And again the words came out of control.
“She’s ill, Cletus. Emotionally disturbed,” Frade heard himself say. “She’s on something, God only knows what, that her psychiatrist prescribed.”
“I’m sorry,” Clete said. “I didn’t know…”
“You had no way of knowing. You didn’t even know she exists,” Frade said.
“No, Sir, I didn’t.”
“Beatrice lost her son, her only son, your cousin Jorge,” Frade heard himself saying.
“I’m sorry,” Clete said.
“He was killed at Stalingrad. Beatrice has…been disturbed since.”
I had a cousin in the German Army? Clete thought. Jesus H. Christ! The Old Man was right. They’re all Nazis down here!
“Stalingrad? What was he doing at Stalingrad?”
“He was assigned as an observer,” Frade said. “He was not supposed to be at Stalingrad, much less involved in anything that would place him in danger. He gave me his word to that effect before I agreed to his assignment.”
Well, there were for sure no Argentine “observers” on Guadalcanal. What did he say? “Before I agreed to his assignment”?
“Before you agreed to his assignment?”
Frade met his son’s eyes.
“I have a certain influence within the Argentinean Army,” he said. “Jorge would not have been given that assignment without my approval.”
“And now you’re blaming yourself because he was killed?”
“Obviously, to a certain degree, I feel responsible.”
“What was he? What rank?”
“A captain.”
“People get killed in wars. If he didn’t know that, he shouldn’t have been a captain.”
Frade looked at Clete, thinking: That’s damned cold-blooded. When I told myself the same thing, I was ashamed of myself.
“How was he killed?”
“As I understand it, he was flying a Storch on a reconnaissance mission, and was shot down.”
He was a pilot? Clete thought.
“He was flying a what?”
“A Fieseler Storch. A small, high-wing, two-place observation airplane,” Frade explained. “Something like the Piper Cub, except larger and more powerful.”
Clete shook his head, signifying he had never heard of the Storch.
“What ever happened to your plans, Cletus, to become a pilot? A Marine pilot?”
How the hell did he hear about that?
Clete looked at his father. For the first time, their eyes met.
I don’t want to lie to this man.
“I was discharged about three weeks ago,” Clete said. “They found a heart murmur. You can’t be a Marine Aviator with a heart murmur.”
“They discovered it when you were in training?”
Clete met his father’s eyes and saw genuine concern in them. And realized that he could not lie to him.
“No.”
“You saw active service, then?” his father asked.
“They discovered the heart condition when I came back from the Pacific. From Guadalcanal.”
“You flew at Guadalcanal?”
“Yes. And I was at Midway, too.”
“I didn’t know that,” Frade said. “We read about Midway and Guadalcanal in the newspapers, of course. And there have been newsreels in the cinema.”
The father saw the newsreels again in his mind’s eye. American fighter planes, and their young pilots, rising into the sky from a jungle airstrip.
Did I see Cletus? Was he one of those tired-looking young men?
He was one of them, whether or not I saw him. And that explains why he can be so cold-blooded about Jorge. He is a soldier. He has the right to think that way, and say what he thinks.
“What about your heart? A murmur, you said?”
“Nothing serious,” Clete said. “It just disqualified me from flying for the Marines. Thank you for your service, and don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.”
He’s bitter. That’s understandable.
“Otherwise you weren’t injured?”
“I got dinged a couple of times. Nothing serious.”
Spoken like an officer. And why not? The blood of Pueyrredón runs in his veins.
“Would it be impolite of me to ask what you are doing in Argentina?”
Clete met his father’s eyes. “No. Why should it be? I’m working for my grandfather…”
“And how is Mr. Howell? Well, I hope?”
“Yes, he is, thank you,” Clete said. The Old Man would shit a brick if he knew the two of us are sitting here like this.
“And your uncle James and your aunt Martha? They are well, I trust?”
“Uncle Jim died when I was in the Pacific. A heart attack.”
“I am so sorry,” Frade said.
He sounds as if he means that.
“And my aunt Martha is well, thank you.”
Frade nodded. “You say you are working for your grandfather?”
“The U.S. government seems to think that somebody down here is diverting Howell petroleum products to the Germans. I was sent down to make sure they aren’t.”
“I can’t believe Enrico Mallín would be involved in that kind of thing,” Frade said. “Not only is he an honorable man, but I’m sure his sympathies lie with the English and the Americans in this war.”
Well, I guess I am a pretty good liar, after all. He swallowed that hook, line, and sinker. And where do your sympathies lie, Dad?
“I don’t think he is either,” Clete said. “But the deal the Old Man worked out with the government meant sending me down here to make sure he isn’t.”
“I am glad you are here,” Frade said. “To finally meet you.”
“Yeah, me too,” Clete said.
“Perhaps there will be an opportunity for us to know one another,” Frade said.
“Yeah,” Clete said. “Maybe there will be.”
“But the immediate problem before us is lunch,” Frade said. He pushed his glass of bourbon away from him. “I have had enough whiskey.”
He beckoned, rather imperiously, for the bartender to bring the bill. When it came, he scrawled his name across it.
“Gracias, mi Colonel,” the barman said.
“The Centro Naval—the Navy Officers’ Club—is not very far from here. They usually serve a very nice lunch,” Frade said. “How does that sound, Cletus?”
“That sounds fine.”
“Well, then, I suggest we go,” Frade said.
Clete slid off the barstool and followed his father up the circular staircase to the lobby. They were halfway across the lobby when his father suddenly veered to the right, toward the concierge’s desk.
It looks like he’s chasing that guy.
Frade caught up with a man who pretended, not too successfully, to be both delighted and surprised to see him. They shook hands, and then Frade propelled him across the lobby to where Clete stood.
“Coronel, I want you to meet my son. Cletus, this is Teniente Coronel Martín, of the Internal Security Service.”
Teniente Coronel Martín could not conceal his discomfort.
“How do you do?” he said in English.
“A sus órdenes, mi Coronel,” Clete replied.
“Welcome to Argentina,” Martín said, still in English.
“Thank you,” Clete said, switching to English.
There was a long, awkward silence.
“Well, it was very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Frade,” Martín said. “And to see you, mi Coronel.”
Frade nodded coldly but didn’t speak.
Martín walked out of the lobby into the driveway.
“Who was that?” Clete asked.
“An officer of our intelligence service,” Frade said. “The Bureau of Internal Security. It was from him that I learned you were here.”
“Oh?”
“He was naturally curious why you were staying with Señor Mallín and not me.”
&nb
sp; “I’m surprised he knew about me at all,” Clete said.
“I thought it a bit odd myself,” Frade said. “Unless, of course, you’re not here for the reason you gave me.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Clete said. “I’m here because my grandfather needed someone down here, and I speak Spanish and needed a job.”
He knows I’m lying. Whether because I’m not a very good liar, or because he’s put two and two together. Whatever else he is, this man, my father, is no fool.
The question is, where does that leave us?
“You speak Spanish very well,” his father said, dropping the subject. “Shall we go?”
Frade led Clete through the revolving door to the entrance driveway before he remembered where the Horche was. Taking Cletus there would be unwise. Beatrice would almost certainly see him.
“I have the car parked a block or so away,” Frade said.
“All right.”
“Why don’t you just wait in front for me.”
“I don’t mind walking.”
“Please wait for me in front,” Frade said. It was unquestionably an order.
“All right,” Clete said.
Clete watched his father march down Avenue Alvear. Then nature called. He went back into the hotel and down the stairs again to the men’s room. An attendant patiently waited for him to relieve his bladder, then stood by with soap, a towel, a comb, cologne, and an open hand.
When Clete reached the entranceway again, his father was already there, standing impatiently by the open door of a magnificent, gleaming, four-door convertible. A Horche, according to the grille.
What the hell is a Horche?
“I wondered what happened to you,” Frade said.
“That’s one hell of a car,” Clete said.
“I rather like it myself,” Frade said. And then he heard himself say, as he extended the keys to his son, “Would you like to drive?”
[THREE]
Centro Naval
Avenida Florida y Avenida Córdoba
Buenos Aires
1325 27 November 1942
“I don’t usually take spirits at lunch,” el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade announced solemnly as he waved Clete into a leather-upholstered chair in the dark paneled bar of the Officers’ Club, “but this is an occasion, no? Our ‘great confrontation’?”
He turned to the white-jacketed waiter who had trailed them from the door. “Dos Jack Daniel’s, dobles, por favor, Luis.”
Clete looked around the room. He saw no women. Most of the men were in civilian clothing, but something about them suggested they were officers. Not officers, he corrected himself, brass. Hardly anybody in here is my age. Lieutenants and captains not welcome, and please keep off the grass on your way out.
He looked at his father. His father was making a visual sweep of the room. He gave a curt nod of recognition to a few men, smiled faintly at others, but at two in particular he smiled widely and nodded his head as if in approval.
As soon as the whiskey was delivered, while the waiter was carrying out the little routine of overflowing the silver shot glass on a handle, a procession of brass making their manners came to the table.
The introductions followed the same pattern:
“Coronel, I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on business, which I hope will take a long time to complete.”
Like blowing up a neutral ship in your river.
Once, his father rose to his feet, and Clete followed him.
“Mi General,” his father said, “I have the honor to present my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the U.S. Marine Corps, who has been medically retired after service in the Pacific at Guadalcanal. He is here on a visit. Cletus, I had the honor to succeed el General Sussman as Colonel Commanding the Hussares de Pueyrredón.”
“A sus órdenes, mi General,” Clete said.
The introduction seemed to both please and surprise the General.
“You served at Guadalcanal, Teniente?”
“Sí, mi General.”
General Sussman examined him closely, and nodded approvingly.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance,” he said in somewhat awkward English. “Welcome to Argentina.”
I don’t think you would say that if you knew why I am here, General.
“Gracias, mi General.”
Frade waited until the General was out of earshot, then announced, “Coronel Sahovaler—the fat, bald one—succeeded me at the regiment. I should have introduced him that way.”
Dear old Dad, Clete realized, is half in the bag. And if he is, you almost certainly are. So watch yourself.
That triggered another thought, a somewhat alarming one: His only reaction when he realized I was lying to him was to change the subject, and then let me drive that car of his. Is it possible that he intends to get me drunk to see what he can worm out of me? Of course it’s possible. It’s even likely.
Without asking, the bartender delivered another Jack Daniel’s doble long before either of their glasses was empty.
“I think we should carry these into the dining room and put something into our stomachs,” Frade announced somewhat thickly after draining the first drink and picking up the second. “As you may have noticed, the Porteños are very dangerous drivers. One must be in full control of one’s faculties to survive.”
The booze flows like water—if that’s really whiskey he’s drinking—and he wants me to think he’s drunk. Of course, he’s trying to get me drunk enough to confide in him, father-to-son. Well, why are you surprised? The Old Man told you often enough he’s a three-star sonofabitch. Well, screw you, Dad. I may be an amateur at this business, but I am not stupid.
“Excuse me?” Clete asked politely, smiling, as he rose to his feet. “The what? Porteños?”
“Natives of Buenos Aires,” his father explained. “As opposed to those who come from the country. They drive like madmen. They seem to believe that an automobile has two speeds, on and off.”
Clete chuckled.
The headwaiter of the dining room followed them to their table.
“Edmundo,” el Coronel ordered, “see if they can find something nice, a Beaujolais perhaps, in my stock.”
“Sí, mi Coronel.”
And now wine, on top of the whiskey, Clete thought.
“This is an occasion. I have the honor to introduce my son, Cletus, late Teniente of the air service of the Marine Corps of the USA.”
And fatherly pride and charm on top of the wine. Mi Coronel, mi Papá, you are a clever sonofabitch, aren’t you? What I would like to do is just walk out of here. But I have a feeling I should stick around. Maybe I can learn something from you.
“A great privilege and honor, mi Teniente,” the headwaiter said. “El Coronel would prefer some of the French?”
“French or Argentine, Cletus?”
“Argentine, please,” Clete said.
“I personally believe our wines are superior—the stock I keep here at the club is from a small vineyard the family has an interest in—but I am of course prejudiced.”
“The Argentine wine I’ve had so far has been great,” Clete said.
“And we are known for our beef, too,” Frade said. “Might I suggest a lomo? With papas fritas?”—a filet mignon and french-fried potatoes. “And a tomato and onion salad?”
“Sounds fine, thank you.”
“One should not eat heavily in the middle of the day,” Frade declared. “It slows the blood, and thus one’s ability to think clearly.”
“Yes, Sir, I agree.”
When a waiter delivered the bourbon, Frade ordered their meal.
“One day,” he said, “I hope you will find the time to tell me about Guadalcanal. As a soldier, I am of course interested.”
I guess that’s Question Number One.
“Yes, Sir. I’d b
e happy to.”
“Will there be time? When will you return to the United States?”
And that’s Question Number Two.
“I don’t know. I’ll be here indefinitely.”
“I did not know that,” Frade said. “Cletus, certainly you cannot take advantage of Señor Mallín’s hospitality indefinitely.”
“No, Sir. I don’t intend to. Señor Mallín has found an apartment for me. I’m to move in tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Posadas 1354 Piso sexto.”
“That’s absurd,” Frade declared, and belched. “I beg your pardon.”
What the hell does that mean?
“The Guest House is yours,” Frade declared with a grand wave of his hand. “For as long as you’re here.”
“Excuse me?”
“It will be perfect for you,” Frade said. “All it does most of the time is sit there and eat up my money anyway. It’s settled.” He then had a second thought. “Unless, of course, it is not to your liking.”
“Sir, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I would ask you to share my home,” Frade said, “but I was once your age, and I know how it is with young men. From my own experience.” El Coronel Frade winked, man-to-man, at his son. “Before I met your mother, of course.”
That’s the first mention of my mother.
“It is on the Avenida Libertador, across from the Hipódromo de Argentina, our major horse track,” Frade went on. “It was built by my uncle Guillermo. He would be your granduncle Guillermo. He was a horseman. Unfortunately—within the family—we concede that is about all he was, a horseman. Charming fellow. Played six-goal polo in his sixties. When he was younger, he raced thoroughbreds. If he just raced them, which is quite expensive enough, he would have been all right, but he insisted on gambling on them as well, and he was not at all good at that.”
A waiter delivered a bottle of wine, and he and Frade went through a ritual of cork-sniffing and sipping.
“That will do,” Frade announced. “Well, as they say in America,” he went on, picking up his Jack Daniel’s doble and draining it, “waste not, want not.”
He looked at Clete, who took a very small sip of his drink and set the glass down.
I wish I could think of some way to get rid of the rest of this. Except that if I poured it out someplace, there would be another instant refill. Better to just pretend to sip on it.
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