In 1944 a secret meeting of top German industrialists and bankers was held at the Maison Rouge Hotel in Strasbourg. It had become clear that the Third Reich would not survive the war, and their new aim was to ensure the safety of their Nazi leaders, along with Germany’s wealth. The future resurrection of the party depended on safeguarding the nation’s assets, much of which had been acquired through plunder, and aiding Nazi officials in their escape to havens outside the country, where they would be safe from prosecution for war crimes.
The meeting led to the genesis of a highly efficient organisation which, following the war, would be called the Organisation Der Ehemaligen SS-Angehörigen, or ‘the Organisation of Former SS Members’, but which would become widely known as ‘Odessa’.
The organisation’s basic plans were quickly set in place. By the end of the year, funds were arranged, safe houses set up, false identities available, and escape routes devised.
Klaus Henkel had opted to escape rather than remain hidden in Germany and, as a highly valued doctor and committed Nazi, he’d been among those to receive preferential treatment. He had obtained funds, the false identity of Catholic priest Father Paul Brummer and explicit instructions on the two principal escape routes.
He was to make his way to a major Italian seaport, he’d been informed, and he could get there by either Switzerland or Austria. Once in Italy he would be relatively safe, but he would have to remain there under an assumed identity until his passage to South America had been arranged.
Klaus had chosen his escape via Austria, deciding that, if he was to be captured en route, he would prefer it to be by the Allied Forces advancing from the south, rather than by the Russians. The Austrian route, he’d been told, was through the small Bavarian town of Memmingen. From there he was to make for Innsbruck, then over the Brenner Pass into Italy and south to the port of Genoa where a sea passage would be arranged for him.
It had all been ludicrously easy, Klaus thought. The priest’s cassock, which he’d at first detested, had proved the perfect disguise. People didn’t look at a priest, he’d discovered, all they saw were the robes, not the man.
‘Good morning, Father,’ they’d said as he stepped onto the train.
‘Good afternoon, Father,’ they’d said as he alighted at his destination several hours later.
He’d smiled beatifically and waved small blessings at them; he’d found it rather humorous. A war was in progress, he’d thought, and yet it appeared he could travel the whole of Europe unquestioned, simply because he was a man of the cloth. How extraordinary.
But he’d had a rude awakening in the alpine town of Innsbruck.
He arrived in the afternoon. It was late December, the height of the skiing season, and the township was crowded.
Again, Klaus was amazed. Holiday-makers, in the midst of a war? And not just locals either – he could hear other dialects and accents. He didn’t approve at all. He considered it improper.
He booked into a modest hotel, their last room. He was lucky, the girl told him.
‘It’s the height of the season, Father.’
‘Is it indeed?’ he said archly, and the girl gave him a strange look, so he waved her a blessing and said, ‘Thank you, my child.’
The following morning was bitterly cold. An icy wind swept down from the mountains and, to the disappointment of the skiers, the chairlifts were closed due to the unseasonal gale which was expected.
Klaus lounged over a newspaper and mid-morning coffee and cake in one of the cosy cafes before he was to catch the midday train. Soon he would be in Italy. How easy it had been, he thought. But as he was crossing the square on his way to the railway station, he heard his name called.
‘Klaus! Klaus Henkel!’
The voice was coming from behind him, and he curbed his instinct to run. Then a hand patted him on the shoulder, and he turned.
‘Klaus, I was sure it was you, I saw you in the cafe, but I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know you’d embraced the priesthood …’
The man was in his early thirties and Klaus recognised him. Koenig, he thought, although he couldn’t remember the first name. Koenig had been at university with him in Munich in the early thirties. An insignificant young man, he vaguely recalled, one who’d tried too hard, and unsuccessfully, to be liked.
Klaus decided that his best option was to bluff it out. He looked at Koenig blankly.
‘… I mean, you of all people,’ Koenig continued with a comradely chuckle. He was still trying too hard, Klaus noted. ‘You cared for nothing but athletics and politics, if I recall.’
‘I am sorry,’ Klaus said in Italian, his expression one of bewilderment. ‘Do you perhaps mistake me for someone else? I do not understand you.’
Koenig was dumbfounded by the response. It was also apparent that he did not speak Italian.
‘Forgive me.’ Klaus smiled apologetically, then added in stumbling and heavily accented German, ‘Ich kann nicht Deutsch sprechen. I am afraid I can be of no assistance to you,’ he said, again in Italian.
‘Oh.’ Koenig backed away in his confusion. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but you look so like someone I once knew.’ Embarrassed though he was, he continued to study Klaus quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. ‘Please excuse me.’
Klaus smiled again, benignly this time. ‘God bless you, my son,’ he said in Italian and, with his by now well-practised priestly wave, he walked off, leaving Koenig staring after him in amazement.
But he did not go to the railway station – he did not dare. He’d been too complacent, he realised, he could no longer afford to travel the easy way, leaving an identifiable trail behind him.
It had become difficult after that. Cutting across country by foot, avoiding the larger towns as he headed south, stealing food where he could and sheltering in farmhouse barns. He was strong and in peak physical condition, but the weather was not kind, and once, in Chiusa, desperate for warmth and sustenance, he’d stayed overnight in the small village inn. He had been prepared to kill the innkeeper should there be any show of suspicion, but there had been none. The innkeeper had been honoured to have a priest staying under his roof.
Nonetheless, Klaus knew that when he reached the major cities of Milan and, more importantly, Genoa, where he might have to bide some time awaiting his passage to South America, he would need a new identity. The encounter with Koenig had shaken him and he doubted whether once the man had overcome his surprise, he had believed the case of mistaken identity. It was only a matter of time before Klaus Henkel would officially be a wanted man, and when he was, Koenig, who had no loyalty to the party, would most certainly report his sighting.
Then he had come upon the remote and secluded peasants’ hut, several miles from the village of Tirano. The timing had been perfect: he’d been exhausted and in need of a safe house where he could rest and see out the worst of the winter. He’d noted, too, that the peasant goatherd was approximately his own age and height and, once he got to know the family, that his papers were in order and easily accessible. It was a heaven-sent opportunity.
They were simple people, devout and trusting, and when they’d served their purpose he dispatched them with ease – all but the boy, whose absence had been an irritating glitch. Not that the boy constituted a threat, he’d thought as he’d set off on his long trek to Milan. The boy was ill, an epileptic, he would no doubt perish up there in the snow without the support of his parents. But Klaus would have preferred to have finished it all off tidily; he didn’t like loose ends.
He’d reached the sprawling outer suburbs of Milan on the first of May, and had been shocked when he’d heard the news. Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in his Berlin bunker just the previous day. Klaus had mourned the death of his Führer as he’d skirted the city and headed south to Genoa. Then, barely a week later, when Germany had unconditionally surrendered, he’d mourned the death of the Third Reich.
Upon reaching the city of Genoa, he’d found it easy to disappear. There, in the tough, seething seaport, life was cheap and people cared little for the business of others. He had sought out the contact he’d been given and then he’d booked into a small pensione not far from the docks, and become just a part of the mass of humanity as he’d awaited his passage to South America.
More than one third of Argentina’s population lived in or around the sprawling metropolis of Buenos Aires on the south-eastern coast of the continent. The vibrant and cosmopolitan city stood apart from other Latin American cities because of the diversity of its architecture, which reflected its European heritage. In the barrios of El Centro and La Recoleta, parks and boulevards lined with palatial mansions evoked Rome. In Palermo and Belgrano, the plazas were reminiscent of those in Paris, and in the barrios of San Telmo and La Boca, the cobblestone streets and rows of bars, cafes and cantinas had a distinctly Italian feel.
The Buenos Aires locals, predominantly of Spanish and Italian extraction, referred to themselves as Portenos, their predecessors having originally settled in the port area following their arrival from Europe by boat. But the Portenos had long since created new barrios, each with its own character and history, and it was here that the true identity of the city existed. The essence of Buenos Aires did not lie in the beauty or diversity of its architecture, but in the fierce Latin spirit of its people. The Portenos were intensely passionate, and the very air of the city was charged with their restless energy.
For Klaus Henkel, Buenos Aires had proved far more than a temporary safe haven. He had discovered a whole new life in this vibrant city, in this country which so differed from his German homeland. The months became a year, and he wallowed in the sensuality of Buenos Aires. He loved the heat of its climate, the slow fire of its music, the spiciness of its food and its hot-blooded women. He embraced a newfound hedonism, frequenting nightclubs in San Telmo and entertaining prostitutes at his lavish apartment in La Recoleta. Having quickly assimilated the language, he felt that he’d become one of the locals in this city so given to pleasure, where he could be free from the Teutonic discipline that had governed his existence from the earliest days of his childhood.
During the day, he maintained the respectable facade of Doctor Umberto Pellegrini, the identity supplied for him by the now well-established and highly efficient organisation known as Odessa – and the cover provided for him had proved to be impeccable. Doctor Pellegrini was a dedicated practitioner who worked at the Rosario Medical Clinic, a charitable institution offering medical assistance to the disadvantaged.
The clinic, in the port area of La Boca, was to all intents and purposes funded by the Catholic Church, and indeed, had the Bishop of Buenos Aires been questioned, he would have affirmed the authenticity of such a claim in accordance with his instructions from Rome. In reality, the clinic was not funded by the Catholic Church, but by Odessa, and although the treatment on offer was bona fide, the centre itself served a purpose far broader than medical assistance for the neighbourhood poor.
An escape route for German war criminals known as ‘The Monastery Route’ had been operating successfully for the past twelve months. Odessa smuggled the fugitives across the unpatrolled Swiss borders into Italy, after which they were moved by Roman Catholic priests from one monastery to the next until they reached Rome. There, Bishop Alois Hudal, the Rector of the College of Santa Maria dell’ Anima, had created a virtual transit station for escaping Nazis. New identities and Red Cross passports were supplied, and from Santa Maria dell’ Anima the fugitives were dispersed around the globe, particularly to South America where German agents, industry and commerce were well established.
The German General Staff, driven by imperialism, had set up operations in South America many years before Hitler took power in Germany. New industrial plants had been established throughout the Americas, especially in Argentina, which had become the chief focus of German intrigue in South America. By the end of the war, German agents had gained control of mines, banks, railroads, aviation lines, and chemical and steel works. By 1946, under the leadership of its new pro-Nazi president, General Juan Perón, Argentina’s munitions industry was virtually controlled by the German industrial conglomerate I.G. Farben. The German war strategists had planned well ahead, and with the vast accumulation of Nazi wealth safely deposited in Swiss bank accounts, they could steadily build their underground network in preparation for the future rise of the Fourth Reich.
As an Odessa centre, the Rosario Medical Clinic served an important purpose in the overall scheme, and its dedicated director, Doctor Fritz von Halbach, had welcomed Klaus Henkel’s arrival in Buenos Aires. Henkel, one of the first of the SS to escape, was a committed Nazi and a qualified doctor and would prove a valuable member of the team. Furthermore, the man’s ease with the Italian language was most convenient, as it enabled the director to choose a non-German alias for Klaus. Fritz von Halbach believed the image of the clinic should be that of an international body of dedicated people working for the common good of the poor.
Klaus had not previously met von Halbach in person, but he’d known of him by reputation for years. Everyone in Berlin society did. Doctor Fritz von Halbach was an eminent plastic surgeon who, prior to the war, had catered to film stars and the moneyed elite. His picture had regularly appeared in the press: urbane, handsome, wealthy and feted, he was of unimpeachable character and had never been associated with the SS. But among the hierarchy Fritz von Halbach had been well known as an avid Nazi supporter. It had been a lesser known fact that, mingling as he did with the rich and famous, he’d been a valued agent of the German General Staff. And he’d proved his loyalty by abandoning his highly successful practice in Berlin to set up a clinic in Buenos Aires which would serve as part of the underground network a full year before Germany’s final defeat. Fritz was a man with the future in mind, and a man who believed that the power of the Fourth Reich would emanate from Argentina.
‘It was well planned,’ Fritz said thoughtfully. ‘He must have bribed a guard to smuggle the cyanide capsule into the prison.’
‘Clever,’ Klaus agreed, and he nodded, feigning interest. The news of Hermann Goering’s suicide that very morning had meant little to him. ‘The others will no doubt be envying his escape.’
They were seated in the comfortable armchairs of Fritz’s office having a Cognac, as they occasionally did at the end of a work day when Fritz felt in need of a chat. The spacious office, with a lounge area and a bar in the corner, was at the rear of the clinic, well away from the public surgery, dispensary and consulting rooms. It was private and soundproof and housed a separate bedroom and bathroom, occasionally serving as Fritz’s quarters, although he maintained a modest apartment nearby. Clandestine meetings were sometimes conducted in the office, but the majority of Odessa business took place upstairs above the clinic where the first floor, complete with offices and a private surgery and operating theatre for Nazi use only, was a hive of activity. Few were invited into the personal domain of Fritz von Halbach. But Fritz made an exception for Klaus. Klaus Henkel was the only man at the clinic whom he considered his intellectual equal.
‘Yes, I’m sure they would have preferred a more dignified end.’ Fritz scowled as he poured himself a second hefty Cognac. ‘Von Ribbentrop, Streicher, Keitel, Sauckel and the others, they’re to be hanged like common criminals. And in a gymnasium, I believe. Where the Americans were playing basketball only days ago! Two gallows to be used alternately. The indignity of it – it’s disgraceful!’
Klaus gave another sombre nod, as if he cared. For the past week, the world headlines had been screaming that the twelve found guilty were to be hanged. He hadn’t heard Fritz’s inside information about the gymnasium or the twin gallows, but what did it matter? If a man was hanged he was hanged. Who cared where or how it took place? Fritz was obsessed with the Nuremberg trial, and Klaus was bored. It was October 1946, and the trial of the major war criminals, or rather those who had been captured and indicted, had been dragging on for nearly a year now. This was only the beginning, he thought – there would be other trials to follow, and they could go on for many years to come. There’d be dozens more found guilty – it was a foregone conclusion – and they’d all be executed, which was a pity because they’d only been doing their duty. But what was the point in talking about it?
‘And they’re soon to start on the trials of the Nazi physicians,’ Fritz continued, outraged; he’d barely drawn breath. ‘Twenty-three doctors have been charged.’
Klaus’s ears pricked up at the mention of the doctors’ trial. ‘Any further news of Josef?’ he asked. Beppo was the only one he was interested in.
‘Mengele is still in Bavaria, I believe, on a farm near Rosenheim,’ Fritz said. ‘According to the underground reports, he’s relatively safe, but the sooner we can get him to Buenos Aires the better, for his own safety and for the cause. We need men like Mengele: respected leaders; Nazis who will inspire others.’
Klaus drained his glass; Fritz had lost him again. He preferred it when they discussed football – both were avid followers – or even their respective patients and medicine in general; Klaus enjoyed his work at the clinic and valued the expertise of Fritz’s opinion. But tonight the man’s mood was obviously one of ideological fervour, as it quite often was, so Klaus picked up the bottle that sat on the coffee table between them and poured himself another Cognac. He’d get a bit drunk and let Fritz rant for a while, he thought, then he’d go to Oswaldo’s and find himself a whore for the night.
True to form, Fritz did rant. The talk of Nuremberg and the mention of Mengele had wound him up.
‘It is the duty of men like us, Klaus,’ he declared, ‘men like you and me and Mengele, to fulfil the Führer’s prophecy and pave the way for the Nazi Fifth Column in the Western Hemisphere. Universal chaos will consume the world, just as Hitler prophesied, and it will emanate from right here in Argentina where they hate the United States.’
He rose to pace the room, one hand behind his back, the other gesticulating with his brandy balloon. Klaus noted that, for all his elegance, Fritz’s behaviour on occasions was reminiscent of the Führer himself.
‘When Goebbels pronounced that Argentina had the power to form a union of the South American nations,’ he continued unabated, ‘Juan Perón, as War Minister, openly agreed, and now that he’s President, we must ensure that a South American alliance remains his personal ambition. To the Allied nations, and the world at large, Germany appears crushed, and those who believe they have vanquished us forever are relishing the publicity of the Nuremberg trial …’
Fritz skolled his Cognac in one hit, fired anew by his anger over the latest reports from Berlin.
‘… but the indignity and the wrongful retribution afforded our leaders will be of no consequence in the end. If we have Perón in our pocket and work together for the common cause, the consolidation of Allied victory itself will be meaningless. When class is set against class and nation against nation, chaos will reign as the Führer said it would, and Germany will rise again in all its military force.’
Fritz was more passionate than ever tonight, Klaus thought. Goering’s suicide and the fate of the others had obviously affected him deeply.
Klaus did not share Fritz von Halbach’s fervour. The Reich was as dead as its condemned leaders, in his opinion, and Fritz’s plans for the future meant nothing to him. He listened attentively nonetheless, interjecting now and then and nodding at all the right times. But, as he continued to study von Halbach, he wondered how a man of such gifted intellect, a man so good-looking, so elegant and sophisticated, could be such a pedantic bore.
In his mid-forties, Fritz von Halbach was a walking advertisement for his life’s work as a plastic surgeon. Fair-haired, blue-eyed and Aryan to the core, he was the handsomest of men and appeared in his mid-thirties. His body was fit, his skin unblemished, and Klaus had thought, upon their first meeting, that perhaps one of his peers had performed some expert surgical rejuvenation. He’d surreptitiously searched for any telling signs, but there were none.
Klaus envied Fritz his youthful appearance. The man was over a decade his senior, and yet it was Klaus who looked the older of the two. His rapidly greying hair was successfully disguised with henna, but it was not so easy to disguise the evidence of a year’s dissipation. His skin was sallow these days, a result of the fine Cuban cigars he’d come to enjoy, and his body, in which he’d taken such pride, was thickening from a surfeit of alcohol and rich food, indulgences he’d previously denied himself. At first he’d tried to resist the impact of his lifestyle, cutting down on his excesses and physically working his body, but of late he’d abandoned all forms of self-discipline. Buenos Aires had seduced him. The hedonist had won over the disciplinarian.
‘Get on with your life, enjoy it while you can,’ the voice of the hedonist whispered to him daily. ‘You’re thirty-three years old, you’ve devoted the prime years of your youth to the Reich, you deserve the right to indulge yourself.’
He no longer attempted to resist the voice of the hedonist. It spoke the truth after all: he had served his Führer, body and soul; he had earned the right to a life of his own.
He leaned back in his chair and lit up a cigar, and he joined in the conversation for the next hour. He talked of the Reich’s history and offered views which he knew concurred with Fritz’s, even though he despised the man when he spoke of his devotion to Nazi Germany. How had Fritz von Halbach served the Reich? Had he faced death? Had he killed for his Führer? No, Klaus thought with contempt, he’d been little more than a fundraiser, a conduit to the wealthy. But he was a powerful man, and it was wise to maintain their close relationship, so Klaus played the game accordingly.
From the outset, he had found it easy to manipulate Fritz von Halbach. He’d observed the man’s two principal weaknesses. Von Halbach was vain and he was obsessed, and Klaus had indulged him on both counts, always engaging his intellect, careful not to appear obsequious. Von Halbach was an arrogant man who’d led a privileged and protected life, but he was no fool. It had been relatively simple, and at times Klaus had felt like a puppeteer. He’d rather enjoyed it.
Not tonight, he thought an hour later as he lit a second cigar. Tonight his role of puppeteer was proving tedious.
It was ten o’clock when he left.
‘Goodnight, Fritz,’ he said at the door. ‘It’s been a most pleasant evening.’
‘Goodnight, Umberto.’
Fritz was adamant that all aliases be religiously maintained. Even during the official meetings held upstairs, a man was always referred to by his new identity. If the habit was observed in private, it avoided public lapses.
When Klaus had gone, Fritz emptied the two cigar butts from the ashtray into a paper bag which he crumpled and placed in the rubbish bin, then he carefully washed out the ashtray. He didn’t smoke himself, although most of his contemporaries did. Personally, he found it a filthy habit and the smell annoyed him, but he was prepared to suffer the discomfort in exchange for Klaus’s company. It was a relief to find an intellect equal to his own; he’d been starved for conversation the past several years. And he and Klaus made such a good team, serving the cause as they did with a common fervour. Fritz was delighted that Klaus Henkel had arrived in Buenos Aires.
Klaus cut through the cramped back lanes of the working-class barrio of La Boca, passing brightly painted, multi-coloured houses with corrugated iron roofs, and poky cantinas in which families dined noisily. He always walked to the clubs and bars, leaving his recognisable red Peugeot parked at the clinic; it seemed wiser that way, and besides, he’d probably get drunk.
He turned the corner into the main street where the football stadium towered high and splendid over la Piccola Italia as La Boca was known. The stadium was the pride and joy of the barrio, and indeed of Buenos Aires. With a seating capacity of 50,000, it had been opened only seven years before and affectionately named La Bombonera because it looked like a giant chocolate box. He would go to the match with Fritz this Saturday, he thought, and then he would enjoy the man’s company. It was the one time they shared a common passion.
Fifteen minutes later, he was in the neighbouring barrio of San Telmo where the cobblestone streets teemed with revellers. Tables spilled out onto the pavements and he had to sidle past the diners. Rows of early nineteenth-century colonial buildings which had once housed affluent Spaniards were now tenements, the wealthy having long before deserted their opulent mansions. But, even in their shabbiness, the ornate stone buildings, with their arched entrances and decorative columned windows, remained impressive. In the tiny upstairs apartments, families lived cheek by jowl, but at street level, lined up competitively and touting for business, were the affluent cafes, bars, clubs and cantinas.
Klaus headed directly for Oswaldo’s. He’d frequented many tango halls and clubs during his early days in Buenos Aires when the eroticism of the music and the dance had first claimed him, but Oswaldo’s Tango Club, where the musicians were superb and where a number of the dancers were discreetly available, had become his firm favourite.
The entrance to Oswaldo’s was nondescript – two large wooden doors set in the rear of an alcove beneath the stone arch of a building. But inside was a different matter.
Klaus nodded to the doorman.
‘Buenas noches, señor,’ the man replied as he opened the doors and stepped to one side.
The music assailed Klaus’s senses as soon as he entered. On a rostrum at the far end of the wooden parquetry dance floor a seven-piece combo was playing ‘The Blue Tango’ with all the fiery passion and seductive melancholy peculiar to the tango.
‘Buenas noches, señor.’
A pretty girl in a flared peasant skirt and off-the-shoulder blouse smiled flirtatiously as she guided him to a table.
‘Buenas noches, Marie-Luisa.’
He knew her. He’d invited her home with him a number of times, but she’d always charmingly refused, so he’d given up trying. She was obviously not a ‘working girl’. But he tipped her well, encouraging her flirtatiousness, which he enjoyed.
The drinks waiter arrived and Klaus ordered a beer, feeling dehydrated from the Cognacs he’d had with Fritz and the walk from La Boca. He also ordered a whisky chaser and the mandatory bottle of cheap sparkling wine which masqueraded as champagne and which the management sold at an exorbitant price. Then he sat back and watched the couples on the dance floor.
In the garish light of day, Oswaldo’s might have looked shabby, but at night its allure was magical. The dance floor was surrounded by candlelit tables, and the slowly turning mirrorball overhead cast ever-changing patterns on the terracotta-hued walls. In each corner stood clusters of huge potted palms, indirectly lit to give a jungle-like appearance, and next to the band’s rostrum was a spangled curtain leading backstage. When an exhibition dance was announced a spotlight would hit the curtain and the girls would make a spectacular entrance.
Those on the dance floor were a mixed bunch. Professional dancers partnered men who sought out tango halls for the eroticism they offered, but there were couples who had come simply to dance. Some were young, some middle-aged, and here and there, disguised by the half-light and their own vivacity, were some who could only be described as elderly. With the exception of several of the men partnering the professional dancers, all were accomplished. It was not surprising – the modern tango had been born in Buenos Aires. A combination of the Spanish tango and the milonga – a risqué Argentine dance – it had been considered flagrantly sexual and had been socially unacceptable for years. Now it seemed everyone in Buenos Aires could dance the tango.
Which didn’t alter the power of its seduction, Klaus thought as he watched one of the professional dancers expertly guide an apparent newcomer around the floor. It was Elizabeta, a working girl who’d accompanied him home on many an occasion, and she gave him a wave over the man’s shoulder. She was an exotic-looking creature, but then they all were, with their heavy eye makeup and their lithe dancers’ bodies. And they bore themselves with a sexual arrogance, confident in their ridiculously high-heeled shoes, their strong shapely legs exposed in skirts split to the thigh.
Klaus returned the wave, and Elizabeta smiled before twirling her back to him. Her partner, inept in a sea of expertise, was startled by the speed of the movement but enjoying the feel of her groin against his.
She was doing more than guiding the man in the tango, Klaus thought, she was making love to him on the dance floor, and he was reminded of his own first experience in a tango hall. How could a dance be so erotic and yet legal, he’d wondered, and he’d been convinced that the girl was deliberately arousing him, seeking an offer. But when he’d tried to negotiate a transaction, she’d very icily put him in his place.
‘I am a dancer, señor,’ she’d said with contempt, and she’d walked away.
He’d learned to tango after that, quickly and well. It had come easily to him – he was a natural athlete, balanced and light on his feet. And he’d learned to distinguish which of the girls might be available for other activities. He would not make the same mistake twice, he’d decided – he would not have a dance hall woman look at him with contempt. He’d also learned the correct approach. He treated the dancers as if that’s what they were, dancers and not prostitutes – it was the way they liked it. And word got around that he was a generous man, one who treated women well. He rarely made a wrong judgement these days, and even if he did, he caused no offence.
‘I cannot go home with you, señor, I am married,’ a dancer might say, ‘but Annita, she likes you very much.’
To Klaus, they were all whores.
Ten minutes later, Elizabeta joined him. Close up, she was even more exotic than she’d appeared on the dance floor, her dark hair pulled back tight, highlighting her impressive cheekbones. The kohl-rimmed eyes, the blood-red silk rose behind one ear and the velvet choker about her throat created a highly theatrical effect, as was the intention. But candlelight was kind. Klaus, who had seen her in harsher lighting, knew that she was showing her age. At thirty, Elizabeta was the oldest of the dancers employed at Oswaldo’s and her days were numbered.
He poured her a glass of ‘champagne’ from the bottle that sat in its ice-bucket on the table. The management did not mind if the dancers sat with the customers, so long as the customers were generous with the ‘champagne’. Klaus looked around for the man with whom Elizabeta had been dancing, surprised that she had not joined him at his table, but she answered the question before he could ask it.
‘He does not like champagne,’ she said with a disdainful shrug. It meant that the man did not know the rules. The girls received a bonus for every bottle of ‘champagne’ a customer bought them.
Elizabeta chatted and flirted with him as she drank the wine. When she had finished the glass, he poured her another, upon which she excused herself briefly.
‘I will be back in just one minute,’ she promised, ‘you will dance with me, yes?’
‘Of course.’
She kissed him on the cheek and departed, glass in hand.
He watched, amused as she pretended to chat with one of the other girls beside a clump of palms, knowing that they were both surreptitiously tipping their wine into a pot plant. They all did it – it was amazing the plants continued to survive.
Upon her return, they danced to an excellent tango arrangement of ‘Perfidia’, after which he poured her another glass of ‘champagne’, which she took with her as she excused herself to visit the powder room, where Klaus knew she would pour her drink down the lavatory. It was all part of the game. Occasionally an irate customer would realise what was going on and make an accusation, to which the girl would respond with a fiery denial at the top of her voice and one of the bouncers would appear from nowhere to defend her. It was a humiliating experience for the customer, who either left in high dudgeon never to return, or learned that in the future he must abide by the rules.
Klaus ordered a second bottle of ‘champagne’ and danced with a number of the other girls but, two bottles later, towards the end of the evening, he returned his attention to Elizabeta. There were no new girls on tonight, which was a pity, he would have liked to have tried a new girl, and a younger one at that, but of those available Elizabeta was the most exciting in bed, so she would have to do.
They took a taxi to La Recoleta, and it was three o’clock in the morning when they pulled up outside his apartment block. A converted nineteenth-century mansion in French-style architecture, it was a handsome building with balconies overlooking the elegant Avenida Alvear.
He led her through the side entrance and up the stairs to his apartment on the second floor, and as soon as he’d turned on the lights and closed the door behind them, he started to undress.
Elizabeta was disappointed. It was going to be another of ‘those’ nights, another of the nights when he treated her like a whore. She didn’t like him when he was like this. She was not a whore, she was a dancer, and the first several times he’d brought her to his apartment he’d treated her with respect. He’d played records on his gramophone and they’d danced, and he’d talked about the music. The Comedian Harmonists were his favourite recording artists he’d told her as they’d danced to a German rendition of ‘Amapola’ which she’d found rather strange. ‘Amapola’ was a Spanish song and she hadn’t liked hearing it sung in German, but she’d nonetheless taken it as a good omen. ‘Amapola’ had always been her own special favourite and she’d fantasised about the possible implications of such a coincidence. He was handsome and rich and a gentleman, and it was not the first time Elizabeta had entertained such fantasies.
There had been no mention of money, and as he’d said goodbye at the door, he’d slipped ‘a little present’, as he called it, into her evening bag. She’d been equally gracious in her acceptance. ‘Thank you,’ she’d said, ‘you are very kind,’ and she hadn’t even looked in her evening bag until she’d left the apartment. But out in the street, when she’d counted the notes, she’d found each time that he’d been most generous.
He was still generous in the amount that he gave her, but it was no longer a ‘present’, it was a payment, and he no longer saw her to the door. These days he thrust the notes into her hand and Elizabeta had stopped deluding herself. He was just another man interested only in her body, but she wished he would treat her with a little more dignity.
She started undressing. Perhaps he wanted to make love right here in the lounge room; they’d done so before. They’d danced naked to ‘Amapola’ that very first time, and she’d fantasised that the two of them belonged together, that she lived in this luxurious home, surrounded by antique furniture and works of art, and that this man was hers. And as they’d danced she’d straddled him, taking pride in the pleasure she offered, her unspoken assurance being that he would receive such pleasure nightly if she were his.
‘In the bedroom,’ he said. Naked to the waist, he flung his shirt over a chair. ‘And don’t turn the light on,’ he added as he crossed to the gramophone which sat on the heavy oak dresser in the corner.
She obeyed, leaving the door open so that some light spilled through from the lounge room, and as she undressed and slipped naked between the sheets, she heard the music. The Comedian Harmonists again, but this time it was ‘Barcarole’. She wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d played ‘Barcarole’ once before as they’d made love and he’d behaved differently. ‘Love me, love me,’ he’d said over and over, and she had. She’d made love to him fiercely, the way she knew he liked it. But he hadn’t liked it that night. ‘No,’ he’d said as she’d clawed his back and bucked like a wild mare. ‘Not that way! It wouldn’t be that way!’
Elizabeta now lay in the gloom of the room, hearing ‘Barcarole’ and wondering what it was that he wanted of her.
He stood naked in the doorway, silhouetted for a moment, then as he closed the door the room was plunged into darkness, ‘Barcarole’ still clearly audible; he’d turned up the volume just to be sure.
He was fully aroused as he joined her in the bed, there was no need for foreplay, and she opened her thighs to him.
‘Love me, love me,’ he whispered as he entered her.
She moaned. She would play it differently this time, she decided, and without moving her body, she undulated the muscles of her vagina, clenching and unclenching, caressing him, teasing him, locking him inside her, then releasing him only to suck him in deeper, and deeper.
‘Love me, love me,’ he said over and over as the image of Ruth consumed him. This was right, he thought, this was the way it would have been if she had loved him.
For a year, Klaus had lost himself in the hot-blooded sexuality of the women he’d brought home from bars and clubs, but lately his fantasies of Ruth had returned. He’d tried to imagine it was Ruth he was making love to, but it had been impossible – Ruth would not respond in such a way. He’d played ‘Barcarole’ on a number of occasions when he’d taken women to his bed, but their fierce Latin passion and their dark, dramatic looks, the very elements which had so attracted him, had been distracting when he’d thought of Ruth. Tonight it seemed Elizabeta was about to fulfil his fantasies.
‘Love me, love me,’ he whispered. He was lost in her.
Elizabeta’s own fantasies returned with a vengeance. He was hers, she could feel it, he was completely in her power, this was what he wanted. She wound her arms gently around him, stroking his back, feeling him quiver inside her. She moaned again as she drew him in deeper.
‘Te amo,’ she whispered.
The spell was broken in an instant, and she knew it as he growled and thrust himself frantically into her the way he usually did.
The bitch, Klaus thought, why did she have to speak? She’d spoiled the final moment.
He was near ejaculation and Elizabeta obediently met his urgency, aware that her power had evaporated, wondering what she had done wrong.
He rolled away when it was over, silent, his back towards her.
‘Don’t turn the light on,’ he said finally. He didn’t want to see her. Minutes ago she’d been golden-haired and blue-eyed and he wanted to relive the moment.
She’d made no attempt to leave, but she realised it was an order so she climbed out of the bed and opened the door to the lounge room, affording enough light to find her clothes.
‘There’s money in my wallet on the table,’ he said, staring at the wall, his back still to her, ‘take what you want.’
She longed to scream at him, but she didn’t. ‘Buenas noches,’ she said with dignity as she pinned the silk rose into her hair.
In the lounge room, she took from his wallet only the amount he would have given her; she could not afford to lose such a benefactor. But she did not like him. If he were not so generous with his presents, she would refuse to go home with him – he did not deserve her. It was no way to treat a professional dancer of the tango.