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When they went in to dinner, Clete saw that Claudia had not only given some thought as to who would sit where but had also somehow arranged for name cards—even for the unexpected guests—to be placed on the table in silver holders so that everybody would know where to sit.
She sat at one end of the long table. As the guest of honor, Perón was seated at her right. Peter von Wachtstein was seated at the other end, apparently signifying his new role as the man of the house, separated from his mother-in-law by two candelabra and an enormous bowl of flowers.
Cranz was seated across from Perón, and von und zu Aschenburg was seated next to von Wachtstein, with Father Welner next to him, and Isabela next to him. Clete was near the middle of the table, beside Alicia von Wachtstein and across the table from his Aunt Beatrice and Uncle Humberto. Dorotea was next to Humberto, and Delgano sat beside her.
Clete was impressed with Claudia’s seating arrangements. They were designed, he decided, to provide an ambiance where polite conversation would be encouraged, and the opposite—verbal battles between, for example, himself and Isabela—be made difficult.
The only interesting thing Clete noticed during the course of dinner was that Cranz was really charming both Claudia and Perón and that both seemed to like it.
There’s something about that sonofabitch that bothers me.
After dinner, the gentlemen retired to the library for brandy and cigars. Over the fireplace hung a huge oil portrait of a tall, heavyset man in the full dress uniform of the Colonel Commanding the Húsares de Pueyrredón Cavalry Regiment.
“Would it be indiscreet of me to guess that’s the late Señor Carzino-Cormano? ” Cranz asked. “And what is that marvelous uniform?”
“That’s my father, Señor Cranz,” Clete said in German. “The late Oberst Jorge Guillermo Frade.”
“A fine-looking man,” Cranz said.
“What’s that phrase? ‘Tragically cut down in the prime of his life’?”
“In one of those interesting coincidences, Captain von und zu Aschenburg, ” Colonel Juan D. Perón said hurriedly and in Spanish, changing the direction of the conversation, “we were talking, just before you arrived, about airlines.”
“Really?”
“We just started one,” Perón said. “South American Airways.”
This was translated by von und zu Aschenburg for Cranz.
Cranz replied, “How interesting!”
Von und zu Aschenburg smiled, then made the translation of that for Cranz into Spanish: “Herr Cranz said he’s a bit surprised that aircraft would be available to start an airline.”
Clete smiled warmly at Cranz.
“Actually, that’s why I’m going to start an airline,” Frade said. “I found out that we—that’s my American half talking; I’m half American, half Argentine— that is to say, we North Americans have a bunch of brand-new Lockheed Lodestars that nobody wants and that South American Airways can buy cheap.”
That translation was made. Cranz smiled but did not reply.
“Forgive me for saying this, Señor Frade,” von und zu Aschenburg said, “but I would be just a little wary of airplanes that can be had cheaply because nobody wants them. Are you a pilot?”
“I’ve flown a little,” Clete said.
“What kind of airplanes?”
“Mostly Piper Cubs, planes like that—”
“Cletus, I just can’t let that pass,” Perón interrupted. He turned to von und zu Aschenburg. “The truth, Captain von und zu Aschenburg, is that before he was medically discharged from the American Corps of Marines, Cletus distinguished himself as a fighter pilot in the war in the Pacific. His late father”—he waved his arm dramatically at the oil portrait of the late Colonel Frade—“my best friend, may he rest in peace, was very, very proud of him.”
“You weren’t flying Piper Cubs in the Pacific, were you, Señor Frade?” von und zu Aschenburg asked.
“Actually, yeah. Sometimes I did. We used them like you use your Storch, for artillery spotting, things like that. Other times, I flew Grumman F4F Wildcats.”
“He was an ace,” Perón proclaimed. “And, in a situation the details of which I’m not at liberty to discuss, he recently applied his extraordinary flying skills and demonstrated his courage here in Argentina, the land of his birth. His father would be, as I am, very proud to say that he has earned the respect and admiration of many senior officials, including our president.”
As von und zu Aschenburg translated this for Cranz, Cranz looked between Frade and von Wachtstein.
Frade thought: I’m sure I’m right. The airline pilot is a good guy, and the diplomat a bad one. A bad one and a dangerous one. Why do I know that?
