“Humberto’s idea,” Clete said, kissing Dorotea. “They’re go
ing to take pictures. I feel like the driver of one of those sightseeing whatchacallums. . . .”
“What?”
“At the New York World’s Fair, 1939-40, they had little sightseeing trains that ran all over. The drivers had uniforms just like these. Powder blue with gold buttons and stripes. They’d announce things like, ‘And to your left, ladies and gentlemen, is the General Motors Pavilion.’ ”
“You’re right,” Dorotea said, and giggled. “They did. God, don’t tell anyone.”
“You were there?” he asked, surprised.
“Daddy took us,” she said. “We could have met.”
“In 1939, you were fourteen years old.”
“We went in 1940, I was fifteen.”
“In 1940, I was a Naval Aviation cadet en route to Pensacola. I wasn’t interested in fifteen-year-old girls.”
“Only because you hadn’t met this one.”
“Possibly,” he agreed.
“When do you go?” she asked.
He looked at his wristwatch.
“Seventeen minutes,” he said. “Time and SAA wait for no man. Even General Rawson.”
“He’s coming?”
“He’s supposed to be coming. And so, if we’re really lucky, is my Tío Juan.”
“If he does, behave.”
“I will, if you promise to be on the three-thirty flight back to Mendoza.”
“I’ll be all right, don’t worry about me.” Dorotea looked past Clete and nodded toward a convoy of cars driving onto the tarmac. “Here’s the president.”
“And there’s God’s representative,” Clete said, pointing to the terminal, from which the Reverend Kurt Welner, S.J., had just emerged. “If he tries to sprinkle my airplane with holy water, I’ll have Enrico shoot him.”
“Don Cletus, you should not say things like that,” Enrico said, genuinely shocked.
“He’s coming over here,” Dorotea said.
“He’s seen my uniform.”
“Good afternoon, Father,” Dorotea and Enrico said almost in unison.
“I need to talk to you, Cletus,” Welner said with no other preliminaries.
“About what?” Clete asked.
“It’s a good thing he loves you,” Dorotea said. “Otherwise, your tone of voice would make him angry.”
“I need a favor,” the priest said.
“Oh?”