In the olden days, a gentleman was expected to provide for the fruit of any such arrangement. And he was ostracized from polite society if he failed to do so. Some of the affluent Buenos Aires families (those who were perhaps a little vague about their lineage) could often trace their good fortune back to a greatgrandmother or a great-great-grandmother who had an arrangement with a gentleman of wealth and position.
Just before the turn of the century, when Queen Victoria was on the British throne, the custom was buttressed by Queen Victoria’s notion—shamelessly aped by Argentine society, as were other things British in those days—that ladies could ha
ve no interest in the sexual act save reproduction. A man, a real man, needed more than a woman who offered him her body only infrequently and with absurd limitations on what he might do with it.
In exchange for certain considerations, a Miña well understood her sexual role.
In more recent times, the necessity for permanence in the relationship between a Miña and her good friend died out. This was because the efficacy of modern birth-control methods obviated the problem of children. On more than one occasion, however, Enrico Mallín considered giving Maria-Teresa a child. He loved his own children, of course, but they had inherited their mother’s English paleness. He thought it might be nice to have a child or two with Maria-Teresa—a child who would have his olive skin and dark eyes, his Spanish blood.
Of course, on reflection, he realized the foolishness of this notion, and ascribed it to his fascination with her olive skin and dark eyes.
Because a Miña was not a whore or a prostitute, it would be ungentlemanly to conclude an arrangement with her in such fashion that she was forced into one of those professions afterward. Hence the allowance, at least a part of which the girl was expected to save for a dowry—which she could use after the arrangement came to an end. And hence the note at the Anglo-Argentinean Bank which Enrico had guaranteed for her father’s business. When a Miña had enough money to wish to begin her married future, it was usually time for her good friend to wonder whether the grass might be greener elsewhere.
Maria-Teresa Alberghoni was Enrico Mallín’s third Miña, and she had been with him for four years. While he couldn’t imagine replacing her, in the back of his mind it seemed to him that their arrangement would doubtless come to an end in another two or three years…though in truth, he didn’t really want to do without Maria-Teresa. The grass is rarely greener than where you are standing.
Although one of the best in Buenos Aires, the Plaza Hotel is, after all, nothing more than a hotel. A hotel accommodates travelers…or sometimes a man and a woman not married to each other who require a bed behind a locked door.
Appearances are important. Unless it is for some specific function—such as a ball, or a wedding reception that their husbands are unable to attend—ladies should not risk gossip by being seen in a hotel without their husbands. Specifically, a lady would not think of entering the bar at the Plaza Hotel without her husband; and gentlemen of Enrico Mallín’s social and professional circle had an unspoken agreement never to take their wives to the bar at the Plaza under any circumstances.
This left the gentlemen free to take their Miñas there in the almost certain knowledge that they were safe from their wives.
The girls liked the system too. They could move from table to table chatting happily with their friends, while the gentlemen were afforded the opportunity to show off their Miñas to their peers, and to have private conversations about business, or whatever else needed to be discussed in confidence, in a place where the walls do not have ears.
As a matter of fact, in Enrico Mallín’s judgment, the showing-off aspects of the custom had recently started to get a little out of hand. For one thing, certain gentlemen were beginning to bedeck their Miñas in jewelry and furs. There was nothing wrong, certainly, with giving your Miña a couple of small gold trinkets, or even a silver-fox cape, especially if she had done something to make you extraordinarily happy, or as a farewell gift, if the relationship was drawing to an end.
But these weren’t trinkets, these were diamonds and other precious jewels, and heavy gold bracelets, and quite expensive fur coats. Once one or two gentlemen started this practice, all the Miñas would begin to expect it.
And worse than that, certain gentlemen started to appear in the Plaza bar with a Miña on each arm. And there was one old fool, Hector Forestiero—he was as bald as a cucumber and must be in his seventies—who was showing up with three. Enrico had no idea what exactly he thought he was proving by this—to suggest that he had enough money for three Miñas, or that he was still virile enough to handle a ménage à quatre in bed.
The Plaza bar was L-shaped. The bar itself, with its comfortable stools, occupied a corner of the room. On either side, there were leather-upholstered chairs and tables under large mirrors and mahogany paneling.
The place was full, but that was not unusual.
When the maître d’hôtel saw Mallín and Maria-Teresa, he came quickly to them and led them to a table at one end of the L. He snatched a brass “Reservado” sign from it and held Maria-Teresa’s chair as she sat down.
Enrico looked around the room and nodded to several gentlemen of his acquaintance. A waiter appeared a few minutes later, automatically delivering a plate of hors d’oeuvres; a Johnnie Walker Black with two ice cubes and a little water for Mallín; and a gin fizz for Maria-Teresa.
The waiter barely had time to prepare Mallín’s drink when Alejandro Kertiz appeared. Kertiz was a lawyer with a pencil-line mustache and a taste for flashy clothing. His Miña was cut from the same bolt of cloth. Her clothing was too tight, too revealing, and she apparently applied her lipstick with a shovel.
Enrico Mallín did not like Alejandro Kertiz. His grandmother—perhaps even his mother—was probably a Miña. You don’t need a good family to be a successful lawyer, just a devious mind and a complete lack of morals. Mallín avoided Kertiz whenever possible. He certainly did not want to give the impression that he and Kertiz were anything more than casual acquaintances.
“My dear Enrico,” Kertiz began. “Would there be room for us with you? The place is jammed.”
“I would be honored,” Mallín said.
The two sat down after Kertiz’s Miña leaned across the table to kiss Maria-Teresa’s cheek.
“I was hoping to run into you,” Kertiz said, and started looking around for a waiter.
Even the waiters recognize you for what you are and try to ignore you.
By snapping his fingers so loudly and so often that everyone in the room was looking their way, Kertiz finally attracted the attention of a waiter, and grandly ordered “whatever Señor Mallín and the Señorita are having, plus a Dewar’s White Label, doble, with soda, for the Señorita and myself.”
Good manners require that I protest and tell the waiter to put that on my bill. To hell with him. Let him buy his own whiskey. On the other hand, if I permit him to buy me a whiskey, I am indebted to him.
“Put that on my bill, por favor,” Mallín ordered.
Kertiz waited until the waiter delivered the drinks, then said, “Corazonita,”—Little Heart—“why don’t you go powder your nose and take Señor Mallín’s little friend with you? I wish to discuss something in confidence with him.”