by James Remmer
‘That reminds me,’ said von Menen. ‘Attachés at the Embassy… Did Rudolph hint at anything untoward in his letter?’
‘Not that I could figure, but Rudolph’s inclined to be very circumspect. I have to read his letters a dozen or more times before I get to the nub of what it is he’s trying to tell me.’
‘In that case, maybe you should know about a man called Erhardt Jost, a Gestapo agent. He arrived at the Embassy a few months ago, just ahead of me.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘In our case, yes. Jost has an avid aversion to anti-Nazis and his antagonism exceeds the bounds of indoctrination – he kills people!’
Schröder fell silent, his face the colour of stone.
‘Something wrong?’ asked von Menen.
‘Not sure,’ replied Schröder, clearly troubled. ‘According to my secretary, a man telephoned the university about four weeks ago – twice, in fact – sounded a bit cagey, she reckoned, wouldn’t give his name, didn’t want to speak to me personally, just wanted my home address. Of course, she didn’t give it to him and as far as I know he hasn’t called since, but she thought he had a German accent.’
‘Maybe it was just a coincidence,’ said von Menen, ‘but he’s certainly active. He’s followed me several times.’
There was a knock on the door. Franco walked in, muttered something in Schröder’s ear and returned to the kitchen. Schröder looked anxious. ‘Carl, you’re sure you weren’t followed here?’ he asked.
‘I’m certain. I took a very devious route… used three cabs, the first to the Colon Theatre, the next to the Congress Building and finally to Plaza Dorrego. I walked the rest of the way. Why do you ask?’
‘Franco reckons that a car has been cruising up and down the street outside for the best part of an hour.’
‘The Police de la Capital?’
‘Possibly. Likely they’re looking to harass Giancarlo, Franco’s son, you know, the young man I tutor part-time. Nice fellow, but he’s a bit of a fundamentalist, wants to set the whole world straight: no Nazis, no fascists, no communists, just utopia. Twice he’s fallen foul of the police and twice he’s been arrested.’ Schröder looked at his watch. ‘Should be home in about ten minutes. Chances are, he’ll get the usual words of advice before he reaches the front door. Even so, I think we should call it a night. I’ll get Franco to order you a taxi to the side entrance. But make sure to take the same, circuitous route back. Buenos Aires is full of unseen eyes.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ll leave a few minutes later.’
‘And our next meeting? I mean, how do we communicate?’
‘Do you have a bank in Buenos Aires?’
‘Yes, the Banco de la Nación on Plaza de Mayo.’
‘Same as me… Let’s agree to meet here in a fortnight’s time. I’ll let Franco know to keep the room free. If I can’t make it, I’ll leave a message for you at the Banco de la Nación on the Wednesday before.’
‘And if I can’t make it?’
‘Likewise, leave a message for me.’
If von Menen’s spirits had been lifted by his first meeting with Schröder, then the letter he found waiting for him at the Banco de la Nación three days later filled him with a state of elation. By the time he’d reached his apartment, the light-blue envelope, bearing a faded whiff of perfume, had almost burned a hole in his pocket.
I miss you… I love you… I can’t wait to get to Buenos Aires to be with you. Then, he reached the final page: Saturday 23rd August is Daddy’s sixtieth birthday… We’re having a big party for him. And guess what – you’ve been invited, as a houseguest… My parents insist. PLEASE, do come. You can catch the El Cordobes Express from Retiro Train Station early on Friday morning. I’ll be waiting to pick you up at Córdoba… All my love, Maria.
He read the letter again. My parents insist? How much has she told them? ‘He’s German… a diplomat… comes from Mecklenburg?’ Cautionary lights flashed on and off in his mind, teasing the memory of his last night on Cabo de Hornos, the passion, the closeness.
The lights were still flashing when he breezed through the door of Harrods department store, on Florida, the very next morning.
A voluptuous lady, about thirty, with mahogany eyes, dark brown hair and fulsome, scarlet lips gift-wrapped the crocodile skin wallet and matching hip flask for him, her crisp white blouse, a size too small, heightening the mountains of her D-size cups, von Menen’s eyes transfixed on the dark, deep chasm.
She looked up and caught his gaze. ‘Anything else I can do for you, señor?’ she smiled.
He coughed nervously. ‘Er, no, thank you… That is, unless you know where I might find a locksmith.’
‘Avenida Santa Fe, beyond Pueyrredon… It’s only a block from where I live,’ she said, a helpful smile in her eyes.
‘Thank you.’
‘A pleasure, señor… If ever you need anything specially wrapped, just ask for me, Ana… Ana Pradera.’
‘Thank you, Ana, I’ll remember that.’
Beating a hasty retreat onto Florida, von Menen headed for the locksmiths on Santa Fe and left an hour later with a duplicate of the key he’d taken from Jose’s cabinet.
The ground floor was quiet upon his return. Von Menen left the original key on the janitor’s desk, along with a hurriedly scribbled note:
Dear Jose, key found on the first floor landing a couple of days ago.
Apologies for not returning sooner; quite forgot about it! Hope no inconvenience caused.
He returned to his apartment feeling that things might finally be starting to go his way.
5
After fourteen hours, 700 kilometres and what seemed to von Menen like as many stops, the El Cordobes Pullman finally pulled in at Alta Córdoba Station.
Maria was waiting on the platform, a movie star in all but name, the collar on her three-quarter-length ocelot coat pulled high above her neck.
‘You look very glamorous,’ he said.
She stretched up on her toes, fell into his arms and kissed him. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she murmured.
‘The same,’ he replied.
She pulled back a step. ‘Let me look at you.’
‘Nothing’s changed,’ he joked.
‘Except you look very tired.’
‘Tired? Anyone would look tired after fourteen hours on the slowest train in the Universe, chugging through the most impossibly flat land in the Universe, with nothing to look at but horses and cattle.’
‘Well, you’re here now, the Province of Córdoba – hills, valleys, meandering streams and the Sierra Chica.’
She took his arm and they walked towards the car in the evening twilight.
They drove north for an hour, Maria looking happy and content at the wheel of her new Chevrolet coupe. They turned off the main highway and climbed on to a narrow track, the beam of the headlights falling upon a large white sign hanging high above the entrance – Estancia Sierra Chica.
Some minutes later, the shimmering lights of the Gomez ancestral home came into view: a large lime-washed mission-style building with a pillared arcade, parapets and a bell tower rising high above the huge front door.
A tall, portly man stood waiting by the door, a glowing storm lantern in his hand.
‘We’re here, Daddy,’ called Maria as they approached.
He offered his hand and smiled. ‘Señor von Menen – or should I say, Herr von Menen – welcome to Estancia Sierra Chica. I’m Javier Gomez, Maria’s father.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, señor. Please, call me Carl.’
They moved into the wide flagstone hall. A lady stood at the foot of the staircase, elegant and radiant.
‘Carl, allow me to introduce my wife, Ana,’ said Señor Gomez.
Von Menen
inched forward, reached for her hand and pressed it lightly, dipping his head in the process. ‘Señora.’
‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Carl.’
‘My privilege, Señora Gomez. I’m honoured to be here.’
‘A pleasant journey?’
‘Long, monotonous and a little tiring, but educational.’
‘Educational?’
‘Yes, I sat next to a cattle farmer, a gentleman cattle farmer; very stylish, name of Valquez. Said he knew you; in fact, he said he would be here tomorrow.’
‘Black jacket, bombachas, high boots and a belt studded with silver coins?’ asked Señor Gomez, one eye balanced on his wife.
‘The same,’ von Menen smiled.
They moved to the drawing room, a large, stone enclave, the walls adorned with the artefacts of Spanish colonial rule – guns, swords, pikes, helmets, breastplates, shields and tapestries, an unambiguous reflection of seventeenth-century Spain.
‘Dinner will be served in forty-five minutes, Carl,’ announced Señora Gomez, glancing at the clock. ‘We tend to eat very late here. First, I imagine you would like to freshen up. Your room is on the first floor… left at the top of the staircase and along the balcony. It’s the third door on the right. You’ll find plenty of hot water, towels and—’
‘The generator, Mummy?’ interrupted Maria.
‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Maria. When the generator goes off, Carl, usually at midnight, everything switches to battery power. There’s a separate switch just beside the bed. You’ll find the lights a little dimmer, but quite bright enough.’
Von Menen adjourned to his room, soaked in the bath, then changed and rejoined Maria’s father in the drawing room.
‘Drink, Carl?’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll have the same as you.’
‘Sherry?’
‘That’s fine.’ Von Menen raised his glass and took a short sip. ‘Mm, very fine.’
‘Can’t beat a good British shipper, Carl.’ Silence filled the room, Javier Gomez’s face a picture of repentance. ‘My apologies, Carl, I wasn’t implying that everything British is best… Certainly didn’t mean to offend you. It’s the war in Europe,’ he tutted. ‘I’m afraid it’s reached into my mind again.’
‘No offence taken, sir; as it happens, I like sherry, British or otherwise.’ Von Menen felt the instant comfort of his host’s relief. ‘You have a wonderful home,’ he added.
‘Founded in the mid-seventeenth century… been in the family for many generations. The origins are Jesuit. Some of the original outbuildings are nearly three hundred years old.’
‘But you don’t farm it yourself?’
‘That’s right. My wife and I came to live here after my father died. We kept the house, but decided to lease out most of the land. The man you met on the train, Hector Valquez…?’
‘Yes?’
‘He leases about ten thousand hectares.’ Señor Gomez settled back in his chair. ‘Anyway, as much as I’d like to talk about Estancia Sierra Chica, Carl, I’d like you to tell me about Germany. It must be quite different now.’
‘Very different,’ replied von Menen.
‘And Maria tells me that your father is a military man. Is that right?’
‘Yes, a soldier.’ It was, in fact, as much as von Menen had ever told Maria about his father. ‘Sadly, I was unable to see him before I left for Argentina.’
‘How very unfortunate.’ There was a lull in the conversation. Gomez stared into the fire, gathering his thoughts, the question he really wanted to ask suddenly bursting out. ‘Tell me, Carl, are you a Nazi?’
Von Menen fixed him with a cool, unmoved expression. ‘No, sir, I am not. Neither are my parents; in fact, I can safely say that my whole family is very apolitical.’ The ring of truth in his reply was unmistakeable.
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ said Señor Gomez. ‘Events in Germany have caused me a great deal of anxiety these past ten years. I still have this gnawing feeling that the Nazis will eventually bring Germany to her knees. I find that sad and frightening. Sad because Germany is a great country and frightening because there is a similar element at work in this country. It worries me a great deal.’
Sensing that it was hardly the occasion to be drawn into a debate on the merits of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, von Menen said nothing, yet his reticence did little to stifle the slant of the conversation.
‘Perhaps I should warn you about my wife’s brother, Filipe. Like me, he’s spent some time in Germany, but for entirely different reasons. The truth is, Filipe and I are separated by many different things, none more so than politics. He favours the politics of the extreme right.’ The word “extreme” hung on his lips like a menacing black cloud. ‘When he realises who you are, he will, I suspect, engage you in a deep, endless discussion about the values and attributes of the Nazi Party, not to mention the Italian fascists. I tell you this because he will be here tomorrow evening… en route from Mendoza to Buenos Aires.’
‘Your brother-in-law,’ said von Menen, as they made towards the dining room, ‘what line of business is he in?’
‘He’s a colonel in the army, mixes with a pack of elitist officers who call themselves the GOU… Grupo de Oficiales Unidos, a bunch of politicised army officers, hell-bent on changing the whole political outlook in Argentina.’ Javier Gomez smiled. ‘The irony is,’ he continued, ‘none of us are supposed to know anything about it.’
‘Changing the whole political outlook in favour of… what?’
‘More State control and less democracy, if I know Filipe.’
A colonel in the GOU, and he’ll be here tomorrow night. Interesting.
The Gomezes displayed a gracious, charming hospitality. Throughout the rest of the evening there was a conspicuous absence of any reference to the conflict in Europe, which von Menen attributed to the subtlety of Maria’s mother.
Whilst she and Maria indulged him with the offerings from a table groaning with food and wine, Señor Gomez served up an educational insight into Argentina’s last fifty years, from the “golden” twilight period of the nineteenth century to the more recent, turbulent years of the great depression.
‘Argentina is a country of missed opportunities,’ he told von Menen. ‘It lacks a real sense of identity. The pitiful thing is, whilst soldiers play at being politicians and real politicians succumb to the temptation of fraud and corruption, we’re never likely to gain one.’
Saturday evening arrived in grand style – an eight-piece orchestra, enough flunkies to staff the Hotel Plaza in Buenos Aires and more food and wine than any sane person could visualise.
Hair piled up in a mass of elaborate curls, Maria was at her stunning best in a peplos-style dress of sapphire blue.
‘You’re driving me to despair,’ said von Menen, speaking through the corner of his mouth.
‘Really?’ she whispered.
‘Yes, really. If I had my way, I’d…’
‘You’d what?’ she teased, waving to a lady in a black chiffon dress.
He nodded to the couch in the far corner. ‘Well, I’d… to the stars and back.’
‘To the stars and back? My, that is a long way. We’d…’ – she halted, proffered another feigned smile at the lady in black and continued – ‘best start first thing tomorrow morning, then. What say we ride out to the halfway house, at the head of the valley; it’s where we used to have our summer picnics.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Well, now we’ve sorted that out, I really ought to go and speak to Daddy’s guests.’
The evening was one of elegance and sophistication, the guests numbering sixty, at least, including the stylish Señor Valquez and his beautiful young wife, Teresa, resplendent in an Andalucian-style dress of black and fiery red. They looked strictly flamenco, yet their display of the tango, with its sudden pauses a
nd long gliding steps, was unmistakeably Argentine!
By the fireplace stood a man with the glow of importance: tall, slim, suave and athletic-looking; impeccable, almost artificial, in a white tuxedo, black silk tie and shoes so shiny they lit up the floor in front of him. Distant from the rest, he held an unflinching poise, his charcoal hair swept back from his forehead without a trace of a parting. He looked like a matinee idol and, as if nothing else seemed to matter, his narrow, suspicious eyes were fixed firmly on the young German diplomat in the far corner.
Colonel Filipe Vidal moved with the bearing of a cavalry officer, stiff, purposeful and imbued with pride, head held high, long wedge-shaped chin preceding all else.
‘Carl, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ replied von Menen, with erroneous surprise.
‘Allow me… I’m Colonel Filipe Vidal, Maria’s uncle.’ Vidal’s smile was discreet and cautious, his voice unhurried, each word exact, every syllable measured.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Colonel.’
Vidal palmed away the formality. ‘Please, call me Filipe.’
A waiter stopped and offered him a glass of champagne. Vidal took a meagre sip, explored and played with the taste, then finally gave his approval. ‘They know I only drink Dom Pérignon,’ he said. ‘It’s the only decent thing not to come out of Germany. By that, of course, I mean Germany proper.’
If he has a genealogical link with Germany, it has to be Joachim von Ribbentrop.
‘Maria tells me that you both came over from Europe on the same ship,’ Vidal continued in his measured manner.
‘Yes, we met after embarking at Lisbon.’
‘You’re German, I understand.’
‘Yes.’
‘From?’