One of the gauchos doffed his flat-brimmed cap.
When the Buick passed through the outer line of poplars, the “big house” was visible beyond the inner two rows of trees. The term was somewhat misleading. There was indeed “a casa grande”—a rambling structure surrounded on three sides by wide porches—but the inner rows of poplars also encircled a complex of buildings. These included the small church La Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros, seven smaller houses for the servants and the senior managers of the estancia, a large stable beside a polo field, the main garage, and “el Coronel’s garage.”
To which the shot-up station wagon will soon be taken—with a little luck, outside the view of Dorotea.
Between the second line of poplars and the line closest to the “Big House” was the English Garden, covering more than a hectare. Today, looking more than a little out of place, three more peones sat on their mounts, rifles cradled in their arms, as the horses helped themselves to whatever carefully cultivated flowers seemed appetizing.
The peones respectfully removed their wide-brimmed hats and sort of bowed when they saw Frade in the Buick. He returned the greeting with a sort of military salute. When he’d first become patrón of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo, he had returned their gesture with a wave, as a salute was obviously inappropriate between himself, a Marine major, and Argentine civilians.
Waving had made him feel like he was pretending to be the King of LaLa-Land, condescendingly acknowledging the homage of his loyal subjects. Enrico had solved that problem by telling him that not only was there universal military service in Argentina, but el Coronel, and before him, el Coronel’s father, Don Cletus’s grandfather, also el Coronel Frade, had encouraged the “young men of the estancia” to enlist in the Húsares de Pueyrredón Cavalry Regiment for four years, rather than just doing a year’s conscript service.
The result was that just about most of the more than one thousand male peones of Estancia San Pedro y San Pablo had been soldiers at one time. Frade thought, but did not say, that the real result was that he had, if not a private army, then a private battalion at his command. And lately he had cause to think he might have to use it.
So now Frade tossed a salute when el Patrón was saluted or otherwise acknowledged.
They passed through the inner line of poplars and rolled up to the big house. There were three more peones on horseback. And three people sitting bundled up against the winter chill in wicker chairs on the verandah. One was a tall muscular man in white riding britches, glistening boots, and a thick yellow woolen sweater. A beautiful sorrel mare tied to a hitching rail showed how he had come to the big house. Next to him was a large man in full gaucho regalia. A Ford Model A pickup truck parked nose-in against the verandah was his mode of transportation. Beside the gaucho, Doña Dorotea Mallín de Frade sat in a wicker armchair.
Frade did not see, however, whom he expected to see, and the moment he stepped out of the car, he asked, “Where’s ‘Wilhelm Fischer’?”
“Hello, my darling,” the blonde said in British-accented English. “I’m so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife?”
“Hello, my darling,” Frade said, “I’m so happy to be home. And how is every little thing with my beloved mother-to-be wife? And where the hell is ‘Wilhelm Fischer’?”
She pointed to La Capilla Nuestra Señora de los Milagros, and when Frade looked at it, he saw there were two more peones on horseback, one in front of the chapel, the other to one side.
“He’s not going anywhere he shouldn’t, Major,” the gaucho sitting on the porch said. “He asked if he could go to the church, and I figured, why not?”
The gaucho—despite his calf-high soft black leather boots, with billowing black bombachas tucked into them, loose white shirt with billowing sleeves, broad-brimmed black hat, wide silver-studded and buckled leather belt, wicked-looking fourteen-inch knife in a silver scabbard, and faultless command of the Spanish language—was not actually a gaucho.
For one thing, the last time he had been on a horse, it had been a pony at a Coney Island amusement park in Brooklyn. He had been six at the time, had fallen off, had his foot stepped on, and had since kept the vow he had made then to never again get on the back of a horse. He had acquired his Spanish from what he perhaps indelicately referred to as his “sleeping dictionary”—which was to say when he had been serving as a chief radioman at the U.S. Navy’s Subic Bay facility in the Philippines. He was Lieutenant Oscar J. Schultz, USNR, and known as “El Jefe,” which was Spanish for
“The Chief.”
“I need to talk to him,” Frade said, and started to walk toward the church.
“Why don’t you leave him alone?” Dorotea Mallín de Frade asked, on the edge of plaintively.
When her husband ignored her, she shook her head, got out of her wicker chair, and walked off the verandah to follow him.
Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger, wearing a business suit, was on his knees at the communion rail of the chapel when Frade walked in.
In his pocket was a passport identifying him as Wilhelm Fischer, a vineyard owner and vintner, of Durban, South Africa.
Frade had carefully opened and then closed the heavy door behind him when he entered the church. He didn’t think Frogger sensed that he was no longer alone.
Dorotea Frade tried to do the same, but a sudden burst of wind was too much for her and the door slammed noisily shut.
Frogger’s head snapped to see what was happening, and then he returned to his prayers. Twenty seconds later, he stood up and walked down the aisle between the pews to Frade.
“You have learned what has happened to my parents?” he asked.
“God must have been listening,” Frade said. “They’re alive and well.”
“Cletus! What a terrible thing to say!” Dorotea exclaimed.
“What, that his father and mother are alive?” Frade responded. “And I have something else to say, Colonel, that will probably upset my wife.”
Frogger waited for him to go on, but didn’t say anything.