"They killed our people. They are killing our people."
"I think it would be best if you left, David, before Inge and Sarah come home," Klausner said.
Ettinger stood up, then looked down at Klausner.
"Because we were friends together in Germany," Klausner said, "I will not report you to Internal Security. But please, please, do not come back, and do not tell anyone that you knew me in Berlin."
"As you wish, Ernst," Ettinger said.
"Auf Wiedersehen, mein alt Freund. May God be with you," Ernst said.
[TWO]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
0900 29 November 1942
Clete was wakened by Se?ora Pellano, who set a tray-on-legs with orange juice and coffee on his bed.
"Buenos dias, Se?or Cletus."
" 'Dias, muchas gracias," he said, smiling at her, carefully trying to sit up without upsetting the tray.
"Would you like me to bring you something to eat?"
"Let me come downstairs," he said, smiling at her. "Give me thirty minutes to shower and shave."
"I would be happy to serve it here."
"Downstairs, please."
"S?, Se?or Cletus," she said, and went to the wardrobe and took out a dressing gown and laid it on the bed before leaving.
Even in the house on St. Charles Avenue,he thought, I was never treated this well, like an English nobleman in the movies.
There were two maids, so that no matter what hour of the day, his needs would not go unattended. There was also a cook and a houseman, a dignified old man named Ernesto. The staff was run with an iron hand by Se?ora Pellano, who, his father had told him, came from a fine family who had been in service to the Frades for three generations. One of the maids was a Porteno, the other from a family who lived on Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Both were young and attractive, which made him somewhat uncomfortable. He would have preferred maids twice their age.
Despite the physical comforts, he had spent an uncomfortable night at the house on Libertadorhis second night thereprimarily because he was bored. Exploring Granduncle Guillermo's playroom, which is what he finally did after everything else failed, didn't really help to cure his boredom.
At ten of the morning after their meeting, his father called to ask if he was comfortable, and to apologize: He had to leave town and would be in touch in a couple of days, after he returned; if Clete needed anything in the meantime, Se?ora Pellano would provide it. He did not mention how they parted the day before.
When Clete tried to call Mr. Nestor at the Bank of Boston to tell him where he was living, he was told that Nestor, too, was out of town.
"And is there a message, Se?or?"
"No, thank you. I'll call again."
And Pelosi was unavailable. Mallin had arranged a tour of the tank farm for him, and he would be gone all day.
Clete took a stroll around the neighborhood, including a walk through the stables of the Hipodromo. The horses were magnificent, and he liked their smell. It was comforting.
But with that out of the way, he couldn't find much else to do. Except explore Granduncle Guillermo's playroom. It was still relatively early in the evening when he searched through an absolutely gorgeous, heavily carved desk, made from some kind of wood he didn't recognize, and came across a locked compartment at the rear of one of the large drawers.
Feeling childishly mischievous, he looked for keys. None of the two dozen he could find fit the simple lock. So, telling himself that he knew better than what he was doingbut his father did tell him the place was hishe went downstairs and asked Se?ora Pellano were he could find tools.
"If anything needs fixing," she told him patiently but firmly, "I will fix it myself; or else the houseman will do it."
"All I need is a screwdriver," he said. "A small one. And maybe a small knife. I'll take care of it myself."
She led him to a toolbox in the basement. The box held both a penknife and a screwdriver.
The locked drawer quickly yielded to the removal of the brass screws of the lock.
It contained more evidence of Granduncle Guillermo's preoccupation with the distinguishing characteristics of the opposite gender. The drawer contained two leather-covered boxes, each containing fifty or sixty lewd and obscene photographs.
Clete had never seen anything like them (even at stag movies at his fraternity house at Tulane). They were glass transparencies, about four by five inches. Not negatives, positives. He suspected that there was probably some kind of a projector, to project them on a screen.
To judge by the appearance of the women, they had been taken a long time ago, certainly before the First World War, possibly even before the turn of the century. The women were far plumperplusherthan currently fashionable, and wore their hair either swept up or braided, while all the men had mustaches and were pretty skinny.
Holding them up to the light, he examined every last one of them, concluding that they knew the same positions then that he was used to. The women far outnumbered, the men, and it was possible to suspect that the women were more interested in other women than in the scrawny men in their drooping mustaches.
After carefully replacing the glass plates in their boxes and relocking the drawer, Clete realized that he was going to have to commit the sin of Onan. Somewhat humiliated by the process, he did so.
At least I won't stain the sheets tonight,he thought afterward.
Unfortunately, things didn't work out that way. He woke up from a painfully realistic dreamPrincess Dorothea the Virgin was exposing her breasts to himto find that he had soiled the sheets after all.
He took a shower, hoping that by morning the sheets would be dry and the maid would not notice, and tittering, report her finding to Se?ora Pellano.
Clete drank the orange juice and half the coffee, took another shower, put on a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of khaki pants, and rode the elevator down to the main floor. The twelve-seat dining-room table had been set for one and laid out with enough food to feed six hungry people.
Halfway through his scrambled eggs, he heard the telephone ring, and a minute later, Se?ora Pellano set a telephone beside him. It looked as if it had been built by Alexander Graham Bell himself.
"It is a Se?or Nestor. Are you at home, Se?or Clete?"
He picked up the telephone.
"Good morning, Sir."
Shit, I'm not supposed to call him "Sir."
"Good morning, Clete," Nestor said. "Jasper Nestor of the Bank of Boston here."
"I tried to call you yesterday to tell..."
"I called the Mallin place, and they told me where to find you."
"My father offered me this pla"
"The reason I'm calling, Clete," Nestor interrupted, "and I know this is damned short notice. The thing is, there's a small party at the Belgrano Athletic Club this evening. We sponsor, the bank, one of the cricket teams. Nothing very elaborateno black tie, in other words. Just drinks and dinner. There's a chap I want you to meet. I introduced you at the bank, if you'll remember. Mr. Ettinger?"
"Yes, I remember meeting Mr. Ettinger."
"Well, you have things in commonbeing newcomers and bachelors. Why don't we put you two together and see what happens? Or do you have other plans?"
"No. Thank you very much."
"Perhaps we'll have a few minutes for a little chat ourselves. Right about seven? Would that be convenient? Do you know where it is, can you find it all right?"