“A government which is controlled by a religion,” the old man explained.
“Such as Spain,” Ettinger said.
“Precisely. And, as in Spain, that religion is Roman Catholicism,” the old man said. “Now,
don’t misunderstand me. There is not a prejudiced bone in my body, and I have tried to pass my tolerance for other people’s religious convictions on to my son, and especially my grandson. As a matter of fact, I have a number of Roman Catholic friends, including, to put a point on it, the Archbishop of New Orleans. Weather permitting, for twenty-odd years, every other Thursday, I took his money at the Metairie Country Club.”
“You are speaking of theocracy,” Ettinger said.
“Indeed. You are, I understand, Spanish?”
“I am now an American citizen,” Ettinger said carefully. “I formerly held German citizenship. I am of Spanish heritage.”
“You know Spain?”
“I lived there.”
“Then you will feel right at home in Argentina. The most outrageous things are done there in the name of Christianity, which of course there means Roman Catholicism.”
“I see.”
“It doesn’t happen here,” the old man said. “Archbishop Noonan is as fine a gentleman as they come. But, of course, that is because our Constitution wisely forbids a state religion.”
“I understand.”
“The Roman Catholic theocracy in Argentina murdered my daughter, Cletus’s mother,” the old man said.
“Grandfather, do we have to get into this?”
“I think I should,” the old man said.
“You are embarrassing our guest,” Clete said.
“I don’t see why he should be embarrassed. He’s a Jew, as I understand it. To him this is a neutral matter. Why should he be embarrassed if I tell him what he will find when you reach Argentina?” He sat up and leaned across the table. “Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Ettinger?”
“No, Sir.”
“My daughter married an Argentinean, Mr. Ettinger. Cletus’s father is an Argentinean. Did you know that?”
“Colonel Graham mentioned something about Lieutenant Frade having been born there, Sir.”
“Jorge Guillermo Frade is his name,” the old man said. He pronounced it in Spanish—Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day—each syllable reflecting his loathing. “Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is, among other things, a cattleman.”
“Is that so?” Ettinger asked.
“I really wish you would stop this, Grandfather,” Clete said.
“Mr. Ettinger and the other fellow who’s going with you,” the old man said, “the Italian, have a right to know this story, Cletus. Please don’t interrupt me again.”
Clete sensed Ettinger’s eyes on him, and looked at him. The eyes seemed to say, I understand. Let him finish. There’s no way he can be stopped. Clete saw also in Ettinger’s eyes both sympathy for him, and pity for the old man.
“As I was saying, Mr. Ettinger,” the old man went on. “Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day is a cattleman. My son James Fitzhugh Howell, Cletus’s uncle, was a cattleman. When Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day heaved onto the scene, he was courting the lady who later became Mrs. Howell. Her family are cattlemen. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came to this country to do business with my daughter-in-law’s father. She wasn’t yet then my daughter-in-law, but I presume you’re following me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“My son was at the Williamson ranch—my daughter-in-law’s maiden name was Williamson—when Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came there to buy some breeding stock from Mr. Williamson. Handsome fella, charming. I’ll give him that, Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day is handsome and charming. Spoke fluent English, with just enough of an accent to make the ladies flush. Like Charles Boyer, if you take my meaning.”
“‘Come wiss me to zee Casbah,’” Ettinger replied, in a very creditable mimicry of one of the actor’s most famous lines.