A Quiet Flame

“Now you sound like my father. No, wait. I think you’re a little older than he is.”

And then she left.

I FINISHED what was left of the bottle and went to the Casa Rosada, to look through all the information Montalbán had given me about Old Comrades in Argentina. But there was nothing about a Hans Kammler. But then neither was there anything about Otto Skorzeny. Apparently, some old comrades were beyond suspicion. Later on, I telephoned Geller to let him know I was coming back to Tucumán and to ask if I might borrow his jeep.

“Are you planning to visit Ricardo again?” he asked. “Because he still hasn’t quite forgiven me for telling you where he lives.” Geller laughed. “I don’t think he likes you.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“By the way, you were asking about bastards who give us bastards a bad name. You’ll never guess who showed up here the other day. Otto Skorzeny.”

“Is he working for Capri, too?”

“That’s the funny thing. He’s not. At least, not according to my records, anyway.”

“See if you can find out what he’s doing there,” I said. “And while you’re at it, see what you can find out about a man called Hans Kammler.”

“Kammler? Never heard of him.”

“He was a general in the SS, Pedro.”

Geller groaned.

“What’s the matter?”

“Why ever did I agree to the name Pedro?” he said. “Every time I hear it, I wince. It’s a peasant’s name. It makes me think I probably smell of horseshit.”

“Not so as you’d notice, Pedro. Not in Tucumán. Everything in Tucumán smells of horseshit.”

In the evening I drove to the railway station. As usual, the place was full of people, many of them Indians from Paraguay and Bolivia and easily identifiable in their colorful blankets and bowler hats. At first, I didn’t see her standing at the head of the Mitre line platform. She was wearing a sensible two-piece woolen suit, gloves, and a scarf. By her shapely leg was a small valise and in her hand was a ticket. She appeared to be waiting for me.

“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.

“I might say that this is a free country, except that it’s not,” she said.

“You really think you’re coming to Tucumán?”

“That’s what it says on my ticket.”

“I told you before. This is dangerous.”

“My heart is in my mouth.” She shrugged. “Everything’s dangerous when you read the small print, Gunther. Sometimes it’s a good idea not to bring your glasses. Besides, these are my relatives, not yours. Always supposing you have such things as relatives.”

“Didn’t I tell you? They found me under a rock.”

“It figures. You have a number of rocklike qualities.”

“Then I guess I can hardly stop you, angel.”

“It might be fun to see you try.”

“All right.” I let out a sigh. “I know when I’m beaten.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Have you been to Tucumán before?”

“I never saw the point of spending twenty-three hours on a train just to end up in a flea-bitten dump. That’s what everyone says, anyway. That there are just a couple of churches and what passes for a university.”

“That, and a couple of million acres of sugarcane.”

“You make it sound like I’ve been missing something.”

“No, but I have.” I took her in my arms and kissed her. “I hope you’ve got a sweet tooth. A million acres is an awful lot of sugar.”

“After what I said to you at lunchtime, I could use a little sweetening, don’t you think?”

“You’ve got twenty-three hours to make it up to me.”

“Then it’s lucky I brought some cards.”

“We’d better get on the train.” I picked up her bag and we walked along the platform, past vending trolleys laden with food and drink for passengers to take on board. We bought as much as we could carry and found ourselves a compartment. Minutes later, the train started to move out of the station. But after half an hour we still weren’t going much faster than an old lady on a bicycle.

“It’s no wonder it takes twenty-three hours,” I complained. “At these speeds.”

“The British built the railways,” she explained. “Until Perón came along, they owned them, too.”

“That doesn’t explain why they go so slowly.”

“The railroads weren’t built for people,” she said. “They were built for the transportation of cattle.”

“And here was me thinking that it was only the Germans who had mastered the art of transporting people like cattle.”

“Hmm. Were you always this cynical?”

“No. I used to be a twinkle in my father’s eye. You should have seen me then. I could light up a room from twenty feet.”

“Your father sounds like quite a man.”

“He had his turn.”

“Ruthless as well as cynical. Like all SS men.”

“How would you know? I’ll bet I’m the first SS man you ever met.”

“I certainly never expected to like kissing one.”

“I never expected to be one, that’s for sure. Do you want me to tell you about it? We’ve got plenty of time.”

“What about our no-questions deal?”

“No, I think it’s time you knew something about me. Just in case I get killed.”

“You’re saying that just to try to scare me. Forget it. These days I even sleep with the light out.”

“Do you want me to tell you, or not?”