Humphries was the first of his guests to arrive. He was tightly buttoned in a dark suit and his forehead was wet in the humid night. His temper was not improved when a bold mosquito, immediately he sat down, attacked his ankle through a thick grey woollen sock. The professor of English struck angrily out and complained, “I was just leaving for the Italian Club when I got your message,” as if he resented being deprived of his usual goulash. He looked at the third place at table and asked, “Who’s coming?”
“Doctor Saavedra.”
“In God’s name why? I can’t understand what you see in that fellow. A pompous ass.”
“I thought his advice might be useful. I want to draft a letter to the papers from the Anglo-Argentinian Club on behalf of Fortnum.”
“You are fooling me. What club? It doesn’t exist.”
“You and I are going to found the club tonight. Saavedra, I hope, will be the president, I will be the chairman. I thought you wouldn’t mind taking on the job of honorary secretary. There won’t be very much to do.”
“This is sheer madness,” Humphries said. “As far as I know there’s only one other Englishman in the city. Or there was. I’m convinced Fortnum’s absconded. That woman of his must have been costing him a great deal of money. Sooner or later we shall hear that the accounts at the Consulate are in the red. Or more likely we shall hear nothing at all. Those Embassy fellows in B. A. are sure to hush things up. For the honour of their so-called service. One never gets at the truth of anything.” It was his perpetual and quite genuine complaint. Truth was like a difficult sentence which his pupils never succeeded in getting grammatically right. Doctor Plarr said, “At least there’s no doubt about the kidnapping. That’s true enough. I’ve talked to Perez.”
“Do you trust what a policeman says?”
“This policeman, yes. Look, Humphries, be reasonable. We have to do something for Fortnum. Even if he did fly the Union Jack upside down. The poor devil has only three days left to live. The Ambassador today-he doesn’t want it known-suggested we ought to write some sort of tribute to the papers. Anything to stir up a little interest. From the English Club here. Oh, yes, yes, you’ve already said it. Of course there’s no such club. Coming back on the plane I thought it would be better to call the club the Anglo-Argentinian. In that way we can use Saavedra’s name and we have more chance of making the B. A. papers. We can talk about the good influence Fortnum has always had on our relations with Argentina. We can speak of his cultural activities.”
“Cultural activities! His father was a notorious drunkard and so is Charley Fortnum. Don’t you remember the night we had to haul him back to the Bolívar? He couldn’t even stand up. All he has done for our relations with Argentina is to marry a local whore.”
“All the same we can’t just let him die.”
“I wouldn’t raise my little finger,” Humphries said, “for that man.”
Something was going on inside the Nacional. The maître d’hôtel, who had come out on the terrace to breathe the air before the night’s activities began, was hurrying back to the dining room. A waiter, who was halfway to Doctor Benevento’s table, turned tail in response to a signal. Through the French window of the restaurant Doctor Plarr saw the pearl-gray gleam of Jorge Julio Saavedra’s suit as the author paused to exchange a few words with the staff. A woman from the cloakroom took his hat, the waiter took his cane, the manager came hurrying from his office to join the maître d’hôtel. Doctor Saavedra was explaining something, pointing here and there; when he came out on the terrace, they escorted him in a phalanx toward Doctor Plarr’s table. Even Doctor Benevento rose a few inches in his seat, as Doctor Saavedra pigeon-toed by in his gleaming pointed shoes.
“Here comes the great novelist,”. Humphries sneered. “I bet none of them has read a word he ever wrote.”
“You are probably right, but his great-grandfather was Governor here,” Doctor Plarr said. “In Argentina they have a strong sense of history.”
The manager wanted to know whether the table was placed in a position satisfactory to Doctor Saavedra; the maître d’hôtel whispered in Doctor Plarr’s ear news of a special dish which was not marked on the menu-some salmon had arrived that day fresh from Iguazu; there was also a dorado if Doctor Plarr’s guests would prefer that.
When the staff had departed one by one, Doctor Saavedra said, “They make a ridiculous fuss of me. I was only telling them I was going to set a scene in my new novel in the restaurant of the Nacional. I wanted to explain where I wanted my character to be seated. I had to see exactly what would lie in his view at the moment when Fuerabbia, his assailant, enters armed from the terrace.”
“Is it a detective story?” Humphries asked with malice. “I like a good detective story.”
“I trust I shall never write a detective story, Doctor Humphries, if by a detective story you mean one of those absurd puzzles, which are the literary equivalent of a jigsaw. In my new book I am concerned with the psychology of violence.”
“Gauchos again?”
“No, not gauchos. This is a contemporary novel-my second venture into politics. It is set in the time of the dictator Rosas.” “I thought you said it was contemporary.”
“The ideas are contemporary. If you were a writer, Doctor Humphries, instead of a teacher of literature, you would know a novelist has to stand at a distance from his subject. Nothing dates more quickly than the immediately contemporary. You might as well expect me to write a story about the kidnapping of Seńor Fortnum.” He turned to Doctor Plarr. “I had some difficulty in getting away tonight, something unpleasant happened, but when my doctor calls I have to obey. What is it all about?”
“Doctor Humphries and I have decided to found an Anglo-Argentina Club.”
“An excellent idea. What activities…?”
“Cultural of course. Literary, archaeological. We want you to be president.”
“I am honoured,” Doctor Saavedra said.
“One of the first things I would like the club to do is to make an appeal to the press on the subject of Fortnum’s kidnapping. If he had been here he would certainly have been a member.”
“How can I help you?” Doctor Saavedra asked. “I have hardly spoken to Seńor Fortnum. Just once at Seńora Sanchez’…”
“I have brought a rough draft-a very rough draft. I am no writer-except of prescriptions.”
Humphries said, “The man has absconded. That is all there is to it. He probably arranged the whole affair himself. Personally I refuse to sign.”
“Then we shall have to do without you, Humphries. Only your friends-if you have any-may wonder, when the letter’s published, why you are not a member of the Anglo-Argentinian Club. They may even think you were blackballed.”
“You know there’s no such club.”
“Oh yes, there is, and Doctor Saavedra has agreed to be our president. This is the first club dinner. And we have a very good salmon from Iguazu. If you don’t wish to be a member, go away and have some goulash at your Italian joint.”