A Quiet Flame

“To that extent, she is truly Evita’s daughter. Since you’ve met her, I assume you will know what I’m talking about.”

I nodded. “All right. I get the picture. She’s everyone’s little sweet-heart. Geli Raubel, Leni Riefenstahl, Eva Braun, and Eva Perón all rolled into one precocious siren. Why didn’t you level with me before?”

“We weren’t at liberty to do so,” said the colonel. “Evita didn’t want her secret to be told to anyone. Her enemies would use this kind of information to destroy her. However, eventually I persuaded her to talk to you about it, and now you know everything.”

“Hmmm.”

“What does that mean?” asked the colonel.

“It means maybe I do and maybe I don’t and maybe I’m used to not expecting to know the difference. And besides, she’s his daughter, so why would he want to lie about it, except that people will lie about anything, of course, and on any occasion, except when there’s a month with an X in it.” I lit a cigarette. “These old comrades that she met. Did they have names?”

“About a year ago,” said von Bader, “my wife and I held a garden party to welcome many of the old comrades to Argentina.”

“Very hospitable of you, I’m sure.”

“One of my former colleagues was in charge of the guest list. Dr. Heinrich Dorge. Formerly, he was aide to Dr. Schacht. Hitler’s finance minister?”

I nodded.

“Fabienne was the star of the party,” said her father. “She was so fresh, so captivating that many men seemed to quite forget why they were here. I remember she sang a number of old German songs. My wife played the piano. Fabienne moved many of them to tears. She was remarkable.” He paused. “Dr. Dorge is dead, I’m afraid. He had an accident. Which means we are unable to remember everyone who was there. Certainly there must have been as many as one hundred and fifty old comrades. Possibly even more than that.”

“And you think she’s hiding with one of them, is that it?”

“I’d say it was a strong possibility.”

“One that is still worth checking,” added the colonel. “Which is why I would like you to keep going with your previous inquiry. There are still a great many names you haven’t yet spoken to.”

“True,” I said. “But look here, it’s my guess that if she hasn’t been found it’s because she’s no longer in Buenos Aires. The chances are she’s somewhere in the country. Tucumán, perhaps. There are lots of old comrades up there, working for Capri on the dam at La Quiroga. Maybe I should go and look for her up there.”

“We already did,” said the colonel. “But why not? Perhaps we missed something. When can you leave?”

“I’ll catch the evening train.”

THERE WERE ONLY two dishes on the menu at the Shorthorn Grill: beef with vegetables, and beef on its own. There was a lot of beef displayed on skewers in the window, and pictures of various beef cuts—cooked and uncooked—hung on the roast-beef-colored walls. A steer’s head surveyed the restaurant and its patrons with glassy-eyed bewilderment. As fast as the beef was cooked and carried to the tables, it was eaten, in companionable silence, as if beef were something much too serious to be interrupted with conversation. It was the kind of place where even your shoe leather felt a little nervous.

Anna was sitting in a corner, behind a table covered with a red-checked cloth. Above her head was a lithograph featuring a gaucho roping a steer. There was pain in her eyes, but I didn’t think it was because she was a vegetarian. As soon as I sat down, a waiter came over and heaped some beef sausage and red peppers onto our plates. Most of the other waiters had eyebrows that met in the middle; our waiter had eyebrows that had already mated. I ordered a bottle of red wine, the kind I knew Anna liked, made of grapes and alcohol. When he’d gone, I laid my hand on top of hers.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like beef?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she said quietly. “I’ve just had some bad news. About a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“She was an actress,” said Anna. “Well, that’s what she called herself. Frankly, I had my doubts about that. But she was a good person. She’d had a hard life, I think. Much harder than she’d ever have admitted to. And now she’s dead. She couldn’t have been more than thirty-six.” Anna smiled ruefully. “I guess it doesn’t get much harder than that, does it?”

“Isabel Pekerman,” I said.

Anna looked shocked. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Never you mind. Just tell me what happened.”

“After you telephoned this morning, I got a call from Hannah. A mutual friend. Hannah has the apartment upstairs from Isabel. It’s in the Once. That’s the barrio officially known as Balvanera. Historically, it’s where the city’s Jews used to live. Still do, quite a few of them. Anyway, she was found dead this morning. By Hannah. She was in the bath with her wrists cut, as if she’d committed suicide.”

“ ‘As if’?”