“Unfortunately, he’s more interested in his bride than in sipping Champagne with a group of diplomats?”
“Actually, the problem was finding him. I have finally done so.”
“Then he’ll be at the hotel…the Plaza…tonight?”
“I think under the circumstances that it would b
e nice if an invitation was waiting for him at the door.”
“He’s coming alone?” von Deitzberg asked.
“An invitation for both Frade and his wife,” Perón said. “And unless something happens, we will arrive together.”
“There will be invitations at the door, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said. “And I look forward to seeing you. Incidentally, Señor and Señora Duarte have accepted.”
“Splendid. I think this personal meeting is important, Manfred.”
“And I quite agree, Juan Domingo.”
“The…unfortunate…business has to be put behind us.”
“I agree.”
“I’ll see you tonight, then, Manfred,” Perón said, and hung up.
It isn’t enough, Perón thought, that I arrange for Cletus to attend the reception for von Deitzberg and von Löwzer. He is so like his father, unpredictable, unwilling to forgive. I have to make sure that he accepts the apology of the German officer corps for the death of Jorge. And that he understands the importance of doing so.
Which means I will have to have a word with him—in private; not with his bride listening—before we go to the Plaza tonight.
“Tío Juan,” Maria-Teresa said, “are you about finished? I’m hungry.”
Perón turned to look at her, and then smiled. She was in the bed beside him in a pink bathrobe. “You are hungry, my precious?” he asked, and crawled onto the bed on his knees and looked down at her.
She was tall and thin, with long, rich dark-brown hair, which she wore parted in the middle.
“Yes, I am,” she said, pouting.
“Would you like to go somewhere for a pastry? Some ice cream? Or are you really hungry?” He reached down and gently tugged at the bow of the cord holding the bathrobe together.
“Where?” she asked.
“Well, we could drive downtown,” he said. The belt came loose and he unfastened it completely, then very slowly opened the bathrobe. Her breasts were small and firm, and the light brown tuft of hair between her legs was adorable.
I don’t care how beautiful a woman is otherwise, disgusting pendulous breasts overwhelm any other physical charms. And if her pubic hair looks like a pampas swamp that could conceal a herd of feral pigs, she has absolutely no appeal to me.
“Are we going to be naughty?” Maria-Teresa asked.
“Well, I don’t know. Would you like to be naughty?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t.”
He leaned down and kissed one of her nipples.
“That’s naughty, Tío Juan!” Maria-Teresa said. It was more a comment than a protest.
“Not as naughty as I would like to be,” he said.
“I think I would rather walk across the street and have a strawberry cake in the Jockey Club.”