The Belgrano Athletic Club looked as if it had been miraculously transported intact from England. In the bar, a paneled room with photographs on its walls of the Stately Homes of England, the conversation was in English—English English—and even the bartender spoke as if London was his home.
The bar was for men only, but there were a good number of women outside in the stands watching the game, and parading past the windows of the bar. Good-looking, long-legged, nice-breasted blond women, in lightweight summer dresses.
Just what I don’t need after Granduncle Guillermo’s dirty pictures.
I wonder what the boys on Guadalcanal are doing right now.
“Ah, there you are, Clete!” Nestor said behind him. “Admiring the view, are you?”
Clete turned to face him. Ettinger was with him.
“Good evening.”
“You remember David, of course. You met him at the bank?”
“Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Ettinger?”
“We’re quite informal here,” Nestor said. “It really should be ‘David’ and ‘Clete.’”
“Nice to see you again, David,” Clete said.
They shook hands.
“Let me find us something to drink. You all right, Clete, or will you have another?”
“I’m fine, thank you just the same.”
As soon as he was out of sight, David asked, “No Tony? I thought maybe I’d be introduced to him too.”
“He wasn’t invited. He’s not even supposed to know who Nestor is.”
“I meant I thought Nestor the banker might invite him as a courtesy to an employee of Howell Petroleum. One of the things I’ve learned is how much Howell money flows through the Bank of Boston.”
Clete shrugged.
“Maybe later. Nestor strikes me as a very cautious man.” He smiled at Ettinger. “All things considered, you like being a banker?”
Ettinger looked at Clete a moment as if wondering if he should say what he wanted to. He glanced around to make sure no one was within eavesdropping range, and then said, “I had a very strange, disturbing thing happen to me yesterday.”
“What was that?”
“I went to see some people I used to know…”
“Used to know”? Oh. In Germany. One of the Jewish families on Nestor’s list.
“People named Klausner. A man named Ernst Klausner. We were rather close at one time. Until he found out what I was doing here—”
“You told him?” Clete interrupted, shocked and then angry.
Jesus Christ, here he goes again. First he tells his mother he’s going to Argentina, and then he tells somebody he used to know—
“I told him I was in the Army, nothing else. At that point, he pulled the welcome mat out from under my feet. He told me he was now an Argentinean, not a German, and that as an Argentinean, he should report me to the authorities. For auld lang syne, he wouldn’t, but don’t come back.”
“Jesus! Was this before or after you asked him about the ships?”
“I didn’t get as far as asking him anything. And he didn’t seem at all concerned what the Germans are doing to Jews in Germany. He’s out, and that’s all he cares about it.”
“Did you tell Nestor?”
“Of course.”
Well, Nestor is the Station Chief. If he’s not upset that David ran off at the mouth, why should I be?
Because if we get caught, we go to jail, or worse, not Nestor.
“And what was his reaction?”
“He said there were a lot of other names on the list.”
Two other men came to the window, effectively shutting off further conversation. A moment later, Nestor rejoined them.
“We owe you an apology for keeping you waiting, Clete,” he said, handing Ettinger a drink.
“Not at all.”
“We were out buying David a car.”
“Really?”
“A ’39 Ford, with the steering wheel on the wrong side,” Ettinger said.
“You’ll have to take me for a ride in it,” Clete said.
“As soon as I actually get it, I’d be delighted to.”
“This is Argentina, Clete,” Nestor explained. “You don’t buy a car and drive off the lot with it the same day. With a little bit of luck, David may lay his hands on it in a week or ten days.”
“I love the view from here,” Ettinger said. “Look at that blonde!”
Clete had noticed her too. A stunning female, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a pale-yellow dress.
“Her husband is probably standing at the bar,” Clete said, laughing.
“He’s not,” Nestor said. “He’s one of ours at the bank. And he’s out of town. But if he was here, he would take it as a compliment.”
“It was intended as one.”
“I think maybe we better wander in,” Nestor said.
“Wander in where?” Clete asked.
“To the lounge.”
“I hate to walk away from the parade,” Clete said.
“They’ll be in the lounge,” Nestor said. “They’re not allowed in here, which I think is a rather good idea. But they will be in the lounge, and they will, of course, be at dinner.”
Clete’s companion at dinner turned out to be the blonde who had caught David’s attention.
Her name, she told him in a delightful British accent, was Monica Javez de Frade. But they were not related.
“We’re not even a poor branch of your family. No relation at all.”
Which means that Nestor told you who I am. Or that word had spread around the bank who I am—who my father is—after Nestor introduced me around his office.
The proof of that theory seemed to come when she told him that Pablo, her husband, was in “real estate” at the bank, and worked closely with Nestor.
“Agricultural real estate, unfortunately,” Monica added, “which means that poor Pablo spends most of his time in the country, leaving poor Monica to spend most of her time alone in the city.”
Clete smiled politely, telling himself that her remark had the meaning he was giving it only because his near-terminal chastity—and Granduncle Guillermo’s dirty pictures—had inflamed his imagination.
But during supper, and during the award afterward of small silver cups to the triumphant members of the Banco de Boston cricket team, Monica’s knee kept brushing against his. At each encounter, Clete quickly moved his knee away…until he decided to leave his knee there. Then the pressure of her knee against his increased. He withdrew it then, telling himself that the cure for his near-terminal chastity should not involve a married woman, and especially one whose husband worked closely with Jasper Nestor.
Laying her hand on his arm to distract his attention from one of the cricket players’ lengthy tribute to his teammates—and for no other purpose, Clete, get your imagination under control—Monica asked if he had found an apartment, or whether he was staying with his father.
“My father has a guest house. I’m staying there.”
“On Avenida Libertador?”
“Yes. You know the house?”
“I know about it,” she said. “The place one of the legendary Frades built with the master apartment on the top floor so he could watch the races at the Hipódromo without crossing the street?”
And for other purposes.
“That’s the place.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it.”
“Anytime. It would be my pleasure.”
The cricket player finally finished his speech, there was unenthusiastic applause, and a short man with a bushy mustache stepped to the lectern to announce the conclusion of the evening’s events. He told everyone he wished to thank them for coming, and especially the Banco de Boston for their generous support.
People started rising to their feet, including Monica, who managed to brush her breasts against Clete’s arm in the process.
Nestor appeared.
“About ready, Clete? I’d love to stay for the dancing, but I have
an early-morning appointment.”
“Thank you, Señora de Frade.”
“Oh, Monica, please.”
“Thank you, Monica, for the pleasure of your company.”
“Perhaps we’ll see each other again,” she said, giving him her hand.
“When is Pablo due back, Monica?” Nestor asked.
“The day after tomorrow.”
“It’s always a pleasure to see you,” Nestor said. “Clete?”
Clete followed him to the door, where Ettinger was waiting.
“Well, now that you and David have been introduced,” Nestor said as he drove down Avenida Libertador, “it will seem perfectly natural that you meet for lunch or dinner. Two bachelors, so to speak, out on the town.”
“Yes,” Clete agreed.
“You seem to have made quite an impression on the de Frade woman, Clete,” Nestor added. “Which might not be a bad thing.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“With her husband out of town as much as he is, hostesses are always looking for a suitable bachelor to be her escort at dinner. You really should be socially active.”
No way, thank you very much.
“I volunteer,” David said from the backseat.
“She didn’t seem nearly as interested in you, I’m afraid, David.” Nestor laughed. “And they always ask the husband-less woman if the proposed dinner partner is satisfactory to her before they invite him.”
Señora Pellano was waiting up for him in the foyer of the Guest House.
“I thought perhaps you might like a little something to eat, Señor Cletus.”
“No. Thank you very much. And you don’t have to wait up for me like this, Señora Pellano.”
“It is my pleasure, Señor Cletus.”
“I’m going to turn in, Señora Pellano. Good night.”
“Buenas noches, Señor Cletus.”
He started toward the elevator. The telephone rang.
“A gentleman called before,” she said. “Not an Argentine. His Spanish was not very good. He said he would call again. Perhaps that is him.”
Pelosi. I wonder what he wants.
Clete waited for her to answer the telephone.
“It is a lady, Señor Cletus,” she said, and handed him the telephone.
“¿Hola?”
“Cletus, Monica. I wondered if you would really go home.”
“I really went home.”
“I’m still at the club. I stayed for the dancing. I’m bored.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Cletus, did you mean it when you said you would show me the Guest House?”
“Of course.”
“You also said ‘anytime.’ I could be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Why don’t you come over, Monica? I’ll show you my etchings.”
“Oh, that sounds delightfully wicked. I’ll be right there.”
Or maybe Granduncle Guillermo’s dirty pictures.
“I’m driving myself,” Monica said. “And I’d really rather not drive home to drop the car off and look for a cab. Is there room in your garage?”
There was only one car in the basement garage, which was large enough for four cars, a Fiat sedan used by Señora Pellano.
“Yes, there is.”
“Then be a dear and have it open when I get there, will you? We don’t want people talking, do we? Or would you prefer that I take a taxi?”
“I’ll have the gates and the garage open.”
“Fifteen minutes,” she said, and hung up.
He hung up the telephone and turned to find Señora Pellano looking at him.
“I’m to have a guest,” he began. “She wants to park her car in the garage.”
“I’ll have Ernesto open it.”
“I can do that.”
“And I’ll set out some agua mineral con gas and some ice in the reception room,” she said. “Unless you would prefer it in the apartment? Señor Cletus?”
“The reception room will be fine, thank you.”
“And then I will say good night, Señor Cletus.”
“Thank you, Señora Pellano.”
“I hope you have a good alarm clock,” Monica said, looking at him over the rim of the scotch and water he had made her. “I absolutely have to be home by seven. If I’m not, the children are liable to wake up and ask where Mommy is.”
Children? Of course, children. She’s a married woman. Married women have children.
This is not the smartest thing you have ever done, Clete. It may turn out to be the dumbest. But there doesn’t seem to be any question that you are about to return to the ranks of the sexually active.
Maybe that will put the Virgin Princess out of your mind.
“I think there’s one in the apartment. Shall we go have a look?”
“Splendid idea,” Monica said. “And why don’t I carry this tray along with us, so you won’t have to wake the servants?”
She picked up the tray with the ice and soda water on it, smiled at him, and waited for him to show her the way to the bedroom.
[FOUR]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
1745 30 November 1942
Cletus Howell Frade, First Lieutenant, USMCR, and Laird of the Manor, in T-shirt and khaki trousers, was sitting on a heavy wooden chair—so heavy it absolutely could not be tipped back on its rear legs, and he had really tried—on the balcony outside his bedroom. A liter bottle of Quilmes Cerveza (beer) rested on his abdomen. His feet, in battered boots he’d owned since before he went to College Station to join the corps of cadets at Texas A&M, rested on the masonry railing. And he was watching an exercise boy let a magnificent Arabian run at a full gallop at the racetrack across the street.
“I wish I was up there with you, you lucky sonofabitch, whoever you are,” he announced to the world in general.
And immediately regretted it. Every time he opened his mouth and a sound came out, even a cough, either Señora Pellano or one of the maids appeared with a warm smile on her face and inquired, “¿Sí, Señor?”
He glanced over his shoulder to see if one of them was headed his way. No one was coming through the bedroom—or Granduncle Guillermo’s playroom, as he had come to think of it.
He looked back toward the river and the racetrack. Thirty or forty sailboats were on the river, and there was activity at the racetrack, as if they were preparing for a race. He took another pull at the neck of the bottle of cerveza.
Damned good beer. They really know how to eat and drink down here.
He was not looking forward to the evening. He was going to dinner, where he would meet his aunt Beatrice and his uncle Humberto for the first time. Until three days before, he had been blissfully unaware that he had an Uncle Humberto or an Aunt Beatrice or a Cousin Jorge who got himself killed at Stalingrad. And whose death, his father said, left Aunt Beatrice shattered enough to need a psychiatrist’s attention.
There was of course no way to get out of going.
“Beatrice will inevitably find out that you are in Buenos Aires,” his father told him on the telephone, “and would be deeply hurt if you do not pay your respects.”
“I understand.”
“Beatrice and your mother were close, Cletus. They were brides together, and young first mothers. She held you as a baby.”
And now she’ll want to know how come her baby is dead, and I’m alive.
Shit.
“I will try to make it an early evening. May I send a car for you at nine forty-five? They usually sit down to dinner at ten-thirty or eleven.”
An early dinner?
“Thank you.”
He was also having troubling feelings about the events of the previous evening.
After their first coupling—which took place no more than ninety seconds after they stepped off the elevator and walked into the playroom, and lasted about half that long—Monica confided to him that a combination of Pablo’s diminishing sexual drive and the attention h
e was spending on his Mina had combined to almost entirely deny her the satisfactions of the connubial couch.
Their initial coupling was followed by three others. The last two shattered the hope that his near-terminal chastity was solely responsible for his carnal thoughts about the Virgin Princess, and that once that condition was cured, his shameful thoughts about her would disappear.
That didn’t happen. He managed to perform—although he wasn’t too sure he could the last time Monica reached for it—in a manner that did not bring shame on the reputation of the commissioned officer corps of the United States Marines. But clear images of the pert, yet ample virgin breasts of Señorita Dorotea Mallín kept flashing into his mind, even as he was somewhat feverishly attending to the business at hand.
Which is what you get, you pre-vert, for looking down the front of her dress whenever you have the chance.
At least I got out of her house before I made an ass of myself. I think Mallín was looking at me funny toward the end, which means that he caught me looking at her.
On the other hand, there’s no denying that I miss her something awful. Just seeing her, hearing her talk and laugh. Just having her look at me. The funny thing is that when I think about her—except when I’m banging a thirty-two-year-old mother of three—it’s not her breasts, or even that absolutely perfect ass, but her eyes. Christ, she has beautiful eyes!
Thank God, I got out of there before I made any kind of a pass at her.
Or am I going to be a fool and call her up when the Buick comes and ask her if she’d like to go for a ride?
In his mind he heard her voice: “I have never been in a Buick droptop, Cletus. Will you take me for a ride when it arrives?”
“Convertible, Princess. Convertible. Sure. Be happy to.”
“Señor Cletus, Señor Nestor wishes to see you,” Señora Pellano announced, startling him—he hadn’t heard her come up.
“He’s here?”
“Sí, Señor. In the reception.”
What the hell does he want?
“Ask him to come up, please, Señora Pellano,” Clete said.
When, a minute or so later, he heard the sound of the elevator door opening, he took his booted feet off the railing and stood up and smiled at Jasper C. Nestor. The Spymaster was wearing a seersucker suit, and he was carrying a soft-brimmed straw hat in one hand and a package in the other.
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