He nodded, and started to walk past her. She stepped into his path, threw her arms around him, and kicked the door closed.
“Peter, I can’t live without you!” she said against his chest.
“Ich liebe dich, meine hartz,” he said, close to tears. I love you, my heart.
She pushed away far enough to look up at him.
“If I kiss you, we would never get out of my room,” she said.
He kissed her forehead, gently took her hands from his arms, opened the door, and started walking down the corridor to the dining room.
[TWO]
“Over here, darling!” Señora Beatrice Frade de Duarte cried happily when she saw Peter and Alicia come into the dining.* She was sitting immediately beside Claudia Carzino-Cormano at the head of the table, and had made a place for Peter between herself and her husband. Seated across from her was a ruddy-faced, silver-haired Irishman, Monsignor Patrick Kelly, the Duarte family priest. Beside him was Isabela Carzino-Cormano, Alicia’s older sister, a very beautiful, black-haired young woman of twenty-two. Beside her was a tall, handsome young Argentine Peter did not know. He was obviously another houseguest, Isabela’s, to judge by the fact that they were both dressed in riding clothing. Across from him sat Dr. Manuel Sporazzo, a middle-aged, well-dressed man whom Peter knew to be Beatrice Frade de Duarte’s psychiatrist. The empty place beside him was obviously Alicia’s.
Peter obeyed the summons, as Alicia made her way to the place set for her.
“How nice to see you, Peter,” Claudia said.
“Señora Carzino-Cormano, I again thank you for your kind invitation,” Peter said, clicking his heels and bowing his head to her.
“Don’t be absurd,” Claudia said. “You are always welcome here, Peter.”
“Buenas tardes, Señorita Isabela,” Peter said, repeating the heel clicking and bowing to her, and then repeating the gesture to Monsignor Kelly and Dr. Sporazzo. “Padre, Doctor.”
“How nice to see you, Major von Wachtstein,” Isabela said very formally, almost coldly.
“I don’t believe you know Antonio—Tony—Pellechea, do you, Peter?” Claudia said.
“I have not had the honor,” Peter said, and clicked his heels and bowed his head again.
The young Argentine rose halfway from his seat and offered Peter his hand.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen an airplane like yours before,” Pellechea said. “What is it?”
“It’s a Fieseler Storch. What we call an ‘Army Cooperation’ airplane.”
“My Jorge was riding in one just like it when God called him to heaven to be with Him and the Holy Angels,” Beatrice announced brightly. “Isn’t that so, Peter?”
Tony Pellechea looked at her in amazement. Isabela looked embarrassed.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Peter said.
“Please sit down, Peter,” Claudia said. “We’re having a simple lomo”—filet mignon—“I hope that’s all right.”
“I am second to no man in my appreciation of Argentina beef,” Peter said.
Claudia chuckled.
“Is that the diplomat speaking?” she asked.
“The man, Señora,” Peter said.
Beatrice Frade de Duarte was not through: “Since Peter brought our Jorge home, Tony,” she said, making it sound as if they had shared a taxi, “he’s become almost a member of the family. Not almost—he has become family. Isn’t that so, Humberto?”
“Yes, indeed,” Humberto agreed.
“You are too kind, Señora,” Peter said.