by Judy Nunn
‘My car is parked nearby …’ he began, about to suggest that the three of them go for a drive, but he was rudely interrupted.
‘Gaby!’
It was the third time the young man had yelled from the far end of the cafe. The others were also waving for her to come and join them, and Klaus was having trouble containing his anger. It was extraordinarily rude; students were such an arrogant bunch, he thought, conveniently forgetting his own raucous university days.
‘I take it he is your young man?’ he’d enquired the first time the lout had yelled her name.
‘No,’ she’d said, ‘just a friend,’ and she’d waved back, pointing to her cup and intimating she’d join them when she’d finished her coffee. And now she had.
‘I’d better go,’ she said. ‘They’ll think I’m rude not joining them.’
Will they indeed, he thought. They were an ill-bred bunch who needed to be taught some manners.
‘What a pity,’ he said, ‘I was about to suggest the three of us go for a drive. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Not today, thanks, Umberto.’
‘Another day then. I shall look forward to it.’ He must tread carefully, he warned himself: she was young – he must not frighten her off. He would need to win her admiration before he made a move. It wouldn’t be difficult – her own brother deeply admired him and was always quick to sing his praises. Renaldo would be his unwitting ally.
‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Gabriella,’ he said, and he rose from his chair as she prepared to leave. ‘If there is any help I can offer at any time with regard to your studies, please feel free to call upon me.’
Renaldo, who had remained seated, raised his empty coffee cup in a toast to his sister, his eyes widening comically. What a generous offer, he signalled, she would do well to take advantage of it. Renaldo himself was openly boastful of his friendship with the eminent doctor, and he considered their relationship an excellent trade. He showed his good friend Umberto the real Buenos Aires, Umberto picked up the bills for him and his friends, and he, Renaldo Nacimento, a simple truck driver with a local delivery service, basked in the reflected glory of their friendship.
‘Thank you, Umberto.’ Gabriella shook his hand warmly. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ She wouldn’t take him up on the offer – she sensed that he was attracted to her and he wasn’t her type. He was rather old-fashioned, she thought, and he had to be in his mid-thirties at least, but she was flattered by his attention. She could see why Renaldo was so impressed: Umberto Pellegrini was a man of style. But she wondered what he saw in her brother; much as she loved Renaldo, the two men had little in common.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she called over her shoulder as she left. ‘Adios, Renaldo.’
For the next month or so, Klaus became a weekend habitué of Cafe Tortoni. It had not previously been one of his regular haunts, as it attracted students and bohemians whom he found rather pretentious, but it was where Gabriella met her friends.
He struck up an acquaintance with the waiters who greeted him as he arrived, and he adopted a table in the corner where he would sit with his newspaper and coffee. When Gabriella appeared, he would give her a wave and return to his newspaper, never intruding upon her but waiting for her to come to his table, which she always did. She would stand and chat to him briefly before returning to her friends. Then he would watch her surreptitiously from behind his newspaper, thinking that Ruth would have looked like that in her university days, a golden-haired beauty, free and uninhibited.
After several weeks his perseverance paid off.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ Gabriella asked.
‘I would be most honoured, Gabriella.’
He rose and pulled out a chair for her, waiting until she was seated before he, too, sat, and his manner was so courtly that she wondered whether he might be joking.
‘That is if you can bear a little peace and quiet,’ he added with a smile.
There was a timely burst of rowdy laughter from the students’ table and she returned his smile. Yes, she thought, he had been joking, and she liked him for it.
They sat talking for nearly an hour, mainly about films and books. He was an excellent conversationalist and she found his company stimulating. Which rather surprised her; she’d only joined him because she felt it her duty. She hadn’t wished to appear rude in ignoring the company of her brother’s friend week after week.
‘Are you coming, Gaby? We’re off.’
It was the same uncouth young man, Klaus noted; he’d paused by their table.
‘Oh.’ She looked up, surprised. ‘Already?’ She’d lost track of the time. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry,’ she added, ‘Umberto, this is José. José, this is Doctor Pellegrini.’
‘How do you do, José.’ Klaus derived a smug satisfaction from the respect she’d accorded him, and from the flash of José’s impatient irritation.
José gave him only the briefest of nods before turning again to Gabriella. ‘Are you coming or not?’
He was very proprietorial, Klaus thought. Surely they must be lovers.
‘No,’ Gabriella said sharply, annoyed by his rudeness. ‘I’m not.’
‘Suit yourself.’ The young man shrugged and joined the others who were milling by the door.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, embarrassed.
‘Don’t be. I was a university student myself once. Students are meant to be brash, it’s a mandatory part of the image.’ He managed to sound amusing and patronising at the same time and she laughed. ‘Can I give you a lift home? You live in La Palermo, don’t you?’
She looked a query at him.
‘You share an apartment in La Palermo just off Avenida Santa Fe with two other students, am I right?’
She nodded. ‘Renaldo, of course – my brother has such a big mouth.’
‘He certainly has. He’s told me everything about you, many times over.’
‘I’m sorry, how terribly boring for you.’
‘Not at all. Renaldo’s proud of you. He’s a good man and a good brother and a very dear friend.’ Klaus stood. ‘Shall we go?’
‘Are you sure?’ She was hesitant.
‘Of course. I live in La Recoleta, it’s not far out of my way.’
‘Great. I’d love a lift, thanks.’
It was simple after that. The lifts became a regular occurrence, and she started to spend more time with him at Tortoni’s than she did with her friends, to José’s obvious chagrin – which pleased Klaus.
Everything was going according to plan, he thought. She preferred his company to that of her contemporaries, she obviously found him attractive, so it was time to move on to the next stage.
‘Why don’t we skip the coffee today and have an early lunch? There’s an excellent place in La Boca where I often dine. It’s not fancy, but the food is superb.’
She agreed without hesitation.
He’d deliberately chosen El Pelicano, a small cantina by the docks a block or so from the clinic where, during the week, he regularly had lunch. It was not yet midday, the place would be quiet. They knew him well at El Pelicano – the proprietor always made a fuss of him when he arrived. It was his intention to impress her without appearing ostentatious.
‘Claudia!’ Marcello bellowed for his wife. He was a big man with a big voice and the several other early diners winced, but Marcello didn’t care. ‘Come, come, Claudia, Doctor Pellegrini is here!’ And his fat wife waddled in from the kitchen beaming proudly.
‘It is a Saturday, you don’t come here on a Saturday, never have you been here on a Saturday,’ they both gabbled simultaneously in the hybrid Italian-Spanish they’d adopted thirty years ago upon their arrival.
‘I have brought a special guest,’ Klaus said and he introduced Gabriella. ‘Marcello and Claudia Coluzzi,’ he said. ‘Good friends and great chefs.’
Marcello roared with delight and escorted them to the Doctor’s favourite corner table by the window, where the red-checked
curtains were drawn back to display the ever-busy passing parade of dockside workers. Claudia followed, confiding in Gabriella.
‘Such a fine man,’ she said. ‘The work he does for the barrio…’ She flapped her plump hands in the air as if words couldn’t express her admiration. ‘He is a dedicated doctor, we are all so grateful …’
‘What is on the menu today that you would especially recommend, Claudia?’ Klaus interrupted the woman’s flow kindly, but with an apologetic look at Gabriella.
‘Ah yes.’ Claudia rattled off several Italian and Spanish dishes, describing every ingredient and method of preparation, while Marcello fetched a bottle of the Doctor’s favourite wine.
Gabriella was intrigued. Umberto was well off, Renaldo had told her so. He could have taken her to any number of exclusive restaurants if he’d wished to impress her, but he had chosen El Pelicano, a favourite among the dockside workers, run by a working-class family just like her own.
When they’d ordered their food and the couple had left them, she urged him to tell her about his work at the clinic. She hoped he didn’t think she was presumptuous, she said, but she was eager to learn.
He talked at length about the clinic and its purpose in serving the poor. It was easy to sound committed: his work there was enjoyable, as well as being a distraction from the single-minded obsession of Fritz von Halbach.
Gabriella was enthralled. She asked him questions about his background, and he invented a whole scenario, deriving pleasure from the fabrication. His Neapolitan parents had not been wealthy, he told her, and even as an impoverished student at university in Rome, he’d viewed medicine as a ‘calling’. It was an opportunity to serve humanity, he said. He’d practised in major European hospitals, but he’d never been more fulfilled in his work than he was here in Buenos Aires at the Rosario Medical Clinic. He had her in the palm of his hand, he could sense it, and he said everything he knew she wanted to hear.
The food arrived, a huge dish of steaming paella which Claudia ceremoniously placed at the centre of the table, and they gave her a round of applause. She served them individually, setting out side bowls for the mussel and clam shells, and then she fetched a crusty loaf of bread on a wooden cutting board.
When she’d gone, Gabriella cut the bread and they ate, but the arrival of the food had not distracted her from her interest in his career. She asked more questions, encouraging him to talk more.
Klaus obliged, and as he did, he recalled his one-sided conversations with Ruth. He remembered how he had told Ruth about his devotion to the preservation of human life. He hadn’t meant it at the time; he’d been distancing himself from Mengele, and she hadn’t been paying attention anyway. But it was different now. This was how it should have been. She should have been hanging on his every word, just as Gabriella was. The thought inspired him, and he spoke with passion.
Gabriella was captivated. Umberto’s dedication paralleled her own youthful ambition. She had always longed to be a doctor, even when it had seemed an unattainable goal for someone of her background. But she had worked hard, winning a scholarship, and her family had joined the struggle, contributing whatever money they could towards her education. She admired Umberto – he symbolised all that was noble in her chosen profession.
‘Good God, listen to me, I haven’t stopped talking,’ he said finally. ‘I’m so sorry, Gabriella, I hope I haven’t bored you.’ He knew that he hadn’t.
‘No, no,’ she insisted, ‘you’re an inspiration, Umberto. And I’m the one who should apologise, I shouldn’t have asked all those questions. You’ve barely touched your food.’
He poured her another glass of wine and tucked into the paella.
She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘One day,’ she said, ‘if and when I graduate –’
‘When,’ he corrected her, ‘not if.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed firmly, ‘when. When I graduate I’d like to do the work that you do. I’d like to practise at a place like the Rosario clinic.’
‘Well, as it happens, I’m dining next week with the director,’ Klaus said. The opportunity which suddenly presented itself was irresistible. ‘Doctor von Halbach is a very close friend of mine. Perhaps you’d like to join us?’
‘I’d love to,’ she said eagerly.
‘Excellent. Thursday night, I’ll pick you up at eight. Are you ready for coffee?’
How simple it had been, he thought. He hadn’t intended to ask her out for an evening, not yet: he’d felt he might be rushing her. But the lunch today had changed everything. She was more than attracted to him – she was a young, impressionable woman suffering a severe case of hero-worship. It would be so easy to seduce her. He’d moved on to that stage far sooner than he’d expected to.
Klaus went to Oswaldo’s that night. And he took Elizabeta home with him. He’d slept with no-one but Elizabeta since the day he’d met Gabriella. He had trained Elizabeta, or rather she had trained herself. She no longer spoke as they coupled, but she caressed him the way Ruth would have done had she loved him. And she gave herself to him the way Ruth would have given herself, tenderly, deeply, engulfing him. And each time, she departed in silence, leaving him in the dark, alone with his fantasy.
But tonight, the fantasy became blurred. One moment Elizabeta was Ruth, welcoming him into her, the next she was Gabriella, consuming him with her desire. And afterwards, when Elizabeta had gone and he lay in the darkened bedroom, the images of his fantasy became intertwined. He could no longer distinguish between them. Ruth and Gabriella had become one.
Klaus’s impatience grew intolerable during the days that followed. He couldn’t wait for Thursday. On Thursday they would both be his, and there would be no need for darkness.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked as she climbed into the car. She’d been waiting for him in the street outside her apartment block, an ugly modern high-rise building, one of a number which jarred among the plazas and parks of Palermo.
It was a sultry night in mid June and she was wearing the lightest evening dress with shoestring straps; she looked very beautiful, he thought. He was delighted to see that her hair was no longer pinned up. Held back from her face with combs, it tumbled down to her shoulders, flaxen gold, just like Ruth’s. Soon he would feel it run through his fingers, just as Ruth’s had, soft and silken.
‘We’re dining at my place,’ he said, ‘Fritz will be joining us in about half an hour.’ There was probably no need to continue the charade of a meeting with von Halbach, he thought; she had worn her flimsy dress in order to please him, she would be happy to find that they were alone. But he decided it was best to play it safe.
‘Oh.’ She was surprised: she’d presumed they’d be going to an upmarket restaurant.
‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’ She didn’t, but she felt a bit silly in her best evening dress.
‘What a glorious apartment.’
‘Yes, it is, isn’t it,’ he agreed as she wandered about looking at the works of art. ‘I don’t own it, of course,’ he lied, feeling it wise not to appear too extravagant. ‘The rental is a shocking indulgence, but it’s my weakness, I’m afraid. I like beautiful things.’ He looked at her meaningfully, but she was too busy examining her surroundings to notice, so he crossed to the bar and poured two glasses of Dom Perignon from the bottle in the ice-bucket. ‘The owner is an art collector. Feel free to have a wander around.’
She peered into the dining room, with its crystal chandelier and huge oak table with seating for twelve, and she walked out onto the stone balcony to look down at Avenida Alvear. It surprised her that Umberto Pellegrini lived in the lap of luxury. Although she knew he was well off, it seemed at odds with his choice of work at the Rosario Medical Clinic. But then, she recalled, at their first meeting he’d struck her as a man of style.
When she stepped back inside, he was waiting for her, a glass in each hand, and he’d placed a tray of tapas on the large coffee table in the centre of the lounge room.
‘Thank you, Umberto.’ They clinked and drank.
‘Take a seat, help yourself,’ he said, gesturing simultaneously at the sofa and the tapas.
She chose to sit in one of the large leather lounge chairs, which rather disappointed him, and he sat on the sofa opposite her.
‘What’s he like?’ she asked, ignoring the tapas. ‘Doctor von Halbach,’ she added when he looked a little vague.
‘Fritz? He’s nice enough. A bit short on humour, but then many Germans are, don’t you find?’ He smiled, inwardly enjoying the joke; his anticipation was making him feel quite light-headed.
He was behaving rather oddly, she thought. ‘I’ve heard of him – they say he was very famous in Europe.’
‘Yes, he was a plastic surgeon, hugely successful. The rich and famous flocked to him.’ Klaus laughed. ‘I think half of Hollywood’s been under his knife.’
She couldn’t see the humour herself. ‘How wonderful that someone like Doctor von Halbach would give up everything to practise at a clinic like the Rosario. I’m looking forward to meeting him very much.’
She was truly naive, he decided. ‘Shall we have some music?’
He crossed to the gramophone, and as she put her glass of champagne on the coffee table, she noticed that there were only two side plates set for the tapas.
Carefully, he placed the needle onto the record. There was a little scratching at first …
‘Do you like the Comedian Harmonists?’ he asked.
‘Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht, o stille mein Verlangen …’
Then the voices sang in perfect harmony, soft and non-intrusive; he’d kept the volume down.
“‘Barcarole”, it’s my favourite.’
The sound of the German singers seemed to add insult to injury, and she stood. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’