“A Fieseler Storch. A small, high-wing, two-place observation airplane,” Frade explained. “Something like the Piper Cub, except larger and more powerful.”
Clete shook his head, signifying he had never heard of the Storch.
“What ever happened to your plans, Cletus, to become a pilot? A Marine pilot?”
How the hell did he hear about that?
Clete looked at his father. For the first time, their eyes met.
I don’t want to lie to this man.
“I was discharged about three weeks ago,” Clete said. “They found a heart murmur. You can’t be a Marine Aviator with a heart murmur.”
“They discovered it when you were in training?”
Clete met his father’s eyes and saw genuine concern in them. And realized that he could not lie to him.
“No.”
“You saw active service, then?” his father asked.
“They discovered the heart condition when I came back from the Pacific. From Guadalcanal.”
“You flew at Guadalcanal?”
“Yes. And I was at Midway, too.”
“I didn’t know that,” Frade said. “We read about Midway and Guadalcanal in the newspapers, of course. And there have been newsreels in the cinema.”
The father saw the newsreels again in his mind’s eye. American fighter planes, and their young pilots, rising into the sky from a jungle airstrip.
Did I see Cletus? Was he one of those tired-looking young men?
He was one of them, whether or not I saw him. And that explains why he can be so cold-blooded about Jorge. He is a soldier. He has the right to think that way, and say what he thinks.
“What about your heart? A murmur, you said?”
“Nothing serious,” Clete said. “It just disqualified me from flying for the Marines. Thank you for your service, and don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out.”
He’s bitter. That’s understandable.
“Otherwise you weren’t injured?”
“I got dinged a couple of times. Nothing serious.”
Spoken like an officer. And why not? The blood of Pueyrredón runs in his veins.
“Would it be impolite of me to ask what you are doing in Argentina?”
Clete met his father’s eyes. “No. Why should it be? I’m working for my grandfather…”
“And how is Mr. Howell? Well, I hope?”
“Yes, he is, thank you,” Clete said. The Old Man would shit a brick if he knew the two of us are sitting here like this.
“And your uncle James and your aunt Martha? They are well, I trust?”
“Uncle Jim died when I was in the Pacific. A heart attack.”