A Quiet Flame

“We have a saying, ‘It takes more than one dead mouse to make a good cat.’ ” In front of the door, he took a bunch of keys out of his pocket, unlocked it, and then ushered me inside. “When I intercepted Mengele’s private papers, it reminded me of how little we actually know about all the ex-Nazis who have come to Argentina. Perón may care nothing about what any of you did during the war, but that could hardly be good enough for me. After all, it’s my job to know about people. So I decided it was high time that we started gathering intelligence on all our ‘guest workers.’ I decided that you were our best means of obtaining it.”

He closed the door behind us and we walked up a quiet marble stairway. The handrail was sticky with wood polish, and the marble floor as white and shiny as a string of freshwater pearls. On the first-floor landing was a picture of Evita. She was wearing a blue dress with white spots, a large pink tea rose on her shoulder, a ruby-and-diamond necklace and a matching ruby-and-diamond smile.

“At some stage, relations with the United States will have to improve if Argentina is to recover the economic wealth we enjoyed a decade ago,” said the colonel. “For that to happen, it may be politic, eventually, to ask some of our more notorious immigrants to go and live somewhere else. Paraguay, for example. Paraguay is a lawless, primitive country, where even the worst animals can live quite openly. So you see. All this time, you have been doing this country a great service for which, one day—one day soon, I suspect—we will have cause to thank you.”

“I feel patriotic already.”

“Hold on to that feeling. You’re going to need it when you meet Evita. The woman is the most patriotic person I know.”

“Is that where we’re going?”

“Yes. And by the way, you remember how I mentioned that when I heard that Perón’s men had arrested you and taken you to Caseros, I was able to exercise some influence in another quarter and have you released? Evita is that quarter. She is your new protector. It might be a good idea to remember that.”

Colonel Montalbán paused in front of a heavy wooden door. On the other side was what sounded like a beehive. He looked me up and down and handed me a comb. I ran it quickly through my hair and gave it back.

“If I’d known I was going to meet the president’s wife tonight, I’d have spent the day shopping for a new suit,” I said. “Maybe even had a bath.”

“Believe me, she will hardly notice how you smell. Not in this place.”

He opened the door and we entered a wood-paneled room about the size of a tennis court. At the far end was another, larger painting of Evita. She was wearing a blue dress and smiling at a group of children. Behind her head was a bright light, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have said she had a husband called Joseph and a son who was a carpenter. The room was full of people and the smell of their unwashed bodies. Some of them were disabled, some were pregnant, most looked poor. All of them were quite certain that the woman they were hoping to see was nothing less than the Madonna of Buenos Aires, La Dama de la Esperanza. There was no pushing or jostling for position, however. Each of them had a ticket and, from time to time, an official would come into that room and announce a number. This was the cue for an unmarried mother, a homeless family, or a crippled orphan to come forward and be received into the holy presence.

I followed the colonel into the room beyond. Here, there was a long mahogany table against one wall. On it were three telephones and four vases of calla lilies. There was a gold-silk-covered sofa and three matching chairs, and four secretaries holding pads and pencils, or a telephone, or an envelope full of money. Evita herself stood next to the window, which was open to let out some of the smell of unwashed bodies. This was more noticeable than in the big antechamber, because it was a smaller room.