The door opened, and Antonio announced, “Señor Clete, el Coronel Perón is on the line.”
Clete could see no reaction on the priest’s face. He walked to a telephone and picked it up. Just in time, he stopped himself from saying “mi Coronel.” “Tío Juan,” Clete said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
If I sound as insincere as I feel, he’s going to know just how pleased I really am.
“So you two didn’t go to Bariloche, to Llao Llao, as you announced you would,” Perón said. “That was very naughty of you, Cletus, but under the circumstances probably a very wise thing to do.”
“How did you find out about that?” Clete asked.
“I called out there,” Perón said. “I really had to talk to you.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I took a chance, and Antonio told me you were expected within the hour.”
That’ll be the last time you’ll tell this bastard anything about me, Antonio.
“Well, I’m glad you tried here. What’s up?”
“Ambassador von Lutzenberger is giving a reception tonight—eight o’clock at the Plaza Hotel—in honor of Deputy Foreign Minister von Löwzer and Generalmajor von Deitzberg.”
“Oh, really?”
Something touched his arm, and he looked. Welner was offering him a glass of Champagne.
“And I really think you—and, of course, Dorotéa—should attend.”
“If I may speak frankly, Tío Juan,” Clete said. “I have two problems with that….”
Welner jabbed him painfully in the ribs with his index finger. Clete glowered at him.
“Which are, Cletus?” Perón asked.
“First, I’m on my honeymoon; and second, we haven’t been invited, so far as I know.”
“There will be invitations at the door,” Perón said. “I thought the three of us could go together.”
Welner jabbed Clete again, not quite so hard as the first time, and when Clete looked at him, nodded his head “yes.”
“That would be very nice, if it’s convenient for you,” Clete said.
Welner nodded approvingly.
“And I would like to have a few words with you privately,” Perón said. “Before we go to the Plaza.”
“You mean this afternoon?”
“What are your plans for this afternoon?”
“Dorotéa’s going to the doctor….”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?” Perón asked.
There was something in his voice that caused Clete to think, I’ll be damned. The bastard sounds genuinely concerned.
“Just checking in with her obstetrician,” Clete said.
“Good,” Perón said. “A young woman, a delicate young woman like Dorotéa, cannot be too careful during her first pregnancy.”