“It was the first gift that made Ernestinho laugh and clap his hands together!” He then began to speak of his other grandchildren, now totaling three. His sadness seemed to lessen momentarily. Memories rooted in the pleasures of the table quickly followed and he soon invited me to dinner. We agreed to get together two nights later. The colonel recommended a restaurant in Ipanema, the name and address of which he had me repeat. He said he’d take care of the reservation and expect me around eight. “I can’t guarantee a fireplace,” he joked before hanging up. “But the food is quite good.”
I arrived at the restaurant a little late on the designated night. The colonel was already seated at a table in the rear and signaled me over with a jovial wave. As I approached, however, I noticed that it was with difficulty that he rose to greet me. He had aged quite visibly. An entire decade had elapsed since we’d last seen one another, and at his stage of life the years usually take a toll. Even so, he gave me a big hug, which immediately whisked us back to our nights in Austria.
After speaking briefly of his deceased wife, we attacked our caipirinhas. Within minutes, we were engrossed in lively conversation. At some point, he showed me photos of his grandkids. “This one here is Ernestinho,” he said with open pride, sliding a picture of a chubby young fellow under my nose. He followed up with a few comments about his daughter and son-in-law, who didn’t live far from him. “Which is convenient, given the onset of old age,” he acknowledged a bit wistfully.
Soon enough, however, the invisible link that had brought us together in Vienna came up in conversation. “How about Max?” the colonel asked. “What do you hear of him?”
I said I hadn’t seen him for some time but that I’d been following his career from afar with the same admiration.
“Admiration and bewilderment,” he joked, eyeing me as he took another sip of his drink.
But the conversation had yet to wind its way through assorted de rigueur topics before returning to the subject. We talked about Brazilian politics and the economy, which individuals were rising and falling on the power scale, of soccer victories and upsets.
Once dinner was served, Max joined us again, only this time accompanied by a supporting actor, another old acquaintance of ours, Eric Friedkin.
“Max was always a source of fascination to Eric,” the colonel remarked, as though speaking of another mutual friend. He looked up from his plate. “How’s your food?”
“Excellent.” And it was.
I took advantage of the lull to acknowledge, in the same warm tone, the new character’s entrance from the wings. “Eric Friedkin! The CIA’s station head in South America!”
“Chief of station, or COS,” he corrected, with a mouthful. “Those were crucial years in our region. The toughest stage …” He glanced to both sides since one never knew who might be listening. For in those days, the hunt for the Fascist witches had dropped from its lofty platform of political righteousness to the trivial level of beauty salon gossip. (“That guy? Don’t even tell me, hon. They say he was one helluva torturer,” and then, after a furtive pause, in an even lower voice, “during those heavy years of repression.”)
“… after our military movement in sixty-four,” he finished at last. Pleased with his retrieval of the formula he’d been resorting to since our times in Vienna, he concluded, “He settled in Uruguay and from there he followed the developments in Montevideo, Chile, and Argentina.”
Followed, I mused, taking great pains to keep the smile frozen on my lips.
Luckily, we were interrupted right then by an acquaintance of the colonel, who took him aside and expressed his condolences. After which the two got caught up talking in a corner, while I retreated into my thoughts. Still under the effect of the casual way my host had mentioned Eric Friedkin’s activities, I recalled Max’s outburst at the infamous wedding reception more than twenty years earlier, when he had drawn on Merce Cunningham’s genius to establish a parallel between the coups taking place in the region and a choreographed operation inspired and coordinated by the CIA.
Apologizing profusely, the colonel returned to his seat. He seemed quite pleased with himself. “A former colleague from the army,” he explained. “He invited me to a reunion of the old guard. To see if we can improve the retired officers’ pensions.”
After waving over the waiter, he asked, “Should we move on to beers?” Perhaps keeping tabs on his own wallet, the congenial colonel had discreetly turned down the wine list the waiter had tried in vain to hand him. “Now, where were we?”
“Eric Friedkin. And his admiration for Max.”
“Right. But admiration isn’t quite the word. It was more of a periodic fascination. Sometimes he would be impressed by him. But generally speaking, I think he was more intrigued. As if he couldn’t place him in any given context. He wasn’t alone in that. And yet he considered himself an excellent judge of character. He was never wrong. After all, that’s what he’d been trained to do.” And with a smile of virtuousness, which age alone confers on men who have been up to no good but may escape hell nonetheless: “That and to deceive!”
Perhaps regretting the snide remark, he quickly added, “You can’t believe how moved I was by his phone call when he learned of Matilde’s passing.” He recalled the old family ties, strengthened by Eric’s daughter, Nancy, who had become Ernestinho’s godmother. “I’ll always remember the winter nights in Montevideo when we’d roast marshmallows on sticks in our fireplaces. The girls were little and loved the fun of it.”
I averted my eyes from his, which were suddenly teary, and wondered what else Eric Friedkin might have been planning to roast those particular nights, with other kinds of sticks, after singing lullabies to the two daughters.
Meanwhile, the colonel seemed ready to get back to the subject at hand. “He was extremely clever. So clever that, where Max was concerned (and this he only confessed to me years later), Eric simply had the British approach our friend. That way the CIA stayed out of it. With an added benefit: he gave Max the illusion that he was his own man, that he was outsmarting everyone. Funny, isn’t it? In other words, on the surface, for training the Uruguayan police forces, the CIA used Max and Itamaraty. But on the sly, the agency allowed the British to find out what Max really knew. Eric had a French name for the maneuver. It was called a trompe something or other.”
“Trompe l’oeil.”
“That’s it. Do you guys use that at Itamaraty too?”
“All the time. Long before Machiavelli and Renaissance painting, early sixteenth-century diplomacy invented the trompe l’oeil. It was based on a kind of visual engineering, which works to trick the eye and …”
“I see,” said the colonel, showing little interest in these details.
I decided to press further. “But what did Max know in the end? That was so … so important?”
“Nothing, at first.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s what was so curious. It was the Brits who gradually put him on the trail to what they wanted to know. To what the Americans wanted to know.”
“In what area?” Ten years earlier, in Vienna, the colonel had limited himself to saying that Eric had “somewhat unintelligibly” mentioned “uranium smuggling, nuclear energy, and Germany” in the same sentence. But I thought it preferable not to evoke that particular language right then.
“I know it’s been many years,” he said, after choosing the less soiled end of his napkin to wipe his mouth. “And that this story is old. But it remains secret. And your colleague is still active. Our famous Max. If the subject becomes public, he may wish to retaliate. Although people who live in glass houses …” Here he had a timely recollection. “By the way, I met up with him a few months ago.”
“With Max? Where?”
“At the funeral of our former ambassador in Montevideo. The Caped Crusader, they used to call him. After retiring, he went to work for the Germans.” He laughed, as if introducing the Germans into the equation amused him for some reason. “T
he old man worked for them right up until he died. And he left behind a book of memoirs, in which he didn’t even try to hide his political preferences. The funniest part is that we, at the SNI, had a file on him the size of a truck.” Renewed laughter, the source of which I had no way of identifying. “He left out the best part of his book …” He continued to laugh alone. It wasn’t possible that such joy could be attributed solely to the Germans, a people who may have their redeeming qualities but aren’t known for their humor.
“So what’s the lowdown on the ambassador?” I inquired.
“It’s hilarious. But you won’t hear it from me.”
We’d had so many beers that he gradually gave in. Deep down, the colonel loved a good story. Especially if it strayed beyond the confines of security protocols. “He had a hobby.”
“Oh, really? What was that?”
“Photography.”
“You don’t say.”
“He had a small studio on Avenida Marechal Floriano, not far from Itamaraty, over near the Colégio Pedro II. They say all kinds of kinky activities went on there. Little schoolgirls in uniform and everything.”
“Don’t tell me, Colonel.”
“The Caped Crusader had a second hidden agenda. Even hotter than the nuclear reactors.”
“Nuclear reactors?” I asked innocently.
The colonel tried to backpedal, but it was too late. He’d already said too much. He hung on to the studio like someone clinging to a life raft. “He was up to no good in that studio with the little girls. And he photographed his exploits. The girls playing with themselves. Or with him, two, three, at a time … Until one of the mothers informed the police. Then we had to intervene. The girl was twelve years old.”
“You personally?”
“Me?… Oh, no. I didn’t even know him in those days. I only found out about this much later. Years after returning from Montevideo, that’s how secret it was. No. The orders came from above, from the highest level.”
“Who would have thought … and the nuclear reactors … in Vienna, you …”
“What nuclear reactors?” How to go back? He tried to sideline the issue.
“Eric is the one who knows about that.”
Cutting him slack, I said, “The man who always knew it all.” Given his silence, I resorted to the past. “During one of our conversations in Vienna, you said that —”
But the colonel was no fool. He dealt with my persistence by taking refuge in his recent sorrow. “Eric’s phone call really got to me. I’d forgotten that he too had lost his wife. My daughter had to prompt me. My dear Betty …” Another pause. And finally, the seed of an idea, perhaps to free himself of my questions, without being rude to the teddy-bear guy. “Incidentally …”
Given all I’d learned in Vienna about conversation with the colonel, I simply continued to nurse my warm beer.
“… He’s your neighbor.”
“Eric Friedkin? My neighbor?”
“Yes. Didn’t you say you’re stationed in LA? For the second time? So you must know the area pretty well. He lives near San Diego. It’s less than two hours on the freeway. Right on the border with Mexico. The other side of Tijuana. Dreadful place Tijuana is, by the way.”
“Who would have thought,” I couldn’t help but murmur. I was truly surprised. Eric Friedkin … at my disposal, if I so desired. Served up on the finest tray — one provided by a mutual friend. It was the kind of news that generates both curiosity and unease.
The waiter approached with the check. The colonel firmly prevented my taking care of it. “Your money is no good here!” he exclaimed, grabbing the bill.
Returning to the subject that now seemed to be thrilling him — and troubling me: “I’m going to send an e-mail introducing you to him as someone I trust. You’ll enjoy talking with Eric. And he with you. Eric is nothing like a typical CIA agent these days. On the contrary, he’s become an old dinosaur, just like me. Not that he’s changed in his way of thinking, he hasn’t changed in that respect. But he’s mellowed, lost his edge.” His eyes beamed, overtaken by a childlike enchantment, as if seeking forgiveness in the past. “Yes, Eric’s mind is the same, I can tell from his e-mails. And from Nancy’s comments. A true relic these days. Still sharp as a tack, of course. But stopped in time.” The comments weren’t exactly promising. On the other hand …?
The colonel was now carefully reviewing the check, moving his lips as he tallied the figures lit by the table lamp. Once the inspection was over, he deposited a few coins on the plate and asked, “Who else can afford not to change with the times? Only Eric.”
PART SIX
45
In my parents’ time, a man in his sixties was considered old. Yet the adjective could hardly be applied to the individual who greeted me in my office — though he was close to eighty. The man who shook my hand seemed to have no shortage of energy.
That was my first impression of Eric Friedkin. Partly because of his gaze and bearing, and largely because of his physique, probably the result of a daily exercise regimen. His expression, moreover, conveyed both calm and aloofness, a curious combination that in no way diminished the sincerity of his smile. His suntan, in turn, suggested a retirement spent on three-mast sailboats, perhaps traveling distant seas. And his crew cut, which had upset Marina years before in Washington, had ended up going with the whole look quite naturally.
Like Colonel João Vaz, he was tall. But in contrast to his friend, he had no fat on him. He entered my office and crossed directly to my desk with the composure of someone who, if required, would proceed with the same stride out over the horizon, unfazed by the window and whatever might be awaiting him some forty floors below. Also unlike his former companion — who had soon taken on the persona of a trained bear in my view — he couldn’t be compared to any tamed animal.
“Delighted to meet you,” he said, as I welcomed him.
He could have sat in a chair in front of me or shared the sofa a few steps away. Still smiling, he waited for me to indicate my preference. I chose the sofa. As we sat side by side, the secretary who had showed him in returned with coffee.
“Brazilian coffee!” he exclaimed in the same jovial tone. “At least I hope so …”
I apologized for having kept him waiting while I was trying to finish a report about to be sent off to Brasilia. I added that I hadn’t expected him to arrive so soon after his call.
“I phoned from the lobby,” Eric told me in a hushed voice, as if sharing a secret. The line could have meant so you couldn’t escape. Or illustrated how spontaneous he was.
He must have registered something of my surprise, for he went on to explain. “Once a month, I take the San Diego Freeway and come have lunch with my friends in Los Angeles. Old colleagues from work, all retired like me. And your building is one of my favorite places to park: there’s always space. From there to making the call was just one short step.”
After a brief pause, he continued. “Besides, yesterday I got a new e-mail from our mutual friend. João …” His pronunciation had been midway between João and John, slightly more toward the latter.
“He wanted to know if we’d been in touch yet. The fellow seems eager to have us get together. Which is quite typical of him …”
We laughed a little, me without knowing just why, him in honor of old times in Montevideo. Good old João, his look seemed to say.
As expected, we went on to talk about the colonel. I described how I’d met him in Vienna and mentioned what had led us to become friends in a city that had at first seemed hostile to us — at night and in the wintertime, at least. I indicated that we’d gotten together since then and emphasized our recent dinner in Ipanema, trying to fill in the gaps with details about his recently deceased wife, his daughter and grandchildren. Especially —
“Ernestinho!” he cut in. “Ernestinho Vaz! In honor of one of João’s former bosses. Ernesto …”
He’d set the ball up so I could spike it. Since I said nothing, he himself returned with
a deflated “… Geisel.”
In the meantime, I took a sip of my coffee, allowing the former military president to beat a hasty retreat so we could resume our pleasant conversation without his shadow looming over us. Eric didn’t blink but registered what had happened. I appreciated his tact. And began to pay closer attention to him.
I noted that he seemed at ease, looking around him with satisfaction, lingering over the paintings, prints, and posters from previous years of the São Paulo Art Biennial. Then he concentrated on the windows. Seated where he was, he couldn’t see much other than the blue sky. Even so, he found a way to express his admiration.
“The thirty-eighth floor! You’ve got a beautiful view from up here. Buildings this tall are becoming common in the area. Before, there were only the ones in Century City, and a few miles away, in Westwood. Other than downtown, of course. But the smog there tends to be unbearable.” He knew the city well, even though he visited only on occasion.
“When I lived here the first time,” I remarked, “more than thirty years ago, our consulate was on Wilshire, only farther down, across from the old LA County Museum.”
“I know the building you’re talking about,” he exclaimed happily, as if there were something curious and unexpected about this new coincidence. “I usually park my car there too. It’s called the Mutual …”
“… Benefit Life Building,” I completed.
We laughed again. Ernesto Geisel, no. The Mutual Benefit Life Building, yes. We were groping our way in utter darkness but without being anxious or fearful of one another.
I glanced at my watch. Marina’s old question about Max came to mind: “Did you ever manage to find out anything … anything more concrete about him?”
His Own Man Page 23
