as she seemed on the staircase. She was past thirty; comfortably past. And
she seemed aware of his inspection, the approbation – or lack of it –
unimportant to her.
‘Oh, it’s all right for a limited stay. You can’t get anything else on that
basis, not if you’re American. But it’s small.’
Her handshake was firm, almost masculine, thought Spaulding. ‘I appreciate
your taking the trouble. I’m sorry to have caused it.’
‘No one else here could have gotten you anything but a hotel,’ said
Ballard, touching the girl’s shoulder; was the contact protective? wondered
David. ‘The portehos trust Mother Cameron. Not the rest of us.’
‘Portefios,’ said Jean in response to Spaulding’s questioning expression,
‘are the people who live in BA …..
‘And BA – don’t tell me – stands for Montevideo,’ replied David.
‘Aw, they sent us a bright one,’ said Ballard.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ continued Jean. ‘Everyone in the American and
English settlements calls it BA. Montevideo, of course,’ she added,
smiling. ‘I think we see it so often on reports, we just do it
automatically!
‘Wrong,’ interjected Ballard. ‘The vowel juxtaposition in “Buenos Aires” is
uncomfortable for British speech.’
‘That’s something else you’ll learn during your stay, Mr. Spaulding,’ said
Jean Cameron, looking affectionately at Ballard. ‘Be careful offering
opinions around Bobby. He has a penchant for disagreeing!
‘Never so,’ answered the cryp. ‘I simply care enough for my fellow
prisoners to want to enlighten them. Prepare them for the outside when they
get paroled.’
I “Well, I’ve got a temporary pass right now, and if I don’t get over to the
ambassador’s office, he’ll start on that damned address system…. Welcome
again, Mr. Spaulding.’
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‘Please. The names David! ,
-‘Nfine’s Jean. Bye,’ said the girl, dashing down the hallway, calling back
to Ballard. ‘Bobby? You’ve got the address and the key? For … David’s
place?’
‘Yep. Go get irresponsibly drunk, I’ll handle everything!
Jean Cameron disappeared through a door in the right wall.
‘She’s very attractive,’ said Spaulding, ‘and you two are good friends. I
should apologize for. . .’
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ interrupted Ballard. ‘Nothing to apologize for. You
formed a quick judgment on isolated facts. I’d’ve done the same, thought
the same. Not that you’ve changed your mind; no reason to, really!
‘She’s right. You disagree … before you know what you’re disagreeing to;
and then you debate your disagreement. And if you go on, you’ll probably
challenge your last position!
‘You know what? I can follow that. Isn’t it frightening?’
‘You guys are a separate breed,’ said David, chuckling, following Ballard
beyond the stairs into a smaller corridor.
‘Let’s take a quick look at your Siberian cubicle and then head over to
your other cell. It’s on C6rdoba; we’re on Corrientes. It’s about ten
minutes from here.’
David thanked Bobby Ballard once again and shut the apartment door. He had
pleaded exhaustion from the trip, preceded by too much welcome home in New
York – and God knew that was the truth – and would Ballard take a raincheck
for dinner?
Alone now, he inspected the apartment; it wasn’t intolerable at all. It was
small: a bedroom, a sitting room-kitchen, and a bath. But there was a
dividend Jean Cameron hadn9t mentioned. The rooms were on the first floor,
and at the rear was a tiny brickleveled patio surrounded by a tall concrete
wall, profuse with hanging vines and drooping flowers from immense pots on
the ledge. In the center of the enclosure was a gnarled fruit-bearing tree
he could not identify; around the trunk were three ropewebbed chairs that
had seen better days but looked extremely comfortable. As far as he was
concerned, the dividend made the dwelling.
Ballard had pointed out that his section of the Avenida C6rdoba was just
over the borderline from the commercial area, the ‘downtown’ complex of
Buenos Aires. Quasi residential, yet near enough to stores and restaurants
to be easy for a newcomer.
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David picked up the telephone; the dial tone was delayed but eventually
there. He replaced it and walked across the small room to the refrigerator,
an American Sears Roebuck. He opened it and smiled. The Cameron girl had
provided – or had somebody provide – several basic items: milk, butter,
bread, eggs, coffee. Then happily he spotted two bottles of wine: an Orfila
tinto and a Col6n blanco. He closed the refrigerator and went back into the
bedroom.
He unpacked his single suitcase, unwrapping a bottle of Scotch, and
remembered that he’d have to buy additional clothes in the morning. Ballard
had offered to go with him to a men’s shop in the Calle Florida – if his
goddamned dials weren’t ‘humming.’ He placed the books Eugene Lyons had
given him on the bedside table. He had gone through two of them; he was
beginning to gain confidence in the aerophysicists’ language. He would need
comparable studies * in German to be really secure. He would cruise around
the bookshops in the German settlement tomorrow; he wasn’t looking for
definitive texts, just enough to understand the terms. It was really a
minor part of his assignment, he understood that.
Suddenly, David remembered Walter Kendall. Kendall was either in Buenos
Aires by now or would be arriving within hours. The accountant had left the
United States at approximately the same time he had, but Kendall’s flight
from New York was more direct, with far fewer stopovers.
He wondered whether it would be feasible to go out to the airport and trace
Kendall. If he hadn’t arrived, he could wait for him; if he had, it would
be simple enough to check the hotels -according to Ballard there were only
three or four good ones.
On the other hand, any additional time – more than absolutely essential –
spent with the manipulating accountant was not a pleasant prospect. Kendall
would be upset at finding him in Buenos Aires before he’d given the order
to Swanson. Kendall, no doubt, would demand explanations beyond those David
wished to give; probably send angry cables to an already strungout
brigadier general.
There were no benefits in hunting down Walter Kendall until Kendall
expected to find him. Only liabilities.
He had other things to do: the unfocused picture. He could begin that
search far better alone.
David walked back into the living room-kitchen carrying the
225
Scotch and took out a tray of ice from the refrigerator. He made himself a
drink and looked over at the double doors leading to his miniature patio. He
would spend a few quiet twilight moments in the January summertime breeze of
Buenos Aires.
The sun was fighting its final descent beyond the city; the last orange
rays were filtering through the thick foliage of the unidentified fruit
tree. Underneath, David stretched his legs and leaned back in the
rope-webbed chair. He realized that if he kept his eyes closed for any
length of time, they would not reopen for a number of hours. He had to
watch that; long experience in the field had taught him to eat something
before sleeping. :
Eating had long since lost its pleasure for him – it was merely a necessity
directly related to his energy level. He wondered if the pleasure would
ever come back; whether so much he had put aside would return. Lisbon had
probably the best accommodations – food, shelter, comfort – of all the
major cities, excepting New York, on both continents. And now he was on a
third continent, in a city that boasted undiluted luxury.
But for him it was the field – as much as was the north country in Spain.
As much as Basque and Navarre, and the freezing nights in the Galician
hills or the sweat-prone silences in ravines, waiting for patrols – waiting
to kill.
So much. So alien.
He brought his head forward, took a long drink from the glass and let his
neck arch back into the frame of the chair. A small bird was chattering
away in the midsection of the tree, annoyed at his intrusion. It reminded
David of how he would listen for such birds in the north country. They
telegraphed the approach of men unseen, often falling into different
rhythms that he began to identify – or thought he identified – with the
numbers of the unseen, approaching patrols.
Then David realized that the small chattering bird was not concerned with
him. It hopped upward, still screeching its harsh little screech, only
faster now, more strident.
There was someone else.
Through half-closed eyes, David focused above, beyond the foliage. He did
so without moving any part of his body or head, as if the last moments were
approaching before sleep took over.
The apartment house had four stories and a roof that appeared to have a
gentle slope covered in a terra-cotta tile of sorts -brownish pink in
color. The windows of the rooms above him
226
were mostly open to the breezes off the Rio de la Plata. He could hear