t telling me what to do.”
So her days were filled with Tante Elizabeth and work for the Church. She watched her brother get married, and she watched her nieces and nephew grow up. Then in 1989 at the age of ninety-four Tante Elizabeth died and was buried in the family boveda.
“Father insisted we put those awful statues in it with her,” said Elena. “He claimed she wanted them with her. They are some sort of heirloom. I never heard her say anything about them, and I certainly should have known. I was the only member of the family who paid her the slightest heed.”