“Cousin Enrico,” Clete said, smiling.
Mallín looked at him, and after a moment, smiled.
VII
[ONE]
Buenos Aires, Argentina
2005 21 November 1942
It was a fifteen-minute drive to the hotel—on, so far as Clete was concerned, the wrong side of the road; like the Australians the Argentines drove on the left (and would continue to do so until 1944). Mallín took them through a park, where people in proper equestrian clothing were riding fine-looking horses on bridle paths, and then down wide, tree-lined avenues. A statue of an ornately uniformed man on horseback seemed to stand at every major intersection.
Clete realized immediately that Buenos Aires was not the kind of place he’d expected. He had assumed that Argentina would be something like Mexico, and Buenos Aires something like Mexico City. It was not. It was unlike any city he had ever seen before.
They came to a park in which enormous banyan trees shaded neat walkways, and a moment later pulled off the street into the entrance of a hotel. A polished brass sign read: ALVEAR PALACE HOTEL.
A doorman in a top hat and a brass-buttoned linen coat which reached almost to his ankles walked quickly to the car and opened the passenger-side door.
Mallín stepped out of the car and held the seat back forward so that Pelosi could climb out of the backseat.
“I think you will find the Alvear comfortable, Mr. Pelosi,” Mallín said, “and I would suppose that after your long flight, you greatly need a good night’s sleep. I apologize again for not being able to take you into my home….”
“This is really something,” Pelosi said. “Like the Drake in Chicago.”
It looks like the Adolphus, Clete thought, recalling the Dallas landmark. Pre-World War I polished brass and marble elegance.
“I will go in with you,” Mallín said, “to make sure that everything is satisfactory.”
A bellboy (a boy, Clete thought, he’s not a day over twelve or thirteen) spun a revolving door for them, and they entered the lobby.
“This is Argentina,” Mallín said. “It is unfortunately required to give your passport to the management. I thought perhaps you’d like a coffee, or something stronger…”
“Coffee would be fine,” Clete said. “Or maybe a beer.”
Mallín gave him another strained smile, and went on, “…while I take care of that for you. You’ll find a bar by the elevators.”
Mallín gestured for them to precede him, and they entered the bar. The headwaiter greeted Mallín by name and escorted them to a table.
“My American friends,” Mallín announced, “will have something to drink while I take care of Mr. Pelosi’s registration.” He nodded in the general direction of Tony Pelosi.
“You will have to excuse, gentlemen, my English is not so fine,” the headwaiter said.
“I’ll have a beer, please,” Clete said in Spanish, “but my first priority is finding the men’s room.”
“Ah, you speak Spanish,” the headwaiter said in Spanish. “If you will cross to the door beside the elevator, the gentlemen’s facility is one floor down.”
“And perfectly,” Mallín said. “I’d forgotten you spoke Spanish.”
“But I don’t know the word for that,” Clete said in English, inclining his head in the direction of the bar, where a stunningly beautiful woman in a revealing linen dress was beaming at a man at least twice her age.
“The word for that is Miña,” Mallín said. “They are one of the many treasures of Buenos Aires.”
“Very nice!” Tony Pelosi said, with admiration.
“Expensive, no doubt?” Clete said.
“Yes, but not in the way…They are not…how does one say? ‘Ladies of the evening.’”