‘‘What do you say, Princess? How’s tricks?’’
‘‘I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,’’ Dorotéa said in British-accented English.
‘‘Sorry. You said you had something on your mind, Dorot éa?’’
‘‘This is probably the worst possible place, at the worst possible time, to tell you this,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m really sorry.’’
Oh, I don’t know. This is a cemetery. Shouldn’t dead love get a decent burial?
‘‘What is it, Prin . . . Dorotéa? I probably won’t be nearly as upset as you think I’m going to be.’’
She moved close to him and looked into his eyes.
‘‘We’re going to have a baby,’’ she announced softly.
Even as he spoke the words, looking into her eyes, he knew the question he was croaking—‘‘Are you sure?’’— was unnecessary.
‘‘Of course I’m sure.’’
‘‘Oh, Princess!’’
‘‘Does that mean ‘Three cheers, hurrah!’ or ‘Oh, my God!’ ’’
‘‘Princess, you really surprised me with this one.’’
‘‘In other words, ‘‘Oh, my God!?’’
‘‘I thought I was going to get a Dear John,’’ he said.
‘‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Cletus. What’s a ‘Dear John’?’’
‘‘It’s a letter a girlfriend writes her boyfriend in the service. ‘Dear John, I’m sorry to tell you this, but someone else has come into my life.’ ’’
‘‘Sometimes you are a bloody ass, Cletus,’’ Dorotéa said angrily, and loudly enough so that the monk turned. ‘‘I love you, and until this moment I was laboring under the delusion that you loved me, too.’’
‘‘Princess, I love you more than my life,’’ Clete said. ‘‘When I thought I was going to lose you, I wanted to jump in the goddamned River Plate.’’
She looked at him. Her tongue came out and licked her lips in a nervous gesture he found exquisitely exciting.
‘‘Yes,’’ she said.
‘‘Yes what?’’ he asked, confused.
‘‘Yes, I will marry you. Or wasn’t that a proposal?’’ she asked, a naughty glint in her eyes.
‘‘It was,’’ he said. ‘‘But I don’t think this is the place to get on my knees.’’
‘‘Or the time. You had better wait a couple of days before you ask Daddy for my hand. And speaking of the devil, so to speak, what he thinks I’m doing is trying to find the loo, so I’m going to have to go back.’’
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
‘‘I would really like to put my arms around you and really kiss you,’’ she said. ‘‘But not here with the monk watching. Can you wait?’’
‘‘I don’t have any choice, do I?’’
‘‘None,’’ she said brightly, turned, and walked away.
She’s not wearing a girdle under that dress. She really has a magnificent fanny. And as far as that goes, a magni ficent everything else, too.
And she’s carrying my child!
Why couldn’t you keep your pecker in your pocket, you stupid sonofabitch?
Capitán Lauffer raised his eyebrows questioningly: Don’t you think you should be getting back to the church? Clete nodded and walked to him.
[TWO] 1420 Avenida Alvear Buenos Aires, Argentina 1215 10 April 1943
‘‘Would you like something to eat, Cletus?’’ Humberto Valdez Duarte asked, walking over to where Clete stood at the bar set up in the downstairs reception, helping himself to a bottle of scotch.
Is that just good manners, or an expression of concern for my welfare, or is he worried that I’m going to climb into a bottle the way my father did when they buried Cousin Jorge Alejandro?
‘‘I’m all right, thank you. Can I fix you one of these?’’
‘‘There is supposed to be someone . . .’’ Humberto said impatiently, and looked around the empty reception. A door leading to the butler’s pantry opened as he watched, and two barmen in starched white jackets came through, carrying a large, galvanized tub filled with ice and various bottles. ‘‘Ah, there they are!’’
He waited until they had placed the tub behind the bar, then ordered: ‘‘I’ll have one of those, please.’’
‘‘Are you all right, Cletus?’’ Humberto asked.
Just peachy-keen, Uncle Humberto. I have just watched my murdered father being buried, and have been standing here thinking that if I hadn’t shown up down here, he would still be alive. And also thinking that heading the list of shitty things—sins, if you like—I have done in my life is impregnating an innocent nineteen-year-old. Fucking up not only her life, but that of a child, too.
‘‘I’m fine. Thank you.’’
The barman handed Humberto his drink. He nodded his thanks, then raised the glass.
‘‘To Jorge Guillermo,’’ he said. ‘‘May he find your mother in heaven as beautiful as he remembered her.’’
Clete touched his glass.
‘‘And the horses be fast, and the champagne properly chilled,’’ Clete said.
Where the hell did that come from?
Humberto chuckled and took a sip.
‘‘Yes,’’ he said.
‘‘I watched the Húsares de Pueyrredón move him from the Edificio Libertador last night,’’ Clete said. ‘‘I think el Coronel would have been pleased with his funeral.’’
‘‘He loved parades,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘Particularly if he was leading it.’’
‘‘He was too goddamned young to die,’’ Clete said. ‘‘And like that!’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘Cletus, that brings up a somewhat delicate matter.’’
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘The reception will start in about fifteen minutes. There are already people arriving.’’
Clete nodded and waited for him to go on.
‘‘There will be a reception line . . .’’
‘‘Can I get out of that?’’
‘‘. . . and among the guests expected are Ambassador von Lutzenberger and members of his staff from the German Embassy. I believe Major von Wachtstein will be among them.’’
Clete’s eyebrows shot up, but he said nothing.
‘‘We see a good deal of Ambassador von Lutzenberger and his staff socially,’’ Humberto went on. ‘‘Your aunt Beatrice added many of them to our list after their many courtesies to us when Jorge Alejandro was brought home. She is especially fond of Major von Wachtstein. There are, of course, certain advantages to the situation.’’
‘‘I’m not sure I’m up to standing in a reception line and smiling at the murdering sonsofbitches.’’
‘‘I think everyone will understand that you are indisposed. ’’
‘‘Is that what I am, ‘indisposed’?’’ Clete said, and then, softly, ‘‘Speaking of Germans, I saw Peter von Wachtstein last night.’’
‘‘Was that wise? If you were seen . . .’’
‘‘We weren’t,’’ Clete said. ‘‘He’s very concerned that my father had some records . . .’’
‘‘The records of certain financial transactions,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘I’m very concerned myself.’’
‘‘Plus a personal letter from Peter’s father.’’
‘‘I know about the letter, too.’’
‘‘But you don’t know where they are?’’
‘‘They’re most likely in your father’s safe at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘God, I hope they are!’’
‘‘I don’t know what safe you’re talking about.’’
‘‘It’s in your father’s study.’’
‘‘I’d like to get in it as soon as possible. Who has the combination?’’
‘‘I was hoping you would have it.’’
‘‘No. I didn’t even know there was a safe until just now.’’
‘‘Well, I know Claudia doesn’t have the combination,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘She asked me f
or it.’’
‘‘Why does she want it?’’
‘‘I simply presumed there were personal things—letters perhaps —that she didn’t want anybody else to see. Wanted to get them out of the safe before you started going through it.’’
‘‘So how do I get in it?’’
‘‘Right now, I don’t know. Let me think about it. But for the moment, unless you want to see the Germans, you’d better get out of here.’’
‘‘Where do I go?’’
‘‘The upstairs sitting,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘I will instruct the servants who is to be taken there to pay their respects to you privately. The Mallíns, for example. And there is an American officer . . .’’
‘‘An American officer? Do you have his name?’’
"Teniente Pelosi,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘I have his card.’’ He handed it to Clete.
ANTHONY JOSEPH PELOSI
First Lieutenant, Corps of Engineers
Army of the United States
Assistant Military Attaché
Embassy of the United States of America
‘‘I really want to see him,’’ Clete said. ‘‘But I don’t want to make it obvious. Wait until the place is full of people, and then send him upstairs.’’
‘‘Certainly.’’
‘‘Make sure he doesn’t get away. He may think I don’t want to see him.’’
‘‘I understand,’’ Humberto said.
‘‘Right,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Humberto, thank you. And when this is all over, I really need to talk to you.’’
‘‘I was about to say almost exactly those words,’’ Humberto said. ‘‘There are business matters that need immediate decisions. Perhaps we can find the time over the weekend. We will have to find the time over the weekend. Can I show you the way?’’
‘‘I know where it is, thank you.’’
Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, in Húsares de Pueyrred ón uniform, jumped to attention when Clete walked into the upstairs sitting, startling Clete enough that in a Pavlovian Marine officer’s reflex, he barked, ‘‘As you were!’’
‘‘Mi Mayor?’’ Enrico asked, baffled.
‘‘One, stand at ease, Enrico, and two, stop calling me ‘Major.’ ’’
‘‘Por favor, mi Mayor,’’ Enrico said. ‘‘My last service to mi Coronel.’’
‘‘What?’’
Enrico turned to the table beside him.
‘‘Mi Mayor,’’ he said, ‘‘I present to you the saber and decorations of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade!’’
He extended to Clete a saber, together with its accoutrements, and the pale-blue velvet medal-covered pillow that had lain on the casket.
Clete’s throat tightened and his eyes watered. He came to attention.
‘‘Muchas gracias, Suboficial Mayor,’’ he said, and took them with as much military decorum as he could muster. When he looked at Enrico he saw tears running down his cheeks.
Clete turned, found a table, and laid the saber and the pillow on it, then turned to Enrico, who was standing at the Argentine equivalent of Parade Rest.
‘‘I think that what my father would prefer now, Enrico, is that his friend and his son have a drink to him, rather than stand here weeping like women.’’
"Sí, mi Mayor, I think he would,’’ Enrico said. He snapped to attention and then relaxed, as if he had been dismissed. He walked to a small bar that had been set up. ‘‘English whiskey, Señor Clete, or norteamericano?’’
‘‘Just as long as it’s wet,’’ Clete said.
[THREE]
The official delegation of the Embassy of Germany to the funeral mass and interment of the late el Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade had arrived at the Basílica of Our Lady of Pilar in two automobiles, and it was presumed that the suggestion that mourners walk the half-dozen blocks down Avenida Alvear to the reception at the Duarte mansion did not apply to them.
Ambassador von Lutzenberger did not invite Standartenf ührer Goltz to ride with him and Frau Ambassador in the Embassy Mercedes. On one hand, this surprised First Secretary Gradny-Sawz, for it would be the polite thing to do vis-à-vis a visiting dignitary of Goltz’s stature, he thought. But on the other hand, it pleased him, for it allowed him to be with Goltz. Major Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein also rode with Gradny-Sawz and Goltz in the second, slightly smaller Embassy Mercedes.
The police passed them through the barriers blocking Avenida Alvear without question, but the gates of the mansion were closed, and it was necessary for them to get out of the cars on the curb.
A barrage of flashbulbs went off. Gradny-Sawz glanced around, saw an unruly crowd on the sidewalk, and quickly decided what was going on. Though the police had tried to keep the journalists from Buenos Aires newspapers a respectable distance from the mansion, the journalists had jumped over the police barricades and were overwhelming the half-dozen policemen at the fence gate. They saw a good picture, and were going to risk a policeman’s angrily swung baton to get it.
After paying what Gradny-Sawz thought was probably the shortest courtesy call possible, President Ramón Castillo was leaving the mansion with a small entourage just as the American Ambassador with his entourage—Gradny-Sawz saw Vice Consul Spiers and the American military attaché—started inside.
An exchange of handshakes was of course required by protocol, and that in itself would be a good news photograph. But this act was taking place as Ambassador von Lutzenberger also started to enter the mansion. A photograph of the President of Argentina shaking hands with the American Ambassador while the German Ambassador waited his turn was a photograph worthy of the front page, and would probably be seen all over the world.
And God was with Germany, Gradny-Sawz decided, as the American Ambassador walked into the mansion. At least three photographs got a shot of Castillo shaking hands with von Lutzenberger while, back to the camera, the American Ambassador, trailed by his staff, marched away.
That photo would almost certainly appear on the front pages of La Nación, La Prensa, and Clarin, the major Buenos Aires newspapers. With a little luck, it would be transmitted by cable all over the world.
The American Embassy Press Officer had somehow managed to make the major Argentine newspapers aware that the late Oberst Frade was survived by his son, Cletus Howell Frade, of New Orleans, Louisiana, USA and Buenos Aires. La Nación had further described the son as ‘‘Teniente Frade, USMC’’; and La Prensa as ‘‘Major Frade, U.S. Navy.’’ The Buenos Aires Herald—as expected, considering their close connection to the Americans —had reported that Major Cletus H. Frade, USMC, Retired, a hero of the Battle of Guadalcanal, had flown from his home in Texas, USA, to attend his father’s funeral. Major Frade was expected to remain in Argentina, the nation of his birth, and was, under Argentine law, an Argentine citizen.
The photograph of President Castillo shaking Ambassador von Lutzenberger’s hand, in Gradny-Sawz’s professional judgment, would affect Argentine public opinion far more effectively than the best public relations efforts of the Americans.
It was, of course, a shame that Ambassador von Lutzenberger was not a more imposing figure physically. Von Lutzenberger’s uniform was, of course, even more heavily gold-encrusted than that authorized for First Secretary Gradny-Sawz. It was, Gradny-Sawz thought, as he usually did on occasions like this, no fault of Graf von Lutzenberger that he was fifty-three, sharp-featured, small, skinny, and almost entirely bald. But the result was inevitable: Von Lutzenberger looked somehow comical in his uniform, like a member of the chorus in an operetta.
The police soon managed to get the press back behind their barricades, and Gradny-Sawz, Goltz, and von Wachtstein walked quickly to the gate in the fence. And Ambassador Graf and Frau Grafin Ambassador von Lutzenberger were waiting for them just beyond the servants checking invitations at a table set up inside the door.
There were only two people receiving. Señor and Señora Duarte. Gradny-Sawz wondered where the son was; he had been at the church e
arlier, and it had been reported to him that he had also gone to the Edificio Libertador.
‘‘Permit me, Señor Duarte, and Señora,’’ von Lutzenberger said, ‘‘to offer the most profound expression of condolences on the tragic loss of el Coronel Frade on behalf of the German government, and my wife, and myself personally. ’’
‘‘How kind of you,’’ Humberto said.
‘‘My brother is now in heaven with the blessed Jesus and all the angels,’’ Beatrice said, almost cheerfully.
‘‘You know my wife, of course,’’ von Lutzenberger said. ‘‘And First Secretary Gradny-Sawz. May I present Standartenf ührer Goltz? Herr Standartenführer, these are my friends Señor and Señora Duarte. Señor Duarte is the managing director of the Anglo-Argentine Bank.’’
Goltz clicked his heels and bowed, then bent over Beatrice ’s gloved hand.
‘‘I am honored, Sir and Madam,’’ he said, ‘‘to meet the parents of the courageous officer who gave his life in the war against Bolshevism.’’
Beatrice did not seem to hear him.
‘‘Good afternoon, Peter,’’ she cried happily.
Peter von Wachtstein clicked his heels and bowed.
‘‘Señora,’’ he said.
Beatrice pushed between Frau Ambassador von Lutzenberger and Standartenführer Goltz to clutch Peter’s hand and offer him her cheek.
‘‘And we are going to see you over the weekend, aren’t we?’’ Beatrice said. ‘‘You’ll come to the estancia for the memorial mass?’’
‘‘I hope to have that privilege, Señora,’’ Peter said.
‘‘You’ll sit with us, of course. I’ll tell Señora Carzino-Cormano, ’’ she said, then kissed his cheek again before resuming her place in line to shake the hand of Gradny-Sawz.
‘‘Anton,’’ she said, gushing sincerity. ‘‘Thank you for coming.’’
‘‘Thank you having me, my dear Señora,’’ Gradny-Sawz said, and the German delegation was through the line.
A white-gloved servant showed them the door of the reception. Another servant stood just inside the door holding a tray of champagne glasses.
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