‘That’s where my State Department contacts help. I may be retired, but I’m crafty.’ He laughed. ‘Hey, guess what? It’s a small world. You’ll never guess who runs the garage.’
‘No, I guess I won’t. Who does?’
‘One of the Pulvermacher boys. From Caracas. Remember them?’
‘Yes, I do. How did you know them?’
‘I used to drive a Merc. Had it serviced there for years. In El Rosal, right?’
‘I don’t remember the district, but it could have been. Which son did you meet?’
‘Oscar? No, began with an O…Orlando! In his fifties, stooped and slow, but serious, not like the others. Perhaps the scandal hit him harder than the rest of them.’
‘Scandal? What scandal?’
‘You didn’t know? Oh, of course you didn’t; you left before we did! They were running a chop shop in the basement. Cannibalizing expensive wrecks and then selling them as new to gullible nouveau riche in China, Africa or wherever else they could unload them.’
Francis stiffened. He remembered that basement. ‘Was the old man caught?’
Steve laughed. ‘You know how it is. Greased the palm of someone and took off, allegedly for the Bahamas, leaving the others to face the music. Haven’t heard of him since. They say he was a Nazi back in the old country. Escaped like Eichmann.’
‘Really?’ This was a revelation. Yet it was quite possible. Francis was intrigued.
‘What happened to the youngest son?’ And then a fib: ‘I can’t remember his name.’
‘Edsel? That’s a sad story. They had a job for him as a car jockey. You know, basically a Mr. Oddjob, moving cars around on the lot. Wouldn’t let him be a salesman, no charm, dumb as a bag of hammers. Even the mechanics made fun of him. Turns out Edsel was the name he gave himself! Go figure, as they say. One day, he got drunk and was surfing on the roof of a car on the back lot when the driver stopped suddenly, Edsel flew off, cracked his skull against the wall of the family estancia. No vital signs. Dead at twenty.’
There was a silence.
Doubly a place of death, thought Francis. For man and machine alike.
‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
‘So did Allen. He was in our class at school. God knows why. I didn’t think Venezuelan nationals were allowed to attend foreign private schools.’
‘With his influence and money, the dad could pull all sorts of strings… Listen. Great to see you, but I must be off. Keep in touch. E-mail is so easy. You have his address?’
‘I do, and I will. All the best. Tell him I’ll write him tonight. I owe him.’
They parted. For a moment on the Malecon, with the sea breeze ruffling his thinning hair, Francis wondered if he should pay his respects to Orlando. It had been he who had been embarrassed to find his brother Eduardo’s guest alone at the gate waiting for his father so many years ago. It had been he who had made the effort to return the watch Francis had taken off and forgotten on a ledge by the swimming pool that day when his universe had been, temporarily, endangered. It had been he, Orlando, and not his brother or his father or sister. It had been a simple gesture, but oddly affirming in an afternoon of disillusionment. After a moment’s hesitation, Francis dismissed the thought of a meeting. That brief encounter was long ago now, lost in the past. Orlando wouldn’t remember…
Peter A. Scotchmer, Cayo Santa Maria, Cuba. April, 2012
