A Quiet Flame

I lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl into my eyes. I wanted to punish them for looking into her cleavage when what I needed most was for them to do their job and keep looking her in the eye so that I might get a better fix on whether she was telling the truth. But I guess that’s how things like cleavages evolved in the first place. I shifted on my chair and looked at the room. Isabel Pekerman made Buenos Aires sound a lot like Berlin during the last days of the Weimar Republic. But to my cynical old eyes, nothing of what I’d seen here compared with the old German capital. The girls who were dancing were still wearing their clothes, and the men who were their partners were at least men, most of them, and not something in between. The band could carry a tune and there was no pretense to sophistication. I didn’t doubt what Isabel Pekerman had said. But whereas Berlin had flaunted its vice and corruption, Buenos Aires hid its appetite for depravity like an old priest sipping from a brandy bottle concealed in the pocket of a cassock.

She took my hand, opened my palm, and looked closely at it. Running her forefinger over the various lines and mounds, she said, “According to your hand, we’re going to spend the night together, after all.”

“Like I said, it’s been a hell of a day.”

“It might look bad for me if you don’t,” she said, contradicting much of what had been said earlier on. “After all, you already paid for it. Blue Vincent will think I’m losing my touch.”

“No, he won’t. Not if he’s got eyes in his head.”

Putting her arms around me, she said, “No? Come on. It might be fun. It’s been ages since I slept with a man I really liked.”

“Small world,” I said, and stood up to leave her.

As things turned out, I should have stayed.

19 BUENOS AIRES, 1950

THE NEXT MORNING I thought some more about what Isabel Pekerman had told me about Argentina’s white-slave traffic. I wondered if it might be connected with what Perón and Mengele were up to with young girls. None of it made much sense. I decided my brain needed a completely different kind of problem to work on. I had most of the morning before I had to go meet von Bader and the colonel, so after breakfast I went to the Richmond in search of a game of chess.

Melville was there, and I played a Caro-Kann defense to a victory in just thirty-three moves that Bronstein would have been proud of. Afterward, I let him buy me a drink and we sat outside for a while and watched the world go by. Usually I paid no attention to the little Scotsman’s chatter. On this occasion, however, I found myself listening to him more closely.

“That was quite a peach you brought in here the other week,” he observed, full of envy.

“She is, isn’t she?” I said, assuming he was talking about Anna.

“Much too tall for me, of course,” he said, laughing.

Melville couldn’t have been more than five-feet-three. Red-haired, bearded, with a wicked gap-toothed grin, he looked like something kept to amuse the Spanish royal family.

“Me, I need them much shorter,” he added. “And that generally means younger, too.”

I felt my ears prick up at this admission. “How much younger?”

“The age isn’t important,” he said. “Not for a short-arse like me. I have to take what I can get.”

“Yes, but there’s young and there’s too young, surely?”

“Is there?” He laughed. “I dunno.”

“Well, just how young is too young? You must have some idea.”

He thought for a moment and then shrugged silently.

“So what’s the youngest you’ve ever had?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m interested, that’s all. I mean, with some of these girls you meet these days, well, sometimes, it’s a little hard to tell how old they are.” I was hoping to draw him out on a subject Melville was already beginning to look evasive about. “The makeup they wear. The clothes. Some of them have experience way beyond their years. Back in Germany, for instance, I had a few close shaves, I can tell you. Of course I was a lot younger then myself. And Germany was Germany. Girls were naked in the clubs and naked in the parks. Before the Nazis, sun worship—naturism, they called it—it was all the rage. Like I say, that was Germany. Sex was our national pastime. Under the Weimar Republic, we were famous for it. But this. This is a Roman Catholic country. I’d have thought that things were a bit different here.”

“Then you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you?” Melville uttered his manic gargoyle’s laugh. “To tell the truth, this country’s a paradise for perverts like me. It’s one of the reasons I live here. All the unripe fruit. You only have to reach up and pick it off the tree.”

Again I felt my ears prick up. The Castilian phrase Melville used to describe young girls was fruta inmadura—the very same phrase the colonel had used to describe Perón’s similar predilection.

“I don’t know about Germany,” said Melville. “I’ve not actually been there. But it would have to be pretty bloody good to beat the Argentine for lecheras.”

“Lecheras?”

“Milkmaids.”