A Quiet Flame

“He disappeared. Perhaps he is in Paraguay. Perhaps he is in Chile. Then again, perhaps he is nowhere in particular. But then again, sometimes it is best not to ask such a question. You understand?”

“I think so. But who’s minding the navy?”

“Truly, the only safe questions to ask in Argentina are the questions one asks of oneself. That is why there are so many psychoanalysts in this country.”

We drove east, toward the River Plate.

“Are there? Many psychoanalysts in this country?”

“Oh, yes. A great many. There is more psychoanalysis done here in Buenos Aires than almost anywhere else in the world. No one in Argentina thinks himself so perfect that he can’t be improved. Take you, for instance. A little psychoanalysis might help you to stay out of trouble. That’s what I thought, anyway. That’s why I arranged for you to see two of the best men in the city. So that you might understand yourself and your relationship to society. And to appreciate what I told you before: that in Argentina, it is better to know everything than to know too much. Of course, my men are better than most at helping a man to understand himself. Fewer sessions are required. Sometimes only one. And of course, they work much more cheaply than the kind of Freudian analysts most people go to see. But the results, I’m sure you’ll agree, are much more spectacular. It’s rare that anyone comes out of a session at Caseros without a profound sense of what is needed to survive in a city like this. Yes. Yes, I do believe that. This city will kill you unless, psychologically, you are equipped to deal with it. I hope I’m not being too cryptic here.”

“Not at all, Colonel. I understand you perfectly.”

“You’ll find a hip flask in the glove box,” he said. “Sometimes therapy gives a man a keen thirst for more than just self-knowledge.”

There was cognac in the flask. It tasted just fine. It gave me more breathing space, as if someone had opened a window. I offered him the flask. He shook his head and grinned.

“You’re a nice guy, Gunther. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I’ve told you before. You used to be a real hero of mine. In life, a man should have a hero, don’t you think so?”

“That’s sweet of you, Colonel.”

“Rodolfo—that’s Rodolfo Freude, the head of SIDE. He thinks my belief in your abilities is irrational. And perhaps it is. But he’s not a real policeman, like us, Gunther. He doesn’t understand what it takes to be a great detective.”

“I’m not so sure I understand that myself, Colonel.”

“Then I shall tell you. To be a great detective one must also be a protagonist. A dynamic sort of character who makes things happen just by being himself. I think you are this kind of a person, Gunther.”

“In chess, we’d call that a gambit. Usually it involves the sacrifice of a pawn or a knight.”

“Yes. That is quite possible, also.”

I laughed. “You’re an interesting man, Colonel. A trifle eccentric, but interesting. And don’t think I don’t appreciate your confidence in me. Because I do appreciate it. Almost as much as your booze and your cigarettes.” I took his packet and lit another.

“Good. Because I should hate to think you needed a second session of therapy in Caseros.”

It was evening. The shops were closing and the clubs were opening. All over the city people were getting depressed that they were so far away from the rest of the civilized world. I knew how they felt. On one side was the ocean and on the other, the vast emptiness of the pampas. We were all of us surrounded by nothing, with nowhere else to go. Perhaps most people just resigned themselves to that. Just as they had in Nazi Germany. I was different. Saying one thing and thinking another was second nature to me.

“I get the picture, Colonel,” I told him. “I’d click my heels and salute if I wasn’t sitting down.” I sipped some more cognac. “From now on, this horse is wearing blinkers and a tongue strap.” I pointed through the windscreen. “There’s the road ahead and nothing else.” I uttered a wry little laugh, as if I’d learned a hard lesson.

The Colonel seemed pleased by this admission. “Now you’re getting it,” he said. “I’m only sorry that it cost you a shirt to find that out.”

“I can buy a new shirt, Colonel,” I said, still affecting craven acquiescence. “A new skin is harder to come by. You won’t need to warn me again. I’ve no desire to wind up in that morgue of yours. Speaking of which. The girl? Grete Wohlauf. I’m not sure I’ve found her killer. But I certainly found the man who killed those two girls in Germany. And you were right. He’s living here, in Buenos Aires. As I said, I can’t be sure he had anything to do with Grete Wohlauf’s death. Or that he knows anything about Fabienne von Bader. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised, since he’s pursuing the same trade in illegal abortions he was back then. His name is Josef Mengele, but he’s living here as Helmut Gregor. But I expect you already knew that. Anyway, you can read all about it in a statement I persuaded him to write. I have it hidden in my hotel room.”