A Quiet Flame

I smiled. “What about your sister-in-law?”

“To be really honest with you, my sister-in-law I can live without. I never understood why Roman married her. And we never got along that well. Are you married, señor?”

“Have been. Not anymore.”

“Well, at least you know what you’re doing without.”

I pushed another coin into the telephone. “Right now, I’m in danger of going without speaking to your daughter. That was my last five centavos.”

“All right, all right. That’s the trouble with you Germans. You’ve always got a reason to be in a hurry.” He laid the receiver down with a clunk, and a long minute later, Anna came on the line.

“What did you say to my father?”

“There’s really no time to explain. I want you to meet me at President Perón Station in half an hour.”

“Couldn’t it be tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow’s no good. I might have a hospital appointment tomorrow. Maybe the day after as well.” I quickly lit a cigarette. “Look, just be here as soon as you can. I’ll wait by the Belgrano platform.”

“Can’t you tell me anything?”

“Wear some old clothes. And bring a flashlight. Two, if you have them. And a flask of coffee. We’re liable to be a while.”

“But where are we going?”

“To do a little digging.”

“You’re scaring me. Maybe I should bring a pick and shovel, too.”

“No, angel, not with those lovely hands of yours. Take it easy. We’re not looking to dig anyone up. We’re just going to dig around in some old immigration files and it’s liable to get a little dusty, that’s all.”

“I’m very relieved to hear it. For a minute I thought—I mean, I’m a little bit squeamish about digging up dead bodies. Especially at night.”

“I hear that normally that’s the best time to do that kind of thing. Even the dead aren’t paying much attention.”

“This is Buenos Aires, Señor Hausner. The dead are always paying attention in Buenos Aires. That’s why we built La Recoleta. So we wouldn’t forget it. Death is a way of life for us.”

“You’re talking to a German, angel. When we invented the SS, we had the last word in death cults, believe me.” The phone began to demand more money. “And that was my last five centavos. So get your beautiful behind over here, like I told you.”

“Yes, sir.”

I put down the receiver. I regretted involving Anna. There was some risk in what I was planning. But I couldn’t think of anyone else who might have helped me to understand whatever documents were being stored in the Hotel de Inmigrantes. Then again, she was involved. It was her aunt and uncle we were looking for. She wasn’t paying me enough to take all of the risks on my own. And since she wasn’t paying me anything at all, she could damn well come along for the ride and like it. I was of two minds about her calling me “sir” like that. It made me feel like someone worthy of respect by virtue of my age. Which was something, I told myself, I was going to have to get used to. As long as I was getting older. That was okay. You had to remain alive to get older.

I bought some more cigarettes, a Prensa, and a copy of the Argentinisches Tageblatt—the only German-language newspaper it was safe to read, in the sense that it didn’t mark you out as a Nazi. But the main reason for going into the station was the knife shop. Mostly, the blades were for tourists: bone-handled cutlery for chartered surveyors and accountants who fancied themselves as gauchos or street-fighting tango-dancers. A few of the less spectacular knives looked about right for what I had in mind. I bought two: a long, thin stiletto for pushing right through a keyway and tripping the catch within a lock housing, and something bigger for jimmying a window. I tucked the big one under my belt, in the small of my back, gaucho style, and slipped the little stiletto inside my breast pocket. When the shop clerk shot me a look, I smiled benignly and said, “I like to be well armed when my sister comes to dinner.”

He’d have looked a lot more surprised if he’d seen my shoulder holster.

Half an hour passed. Forty-five minutes turned into an hour. I’d just started to curse Anna when, finally, she showed up, wearing an ensemble of old clothes supplied by Edith Head. A nice plaid shirt, neatly pressed jeans, a tailored tweed jacket, a pair of flat heels, and a large leather handbag. And too late, I realized my mistake. Telling a woman like Anna to come out wearing old clothes was like telling Berenson to frame a great painting with firewood. I guessed she had probably changed her clothes several times just to make sure that the old clothes she had on were the best old clothes she could have chosen to wear. Not that it mattered what she was wearing. Anna Yagubsky would have looked wonderful wearing half a pantomime horse.

She eyed the Belgrano train uncertainly.

“Are we taking the train somewhere?”