“Everything for the invitations is ready, except the date. We won’t know the date, of course, until the General Belgrano arrives. Humberto spoke with someone at the shipping company…”
“L.M.A.E.,” Frade said without thinking—Líneas Marítimas de Argentina y Europa.
“Yes,” Beatrice said, ever so genteelly letting him know she didn’t like the interruption. “L.M.A.E. The General Belgrano sailed November eighth, so it’s due here around the first of the month. In a week or so. The casket is to be brought here. Humberto wanted to put it in the library, but I said there will be so many people that we’ll have to put it in the foyer, to keep the traffic moving, so to speak. Don’t you agree?”
If I don’t escape from here in the next thirty seconds, I am going insane!
“Yes, Beatrice, I agree.”
He looked at his watch.
“Beatrice, I must go.”
“You haven’t finished your coffee.”
“I drink too much coffee. It’s bad for my nerves. I can’t sleep.”
“Those Brazilian cigars of yours are what keeps you awake,” Beatrice proclaimed. “I read an article…”
“Beatrice, I’ll have the punch bowl sent over to you as soon as I can; within the next several days.”
“And there’s one more thing,” Beatrice said.
“Yes?”
“There’s nobody in your house but you, so I wondered if it would be a terrible inconvenience for you to put up Captain von Wachtstein for a while, at least until the funeral is over.”
“Captain who?”
“Captain Hans-Peter von Wachtstein. He is the officer bringing Jorge home. Ambassador von Lutzenberger said that he comes from a fine Pomeranian family; and that his father is a Major General. I don’t think he would be comfortable here, Jorge, and we certainly can’t put him into a hotel.”
In that case, let the goddamned German ambassador take care of him!
“Certainly, Beatrice. I’ll tell Señora Pellano to set up an apartment for him in Uncle Guillermo’s.”
“The Guest House?” she asked, surprise and hurt in her voice. “Not in your house?”
Beatrice, for the love of God!
“I think he would be more comfortable in the Guest House. My house will probably be full of senior officers.”
“Yes, of course it will,” she replied, after considering that. “The Guest House will be better, won’t it, for the Captain?”
“I think so. I will arrange for an officer of suitable rank to be with him.”
“Muy bueno,” Beatrice said, then changed the subject: “I have the proofs, or whatever they’re called, of the invitations. Would you like to see them?”
“I’d love to, Beatrice, but I have to go.”
He kissed her and fled. She called his name as he was passing through the front door, but he pretended he didn’t hear. He walked quickly down the Avenue Alvear toward the Alvear Palace Hotel.
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade did not believe in drinking during the day. A glass or two of wine with lunch was not drinking, of course, and a glass or two of beer in the afternoon never hurt anyone; but he often said that he learned as a young officer that drinking spirits during the day caused nothing but trouble.
Right now, after that pathetic scene with Beatrice, he wanted a drink, a good stiff drink, very badly. He told himself that he would nobly resist that temptation, of course. He didn’t want his son to smell alcohol on his breath at their first meeting and get the wrong idea.
As he waited for two women to negotiate the revolving door to the lobby of the Alvear Palace, he glanced at his watch. It was eleven forty-five—specifically, 11:46:40.
He looked around the lobby, in case Cletus might have arrived early.