Clete examined the fixture with interest, wondering exactly how it worked. When he completed his primary purpose in the bathroom, he bent over the fixture and tried the faucets, one at a time. The prize for his curiosity was a sudden burst of water at his face from what he thought was a drain.
He dried himself, torn between amusement and humiliation, and returned to the apartment.
Se?ora Pellano was there, along with a burly man in a brown suit. They were both looking down at the soundly sleeping Coronel.
"Who are you?" Clete demanded.
"I am Enrico, mi Teniente," the man said. "I have come to take care of el Coronel."
"I see," Clete asked, and then blurted, "Does he do this sort of thing often?"
"No, mi Teniente," Enrico said, and then, "Permission to speak, mi Teniente?"
"Certainly."
This guy is or was a soldier. He looks like a Marine gunnery sergeant with six hash marks; that "permission to speak" business is the mark of an old-timer enlisted man.
"El Coronel would be very embarrassed to remember himself as he is now, mi Teniente. It would be a kindness if he were not reminded of it."
"OK."
"Gracias, mi Teniente."
"What was the occasion today?"
"You were, mi Teniente," Enrico said. "Con permiso, mi Teniente?"
Clete nodded.
Enrico bent over the inert body of el Coronel, wrapped his arms around him, and with a heave and a grunt hoisted him to his feet. Then, with an ease that showed he had done this sort of thing before, he stooped and allowed Frade's body to fall over his shoulder. Then, grunting again, he stood erect. He was now carrying Clete's father in the "Fireman's Carry."
He carried him to the elevator. Se?ora Pellano entered with him, and the door slid closed.
Powerful man,Clete thought. My father is a large man, and he was really out. Took a lot of muscle to carry him that way.
And since he was really out, what does that mean?
Enrico said, and I don't think he was lying, that he doesn't often pass out drunk.
So what does that do to your theory that he was pretending to drink so that you would get drunk and start running off at the mouth?
Christ, I don't know what to think!
X
[ONE]
Calle Ag?ero
Barrio Norte
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1515 28 November 1942
David G. Ettinger was sure he had the right number, but he checked again, taking from the breast pocket of his seersucker suit the slip of paper with "Ernst Klausner, calle Ag?ero 1585" written on it. He crossed the cobblestones of calle Ag?ero and stopped before Number 1585. The house number looked Europeanblue numbers on a white background, a porcelain medallion mounted to a brass plate.
The houses along both sides of the street were built up to the wide concrete sidewalks. Every twenty yards or so the thick trunks of elm trees pierced the sidewalk, their branches almost touching, shading the street and the sidewalks. The exterior walls of Number 1585 were of exposed aggregate concrete, and the windows had roll-down shutters in place, possibly because of the afternoon sun, or maybe because no one was at home.
The whole neighborhood looks European. Buenos Aires looks European. This could be a street in Madrid; for that matter in Berlin say Tegel, or Wilhelmsdorf. In Berlin, the walls would be of concrete, carefully smoothed and marked to suggest stone blocks, but that's the only real difference.
Except in Germany, a Jew would live in a Jewish neighborhood.
This neighborhood had no national flavor. He'd ridden several times on his bus rides through a section of town that could have been a suburb of London, and was in fact where many British lived. Pelosi had told him he had found an Italian section. Presumably there would be other neighborhoods with some kind of national identity, but this wasn't one of them. This section of town lookedArgentinean.
First without realizing he was doing so, and then quite intentionally, he had looked for some outward signa kosher butcher shop, something like thatwhich would announce, "Here Live the Jews." He'd seen signs for kosher meats two or three times, but not today, and not in this neighborhood.
And realized, The six pointed Jewish stars on the butcher shops here, as in the United States, are printed in gold, to attract the business of those who keep a kosher kitchen. This isn't like Germany, where they are painted crudely in white on the plate glass, in compliance with provisions of the Racial Purity Act of 1933, to warn innocent Aryans they are about to risk contaMi?ation by entering the business premises of a Gottverdammte Jude.
Ettinger realized that he was feeling very powerful emotions now. There were probably several thousand people named Ernst Klausner in Germany ... or there once were. But he had a strange feeling that this was the Ernst Klausner he knew. Ernst Klausner, of Heinrich Klausner und Sohn, G.m.b.H. The firm had been wholesale paper merchants, with their headquarters in Berlin, and branches all over Germany. They had lived in a villa in Berlin-Lichterfelde.
Ettinger walked up three shallow steps to the door of Ag?ero 1585, found the doorbell, and pressed it. He could not hear a sound from inside, and had just about decided that no one was home, when the door opened. A girl of about twelve or thirteen, her blond hair Inge Klausner had been blond!done up in rolled braids. She smiled a bit nervously and asked, "¿Se?or?"
"Guten Tag, Fraulein," Ettinger began, and saw relief in the girl's eyes that she did not have to cope with Spanish. "My name is Ettinger. Is your, mother or father at home?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"I'm looking for Heir Ernst Klausner, formerly of Berlin. Have I the right home?"
Concern came back in her eyes.
"My father will be here at six," the girl said. "Perhaps it would be better, mein Herr, if you came back then."
"The Frau Klausner I am looking for is named Inge," Ettinger said.
From her eyes, Ettinger could see that he had hit home, but the concern in her eyes did not go away, and she didn't respond directly.
"It would be better, mein Heir, if you came back when my father is here. At six, or a little after."
"And if this is the home of Ernst and Inge Klausner, then you would be Sarah," Ettinger said. "Who I last saw as a small child."
She looked intently into his eyes. They were frightened, and he was sorry he had said what he had.
"Please," the girl said. "Come in. I will telephone to my father."
"Ernst?"
"Who is this?"
"An old friend from Berlin, Ernst. David Ettinger."
"Ach du lieber Gott!"
"Wie geht's, Ernst?"
"You got out!"
"Obviously."
"And your father and mother?"
"Mother is in New York. The others ..."
There was a long silence.
"How did you find me?"
"Your daughter was kind enough to call you for me."
"You are at my home?"
"Yes."
There was another perceptible pause.
He doesn't like me being here.
"I can't leave here now, David. Could you come back to the house tonight? After six?"