Griffin W.E.B. - Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

A waiter greeted them at the door to Arnaud's and led them through the crowded main dining area to a small private dining room. The waiter pulled aside the curtain on the doorway and bowed them in.

The table had been set. There was an impressive array of crystal, silver, and starched napkins. A menu was at each place.

"I took the liberty, Mr. Howell," the waiter said, removing the cover from a plate in the center of the table, "to have a few hors d'oeuvres prepared for you, while you decide."

“The last time you did that,” the old man said, “the remoulade sauce was disgraceful."

"Indeed it was. The saucier was shot at dawn the next morning. We showed him no mercy, although he pleaded he was the sole support of his old mother. Can I bring you something from the bar?"

Clete saw Ettinger smiling; the smile vanished when Ettinger noticed the old man turning toward him.

"Mr. Ettinger?" the old man asked.

"Not for me, thank you, Sir. I wouldn't want to anesthetize my tongue before eating in a place like this."

The old man flashed Clete a triumphant smile.

"Then may I suggest we have a quick look at the menu to see whether fish, fowl, or good red meat?"

"May I ask that you order for me?" Ettinger said.

"I would be happy to translate the menu for you," the old man said. "They do it in French only to humiliate their patrons."

"I speak French, if your ordering for me would be an imposition," Ettinger said.

"No imposition at all," the old man said. "What would you recommend tonight, Harold?"

"I hesitate to recommend anything. You have been coming in here for thirty years, and I have yet to bring you anything that met your approval."

"In that case, we will try to wash these hors d'oeuvres down with a bottle of Moet, the '39, if there's any left. And you will then go to the kitchen and tell the chef that we are hungry enough to eat anything that hasn't fallen on the floor."

"There was some shrimp-and-oyster bisque a while back that didn't smell too badly."

"We place ourselves in your somewhat less than knowledgeable hands," the old man said.

"I am overwhelmed," the waiter said. "It is, in any case, good to see you, Mr. Frade. Didn't I hear you were in the Marines?"

"It's good to see you too. I was in the Marines. I was just discharged."

"Then welcome home."

"Thank you."

The waiter left.

The old man turned to Ettinger. "For reasons I can't imagine, that man fancies himself the best waiter here; and by inference, the best in New Orleans."

"It's probably his table-side manner," Ettinger said.

The old man actually chuckled.

"The problem with Argentina, Mr. Ettinger," Cletus Marcus Howell proclaimed, "is that it is a theocracy."

He was leaning back in his chair, cradling a brandy snifter in his hand. The dinner had gone well. The food, as Clete knew it would be, had been superb.

The shrimp-and-oyster bisque was followed by Filet de Boeuf a la Venison, a dish Ettinger had never previously encountered. When he admitted this, he thus offered the oid man the opportunity to display his culinary knowledge as to its preparation.

Ettinger seemed not only genuinely interested, but also showed himself to be quite familiar with the subtleties of haute cuisine. He mentioned to the old man, for instance, that the Moroccans made a similar dish; they substituted mutton for the beef, however, while marinating it and otherwise cooking it like venison.

He also showed a genuine and knowledgeable enthusiasm for the wine. By the time the brandy was served, the old man was almost beaming. And Clete was amusing himself with what was surely his grandfather's current opinion of Staff Sergeant Ettinger: Jew or not, that fellow is a gentleman.

He was even daring to hope that the old man was in such a good mood he would not mention his daughter. Clete now realized, resignedly, that that was not to be.

"A theocracy, Sir?" Ettinger asked.

"A government which is controlled by a religion," the old man explained.

"Such as Spain," Ettinger said.

"Precisely. And, as in Spain, that religion is Roman Catholicism," the old man said. "Now, don't misunderstand me. There is not a prejudiced bone in my body, and I have tried to pass my tolerance for other people's religious convictions on to my son, and especially my grandson. As a matter of fact, I have a number of Roman Catholic friends, including, to put a point on it, the Archbishop of New Orleans. Weather permitting, for twenty-odd years, every other Thursday, I took his money at the Metairie Country Club."

"You are speaking of theocracy," Ettinger said.

"Indeed. You are, I understand, Spanish?"

"I am now an American citizen," Ettinger said carefully. "I formerly held German citizenship. I am of Spanish heritage."

"You know Spain?"

"I lived there."

"Then you will feel right at home in Argentina. The most outrageous things are done there in the name of Christianity, which of course there means Roman Catholicism."

"I see."

"It doesn't happen here," the old man said. "Archbishop Noonan is as fine a gentleman as they come. But, of course, that is because our Constitution wisely forbids a state religion."

"I understand"

"The Roman Catholic theocracy in Argentina murdered my daughter, Cletus's mother," the old man said.

"Grandfather, do we have to get into this?"

"I think I should," the old man said.

"You are embarrassing our guest," Clete said.

"I don't see why he should be embarrassed. He's a Jew, as I understand it. To him this is a neutral matter. Why should he be embarrassed if I tell him what he will find when you reach Argentina?" He sat up and leaned across the table. "Am I embarrassing you, Mr. Ettinger?"

"No, Sir."

"My daughter married an Argentinean, Mr. Ettinger. Cletus's father is an Argentinean. Did you know that?"

"Colonel Graham mentioned something about Lieutenant Frade having been born there, Sir."

"Jorge Guillermo Frade is his name," the old man said. He pronounced it in Spanish—Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day—each syllable reflecting his loathing. "Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is, among other things, a cattleman."

"Is that so?" Ettinger asked.

"I really wish you would stop this, Grandfather," Clete said.

"Mr. Ettinger and the other fellow who's going with you," the old man said, "the Italian, have a right to know this story, Cletus. Please don't interrupt me again."

Clete sensed Ettinger's eyes on him, and looked at him. The eyes seemed to say, I understand. Let him finish. There's no way he can be stopped. Clete saw also in Ettinger's eyes both sympathy for him, and pity for the old man.

"As I was saying, Mr. Ettinger," the old man went on. "Horgay Goool-yermo Frah-day is a cattleman. My son James Fitzhugh Howell, Cletus's uncle, was a cattleman. When Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day heaved onto the scene, he was courting the lady who later became Mrs. Howell. Her family are cattlemen. Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came to this country to do business with my daughter-in-law's father. She wasn't yet then my daughter-in-law, but I presume you're following me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"My son was at the Williamson ranch—my daughter-in-law's maiden name was Williamson—when Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day came there to buy some breeding stock from Mr. Williamson. Handsome fella, charming. I'll give him that, Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day is handsome and charming. Spoke fluent English, with just, enough of an accent to make the ladies flush. Like Charles Boyer, if you take my meaning."

" 'Come wiss me to zee Casbah,' " Ettinger replied, in a very creditable mimicry of one of the actor's most famous lines.

"Exactly, exactly!" the old man said, and then went on. "And they were about the same age, so my son asked Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day to come to New Orleans, to see the city. He came, and I opened my house to him. And I was the one, may God forgive me, who introduced him to my daughter. She wasn't even through college, had a year to go at Rice. And Hor-gay Goool-yermo Frah-day just swept that child off her feet.