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“An honor, sir,” the maître d’hotel said.
“Raul, I believe we’ll have the champagne at the table,” Doña Claudia ordered.
The maître d’hotel led Claudia—who had taken the old man’s arm and was leading him—through double doors into a large, glass-walled room overlooking the racetrack. A long table had been set up formally, complete with cards indicating who should sit where.
Doña Claudia led the old man to one end of the table, pointed to the card at the head of the table, and said, “Well, here I am. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were down there, near the other end.”
“Not a problem, dear lady,” the old man said. “Just so it’s not far from the bubbly.”
When he got to the far end of the table, he saw that Clete was seated at the head, with the submarine captain on one side of him and the other Frau von Wachtstein on the other. He was seated next to the submarine captain—he wasn’t sure if he believed that or not, but he couldn’t think of his name beyond von-Something—which meant that neither of them would be able to watch what was going on on the track without having to look over their shoulders.
Clete had said that the submarine captain was not the one Martha had told him Beth fancied herself in love with. Maybe that was so. Beth was paying absolutely no intention to Captain von-Something, and he seemed to be fascinated with the other Frau von Wachtstein.
Why can I remember that von, but not the other?
He found that seated next to him was the von Wachtstein woman, an Argentine beauty, who was married to the German pilot Clete had broken out of Fort Hunt. Alex Graham had told him the pilot’s father had been executed—brutally—for his role in trying to blow up Hitler, so it was doubtful the son was a Nazi. At least not anymore.
From where he was sitting, he could see a row of oil portraits of ornately uniformed Argentine men hanging on the wall.
The uniforms those guys are wearing make them look like characters in an operetta.
And they all look like Nazis.
“What is that, Cletus?” the old man asked. “The local version of the post office wall with pictures of J. Edgar Hoover’s ten-most-wanted men?”
Clete smiled.
“Those are the founders of the Jockey Club,” Clete said. “The handsome one, third from this end, is my grandfather.”
“He’s dead, right?”
Clete nodded. “Before I was born.”
“Then he was your grandfather. Past tense. So why don’t you do something nice for your living grandfather and scare up a waiter with the champagne the Queen promised me?”
Elsa von Wachtstein giggled.
Clete looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said.
“What for? The whole idea of this was to make you and Willi smile.”
“I’m not sure if I want to smile or cry,” she said. “Your grandfather is just like my father. My father in happier times.”
“Smile, please,” Clete said.
“I’m a little numb with all this,” Elsa said. “Here, it’s as if there never was a war. Look at this table. The hors d’oeuvres alone would feed a family for a week in Germany. There must be a half kilo of cream in that bowl.”
“There never was a war here, Elsa,” Frade said. He met von Dattenberg’s eyes. “Except for the one people like Willi and me brought here. And now people like Willi and me are trying to wind that one down.”
Von Dattenberg nodded, just perceptibly.
“Let me get my grandfather his champagne,” Clete said, and looked around for a waiter.
—
Clete didn’t take any of the champagne when it was served, and he turned over the three empty wineglasses placed before him to indicate he also wished not to be served any of the grape.
