“He’s not,” Nestor said. “He’s one of ours at the bank. And he’s out of town. But if he was here, he would take it as a compliment.”
“It was intended as one.”
“I think maybe we better wander in,” Nestor said.
“Wander in where?” Clete asked.
“To the lounge.”
“I hate to walk away from the parade,” Clete said.
“They’ll be in the lounge,” Nestor said. “They’re not allowed in here, which I think is a rather good idea. But they will be in the lounge, and they will, of course, be at dinner.”
Clete’s companion at dinner turned out to be the blonde who had caught David’s attention.
Her name, she told him in a delightful British accent, was Monica Javez de Frade. But they were not related.
“We’re not even a poor branch of your family. No relation at all.”
Which means that Nestor told you who I am. Or that word had spread around the bank who I am—who my father is—after Nestor introduced me around his office.
The proof of that theory seemed to come when she told him that Pablo, her husband, was in “real estate” at the bank, and worked closely with Nestor.
“Agricultural real estate, unfortunately,” Monica added, “which means that poor Pablo spends most of his time in the country, leaving poor Monica to spend most of her time alone in the city.”
Clete smiled politely, telling himself that her remark had the meaning he was giving it only because his near-terminal chastity—and Granduncle Guillermo’s dirty pictures—had inflamed his imagination.
But during supper, and during the award afterward of small silver cups to the triumphant members of the Banco de Boston cricket team, Monica’s knee kept brushing against his. At each encounter, Clete quickly moved his knee away…until he decided to leave his knee there. Then the pressure of her knee against his increased. He withdrew it then, telling himself that the cure for his near-terminal chastity should not involve a married woman, and especially one whose husband worked closely with Jasper Nestor.
Laying her hand on his arm to distract his attention from one of the cricket players’ lengthy tribute to his teammates—and for no other purpose, Clete, get your imagination under control—Monica asked if he had found an apartment, or whether he was staying with his father.
“My father has a guest house. I’m staying there.”
“On Avenida Libertador?”
“Yes. You know the house?”
“I know about it,” she said. “The place one of the legendary Frades built with the master apartment on the top floor so he could watch the races at the Hipódromo without crossing the street?”
And for other purposes.
“That’s the place.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it.”
“Anytime. It would be my pleasure.”
The cricket player finally finished his speech, there was unenthusiastic applause, and a short man with a bushy mustache stepped to the lectern to announce the conclusion of the evening’s events. He told everyone he wished to thank them for coming, and especially the Banco de Boston for their generous support.
People started rising to their feet, including Monica, who managed to brush her breasts against Clete’s arm in the process.
Nestor appeared.
“About ready, Clete? I’d love to stay for the dancing, but I have
an early-morning appointment.”
“Thank you, Señora de Frade.”