“Thank you,” Clete said.
Mallín poured him a glass of a red wine. Clete sipped it. It was very good. He said so.
“They call it Malbec. It…the vines, the cuttings, originally came from France. Bordeaux. This comes from a vineyard in Mendoza Province, near the Andes, in which I have a small interest.”
“It’s very nice,” Clete said.
“There are those—your grandfather among them, by the way—who have been kind enough to suggest that Malbec is better than some French Bordeaux. I sent a few cases to him after my visit to your home in New Orleans.”
“It’s very nice,” Clete repeated. “A little cleaner than most French Bordeaux, now that you mention it.”
“If you like it, I am pleased,” Mallín said.
“Papa?” a young male voice called from the door. Clete turned to see a boy of fourteen, fifteen, blond and fair-skinned, standing in the door. He was wearing short pants, knee-high socks, and a blazer with an embroidered insignia on the pocket.
That’s obviously a school uniform, Clete thought. He looks as if he’s in the Third Form at St. Mark’s, or one of the other St. Grottlesex schools patterned after English public schools. For that matter, he looks as if he’s in his second year at Harrow.
“Enrico, come in and greet our guest,” Mallín said. “And since this is a special occasion, you may join us in a glass of wine.”
The boy walked to Clete, looking at him with frank curiosity, and put out his hand.
“Enrico, this is Mr. Frade,” Mallín said.
“How do you do, Sir?” the boy said.
“How are you, Enrico?”
“You are the gentleman from Texas?” Little Enrico asked, dubiously.
“Yes, I am. I left my horse and six-shooter in the garage.”
“But you are wearing boots.”
“Enrico!” Mallín protested. “Your manners!”
“I thought you had gauchos down here. Don’t they wear boots?”
“We don’t have gauchos in the house,” Little Enrico said, shocked at the notion.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Clete said.
“Enrico, you owe Mr. Frade an apology. I can’t believe you said that.”
“He owes me no apology,” Clete said. “We have a saying in Texas, Enrico, that you never have to apologize for the truth.”
“Really?” Little Enrico asked delightedly.
“Unless that truth is that your friend’s girlfriend is fat and ugly,” Clete added.
Little Enrico laughed delightedly.
“Whose girlfriend is fat and ugly?” Pamela asked as she and the Virgin Princess walked into the sitting room. The Virgin Princess now had her hair swept neatly upward. She was wearing a yellow linen dress and a strand of pearls which rested in the valley of her breasts. She was wearing high heels, which made her calves even more perfect than when Clete first saw her.
“Enrico’s,” Clete said. “But he says he doesn’t mind, he loves her anyway.”
“I said nothing of the kind!” Little Enrico protested, but he giggled.
The Virgin Princess smiled at her brother; her mouth now wore an entirely delightful if faint coat of lipstick. Then she looked at Clete, and their eyes met for just a second, until, his heart jumping, he quickly looked away.