Fischer followed her.
“Claudia, this is Wilhelm Fischer. He’s from South Africa, and he’s come here to show us how to grow grapes. Willi, this is our hostess, la Señora Carzino-Cormano, known as the Lioness of the Pampas.”
“How do you do?” Claudia replied as she flashed Clete an icy look. “Welcome to Estancia Santa Catalina.”
“You are very kind to have me, madam,” Fischer replied, and—certainly without thinking about it—clicked his heels as he bent over her hand.
“I thought only Germans did that,” Cletus said.
“Cletus, my God!” Claudia exclaimed.
“Did I say something wrong again?”
She did not respond directly.
“This is your party, Cletus,” Claudia said. “You’re supposed to be standing here greeting people. And then you’re the last to show up.”
Then she kissed his cheek—a real kiss, as opposed to pro forma.
“I don’t do standing in line very well,” he said.
She shook her head, then said, “Juan Domingo called. He can’t be here.”
“Oh, God, what a shame!” Frade replied with great in
sincerity, then moved to Alicia.
“Alicia, this is . . .”
“I heard,” she said. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Fischer. I’m Alicia von Wachtstein.”
“The baroness von Wachtstein,” Clete furnished. “You are required to back out of her presence.”
“Oh, God, Clete, don’t you ever stop?” she said, giggling.
“You are very kind,” Fischer said, and bent over her hand, this time not clicking his heels.
“And this, Willi, is la Señorita Isabela Carzino-Cormano.”
Isabela neither smiled nor offered Fischer her hand.
“How do you do?” she said rather icily to Fischer.
“Any friend of mine, right, Izzy baby?” Frade said.
Isabela glowered at Frade, then put out her hand to Fischer, who bent over it and remembered again not to click his heels.
Dorotea and Alicia, now arm in arm, walked into the house.
“Now that the ladies have gone to powder their noses, or whatever, Willi, why don’t we go to Switzerland?”
“Excuse me?”
“Over there,” Clete said, nodding at a corner of the room where Father Welner, Karl Boltitz, Peter von Wachtstein, and Humberto Duarte stood talking.
He took Fischer’s arm and propelled him across the room. It was an opportunity he didn’t think he would have.
The men, all holding drinks, stopped talking when Frade and Fischer walked up.