Holy shit! This must be the guy who brought the body from Germany. And you told him you were a lieutenant. Brilliant, Frade, fucking brilliant! He speaks Spanish perfectly.
"Se?or, please, Capitan. I am no longer a lieutenant. Better yet, please call me Clete."
"I'm called Peter," von Wachtstein said, offering his hand. "Am I in your chair?"
"Sit down," Clete said.
The lady who runs this place told me to make myself at home. So she asked if it would be all right if she went to evening mass," Peter said. "I took the liberty of coming down here and playing the phonograph, and helping myself to the cognac. Was that all right?"
"The cognac is a fine idea. Give me a minute to take my things to my room, and I'll join you."
"Let me help you."
"Not necessary."
"I would like to."
"Thank you."
Peter followed Clete back into the reception foyer and picked up the second "wooden" box.
"Delightful," he said, admiring the straw chickens, ducks, and fishes. "For your children?"
"I have no children that I know of," Clete said as they stepped into the elevator.
"I have none that I acknowledge," Peter replied.
They smiled at each other.
"I was drinking when I bought these," Clete said. "At the time it seemed like a splendid idea."
Peter chuckled.
"Se?ora Pellano has a herd of grandchildren," Clete said. "They will not go to waste."
"How nice for the grandchildren."
They put the "wooden" boxes inside the door to Clete's apartment, then made a second trip with his luggage, and finally returned to the library.
"It's a beautiful and unusual, house," Peter observed as Clete helped himself to the cognac.
"To your health, Peter," Clete said, raising his glass.
"And yours, Clete," Peter replied in English.
"The house was built by my granduncle Guillermo," Clete said, and went on to relate the history of Uncle Bill and the house.
It'll give me a chance to decide how to handle this,he thought. I am obviously in the presence of mine enemy.
Capitan von Wachtstein was properly appreciative of the story of Granduncle Guillermo, chuckled a final time, and then met Clete's eyes.
"You said you were formerly a lieutenant," he asked amiably. "In the Argentine Army?"
"No," Clete said.
"I could not help but observe your watch," von Wachtstein said in a polite challenge. "I have seen such watches before."
"Have you?"
"On the wrists of American aviators shot down over France and Germany. They are very good watches."
"You are a very perceptive man, mi Capitan."
"Possibly. And you have a very interesting Spanish accent.
Why do I think that my being here may be very awkward for both of us?"
"I am not a professional officer, mi Capitan," Clete said. "I have no idea what conduct is expected of an officer, even a former officer, when he meets an enemy officer in a neutral country."
"And in his father's house," Peter replied. "I, on the other hand, am a professional officer, and I haven't the faintest idea either. My father, howevermy father is a Generalmajor, and presumably should know about these thingsserved in France in the First World War and often told me about the armistice, the unofficial armistice, declared between the English and the Germans on Christmas Eve. Do you suppose, as officers and gentlemen, that we might pretend it's Christmas Eve? We'd only be off by a couple of weeks. Less."
"I think that would be a splendid solution," Clete said. "Merry Christmas, Captain. Peter.''
They shook hands.
"Frohliche Weihnachten, Clete," Peter said. "You were a pilot, right?"
Clete nodded.
"I could tell," Peter said. "Not only by the watch. Pilots are better-looking, more charming, and far more intelligent than other officers."
"More modest, too," Clete said.
"Absolutely. What did you fly?"
"Wildcats, Grumman Wildcats."
"You're a fighter pilot. So am I. Most recently Focke-Wulf 190s. I had a Jaeger squadron near Berlin."
"I was in the Pacific. Midway and Guadalcanal."
Their eyes met and locked for a moment.
"We heard about Guadalcanal," Peter said. "My father told me that the Japanese military attach? assured him that the Americans would be forced into the sea within weeks. My father said he did not think so."
"We were hanging on by our teeth for a while," Clete said. "But we're there for good now, I think."
"Are the Japanese pilots competent? And their aircraft?"
"The Zero is a first-class fighter," Clete said. "And some of the Japanese pilots, two in particular, were very good."
Peter chuckled in understanding.
"You were shot down twice?"
"Shot down twice, disabled once. I was able to bring it in dead-stick."
"Over Russia, especially in the Steppes, losing an engine is not much of a problem. You can sit down almost anywhere. Over Western Europe, it is a problem. The farms are smaller, and in France, in Normandy in particular, the edges of the fields are fenced with rock."
"I guess you know from experience?"
"Yes. Your Flying FortressB-17?"
Clete nodded.
"... is formidable."
"We have a sayingabout pilots and watchesthat you can always tell a B-17 pilot in the shower. He's the one with the big watch and the small prick."
He had to explain "prick" to Peter, the Mexican-Spanish vulgarism not being the same as the Spanish-Spanish; but eventually Peter laughed appreciatively.
I'm running off at the mouth,Clete thought, somewhat alarmed, which means I'm getting drunk. Why? I've only had three of these. What I should do, obviously, is politely tell mine enemy "good night," go to bed, and sort this all out in the morning. To hell with it. We have a gentleman's agreement that it's Christmas Eve, and I like this guy.
He picked up the cognac bottle, poured some in Peter's glass, and then refilled his own.
"I will not ask what an American Air Force officer is doing in Argentina," Peter said.
"Thank you," Clete said quickly. "An ex-officer. And I was a Marine, not in the Air Corps."
"A Marine? What is a Marine?"
"Soldiers of the sea," Clete said.
"Ah, yes. I have heard of the Marines. An elite force. They are like our SS."
"An elite force," Clete said coldly. "But not at goddamn all like your SS."
Their eyes locked again.
"There is propaganda on both sides in a war," Peter said. "Some of the SSperhaps mostare fine soldiers."
"I think we better change the subject, Peter."
"And some are despicable scum," Peter went on.
"I know why you're here," Clete said. "You escorted Jorge Duarte's body, right?"
Peter nodded, then said, "My father arranged it. He wanted me out of the war, out of Germany."
Gott, I must be drunk!Peter thought. Why did I tell him that?
"I don't understand."
"I lost my two brothers, and my mother, in this war," Peter said. "My father wanted to preserve the family."
"I'm sorry," Clete said.
That was sincere,Peter thought. He meant that.
"Just before you came in here, I was wondering, with the assistance of Herr Martel"he held up his brandy snifter"if I have done the honorable thing."