by Jerold Last
We finished the meal. Columbo surprised me by giving me “un abrazo”, a hug, as we parted. “Good-bye, my friend. Hasta manana,” he said sincerely.
My afternoon activities started late, about 3 PM. I caught a taxi to the Museo Municipal de Bellas Artes Juan Manuel Blanes, an old manor house that is now an art museum, located in the Prado district. Blanes', Uruguay’s most important 19th century painter, most significant work included large paintings that celebrated Uruguayan patriotic themes, especially military victories and historical events. The museum also contains a large collection of works of the other famous Uruguayan painter of the era, Pedro Figari, and several lesser-known Uruguayan artists from the same period. The most striking Blanes' work I remember was a huge oil painting called “Los Treinta y Tres Orientales” of the small (33 men) military force under General Artigas who led the 1825 insurrection that liberated Uruguay from Argentina. Reproductions of this classic painting can be seen all over Uruguay.
My overall impressions of Montevideo were very, very different than of Buenos Aires or Salta. Buenos Aires is Rome designed as an Argentine fantasy version. Too many people are crowded into too small a space, government buildings are too grandiose and elegant, and streets are too wide but still congested with traffic. At the other extreme, Salta is an old small Spanish Colonial city with half a million people living in its sprawling area and no high-rise buildings. The core city was obviously built on a much tighter budget than BA.
Montevideo's core, except for the "old city", was mostly built in the early 20th Century, with a few elegantly designed older buildings downtown that are now dirty and run down, and undistinguished architecture everywhere else. The city is densely populated with heavily used beaches on the river and a pedestrian filled greenbelt that runs along the river from the port to the suburbs. Families and dogs walk on the ramblas along the greenbelt. Montevideo looks lower middle class and well lived in, like a comfortable old shoe. The wealthy live near the river in modern high-rise apartments in glass and concrete buildings.
The streets consist of residential apartment houses, some of which contain small shops on the street-level floors. The east-west cross streets are mostly larger avenues and carry heavy traffic---bicycles, cars, buses, and trucks. Parking spaces are few and far between because the curbs are full of parked cars. The streets and sidewalks are crowded except during the early morning hours. Many of the people drank mate constantly. Mate, the national beverage and universal caffeine source, is sipped continuously from brightly painted gourds that are hollowed out to make cups. The hot, bitter tea is sipped through bombillas, silver straws that filter out the mate leaves and let liquid pass through the small holes at the end of the spoon-shaped straws. Thermos bottles of hot water are tucked under arms to refill the gourds as the Uruguayans endlessly sip their mate.
Since it was on the way to the hotel, I also visited The Museum of the Gaucho and Money (El Museo del Gaucho y la Moneda). This oddly named building is a well-preserved late 19th century mansion that contains garments, knives, riding gear, and an eclectic mix of other items used by gauchos in the past. The strange juxtaposition of "Money" in the name is because it also contains a somewhat random collection of Uruguayan and foreign coins and bills from the era.
There was barely time for a quick shower before Suzanne arrived. Before catching a taxi we were treated to a free concert in the park directly across the street from our hotel. It featured a Peruvian quartet playing traditional Andean music with flutes, pitch pipes, guitar, drums, and vocals. They sold CDs of their music, which was very professional and authentic. We bought several of the CDs, at a few dollars each, as gifts. The quartet was costumed in the faux Inca attire we had seen worn by the folkloric groups in Salta and in the indigenous cities of Northwest Argentina.
There was still time to catch a cab that got us to the Maritime Museum at 7:30, a bit early for a 7:00 appointment by Uruguayan standards. We entered the museum, a small round building built like a lighthouse sitting on the greenbelt along the river and the Rambla in a random empty space, courtesy of the bartender’s business cards, which got us past several tuxedo-clad security men at the door. A salon on our left, about 30 feet down a wide hall, was crowded with a mixed group of mostly middle-aged people in formal, business, and casual attire, an exhibit of oil and acrylic paintings, and a short fat guy in a beret who seemed to be the artist. A large table in the center of the room held hors d’oeuvres and empanadas kept warm in chafing dishes. A bar on the far wall offered a selection of wine, scotch whiskey, and brandy.
Being hungry, we went directly to the table and put a selection of the various foods on our plates. A quick trip to the bar for a glass of red wine for each of us and we were good to go. Suitably fortified, we walked over to the paintings to admire the artwork, which was much easier said than done. The pictures were mostly stylized images of heroic blond military figures wearing World War II vintage S.S. uniforms with swastikas. Many of the officers were standing with their foot on the body of an indigenous or mestizo that had apparently just been killed or badly beaten. In other pictures the heroic army figures were firing on unarmed civilians, all members of some obvious ethnic minority common in Brazil or Paraguay. Another cluster of paintings were more of the same, but this time the victims were caricatures of Jews. The exhibit was thoroughly disgusting.
We made a show of admiring the artwork. The second and third glasses of wine helped. At each group of pictures we stopped as we walked by them and took pains to be overheard saying good things about the artist’s technique and choice of subject matter.
Suzanne walked over and complemented the artist, saying in Spanish, “Your work has tremendous emotional force and makes a statement that most artists back home in the USA would be afraid to make.”
We went back to the center table for more food, taking our time to make selections from the assortment of choices. An older couple joined us. The male half was in his 50s, heavy-set, jowly, about 5 foot 5 and 185 pounds of fat and non-muscle. He had apparently last smiled while in his 20s, and looked a lot like a shorter version of Rush Limbaugh. His companion was equally unattractive, in her late 40s, also short and dumpy with a permanent scowl etched on her face. They introduced themselves formally in strongly accented English as Juan and Maria Strossner-Ramirez. Juan asked us who we were and where we were from. We told him our names and that we were from Los Angeles, California.
He asked us "What are you doing here in Montevideo? How do you like our city?"
I answered both questions. "I'm here for a vacation and as a tourist. Suzanne has business here in Montevideo today, but officially joins me as a vacationing tourist tomorrow. We like Montevideo a lot thus far. It's great to be in a place where everybody works and nobody is begging on the streets like we see all the time in Los Angeles. And everybody speaks the same language rather than having a mini-United Nations on every block."
Suzanne nodded in agreement while I was saying all of this crap.
"What are your vacation plans?" Maria asked Suzanne.
"Our plans are pretty flexible. We're planning to rent a car and drive up to Florida for a day or two on an estancia to relax, then to drive to Iguazu Falls to enjoy the scenery. After that, a visit to Paraguay to do some bird watching and see the typical South American forest. We're also looking forward to driving through Santa Caterina and getting to eat some good German food like we had at my grandparents' house when I was a little kid growing up in Sacramento."
"Do you know anyone here in Florida, or in Brazil or Paraguay?" asked Juan.
"No, we don't," I replied, taking a sip of wine and hoping that I sounded more sincere than I felt. My acting skills were being stretched to their limit. "We hope to meet people who can tell us about what we should do at the different places we visit."
"We try to extend our hospitality to like-minded people we meet," said Juan, "And you seem to see things in very much the same way that we do. Let me give you the names and contact information for some o
f our friends in the places you plan to visit. You should feel free to call all of them if you want suggestions of things to see and do, or to have some local company with your dinner. Santa Caterina will be a little disappointing, I'm afraid. Most of the good German stock that settled there 125 years ago is diluted by its breeding with Brazilian Mestizos. You will find more authentic Germans in Paraguay than Brazil these days!"
This time it was Maria nodding in agreement while Juan was saying all of this crap. Her nods were almost synchronized with his jowls bouncing up and down while he spoke.
"Perhaps you will join us for dessert and coffee down the hall in a private room while I write down for you the list of people you can contact while you travel?" asked Juan politely, but with enough assertiveness that I couldn't consider refusing the offer.
"We would be delighted." And so, we did. The smaller room had tables set up, an assortment of cakes and pastries buffet style on a larger table, and pots of coffee and tea kept hot over electric burners. There were several small groups already sitting at tables in animated conversations.
Over cake and coffee Juan pulled out a small address book and a pocket notepad and started writing. After a bit he passed a page to me with several names and phone numbers written on it in a precise penmanship that was easy to read despite the unfamiliar names.
"Here you are," he said. "I hope you enjoy meeting my friends. They all are active in their community as spokespersons for a rational political philosophy you both clearly agree with, a philosophy that stresses traditional values and racial purity."
After coffee was swallowed and cake was eaten we thanked Juan and Maria Ramirez for their hospitality and generosity in sharing their friends and took a cab back to the hotel.
"Do you want anything else to eat tonight, like dinner?" I asked Suzanne. "I don't think that I do."
"No thank you. I'm stuffed," she replied. "But you can buy me a drink at the hotel bar before we go up to the room. I think we both could use an early night and enough sleep for a change."
In the hotel lobby I traded in the two coupons for free drinks that had come with the room. The waiter returned with two pisco sours, a drink we first tasted in Argentina. Pisco sour is the South American equivalent of the Mexican Margarita cocktail, made with a local brandy called pisco instead of tequila.
"To us," toasted Suzanne. She sipped the cocktail slowly and thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea what you've gotten us into with those sickos we met tonight?"
"Yes, I think I do. And all of a sudden, I'm having a lot of fun. Don't worry about it. We'll have a great story to tell when we get back to California and we'll have made a real friend here in Montevideo in Lieutenant Gonzalez. Which reminds me, I have to call him. I'll be right back."
I called the Lieutenant at home using the phone number he gave me with his business card, and quickly told him about tonight's party and about meeting Juan. I read him the list of names Juan had given me and asked if he could check them out before our breakfast meeting the next day. He said that he would.
"But just to let you know that you're on the right track here, do you know who Juan Strossner-Ramirez is?" he asked rhetorically. "He's the head of the Uruguayan Nazi Party."
"Good night," I replied cheerfully, "We'll see you tomorrow morning at 9 for breakfast here at the hotel. Why don't we meet by accident in the breakfast room just in case anybody is keeping an eye on us?"
Suzanne and I had a second pisco sour (about $1.50 each when we got the bill). In the room we embraced tightly then walked over to the bed and cuddled together. As always I enjoyed the feel of her body touching mine.
"What do you call a Nazi in Montevideo?" I asked.
Suzanne tried to ignore me.
"Juan very bad hombre," I said.
We fell asleep shortly after and both of us slept deeply as we caught up with jet lag and late nights.
Chapter4.The Dude Ranch
Over coffee and fruit juice I filled Suzanne in on my meeting with the Lieutenant yesterday, so she was prepared when Lieutenant Gonzalez, trench coat and all, joined us for breakfast. Columbo gave me the car keys, the paperwork on the rental car, and an envelope containing our visas for entry into Brazil. He also handed me another list of names and addresses of people we could contact at various places along our itinerary.
"Juan and Maria's list of friends and dinner guests reads like a Who's Who of Fascist leaders in the Mercosur region. You'll meet the elite of the far right wing as you travel. Most are known Nazis; the others are suspected of being Nazis. It's amazing how well you were able to insinuate yourself into the regional South American Nazi parties in such a short time. I congratulate you on that, but feel I must warn you once again that these are very dangerous people you will be meeting. Be extremely careful that they do not have any reason to suspect your political allegiance or motives."
Suzanne looked the detective straight in the eye. "We're far from helpless Lieutenant Gonzalez. We can be dangerous too, and we can both take care of ourselves. I have an advanced black belt in Tai Kwan-do Karate. Roger has similar skills in Gracie Jiu-Jitsu and other martial arts. We've both used our skills in self-defense, as well as in gymnasiums and competition. And we're both careful people."
The lieutenant acknowledged Suzanne's comments with an affirmative nod and continued, "One of my specialized areas of expertise for the Intendencia police force is dealing with extremist groups on both the left and the right. Uruguay is a very small country, so my police work in this area takes me to Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina, as well as rural Uruguay. The names I gave you are my counterparts in these other countries, so they too have a great deal of expertise in the area. They are also dangerous people as far as the Nazis are concerned. This is supposed to be confidential information, so don't tell any of them that I told you anything about who they are or what they do.
"Make sure to contact my colleague in Paraguay the day before you get there. He's based in Asuncion and will have a long trip east to meet you. Eduardo is Jewish, which is most unusual in Paraguay and is not public knowledge there. Because of his religion, I suspect that he may also have ties to the Israeli Intelligence Agency, the Mossad. If you can be anywhere nearly as devious and cunning with him as you have been thus far with our local Nazis, please explore whether he'll tell you anything about what Maria Fajao was working on. I assume you have not seen the news in the USA media for a few days. Our ambivalent corpse here in Montevideo has been major international news and the media is closely following this story. This isn't the kind of publicity Uruguay wants, but for the moment the whole world is looking at whether we can solve this mystery.
"Please contact me when you return to Montevideo, or if you need help at any time on your trip," he went on. "You'll find the car parked right in front of the hotel. The concierge will expect a tip for allowing you to park illegally and watching your car; 50 pesos is customary."
After saying our good-byes to the Lieutenant we shook hands and went back to the room to get our suitcases, which we had already packed.
Our rental car cost about $95 a day, including taxes and insurance, with additional charges for mileage driven. We settled our bill, told the desk clerk we would be back for a night or two in about a week, and drove north to the city of Florida on route 5, the major north-south highway of Uruguay. This toll road starts off as a busy 4-lane highway in Montevideo and becomes a well-maintained 2-lane highway about 40 kilometers north in the province of Canelones, the center of Uruguay's wine industry. It's about a 40-minute drive from Canelones to Florida. We drove through a lot of empty space composed of lush grasslands and flat terrain between the occasional small villages. The scenery was initially a welcome change after the congested urban landscape that is Montevideo, but quickly became boring as we saw mile after mile of grassy nothing. We left route 5 at Florida and drove east and north to Cerro Colorado ("Red Hill"), then turned onto an unpaved but graded dirt road to drive 15 Km further to the estancia.
The trip went
by quickly as Suzanne and I updated each other on our activities the previous day. Her lecture and seminar both went well and the students were interested. Potential research collaborations were discussed with several of the students and faculty. Suzanne would get a detailed e-mail list of potential local plants for her to study. If any of them specifically interested her, the Uruguayan colleagues would collect the plants, extract their DNA, and mail the dried DNA (which is chemically stable) to Suzanne for sequence analysis.
I told her what I had seen at the museums and my less than thrilling experience at the U.S. embassy. Then, the conversation turned briefly to our current detective work and what had transpired thus far in Montevideo.