"You are an American?" she asked in disbelief.
"I am an American."
"If you are an American, you must speak English."
"I do."
"Say something in English."
"What do you want me to say?" Tony asked in English.
"Say you are a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone."
"I really am," Tony said in English.
"You can't speak English!"
"I am a poor Italian boy far from home and all alone," Tony quickly said in English.
Her eyes widened.
"I think I maybe believe you," the girl said.
"I swear to God."
She smiled and took his arm.
"It is not right to be alone and far from home," she said. "Come, I will take you home with me and we will have a glass of wine for you, and a cake."
I don't believe this! Thank you, God!
She took him to the Ristorante Napoli, which was closed, and through a door that opened on a stairway that led to a little apartment over the restaurant.
Her fatherTony recognized him as the guy who gave him the good meal the first time he went to the restaurantand her mother and some younger brothers and sisters were there.
Her father didn't recognize him.
Thank God, after that bullshit story I handed him about being from some village near the Austrian border!
The girl told her family they had met in the church and that he had told her he was alone, and she had brought him home for a glass of wine and a cake. Her mother raised her eyebrows the way Tony's grandmother used to raise hers; but her father gave him a glass of wine, and then another, and some kind of pastry her mother said she made special for the family and not for the restaurant. And then everybody just sat there sort of uncomfortable, so Tony took the hint and decided he better get the hell out of there before he made a pest of himself, and started to go.
He shook hands with everybody and then the girl went down the stairs with him to the street, and he gathered his courage and blurted, "I'd really like to see you again."
"Impossible."
"Why is it impossible? We could have a cup of coffee or something. Dinner."
"It's impossible."
"Why is it impossible?"
"I have a job. I work all week."
"You have to have some time off."
"Very little."
"You have to have some," Tony argued. "You're off now, for example. Are you working tomorrow? Tomorrow's Sunday!"
She hesitated before replying, "No. But my family will be visiting relatives."
"All day?"
"From five."
"What about between now and five?"
"It's not a very good idea."
"Please!"
"It's crazy."
"Let me at least buy you a cup of coffee."
"I should not do this, but..."
"But what?"
"You come here at nine-thirty tomorrow. We take the train to El Tigre. We have a cup of coffee, maybe a little sandwich, and then we come back. OK."
What the hell is El Tigre?Tony wondered. "The Tiger"? What the hell does that mean? Who the hell cares?
"Nine-thirty," he said. "I'll be here."
"It's crazy," she said one last time, and then turned and went up the stairs.
[FIVE]
4730 Avenida Libertador
Buenos Aires
0925 14 December 1942
First Lieutenant Cletus Howell Frade, USMCR, opened his eyes and found himself staring at Hauptmann Freiherr Hans-Peter von Wachtstein of the Luftwaffe, who was in a khaki uniform. Clete noticed the swastika on his pilot's wings. It made him uncomfortable.
"What the hell do you want?" he inquired, somewhat less than graciously.
"It is almost half past nine," von Wachtstein said.
"What the hell are you, a talking clock? Get the hell out of here!"
"There is an officer here to move me to a hotel," Peter said.
Clete sat up. His brain banged against the interior of his cranium. His dry tongue scraped against the cobblestones on his teeth. His stomach groaned. His eyes hurt.
"What did you say?" he asked.
Behind Peter, he saw Se?ora Pellano carrying a tray on which was a coffeepot, a large glass of orange juice, and a rose in a small crystal vase. She was smiling at him maternally.
"Buenos dias, Se?or Cletus," she said.
Christ, that's all I need. A smiling face and a goddamned rose!
"Buenos dias, Se?ora Pellano," he said, and smiled. It hurt to smile.
There is an officer here, a Coronel Kleber. He is to move me to a hotel," Peter said. "He claims it is to make me more convenient to your uncle's house. But I think someone finally remembered that you are living here."
"Oh, Christ," Clete said.
"Our armistice is over, I am afraid," Peter said.
"Looks that way."
"I would suggest, Clete, that our armistice be a secret between us; that we both say we were unaware the other was in the house. There are those, I am afraid, who would not understand how it was between us."
"Oh, shit!" Clete said.
"You agree?"
"Oh, hell. Yeah, sure. You're right."
"I thank you for your hospitality, Clete," Peter said, and put out his hand. Clete shook it.
Peter took his hand back, came to attention with a click of his heels, and saluted.
With a vague movement of his arm, Clete touched his hand to his right eyebrow, returning the salute.
Von Wachtstein did an about-face and marched out of the room.
I shouldn't have been so fucking casual with that salute. He meant his. I'll be damned if that bullshit they gave us at Quantico isn't true that a salute is a gesture of greeting that is the privilege of warriors. The least I could have done was return it, not wave at him. Nice guy. Damned nice guy.
"Se?ora, I very much appreciate the breakfast, but could you come back in a couple of hours?"
"Se?or Clete," Se?ora Pellano said, setting the tray on the bed and fluffing his pillows, "it would be better if you had the coffee. Se?or Nestor will be here in twenty minutes."
"Se?or Nestor?"
"I told him you were not feeling well, and he said it was very important."
"Thank you, Se?ora," Clete said, and reached for the orange juice. "I will receive him."
"S?," she said, and then, "And you may have your car at any hour between twelve and three."
"What car?"
"There was a call from Se?or Mallin's secretary yesterday. Your car has arrived. The necessary papers have been accomplished, and you may go to the customs at any hour between twelve and three to take it from them."
"On Sunday?"
"It is a courtesy to Se?or Mallin," Se?ora Pellano said. "Or perhaps to your father."
"Won't it wait until tomorrow?"
"The officials will be there waiting for you, Se?or," she said.
In other words, you ungrateful bastard, go pick up the goddamn car.
"Thank you," Clete said. "Se?ora, would a little present for the man who has my car be in order?"
"A small gift of money would be nice. Or perhaps a few bottles of wine."
"Is there any here?"
"But of course. I will pack something appropriate for a small gift."
Sixty seconds after he stepped under the shower, there was a telephone call for him, surprising him not at all.