Nina Berry - City Of Spies

Pagan said, “Cavellini. That’s a beautiful name. Is it Italian?”

Carlos’s smiled widened. “There is an old saying. A Porteño—that is what we who live in Buenos Aires call ourselves—a Porteño is an Italian who speaks Spanish, lives like a Frenchman and wants to be English.”

They tucked themselves into the backseat of his big black car as Carlos and a porter loaded their luggage. Beyond the airport were green fields, but as they drove, the gray smudge of a city lurked on the horizon.

“They weren’t kidding when they said it’s summer here,” Pagan said, rolling her window down to feel the wind in her hair.

Half an hour later they pulled up in front of a ten-story building that looked like something from a movie about Paris in the 1920s, with flags from a dozen countries waving over the grand entrance. The entire neighborhood reminded Pagan of Europe, with grand boulevards, green parks and many-storied gracious buildings dotted with window boxes and fancy decoration over the doorways.

“The Alvear Palace Hotel,” Carlos said. “Finest in the city.”

“Which barrio is this?” Mercedes asked, folding up a map she’d been studying. She’d read two books on Argentina before the trip, and had agreed to do a report for her social studies class at school when she got back. Pagan, as usual, was going in blind.

“We’re in Recoleta,” Carlos said. “North of the city center, where there are many colleges, museums, churches and fine homes.”

Devin wasn’t waiting for them inside the ornate hotel lobby, either. The place had a sort of between the wars grandness and Pagan half expected to find Devin there chatting with girls dressed in sparkly flapper dresses, like something out of The Great Gatsby. But no matter how hard Pagan scrutinized the gold-bedecked marble columns, the red brocade benches or the high-ceilinged archways, he did not appear.

“Where the hell is he?” she muttered to Mercedes as Carlos ordered the bellboys to take their luggage and walked soundlessly along the thick Persian carpet to hand their passports to the hotel clerk.

Mercedes shrugged. “Maybe his flight was delayed.”

Pagan shook her head, irritated. “His flights are only late if he wants them late.”

“Will you require the car this afternoon, señoritas?” Carlos asked.

Pagan exchanged a look with Mercedes. They were both exhausted from the trip. “Thanks, Carlos. I’ll see you down here tomorrow morning to go to wardrobe fittings.”

As he touched his cap and walked off, the hotel clerk, a thin woman with ash blond hair and sharp blue eyes, was writing their information down on some cards. She looked up, pushing an official smile onto her lips. “Buenos tardes, Señorita Jones. We’re so delighted to have you staying here for the next few weeks. We have the suite ready for you and your maid.” Her eyes flicked to Mercedes briefly, dismissively, then back to Pagan.

Heat rose up from Pagan’s heart. Beside her, Mercedes got very still.

“My maid?” she asked, as if not quite understanding, although she understood all too well.

The woman nodded. “Did you not want her in the same suite?”

“Do you mean my sister?” Pagan blinked innocently and linked her arm through Mercedes’s, leaning into her warmly. Mercedes’s whole body was rigid, but she didn’t push Pagan away. “Did you hear that, sis? She thinks you’re my maid. What would Daddy have thought of that?”

The clerk’s eyes got wide, first with surprise, then with disbelief. Pagan and Mercedes were close in height, one skinny, the other strong, one pale and perfectly platinum blonde, the other darker with a strictly controlled mass of black curls. But they both had brown eyes, and they were both staring right at the hotel clerk.

“Daddy would’ve checked us into a different hotel,” Mercedes said in a low tone. “One with better service.” Mercedes wasn’t half as good a liar as Pagan, so she kept her voice low on the rare occasion when she did it. The louder your voice, the more likely the strain of lying would show.

“And he would’ve told the studio and everyone he knew what a horrible mistake they made,” Pagan said to her. “Do you think other people from my movie are staying here? We’ll have to tell them all about this.”

The clerk’s eyes bounced back and forth between them, a nervous sweat dotting her upper lip. But Pagan could see that she still didn’t believe them. “I’m so sorry, ladies. You have different last names on your passports, so naturally I assumed...”

“Mercedes Duran equals maid?” Pagan said, smiling prettily. “Sure. There’s no possible way I could have been born a Duran, changed my last name to Jones and dyed my hair. No one in Hollywood ever changes their name. Just ask Rock Hudson.”

The woman paled. “My mistake, señoritas. I do beg your pardon. Sisters. Sharing a suite. How nice...”

“We’d like to speak to the manager, please.” Pagan’s voice was still sweet, but edged with iron. “And we’d like anyone other than you to serve us for the duration of our stay.”

An apologetic manager showed them to their lush suite, ushering in a bellboy with a complimentary bottle of champagne to earn their goodwill, only to have Mercedes tell him to take it away. The rooms were opulent, shiny with gold-patterned wallpaper, fresh flowers on the marble tables and two large bedrooms with giant satiny beds. The heavily draped windows featured a view out over the rooftops and the busy boulevard below.

As the door shut behind the last bellboy, Pagan took off her white gloves and threw them on the gold brocade sofa. “What the hell? We’re in Latin America. You’d think the name Duran would be a badge of honor down here instead of Jones!”

Mercedes shook her head with resignation, which somehow made Pagan angrier. “From what I read, most people in Buenos Aires are of some kind of European descent. The indigenous people were driven out and mostly disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Pagan put her hands on her hips. “You mean killed.”

“Probably. But that woman who checked us in, her family probably came from Germany originally, or maybe England or Sweden. Anyone who doesn’t look European here is considered lower class and referred to as indio, or negra.”

Pagan shook her head. “I’m sorry, M. I wanted to smack her.”

“You can’t smack them all.” Mercedes slumped onto the sofa. “But you did confuse her. You’re good at that.”

“Everyone needs a specialty.” Pagan came over and flopped next to her on the couch, leaning her head back against the carved gilded wood lining the back. “Does that happen to you a lot back home, too?”

“Not in my old neighborhood,” Mercedes said, using her right toes to tug her left shoe off her heel, then switched to do it with the other foot. “But where we’re living now? They all think I’m your live-in maid.”

“What!” Pagan swung up to her feet again in agitation. “What do we do with these people? It’s not like we can put a big sign over your head saying I’m Your Equal, You Sons of Bitches.” She paused, thinking. “Can we?”

“Stop trying to save me,” Mercedes said. “I’m fine.”

Pagan stopped pacing and looked at her friend. Mercedes had leaned sideways onto the fat pillows on the sofa and closed her eyes, feet tucked under her. Pagan kicked off her own shoes and flung them into her bedroom. They thumped satisfyingly against the wall. “Okay. I’m ordering us some sandwiches and putting up the Do Not Disturb sign. I need to rest up before wardrobe tests tomorrow.”

“But what if Devin Black comes knocking?” Mercedes said with a sly, sleepy smile.

“Damn you,” Pagan said. Without even opening her eyes, Mercedes knew exactly why Pagan was so agitated.