Blood and Honor Read online

  ‘‘Is that so?’’ Capitán Lauffer replied politely.

  ‘‘So he asked one of the foremen to find someone who knew how to make a casket. The foreman came up with a man from one of Poppa’s estancias in Corrientes. . . . Do you know where Corrientes is, Cletus, dear?’’

  ‘‘No, Ma’am,’’ Cletus confessed.

  ‘‘It’s in the north. It’s bounded by Brazil, and Paraguay, and, in a tiny little corner in the south by Uruguay.’’

  ‘‘Is it really?’’

  ‘‘You must go there, Cletus, and soon.’’

  ‘‘I’d like to.’’

  ‘‘You have property there. It was your dead father’s, and now, of course, it’s yours. It was of course Poppa’s. Poppa was your grandfather, but you never knew him. He was taken into heaven before you were born. Your father and I inherited from Poppa, of course, but when I married your uncle Humberto, your father bought out my share.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’

  ‘‘As I recall, the property in Corrientes was rather extensive. Five or six estancias and something else, some kind of a business. . . .’’

  ‘‘Three estancias, my darling,’’ Humberto said with a banker’s certainty. ‘‘The tea plantation, and the refrigerico ’’—a slaughterhouse and meatpacking plant.

  ‘‘Yes, I knew it was something like that. Anyway, long before we were there, the Jesuit fathers were there, bringing the Indians to the blessed Jesus. You can still see the ruins of what they built. You really must see those ruins, Cletus, it would be very educational for you. Anyway, the Jesuits— this was hundreds and hundreds of years ago—taught the Indians whose souls they had saved crafts, among them wood carving.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’

  ‘‘And that wood-carving skill has stayed with the people after all these years, even though there are hardly any Indians at all left. Long after the Jesuits were expelled from Argentina. Can you believe that?’’

  ‘‘It’s hard to believe, Aunt Beatrice.’’

  ‘‘But it’s true. You can get the most beautiful carved things in Corrientes. Anyway, there was a man on one of the estancias who was a really good wood carver, so Poppa had him sent to Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, took him to the place where he had stored the cedar he’d acquired, and told him to make a casket.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’

  ‘‘And the man did. And when Poppa was taken into heaven, your father remembered that Poppa was always talking about being laid to rest in his carved cedar casket, so he went looking for the casket Poppa had made. And do you know what he found, Cletus?’’

  ‘‘No, Ma’am.’’

  He drained his wineglass, and Claudia gave him sort of a warning look.

  El Coronel got really drunk when they buried Cousin Jorge, and she doesn’t want a repetition of that from me. And she’s right. If this keeps on much longer, I’m going to be either drunk or crazy.

  ‘‘Casket after casket after casket. A dozen caskets!’’ Beatrice announced happily. ‘‘Maybe more. Maybe fifteen, or sixteen. But at least a dozen. Anyway, so what had happened, you see, is that when the man who carved the casket finished, and no one sent him back to Corrientes, and there was a lot of cedar left over, he made another casket, and when he finished that, another. Isn’t that amazing?’’

  A maid appeared at his side with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Clete covered his glass with his hand, and got a quick pursing-of-the-lips kiss from Claudia as his reward.

  ‘‘Absolutely amazing,’’ he said.

  ‘‘This went on for . . . I don’t know. Humberto, darling, for how many years did the wood carver make caskets?’’

  ‘‘Several, my darling.’’

  I wonder how in hell he puts up with this, day after day?

  ‘‘Anyway,’’ Beatrice went on relentlessly, ‘‘finally he ran out of cedar and asked someone, one of the foremen, what he wanted him to do next, and that was the first your father knew about all the caskets this man had made. Whatever happened to the man, Humberto, do you recall?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know where he is now, my precious. I know he stayed on at Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo for a long time. He did all the carving in La Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Now, Cletus, I know you’ve been there. Your father buried Señora Pellano from Nuestra Señora de los Milagros.’’

  The Chapel of Our Lady of the Miracles, which was equipped with two priests, seemed to be a wholly owned subsidiary of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo. Clete remembered his father telling him that 1,400 people lived and worked on the estancia, whose 84,205 (more or less) hectares (one of which equals 2.47 acres) surrounded the small city of Pila, in southeast Buenos Aires Province.

  ‘‘Yes, Ma’am.’’

  ‘‘And in one of Poppa’s carved cedar caskets. Your father was really fond of Señora Pellano, Cletus. Otherwise he would have buried her in an ordinary casket—after all, all she was was a servant—instead of in one of Poppa’s carved cedar caskets.’’

  ‘‘My father was very fond of Señora Pellano, Aunt Beatrice. ’’

  ‘‘Anyway, all of these caskets just sat there in the building on San Pedro y San Pablo until we needed one for Señora Pellano. We couldn’t put my Jorge Alejandro in one, you see. I forget why, exactly, but Monsignor Kelly said it wouldn’t be a good thing to do, and I never question the Monsignor’s judgment, but when Señora Pellano was taken into heaven, we used one for her, and now that your father has gone to be with all the angels and your blessed mother, Cletus, we are going to lay him to rest in one. I thought it looked so handsome in the Edificio Libertador. Many people commented on it.’’

  ‘‘It is a magnificent casket, Señora de Duarte,’’ Capitán Lauffer said politely.

  ‘‘Well, anyway, it’s going to be a long, long time before anyone in this family has to go out and buy a casket,’’ Beatrice said, and then changed the subject: ‘‘Capitán Lauffer, did you think to bring a schedule of events with you?’’

  ‘‘I have one in the car, Señora.’’

  ‘‘Well, after dinner I think we should go over it with Cletus, don’t you? To see if he approves?’’

  ‘‘I think that would be a good idea, Señora,’’ Lauffer said, looking at Clete, his facial expression indicating that he was sorry but under the circumstances he had had no choice but to agree with her.

  The schedule of events turned out to be something like an Operations Order: Viewing of the casket at the Edificio Libertador would cease at 10:30 P.M. that night. At 1 A.M. the body would be moved to the Basílica of Our Lady of Pilar, which was adjacent to Recoleta Cemetery. It would be carried there on an artillery caisson of the Second Regiment of Artillery, and accompanied by a mounted escort of the Húsares de Pueyrredón.

  Clete wondered about that, but he quickly saw the logic of it. When they buried Cousin Jorge Alejandro, his casket was moved in the same way the six or seven blocks from his parents’ house to the Basílica. Because that happened during the day, it caused a monumental traffic jam. Moving his father’s casket from the Edificio Libertador to the Bas ílica, which was at least two miles away, would be logistically impossible in the daytime, unless closing down the business center of Buenos Aires was acceptable.

  The Basílica would be opened to the public from 8:00 A.M. until 10:00 A.M. for viewing of the casket, and then closed. Seating of official guests would begin at 11:00 A.M. Nuns from the Convent of the Sisters of the Holy Cross would provide appropriate choral music from 11:00 until 12:00, when the mass would begin. The mass would be celebrated by the Cardinal Archbishop of Argentina, assisted by three bishops, a monsignor named Kelly, and one lowly priest, Padre Kurt Welner, S.J.

  Following the mass, the casket would be carried by of ficers of the Húsares de Pueyrredón from the Basílica to the Frade tomb for interment.

  Following the interment, Señor and Señora Humberto Duarte would receive mourners, by invitation
only, at their residence at 1420 Avenida Alvear. Because of a shortage of parking, it was suggested that mourners move by foot to the Duarte home. A limited number of automobiles would be available to accommodate the immediate family, the aged, and the infirm.

  ‘‘I think, Capitán Lauffer,’’ Beatrice asked thoughtfully, ‘‘that it would be appropriate for Cletus to be at Our Lady of Pilar from about nine o’clock until the final viewing is over, don’t you?’’

  Lauffer looked at Clete.

  ‘‘May I respectfully suggest, Señora, that would be Se ñor Frade’s decision?’’

  Beatrice looked at Cletus.

  ‘‘Yes, of course, Aunt Beatrice,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘But now, Beatrice, we have to send Cletus to bed,’’ Claudia Carzino-Cormano said firmly. ‘‘He must be exhausted. ’’

  ‘‘I am a little tired,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘You poor boy,’’ Beatrice said, kissing Clete’s cheek. ‘‘Of course you must be, with all you’ve had to do today.’’

  [TWO] 1728 Avenida Coronel Díaz Palermo, Buenos Aires 2330 9 April 1943

  ‘‘I know dinner was very difficult for you, Capitán,’’ Clete said to Lauffer as they sat in his car before the door of what his father had called ‘‘the money sewer.’’ ‘‘I appreciate your understanding.’’

  ‘‘Don’t be silly,’’ Lauffer said automatically, then blurted, ‘‘I felt more sorry for your uncle than your aunt.’’

  Clete grunted.

  ‘‘I shouldn’t have said that,’’ Lauffer said. ‘‘Forgive me.’’

  ‘‘I was thinking exactly the same thing,’’ Clete said. ‘‘Christ, he must have the patience of a saint.’’

  ‘‘He loves her very much,’’ Lauffer said. He put out his hand. ‘‘You must be exhausted.’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘I will be here at eight-thirty to take you to the Basílica, ’’ he said. ‘‘Would that be all right?’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  ‘‘Or I could be fifteen, twenty minutes late. Delayed in traffic.’’

  Clete smiled at him. ‘‘I really appreciate that,’’ he said. ‘‘But I think I’d better be there at nine.’’

  ‘‘Eight-thirty, then,’’ Lauffer said, and reached across Clete to open the door. ‘‘Sleep well.’’

  The moment he stepped out of the car the door to the mansion opened. He saw Antonio, the butler.

  The perfectly trained servant, Clete thought. He didn’t open the door until he was sure I wanted it open.

  ‘‘Good evening, Señor Cletus.’’

  ‘‘Good evening, Antonio.’’

  ‘‘Is there anything I can get for you, Señor?’’

  ‘‘No, I don’t . . . Yes. I’m not sure I have an un-messed-up shirt for tomorrow. Is there someone . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Your linen has been gone over, Señor.’’

  ‘‘In that case, you can’t do anything for me except say ‘good night.’ ’’

  ‘‘Would you like me to have your suit refreshed?’’

  Clete looked down at the creases in his trousers.

  ‘‘It looks fine to me.’’

  ‘‘I’ll have the laundress touch it up,’’ Antonio said. ‘‘Your father took great pains with his appearance.’’

  Was that a shot at me, el slobbo? Or was ‘‘touching up’’ the son’s suit a last service to el Coronel?

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ Clete said.

  ‘‘You have had several telephone calls, Señor. All from, I believe, the same lady. She did not choose to leave her name.’’

  Well, I know who that is, don’t I?

  ‘‘If she calls back, put her through. Even if I’m asleep.’’

  ‘‘Very well, Señor.’’

  ‘‘Good night, Antonio.’’

  ‘‘Good night, Señor.’’

  Clete started up the wide stairway.

  He found the bed had been turned down. A pair of pajamas were laid out on it.

  What do I do, put them on and toss and turn all night? Or sleep in my skivvy shirt, which will make me appear both ungrateful to the staff and boorish, as well?

  He stripped to his underwear, then carried the suit to the sitting and left it on a chair so the laundress could find it. That done, he returned to the bedroom, closing the door after him.

  He was brushing his teeth when the telephone rang.

  Tinkled, he thought. The telephones here don’t ring, they tinkle, as if the bell is powered by a run-down battery.

  There was an ornate, French-style telephone on the huge marble sink.

  ‘‘Hola?’’

  ‘‘Clete?’’ Dorotéa’s voice made his heart jump.

  ‘‘Hi, Princess.’’

  ‘‘I’ve been trying for hours to get you.’’

  ‘‘How did you know I was here?’’

  ‘‘Your grandfather called Daddy. Daddy told me.’’

  ‘‘How are you?’’

  ‘‘I’m all right,’’ Dorotéa said. ‘‘Clete, I can’t tell you how devastated I am by what happened to your father, how sorry I am for you.’’

  ‘‘Thank you.’’

  She seems hesitant about something. Distant.

  ‘‘I have something to tell you, Clete.’’

  ‘‘Tell me.’’

  ‘‘Not over the telephone. I want to be looking at you when I tell you.’’

  ‘‘Tell me now, and look at me later.’’

  ‘‘Damn you! This is very important.’’

  ‘‘So what do you want me to do? I don’t suppose you can come here. Do you want me to come there?’’

  ‘‘God no! Daddy would have kittens.’’

  ‘‘OK. Then what?’’

  ‘‘Where are you going to be first thing in the morning?’’

  ‘‘At nine o’clock, I’ll be at the church.’’

  ‘‘Our Lady of Pilar?’’

  ‘‘Right.’’

  ‘‘Will you be alone?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so, but we can find someplace to talk, if that’s what you’re asking.’’

  ‘‘All right, I’ll see you there.’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  ‘‘Cletus, I am so sorry for you.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be all right.’’

  ‘‘I’ll see you at nine, or a little after,’’ Dorotéa said, and the line went dead.

  He put the ornate receiver back in its cradle.

  ‘‘Clete, my boy,’’ he said aloud, ‘‘I think you have just received Part One of a ‘Dear John’ communication, with Part Two to be delivered in person at zero nine hundred hours. Shit!’’

  Well, what the hell did I expect? She just turned nineteen years old, for Christ’s sake. Before me, she was really the Virgin Princess. I was the first, quote, real man, unquote, in her life. Nineteen-year-old girls routinely fall in love with, quote, older men, unquote, and if the older man is a sonofabitch, as I certainly was, sometimes even let them into their pants.

  ‘‘Cletus,’’ she will say, ‘‘I will always love you. But I have met someone else. He is my age. I didn’t want to fall in love with him. It just happened. I can only hope that you can understand. I never wanted to hurt you.’’

  Whereupon, as a gentleman should in such circumstances, I will touch her shoulder in a brotherly way, sincerely announce that of course I understand, wish her and the boyfriend all possible happiness, and tell her I will never forget her either.

  Which is true. I’m in love with her—or think I am. I never felt this way about anybody else before—but that does not add up to us living happily ever after in a vine-covered cottage by the side of the road. What I should be is grateful that Juan or Pancho or whatever the fuck the sonofabitch’s name is has come into her life, getting me out of it without causing her any pain. Or getting her killed, which would have been a genuine possibility. And if these bastards do succeed in killing me, which is also a geniune possibility, it will be easier on the Princess
. I will have been just one in a long line of her ex-boyfriends, not her lover or, Jesus Christ, even worse, her fiancé.

  Shit!

  He walked out the bath into his bedroom and looked at the bed.

  I don’t want to get in there. That’s not my bed, it’s my father’s bed, and I don’t care if they have gone to great pains to remove everything that was his from his apartment, it’s still his apartment and his bed.

  And for some reason, I’m not at all sleepy. Probably all the alcohol I didn’t have, and all the coffee—strong enough to melt the teeth of a mule—I did.

  Tony! I have to see him, and I have to see Ettinger. And Peter. I really want to see Peter. He knows who ordered the assassination of my father, and I think he’ll tell me.

  He went to the dressing room and quickly pulled on khaki trousers, a polo shirt, and a tweed jacket. He hadn’t gotten as far as taking off his boots, and getting dressed took less than a minute.

  When he went through the sitting, his suit was already gone. He went down the wide stairs, then to a corridor under them. Just off that was the stairwell to the basement garage.

  Half a dozen cars were in the garage, but none was in the place reserved for his father’s beloved Horche.

  I wonder where that is? Do the cops have it?

  He went to a 1940 Ford station wagon, parked between an ancient, immaculately maintained Rolls-Royce sedan and a small Mercedes sedan. The Ford was locked.

  ‘‘Damn!’’

  ‘‘Señor?’’

  He turned to find a middle-aged man in his shirtsleeves.

  ‘‘May I help you, Señor?’’

  ‘‘Can you get me the keys to this?’’ he said, pointing to the Ford.

  ‘‘I would be pleased to conduct the Señor anywhere he wishes to go,’’ the man said, pointing at the Rolls-Royce.

  ‘‘Just get me the keys to this, please,’’ Clete said.

  [THREE] Avenida Pueyrredón 1706 Capital Federal, Buenos Aires, Argentina 0005 10 April 1943