‘‘You came here alone?’’ Enrico asked, horrified.
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Mi Mayor,’’ Enrico said, shaking his head at Clete’s stupidity. ‘‘The men downstairs will see you safely to el Coronel’s house.’’
Clete put out his hand to Perón.
‘‘I am delighted to have the privilege of your acquaintance, mi Coronel.’’
Perón grasped his hand firmly.
"The pleasure is mine, Mayor,’’ he said. ‘‘I regret the circumstances."
VIII
[ONE] The Basílica of St. Pilar Recoleta Plaza Buenos Aires 0915 10 April 1943
It was necessary for Antonio to really shake Clete to wake him, and even after a shower and several cups of coffee with his breakfast, he still felt groggy and exhausted.
As he had announced he would, Capitán Lauffer appeared at eight-thirty.
En route to Our Lady of Pilar, Clete told him about Enrico climbing out of a hospital bed onto a horse to escort his father from the Edificio Libertador to the Basílica, and also about meeting el Coronel Perón.
‘‘He and your father were great friends,’’ Lauffer said.
‘‘So he said.’’
‘‘He just came back from Germany.’’
‘‘Excuse me? What did you say?’’
‘‘He just came back from Germany. He was on the Lufthansa flight yesterday.’’
‘‘What was he doing in Germany?’’ Clete asked.
Lauffer shrugged. ‘‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’’
Well, that explains that ‘‘difficult—impossible—to believe ’’ bullshit he gave me last night, doesn’t it?
"Is Perón involved in this Grupo de Oficiales Unidos business?’’
‘‘Señor Frade . . .’’
‘‘Do you think you could bring yourself to call me ‘Clete’?’’
‘‘I would like that. My Christian name is Roberto.’’
He offered Clete his hand.
‘‘Clete,’’ Lauffer said, ‘‘one of the difficulties we have in Argentina with norteamericanos is that you have a tendency to ask questions that shouldn’t be asked, and are impolitic to answer.’’
‘‘In other words, he is,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Is that why he came back? Because the G.O.U. is about to move?’’
Lauffer looked at him, smiled, and shook his head.
‘‘I don’t know anything about the G.O.U."
‘‘You are being deaf, dumb, and blind, right?’’ Clete challenged with a smile.
‘‘But if I were a betting man, and I knew that one man was involved with the G.O.U., I would wager his best friend was.’’
‘‘OK. That’s good enough. Thank you for your nonanswer. And since you don’t know anything about the G.O.U., I suppose you can’t tell me if it’s loaded with Nazi sympathizers?’’
‘‘I wonder if you are asking that question personally or professionally.’’
‘‘Professionally?’’
‘‘There is a rumor going around that you are really an agent of the OSS.’’
‘‘Of the what?’’
‘‘You never heard of the OSS, of course?’’
‘‘Not a word.’’
‘‘Then I suppose it’s also not true that you are the man who blew up the Reine de la Mer.’’
‘‘The what?’’
‘‘As an officer of the Argentine Army, of course, I was horrified to hear that the American OSS violated the neutrality of Argentina by blowing up a neutral ship in our waters.’’
‘‘As, of course, you should have been. The Americans blew up a Nazi ship, you say? Do you think they had a reason?’’ Clete asked, smiling.
‘‘My father, however—he is a retired Admiral of the Armada’’—Navy—‘‘does not share my views. He said something to the effect that he was surprised it took the Americans so long to do what the British should have done in the first place, and that he hoped whoever did it not only got away but received an appropriate decoration.’’
‘‘You can tell your father, if what you say is true, that something like that probably happened.’’
Lauffer smiled back at him. ‘‘A decoration and a promotion to Mayor?’’
‘‘Something like that,’’ Clete said.
‘‘So far as Nazis being within the Grupo de Oficiales Unidos: I would suspect that if such an organization really exists, it is not controlled by those who sympathize with Germany, or, on the other hand, by those who sympathize with the British and the norteamericanos. It would be concerned with Argentine internal affairs.’’
Clete was disappointed when he looked out the window and saw they were at the rear of Recoleta Cemetery; he preferred not to end the conversation just now.
When they reached the church16itself, a line of people had already formed to view the casket when the church was opened. Clete wondered how many of them had known, much less admired, his father, and how many were there out of simple curiosity.
Lauffer knocked at a side door, which was opened by a monk in sandals and a brown robe.
‘‘This is Señor Frade,’’ Lauffer said, and the monk opened the door all the way and pointed to the interior of the church.
The casket—el Coronel’s uniform cap, his medals, and the Argentine flag back in place on top—was in the center of the aisle near the altar. And the honor guard was present, too, preparing to go on duty; their officer-in-charge was checking the appearance of the troopers. When he saw Lauffer, he came to attention and saluted.
There was a tug on Clete’s sleeve, and he turned to see another brown-robed monk, extending a large key to him.
‘‘The key to your tomb, Señor,’’ the monk said.
Clete looked helplessly at Lauffer, and the monk picked up on it.
‘‘We have moved your grandfather, Señor, and made the preparations for your father. I would like your approval of the arrangements.’’
‘‘Moved my grandfather’’? What the hell does that mean?
Lauffer, seeing Clete’s confusion and hesitation, nodded.
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said to the monk.
‘‘I’ll go with you. I knew this was coming, and brought a torch,’’ he said, exhibiting a flashlight.
They followed the monk out of a side door of the church and into the cemetery. Ornate burial grounds were not new to Clete. Because of the water table, belowground burial in New Orleans is virtually impossible. The result of that over the years has been the construction of elaborate above-ground tombs covering hundreds of acres.
The Old Man called the cemeteries ‘‘Marble City,’’ allegedly to keep the bodies from floating down the Mississippi, but really erected to impress the neighbors. The worse the scoundrel, the larger his tomb.
But there was nothing in New Orleans like Recoleta Cemetery. Here even the smallest of family tombs resembled marble churches, and there were acres and acres of them, side by side.
He had been here once before, the day Cousin Jorge Alejandro was laid to rest in the Duarte tomb.
They came to the Frade tomb. It was about the size of the Duarte tomb, about thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. Wrought-iron-barred glass doors offered a view of the interior, which was set up like a church altar.
The monk reclaimed the key.
‘‘With your permission, Señor Frade,’’ he said, and unlocked the door.
I’ll be damned. I think he expects me to go inside.
He looked at Lauffer, his eyebrows raised in question, and Lauffer smiled, nodded, and handed Clete a flashlight.
That was nice of him to think about that, but I won’t need a flashlight in there. I can see well enough, and I don’t intend to stay long.
He followed the monk into the tomb. He looked around. There was a large Christ on the cross—either a statue or more likely a bronze casting—on the wall of the tomb above the altar; a large, formal cross—I wonder if that’s gold? Probably not; if it was gold, somebody would climb the cemetery wa
lls at night and steal it—and several other gold—or at least gold-plated—objects beside it on sort of a shelf against the wall. Two of them were filled with fresh flowers. Nice touch. Everything rested on a—what do you call that, an altar cloth?—sheet of finely embroidered linen. That’s fresh from the laundry. A similar but larger cloth covered a marble table, three feet wide and eight feet long, two feet from the altar against the wall. In a church, that’s where the priest would have the wine and wafers for Holy Communion.
He turned to the monk, wondering if it would be appropriate to comment on the nice furnishings, or maybe to thank him—he had the key to this place, he’s probably responsible.
The monk was on his knees, not praying, but instead lifting a section of the tomb floor. The floor, Clete noticed for the first time, was of steel. Like in the center of a bridge, where they put a section of steel like that, with holes, to keep cars from skidding when there’s ice.
What the hell is he doing?
With a grunt, the monk pulled a five-foot-square section of the floor loose, and with an effort pushed it to the side of the room, resting it against a wall.
Then he took a small flashlight from the folds of his robe, put it in his mouth, and backed into the hole in the floor. When only his chest was above floor level, he took the flashlight from his mouth.
‘‘Be careful, Señor. Sometimes the ladder is slippery.’’
Does he expect me to go down there? What the hell is down there, anyway?
When the monk disappeared from view, Clete went to the opening and stared down. A metal ladder, looking like something you’d find on a destroyer, went down as far as Clete could see.
At least three decks.
He shrugged—what the hell?—and backed carefully into the hole. Lauffer’s flashlight was too large to put in his mouth, so he had to put it in his pocket. There was just enough light for him to find the round rungs of the ladder with his feet. He started to climb down.
He found himself in a room as large as the altar room above. There was no altar. Instead there were shelves on all four sides of the room, four high, each holding a wooden casket. Most of them were full-size, but he saw three smaller caskets, one tiny. Children’s caskets, and a baby’s casket. On the wall in front of him, where two shelves would ordinarily be, he saw another Christ on a cross.
The monk was descending farther into the ground. Clete followed him.
There’s no smell of death in here. A musty smell, and the smell of wood, that’s all.
The thought triggered a clear and distinctly unpleasant memory of the sweet smell of corrupting corpses.
Shit!
Clete climbed down after the monk through three more burial chambers, each full of caskets on shelves, and then to a fourth chamber. In this one, all but two of the casket shelves were empty.
I guess this is where el Coronel will go. How the hell are they going to get that casket down here?
The monk flashed his light on the two shelved caskets. Both were massive and polished like good furniture, Clete saw, but not identical.
I’ll be damned! That’s one of those cedar caskets Beatrice was raving about!
‘‘We have moved your grandfather here, Señor Frade,’’ the monk said, laying his hand on one of the caskets. ‘‘Beside your grandmother.’’
‘‘I see,’’ Clete said.
‘‘I will now leave you to your private prayers for the repose of the souls of the departed,’’ the monk said, and started for the ladder. He stopped. ‘‘I suggest you be careful with your torch. If you drop it . . . very little light gets this far down.’’
He waited until Clete had taken his flashlight from his pocket and turned it on, then offered a final word of advice. ‘‘You might find it convenient to place the torch under your belt. And mind the ladder!’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.
The only thing I want out of this place is me! But, shit, I can’t just follow him immediately.
You’ve been around dead people before. Stop acting like a child.
He flashed the light on the caskets, noticing for the first time that engraved bronze plates were on them.
MARY ELIZABETH CONNERS DE FRADE 1861-1916
‘‘Mary Elizabeth Conners’’? That doesn’t sound Spanish. What did the monk say, ‘‘beside my grandmother’’? Mary Elizabeth Conners is—was—my grandmother? She bore my father? Changed his diapers, for Christ’s sake? Suckled him? An Englishwoman? Or an Irishwoman?
He flashed the light on the other casket.
EL CORONEL GUILLERMO ALEJANDRO FRADE 1857-1919
My grandfather, another el Coronel Frade.
Clete saw in his mind’s eye el Coronel Alejandro Frade’s pistol. His father had given it to him as a Christmas present reflecting his heritage. It was a Colt .44-40 single-action, often fired, most of the blue gone, a working gun, not a decoration. On one of its well-worn grips, inlaid in silver, was the crest of the Húsares de Pueyrredón, on the other the Frade family crest.
To judge by the gun, my grandfather was apparently a real soldier.
El Coronel—why do I think of him that way, rather than ‘‘Dad’’?—told me his father died the year before Dad came to New Orleans and married my mother.
Did some monk bring my father down here when his father died, to show him where his grandfather had been moved? What the hell is that ‘‘moved’’ business, anyway? Moved from where, and why?
Sorry, Grandpa, Grandma, I’m an Episcopalian, and I don’t know what kind of a prayer I’m supposed to offer for the repose of your souls. If I knew what to say, I would.
I’ve been down here long enough.
Curiosity got to him before he reached the next level, however, and instead of climbing higher, he stepped off the ladder and moved around the chamber, looking for one casket in particular. He didn’t find it on that level, although he came across a surprising number of people whose names were non-Spanish-sounding. Even some Germans, which he found disturbing, but mostly English. Mawson. Miller. Evans.
He found the casket he was looking for on the next level.
JORGE GUILLERMO FRADE 1850-1915
Uncle Willy’s in there. Horse breeder, swordsman of national disrepute, and collector of dirty pictures. Maybe I do have some of your genes in me, Uncle Willy. God knows, I like horses, whiskey, and wild, wild women, and I looked at every one of your dirty pictures the night I found them. The discovery of Uncle Willy’s casket somehow pleased him, and when he realized that, he was uncomfortable. He returned to the ladder and climbed upward again.
In the chamber immediately below ground level, where there was enough light from above to see more clearly, an ornately carved casket caught his eye—angels blowing trumpets; a hooded woman carrying a limp body, presumably to heaven—and he stepped off the ladder and looked for the nameplate on it.
MARIA ELENA PUEYRREDÓN DE FRADE 1812-1858
Jesus Christ, Pueyrredón’s daughter! My what? My great-grandmother? This is the reason I got that saber salute from the Capitán of the Húsares de Pueyrredón at the Edificio Libertador yesterday. Down here, that’s like being related to George Washington.
He touched the limp body the hooded woman was carrying, tenderly, almost reverently, then climbed back on the ladder.
Why do I suspect that Colonel Graham knows more about my family tree than I do? He’s a clever sonofabitch, and damned well knows that nobody’s going to easily throw Pueyrredón’s great-great-grandson out of Argentina.
When he put his head through the hole in the upper-chamber floor, he could see out of the tomb. Specifically, he found himself looking farther than decency allowed up the marvelously formed, silk-stocking-clad legs of a young woman in a black dress.
He had two thoughts, the first of them not very relevant:
There seems to be plenty of silk stockings down here. I wonder why there’s such a shortage of them in the States? Women are painting their legs in the States, including a line down the back
of the leg, so it looks like they’re wearing stockings.
His second thought, since he had recognized the legs, was more to the point.
Jesus, Dorotéa! I forgot all about her. Somebody must have told her where I was, and she came to personally deliver Part Two of the Dear John letter she started on the phone last night.
Christ, I’m going to miss her!
He came out of the hole. Dorotéa had been waiting for him. He gave her a wait-a-second signal and turned to the monk to thank him for the tour of the family tomb.
And suddenly, on seeing the embroidered cloth-covered table, it was as if his brain, which had been out of gear, suddenly dropped into high.
They’re going to put el Coronel’s casket on that table. That’s what he meant when he said they had moved my grandfather. He was here, for God only knows how long, until today, or yesterday. The casket of the last one to die goes on display in front of the altar for however long it takes for the next family member to croak.
The next one to croak is very likely to be me.
Jesus, what a weird custom!
Christ, I better say something to Tony, leave a letter of instructions or something. I don’t want to go on display in here!
Or do I? What’s wrong with being with my father and Uncle Willy?
Jesus Christ!
‘‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Señor Frade?’’ the monk asked.
‘‘Perfectly. I am in your debt, Sir, for your thoughtfulness. ’’
‘‘Your father, Señor Frade, your family, have always generously supported the Recoleta Cemetery.’’
That’s a pitch for money. I’ll be damned!
What the hell do I say to him?
I’ll have to ask somebody—Humberto—about giving them money. How much and to whom.
‘‘Again, I thank you for your thoughtfulness. And I will never forget it.’’
The monk smiled, turned, bowed before the altar, and walked out of the tomb.
Clete followed him. He saw Lauffer, standing twenty yards away, motion to the monk to join him.
He thinks I want to be alone with the pretty girl. What did General Lee say at Appomattox Courthouse? ‘‘I would rather die a thousand deaths . . .’’?
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