I might have never known how it happened. When I finally returned to the apartment, I set down my suitcase and my heart sank. Le Tromlon de Napoloeon was gone. I had left the gun in the tennis bag under my futon while we were in New Orleans. Until then, I regularly carried it to and from Klara’s, the Malmaison, and the apartment, in a ruse to give the impression that I was indeed playing tennis and carrying a racket. It was not a well-thought-out plan, and I sometimes only carried it once a week, but I always put the bag somewhere that it would not be moved.
I called Klara in a panic, already knowing that I had not left the gun at her place. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Marianne making dinner, and I wondered if she had discovered the dumbbell and taken it upon herself to take the gun.
“Holy shit,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”
Klara spoke hesitantly. “Michael. I told Celeste about the tennis bag.”
“What? Why?”
“It was innocent. She made some comment about tennis and I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“No, you don’t understand. Marianne thinks I put the gun in the safe at the Malmaison.”
“Why would she think…”
“Marco,” I interrupted. “I need to go.”
I got off the phone and knocked on Celeste’s bedroom door. Something I’d never done. She opened the door and looked demurred to see me. She was wearing a robe and smiled and invited me to sit.
“Where is the gun?” I asked.
“What?”
“The only gun. My gun. Where is it?”
“It’s not here?” she asked. And I believed her.
I put my hands on my head. “Shit!”
“No, it’s okay. It’s here. It’s got to be.”
“It was in the tennis bag. Klara told you.”
She looked down.
“Please tell me that you told your mother. Please.”
“No, no. Of course not,” she said, not realizing that was the answer I really wanted. The alternative was far worse.
9
A soccer player stole my blunderbuss. It was like a phrase from MadLibs.
Celeste proclaimed her innocence pathetically as I left for Charles de Gaulle. She had already given up Marco. He was gone to Argentina with the gun. It was a legal piece of cargo if you checked it. I was furious with myself for not putting it in the safe. Marianne was puzzled and I didn’t take the time to offer an explanation. She would open the safe at the Malmaison and find a dumbbell.
“You can’t chase him to Argentina,” Celeste cried.
I was furious with Celeste, but I couldn’t waste my time on her.
With just a backpack with a change of clothes and a toothbrush I ran down the stairs of the apartment. Celeste followed crying, “No!”
“Stop!” I said, as I reached the edge of the road. She stared at me desperately. In plain English I reached for the best or worst I could muster. I used simple words to make sure she didn’t miss one. “You, are selfish and arrogant. Nothing you say is true. You have poisoned my life. I don’t care if I ever see you again.” And at the time I had never meant anything more sincerely.
I was angry about the gun, but my fury was stoked by the fact that it was taken by a pathetic soccer player. Marco was a stupid kid posing as the “alpha male.” The idea of him walking off a plane in Argentina with my property made my blood boil.
“You’ll never find him,” Celeste cried.
I wouldn’t accept that. I couldn’t stay in Paris. There were no authorities to call for this. I had to go.
At the airport I called Klara. I was spitting nails as I told her I was going to find Marco. She didn’t try to stop me. She didn’t encourage me either. I could tell that she realized that she was still just a spectator in my life. In the heat of the moment, I couldn’t worry about her. She apologized again and again, and I sincerely meant it when I told her it didn’t matter. I wasn’t mad at her. It was gone and I had to do everything I could to get it back.
There is something anticlimactic about rushing off to chase a thief around the world, when you are waiting in a slow security line. My pursuit was reduced to the same speed as eager vacationers and weary businessmen. It was a splash of cold water on my bold action. I had no plan. By the time I walked off the plane in Buenos Aires, I realized that I probably needed Celeste in order to find Marco.
I woke up an hour before we landed and pondered my next move. By the 14th hour of flight, I was getting restless. I hadn’t been back in Paris for two days before I crossed the ocean again. Surely Celeste and Klara were talking. Would Celeste say anything to Klara about what happened in New Orleans? I now regretted being so harsh with Celeste. It was a mistake. She had used it to hurt Marco. She couldn’t have predicted he would take the gun, unless she was in on it. In the back of my mind, it was a possibility.
I was surprised by the summer weather. With maps of Argentina and the city of Buenos Aires I hailed a cab. I didn’t know where to go so I merely uttered, “Información Turismo?”
The driver responded with a rapid sentence that included the word ‘turismo’ so I said, “Sí.” We drove through the massive city, some of it third world, some of it European, and we pulled up to the Park Hyatt in what I would eventually learn was the Recoletta neighborhood. It reminded me of a combination of the Upper East Side in New York, and the Left Bank in Paris.
“Bien?” he asked.
I stood a good chance of finding an English speaker and a computer. “Bien,” I said, exhausting most of my Spanish vocabulary. I’d been in the same clothes since the previous morning in Paris. The doorman recognized my weariness, took my small suitcase and asked if I had a reservation.
“Concierge?” I asked. He pointed to small desk in the corner of the sleek white lobby. It had a classic look with modern furniture. I could already tell it was out of my budget.
Jorge was a small, immaculately groomed native with a thin mustache. He spoke perfect English with a rich Spanish accent. “Welcome to the Palacio Duhau Park Buenos Aires, Señor,” he said extending his hand.
“Thank you,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I don’t have a reservation, and I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.” I was at a loss. I already knew that my phone didn’t work. “I need a phone with Internet.”
“How long are you here for?”
“I don’t know. Not long, I don’t think.”
“Will you be staying in Buenos Aires or traveling throughout the country?”
“I don’t know that either.”
He gave me a practiced, professional grin.
“International calls too?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out a phone and made a call; in the process he asked my name and jotted notes on a small notepad.
“You traveled from America?”
“Paris. But I’m American.”
“Credit card?”
I handed one over.
He continued his conversation in Spanish. He got off the phone and smiled. “An iPhone will be delivered here within the hour. It is $55 per week phone rental, plus your calling minutes and data.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s perfect.”
“Now. You are not a guest in this hotel?”
“I, uh, I left Paris in a little bit of a hurry, so I didn’t have time to make arrangements.”
“There is no finer hotel in Buenos Aires than this.”
The guy was not leaving any doubt that I would stay.
“When your phone arrives I will bring it to your room. How many nights?”
“Let’s start with two.”
Before I knew it, he was leading me to the front desk, ahead of two people waiting in line. He used my credit card to arrange for a room. Without words I initialed next to the $349 rate. He led me to my room where I also handed him $20 tip, unsure if this was generous or an insult.
He smiled and handed me his card. “Call me if you need anything at all.”
I collapsed in the bed and
turned on Argentinean television. A dubbed version of Law & Order played when my phone arrived thirty minutes later, delivered again by Jorge. I gave him another $10 American, just in case.
The phone came with a set of dialing instructions, which included international calls. I turned on my own phone to retrieve Celeste’s number. I was surprised to see that despite the long flight, Paris was only four hours difference. It was nearly noon in Buenos Aires. I wrote down both Celeste’s and Klara’s numbers. I decided to call Klara first.
It was good to hear her French voice. She answered urgently.
“It’s me.”
“Michael! Are you okay? You make it okay?”
“I made it. I’m here. I’m not sure what I’m doing.”
I could hear a voice in the background.
“Is that Celeste?”
“Yes. We are both concerned. What are you going to do?”
“I guess I’m going to try to find Marco. Does Celeste have any ideas?”
There was muffled talking. “Hold on.”
“Michael,” Celeste whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Jesus, Celeste. I need your help. I didn’t mean what I said.” A part of me hoped she could talk to Marco and reason with him.
“Michael, he won’t answer my calls. I can’t reach him. I’m not even sure where he was going. I think he was going to meet with a team. He said the name, but it was in Spanish. I don’t know what it was. Zur. Chur. I don’t know.”
She had nothing.
“Is his family in Buenos Aires?”
“Some, but not all. He grew up in Patagonia until he started playing soccer in the bigger cities.”
“Thanks, Celeste.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Put Klara on.”
I was relieved that Celeste was cooperating, and clearly hadn’t told Klara about New Orleans. Klara was confused by Marco’s motive. She felt partially responsible for telling Celeste about the tennis bag in the first place. I told her I would call her back later in the evening.
I Googled Marco Rios and found nothing. My French was passing, my Spanish was lousy, and my knowledge of soccer worse. I was starving. I took a shower and put on a pair of dark pants and dress shirt, my only other set of clothes. I went downstairs to the hotel restaurant and ordered a pasta dish and a coffee. I caught glimpses of Jorge, walking briskly about the lobby, making things happen for their guests.
I decided I needed to see what Jorge could really do. I went to the hotel ATM and took out $500 worth of Argentine pesos. I went back to Jorge and gave him $100 worth. “I need your help,” I said. “How good are you at finding people?”
For the first time, his face changed. He became serious and lowered his voice. “I can find people, depending upon what you want. What sort of, um, services do you need?”
“No,” I said, realizing he probably thought I was looking for sex. “I’m trying to find a man. A soccer player.”
He took the money from the table. “Tell me more.”
I described my situation saying only that he had taken something from me. I meant him no harm, but needed to find him. Jorge took notes and asked if we could meet the next morning after he’d made some calls. I agreed and without my asking he said he would arrange for two more sets of clothes to be sent to my room.
“Do you need my size?” I asked.
“They will fit,” he said with a wink.
In a pair of rugged chinos that fit me perfectly, and a short sleeve pocketed shirt, I left my room with my luggage, per instructions from Jorge. He greeted me at the front desk. He had a packet of documents and his customary smile.
“Mr. Chance will be leaving us a day early,” he said to the front desk clerk as I handed over my room key.
He walked me toward the front door and handed me the papers. “In here is some information on San Carlos de Bariloche. Your man has a workout with Cruz del Sur. A garbage football team. They play in the fourth league, and won one match all year. If Marco Rios can’t make this team, he’ll be shoveling horseshit in the pampas. He’s from there.”
“Wow. You learned a lot.”
“It is baffling that he would play there, below his skill level. But then, with people like you in pursuit, maybe he wanted to disappear there. Hide in a place he is familiar. Perhaps he thinks he can hide what he took from you.”
“I can’t thank you enough.”
“There is an address in there for his father. And also a sister. But, I would recommend being careful.”
“I will. Anything about an ex-wife?” I asked.
“She is remarried, here in San Telmo.” As I took the papers he held the tightly a moment. “You said you meant him no harm. You paid me, I did work for you. Do not lie to me. I do not want to have to find you.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. “He will know why I am there when I find him. Are the police trustworthy?”
He smiled. “Of course. If you don’t have reason not to trust them.”
“If I tell them he has taken something from me...”
“You said this happened in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should count on persuasion,” he laughed. “Do you speak German?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, you don’t look Argentinean. Patagonia is full of Germans. It might help you blend in. French might be better than English. Maybe.”
“Germans.”
He smiled, and a taxi pulled up. “This will take you to the local airport. Less than two hours to Bariloche. Buy at ticket at the counter. I have made a reservation for you.”
I handed Jorge more money.
He held open the door. “Come back and see me.”
10
Germans in Bariloche. It was either an important detail or interesting coincidence. On the cab ride it occurred to me that if Marco attempted to sell the Tromblon de Napoleon, he would need to reveal its history.
I called Desjardins.
“Bonjour.”
“It’s Michael.”
“Oui, hello Michael.”
“I’m going to be very brief because I’m on my way to catch a plane. The tromblon was stolen.”
“Stolen? You’re kidding. How?”
“It is a story that you wouldn’t believe. I am about to take a plane to a town called Bariloche. It is in...”
“Patagonia.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know it has been taken there? You are in over your head. They must be real professionals,” he said.
“It’s this idiot soccer player that Marianne Demers’ daughter was dating. She broke up with him and he knew about the gun. Do you think he’d be able to find a buyer for it, being that he stole it? What do you mean professional?”
He laughed incredulously. “You can’t be serious. A soccer player has taken it to Patagonia? Unreal.”
“What am I missing?”
“After the war, Patagonia became the hiding place for Nazi war criminals. If you call it hiding. The place was a de facto German colony. Jesus! Your ‘idiot soccer player’ is either smarter than you think, or he accidentally took that gun to the one place he could probably find a buyer for a stolen item with ties to Hitler with relative ease. He probably won’t get its true value, but he could find a buyer who doesn’t mind controversy. Hell, there are people who say Hitler died in Patagonia, not in the Führerbunker.”
The cab spit me out on the curb of a more utilitarian airport. For the first time I was scared. I had tried to picture confronting Marco, if I managed to find him. I would point out that he would never find a buyer because I would see to it that every museum and collector knew he had stolen the Tromblon de Napoleon. I had pictures and witnesses from the Louvre that it was in my possession. I would bluff and tell him that Interpol was getting involved and he would reluctantly hand it over. Now that image was erased. Now, I imagined a land of Holocaust-denying Nazi sympathizers and real SS men growing old having avoided prosecution fo
r crimes against humanity. My mind ran wild.
To my relief, the streets of Bariloche were not lined with red banners and swastikas. But, nestled on the edge of a cold lake beneath tall mountains it certainly did look like a Bavarian town. A van carried me from the windswept single runway of the airport through the heart of town to the Hostel Inn Bariloche. A hostel would offer me the chance to blend in and gather information, but my main motivation for picking it was the price. The hostel looked fairly new, situated in a multi-level building with a top floor terrace bar. A far cry from the bedbug-ridden accommodations I’d found in some European towns. I figured that the closer you got to the edge of the earth, the hostels must improve in quality. At almost $100 per night, it wasn’t a total giveaway considering I had to the potential to share my room with three other guys. When I got there, two other beds were taken. I quickly met Charlie, a bearded, red-headed Brit with a pile of climbing gear. He flashed a wide grin and invited me to meet him and some of his “mates” at the bar. I took him up on it, hoping they could tell me more about the town.
The view from the top of the hostel was the best money could buy. The lake reached distant mountains, as the Andes jutted skyward. The air was cool and I pulled on a fleece that Jorge had procured for me. Charlie waved me over to a table with another man and two young women in their twenties. The man turned out to be my other roommate, Glen. Jill was Glen’s sister and Andrea was her friend from Buenos Aires.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Charlie announce in faux formality, “we have an American in our midst! Meet Michael.”
I took a seat.
“Michael is from a magical land called Florida,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “but most recently Paris, after a brief stint in New Orleans.”
“Paris?” Jill asked. “What were you doing there? What are you doing here?”
I took a long swig of beer and laughed.
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