PART I
CHAPTER 1
Patagonia, South America.
December, 1968.
“Alex! Get up!”
Alex Villasenor rolled over on his back. His roommate Goyo was standing at the end of
the bed, shaking his naked foot where it stuck out from under the wrinkled sheets. He blinked at
the sunlight pouring through the open window of his bedroom. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine! Your rounds will be starting any minute.”
Alex, alarmed, pulled himself out of bed. Dr. Grange was a stickler for punctuality and
there would be hell to pay if he was late again. He grabbed his blue scrubs and dashed for the
bathroom. He splashed water and soap on his face and ran a razor haphazardly over his skin. His
black, curly hair was tousled and askew; he brushed his fingers quickly through to give it some
semblance of order.
Goyo, lean and tall like Alex, was standing at the door holding a motorcycle helmet. “Go!
I’ll see you at the Purple Onion for our gig later tonight.”
Alex sprinted down the ornate staircase. The building had been constructed in the 19th
century at the height of the city’s craze for all things French and bore the sculpted stone façade
typical of Haussmann architecture. Their spacious apartment in the fashionable Zona Rosa
district was far too expensive for the likes of Alex, but had been leased at a peppercorn rent to
Goyo by his uncle.
An ancient Moto Guzzi painted fire engine red rested on its stand in front of a café.
Waving to the curvy blonde waitress serving espresso, he donned his helmet and kicked the
motorbike to life.
It was late spring in the capital city of Rio Grande, and the immense jacaranda trees that
lined the boulevard were ablaze with purple blossoms. Alex weaved his way through the
morning traffic, sneaking between cars stopped at traffic lights and going the wrong way down
one-way streets, leaving behind a trail through the carpet of flowers.
Misericordia was the major hospital in the city, its imposing, neoclassical structure rising
on the southern edge of Plata University. In addition to caring for over a thousand patients, it was
the country’s pre-eminent teaching facility for medical undergraduates.
Alex found a parking spot on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance. Blowing a kiss
to the receptionist as he entered the building, he raced up the main staircase to the principal
surgical ward, grabbing a clipboard and pen from behind the nurses’ station.
Dr. Bob Grange, a tall man with a fringe of white hair and a pugilist’s flat nose, was the
Assistant Dean of Medicine at Northeastern University in the American Midwest. On his
sabbatical, he had accepted a temporary position teaching undergrads at Misericordia so that his
wife Maria, a native of the city, could spend time with her family.
Dr. Grange was pointing to a lesion on the neck of a woman resting in an elevated bed. A
group of interns, all dressed in blue scrubs, were gathered around. “Note that the lesion has
turned dark grey,” he said. “This is an incipient indication of necrosis.”
Alex took up position at the edge of the scrum as unobtrusively as possible, scribbling on
his clipboard.
Without turning, Dr. Grange continued. “Ah, Master Villasenor. How lucky we are to be
finally graced with your presence. Tell me, what do you recommend we do with the patient’s
neck?”
“Massive intervention with antibiotics, sir?”
“Excellent idea, Master Villasenor. It would certainly be preferable to amputation.”
Pedro, one of the interns, snickered. He was a senior, set for graduation in the fall,
pending his exams. The son of a vice-admiral, he was small and had the strut of a cock, a
mannerism that accentuated the raven’s peak cut of his black hair. He leaned toward a fellow
intern and spoke in a stage whisper. “Perhaps he should spend less time in the nightclubs.”
Dr. Grange gave Pedro a withering look. “Master Sinistral, a suggestion; perhaps you
should spend more time with your nose in textbooks and not someone else’s business.”
As his cheeks flushed pink, Pedro ducked his head down toward his clipboard. When Dr.
Grange returned his attention to the patient, however, Alex caught the burning glare directed his
way. He blew Pedro a disparaging kiss, which turned Pedro’s face as red as Alex’s motorbike.
Stuart Macquarie was the son of the Deputy Chief of Mission at the Australian Embassy,
and a third-year student like Alex. He nudged Alex’s shoulder. “Watch it, mate, that one’s got a
bite like a coral snake.”
Alex glanced at the diminutive Pedro. “What’s the little rooster going to do, peck me to
death?”
“Just watch out.” Stuart ran a hand through his brown, brush-cut hair. “He has a talent for
knifing people in the back.”
CHAPTER 2
Late that evening, Alex arrived at the Purple Onion. It sat directly across from the Lyric
Theater and was a favorite haunt of the actors, gaffers and directors who worked the stage. As he
put his Moto Guzzi up on its stand, he was approached by a thin man wearing a red kerchief
around his neck.
“Amigo!” Rigoberto slapped Alex on the back. “I’ve been looking for you. We’re
mounting a brand-new musical and I want you and Goyo to do the lyrics and music!”
Alex shook the director’s hand. “I’m sorry, Berto, but I’m too busy at the hospital.”
Rigoberto was disappointed, but understood. “No problem.” He put his arm around
Alex’s shoulder, and together they strolled into the nightclub.
The Purple Onion was located in the basement of a building whose owner had gone
bankrupt with the latest stock market meltdown. It offered a cheap but decrepit home to the café.
Posters of Che Guevara and Soviet flags decorated the walls, along with the cover from Dylan’s
Freewheelin’ album. The air was thick with a haze of cigarette smoke that wrapped itself
amicably around all who entered. It felt like a second home to Alex.
Goyo was already there, sitting at a table with a pretty young actress. She was dressed in
a yellow miniskirt and wore a chorus of bangles on each arm. Her heavily made-up eyes were
focused on Goyo’s lips as he read a poem from a tattered paperback in his hands.
Alex called to Goyo. “If it isn’t Lord Byron!”
Goyo’s face lit up at the sight of his friend. “Did Grange rip you a new asshole?”
“Yep.” Alex pulled up a seat and sat on it backwards, his arms resting on the back. “Gotta
read Grey’s Anatomy from cover-to-cover as penance.”
Goyo stole the pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from Alex’s T-shirt pocket and lit two,
handing one to the woman. “Lupita, I want you to meet my best friend Alex.”
Lupita, wearing a perfume that reminded Alex of a lemon orchard, blew a plume of
smoke toward the low ceiling. “I heard you playing the guitar the other night. You were good.”
“Thank you.” Alex nodded toward his friend. “Not as good as Goyo, though.”
Lupita turned her gaze to Alex. “Goyo sings of revolution, but you sing of love.”
Alex laughed. He leaned over to where Goyo’s guitar case rested against the wall, pulling
out a battered instrument. “I wrote a new song.”
“Let me guess,” said Goyo. “It’s about unrequited love, right?”
Alex grinned as he tuned the guitar. “You know me too well.”
A man wearing a black beret and a goatee was finishing his set on the bongo drums. After
the smattering of applause had died down, Alex stood up and walked to the low riser that served
as a stage. There was no microphone, but when he struck the first harmonic chords, the room fell
silent.
When will you stop breaking my heart, my Lupita?
I worship you every day,
From the start to the last dying ray.
You leave me alone in the dark, my Lupita.
Several tables snapped their fingers in appreciation. Alex nodded, stepping down from
the riser and handing the guitar to Goyo, who tucked his cigarette firmly between his lips and
strode to the stage.
Lupita placed her hand delicately on Alex’s wrist. “That was sweet. I’ve never had
anyone write a song for me before.”
“It was my pleasure.” Alex thought her hand laying lightly on his arm was even more
pleasurable, but he smiled at her pretty eyes and said nothing more.
Goyo strummed a few chords then spoke to the audience. “Welcome, comrades.
Anybody got any favorites they’d like to hear?”
Armand, one of the directors at the Lyric, shouted out; “Play Vortex, Goyo!”
Goyo nodded to his pal and fixed a capo to the neck of the guitar, then began to play and
sing.
Like a vortex in the sea,
Change will come to be,
It will strike our fair nation with fury,
And won’t stop until we are free.
His song was interrupted by the muffled sound of an explosion. Everyone looked up, but
no one seemed surprised. The right wing government of President Duarte had recently resumed
power after the assassination of popular leftist candidate Andre Pinot during the federal election.
Protesters were attacking government offices, and militias organized by the regime were
bombing havens for leftist dissidents like the Purple Onion.
Goyo put his guitar back into its case and returned to the table. He kissed Lupita on the
cheek. “Watch this for me, will you?” He turned to Alex with a determined look on his face.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever the action is.”
Alex rose, not because he wanted to make trouble, but he was concerned for the safety of
his friend. They ascended the rear staircase, peering out into the gloomy alley to ensure it was
clear before venturing forth.
Alex had left his Moto Guzzi on the main street, and the two men mounted. Goyo, not
wearing a helmet, tilted his head to and fro, searching for the sound of fire truck sirens. He
pointed east. “Head for Alameda.”
They steered down the street, suddenly deserted of traffic. He saw the lights of
emergency trucks flashing amid billowing smoke as they turned onto the busy boulevard, the
shattered front of the federal tax agency building fitfully burning. A pall of black, pungent smoke
hung in the air.
Alex stopped before a police vehicle that blocked their lane. In a fit of bravado, Goyo
dismounted and advanced toward the two officers who stood in front of their car, staring at the
damage.
“Pigs! You are cowards! Come and fight me!”
The officers glanced at Goyo. One of them placed a hand over the grip of a pistol in the
holster that was strapped to his belt.
Alex dismounted and grabbed Goyo by the shirt. “Stop it! They’ll shoot you!” He began
to pull his friend back to the motorbike.
The two officers stood by their car, staring at Goyo.
“Cowards!” Goyo waved a fist in the air. “You just wait until the revolution, and then
we’ll see who pulls the gun!”
CHAPTER 3
A week later, training rounds at the hospital were suspended for the Christmas break.
Goyo invited Alex to join him at the family’s summer residence in the seaside town of Mar del
Plata, 400 km southeast of the capital.
Packing rucksacks, the two friends took a trolley to the central train station and caught an
express heading south to the Atlantic shore. Although they had purchased third class tickets, the
train was almost empty and, after the conductor had passed through, they snuck into the first
class carriage and hid in an unoccupied sleeper.
Goyo had brought his guitar and he sat on the daybed, strumming a tune. Alex pulled the
window open, lit a cigarette, and watched the endless fields of wheat and corn that covered the
flat plains of Rio Grande province.
“What does your family do?” asked Alex.
“Cattle.” Goyo stopped strumming and pulled out a bottle of beer from his rucksack. He
popped the cap, took a swig and passed it to Alex. “Grandpa started a ranch in the Pampas in
1890.”
Alex took a drink and passed it back to Goyo. “What does the family think of their eldest
son singing the virtues of socialism?”
Goyo ran the beer bottle up and down the guitar strings, creating a jazz chorus. “My
mother says, ‘Thank God your grandfather is dead, or the shame would surely kill him!’”
“You think it would?”
“I think he’d be the first to join me.”
The town of Mar del Plata was laid out in a grid pattern, the wide streets sided by modest
middle-class homes. A sand spit had formed a natural harbor and the navy built a marine base.
The majority of the town folk either worked on the base or the fishing fleet that plied the
Antarctic currents that nourished the shrimp and schools of hake in the deep Atlantic waters.
The area around Playa Blanco, however, was a world apart from the work-a-day life of
the town. Grand homes sat on promontories overlooking the ocean and the beach that stretched
along the coast, a wide stretch of land covered by sand the color of cane sugar.
Goyo hired a taxi at the train station to take them to Playa Blanco. The car pulled up in
front of an immense, twenty-room mansion with a façade of limestone. Each corner featured a
cylindrical turret, and a wide entrance staircase led to massive wooden doors.
“Quite the shack,” said Alex as he climbed out of the taxi. “Does it have a name?”
“Casa Vaca,” replied Goyo. “I just call it the cow barn.”
The massive doors opened and an older woman appeared. She was tall and slim, like
Goyo, but her hair was blonde. “Gregorio!” She rushed down the steps and gave her son a big
hug.
Goyo, blushing at the affection, pointed to Alex. “I’d like you to meet my pal Alexander
Villasenor.”
Alex took her hand and kissed it. “I am charmed to meet you, Señora Seville.”
“Ah, a young man with manners.” She gave Goyo an admonishing glance before
returning her attention to Alex. “Call me Kate. You wouldn’t happen to be related to the banking
Villasenors, would you?”
“My father Arturo was chairman of Banco Cordoba.” Alex studied her blue eyes and
peaches-and-cream complexion. She spoke Spanish with an accent; he wondered if she was
British by birth.
Kate knit her brows in consternation. “I never knew them, but I heard that he and your
mother Margarita were lovely people. I wish to express my condolences.”
“Thank you.” His father had imported a brand-new Chevy Bel Air from Miami, its
chrome and red and blue exterior a noted contrast to the dowdy Kaiser sedans produced locally.
He enjoyed driving it around town, proudly displaying its exotic appearance.
One day, on their way to celebrate Grandmother Amelia’s birthday, tragedy struck. Alex,
who was nine, had been sitting in the back seat playing with a yo-yo when a pick-up heading in
the opposite direction tried to pass a local bus on a blind curve and hit their car head-on. All he
could remember were shards of wet pink glass filling the car, suspended in mid-air, and then
blackness.
Alex woke up two days later from a concussion. He was too ill to go to the funeral; when
he was finally able to stand without becoming nauseous, his grandmother took him to the
cemetery to view a pair of grey granite slabs. For months after, he would wake up in bed
screaming until Amelia, clutching a candle to her nightgown, would appear at his bedroom door
to comfort him.
They were interrupted by the arrival of a man in his late forties. He was trim, with dark
curly hair and a thick mustache. He gave Goyo a hug and slapped him on the back. “How was
the trip?”
Before their son could reply, Kate spoke. “Jorge, this is Gregorio’s friend Alex. He’s
been invited to stay for Christmas.”
Jorge shook his hand. “Wonderful! Plenty of room for everybody.” He glanced at the
rucksacks. “Why don’t we fetch your things inside and then you can go for a swim before
dinner.”
A servant carried their bags up an immense wooden staircase that curved its way to the
second floor. They had adjacent, en-suite rooms facing over the ocean. The windows had been
pulled wide open, and a sea breeze carried the smell of salt and seaweed. Alex donned a pair of
bathing trunks that a maid had draped over a chair, as well as a pair of sandals meant for the
beach. He then accompanied Goyo back down the stairs and out through the main entrance.
Casa Vaca was situated on a cul-de-sac. They walked across the grounds that ran between
the home and the beach and descended a stairway positioned on the stone sea wall. Alex was
glad he had donned the sandals; the sand was hot on his feet and there were beer caps and shards
of broken glass ready to cut the soles of the unwary.
They dumped their towels above the strand line and shucked their sandals. “Come on, I’ll
show you how to body surf,” said Goyo. The waves curled up on the shore in a steady
succession, each one about three feet high. They waded out beyond where the waves were
breaking, standing in chest-deep water.
“Wait until the wave is about to crest, then swim like hell,” said Goyo. He eyed an
approaching wave, then turned toward shore. “Go!”
Alex mimicked his friend as best he could, thrusting his arms out and trying to ride the
crest. The wave turned him in a somersault, however, and he bounced his shoulder off the ocean
bottom before coming up, sputtering and wiping his face with one hand while trying to pull his
bathing trunks up with the other.
Goyo had shot ahead a good forty feet, coming to rest on the shore. “What happened?
Drink a little water?”
“About a gallon or two.” Alex spit out some sand from his mouth. “You call this fun?”
Goyo waded out. “You’ll get the hang of it in no time.”
“And if I don’t?”
Goyo laughed. “You’ll drown.”
They spent another hour in the water, and Alex gradually got the hang of waiting for the
right moment to launch. He enjoyed the exhilaration of gliding swiftly through the water on his
stomach like an otter. They were finally interrupted by a servant who had come down to the
beach, exhorting them to head in. They reluctantly climbed out and toweled off.
CHAPTER 4
“Cocktail hour is held precisely at 5.” Goyo was standing in his walk-in closet,
rummaging through clothes. “Slacks and a dinner jacket are de rigueur.”
Alex had brought neither. “I guess I can’t attend.”
“Nonsense.” Goyo pulled out a plaid jacket and held it up to his friend’s torso. “This will
fit you.” He turned to a section of the closet where trousers hung on clothes clamps, and picked
out a pair of tan slacks. “We can roll up the cuffs if they’re too long.”
Suitably dressed, Goyo led Alex to the parlor on the main floor in the east wing of the
mansion. The room was large enough to hold a formal ball for thirty people, with an immense
chandelier hanging above. Several windows looked out toward the ocean, and a set of side doors
led to a patio garden.
A lounge set had been arranged in a bay area that Alex guessed was the base of one of the
turrets. Kate was sitting in a chair upholstered in a rose-pattern fabric, sipping a G&T from a tall,
frosted glass.
Jorge stood behind a polished mahogany bar. “What’ll it be, boys?”
“What are you having, Papa?” asked Goyo.
Jorge held up his glass. “Fernet and Coca-Cola.” The Italian bitter, mixed with American
soda, was very popular in Patagonia.
“I’ll have a Rum and Coke,” said Goyo. “That’s Castro’s favorite drink.”
“It’s almost Christmas,” said Kate, arching her eyebrows. “Shall we avoid politics for a
change?”
Jorge placed the drink in front of Goyo and held up his hands. “Don’t look at me!” He
turned to Alex. “What would you like?”
“A Quilmes lager, if you have one cold.”
Jorge reached into the ice box and pulled out a bottle of the local beer, snapping the cap
on an opener attached to the bar. “There you are.”
The three men touched glasses then raised them in Kate’s direction. “To a wonderful
Christmas,” said Jorge.
“Try telling that to the poor souls losing their retirement,” said Goyo. The Duarte regime
had nationalized all private pensions, effectively rendering many elderly citizens penniless.
“Something had to be done to curb inflation,” said Jorge. “The peso is falling through the
floor.”
“Maybe the president and his cronies should stop robbing the treasury. That might help.”
“Maybe anarchists should stop blowing things up,” retorted Jorge. “That might help too.”
A servant dressed in a black suit and white gloves appeared at the doorway. “Senor
Seville, if I may interrupt, there is a phone call for you in the study. It is the office of the Minister
of the Interior.”
Jorge sighed. “If you will excuse me, duty calls.” He blew a kiss to Kate and departed the
room.
Kate turned to Goyo. “Where is your sister?”
Goyo shrugged. “Probably having a bubble bath.”
“That child would be late for her own funeral.” Kate stood. “I shall have to fetch her.”
After she departed, Alex noted that Goyo’s drink was empty. He walked behind the
mahogany bar. “Want a refill?”
“No, maybe a Campari. Dad usually keeps a bottle handy.” Goyo glanced through the
patio doors at someone traversing the garden. “Hold on, there’s Cappy, our boat steward. I’m
going to ask him to arrange a sailing skiff for us tomorrow.”
Suddenly alone, Alex bent over to rummage under the bar. He heard a pair of high heels
clicking on the tiled floor, and assumed Kate had returned. But when he stood up, he came face
to-face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She was tall and curvy, like a fashion model in a Paris magazine. Her hair was gold and
flowed halfway down her back in waves. Her blue eyes were the color of a robin’s egg. Freckles
covered the pale skin of her face.
“What are you holding?” she asked.
Alex had been unable to find the Campari, but had located a bottle of Limoncello,
instead. He held the yellow liqueur up and tried to speak, but he had been struck mute.
The woman eyed him up and down, noting his curly hair, cleft chin and what appeared to
be an ancient scar near his right eye. Her lips curled up slightly. “Cat got our tongue?” She took
the bottle, lightly brushing his hand as she did so, and examined the label. “This will do.” She
pulled the cork and took a swig.
Alex, watching her tilt her head back, finally found his voice. “Would you like a glass?”
The woman held up the bottle. “No thanks, I already have one.” She took another gulp.
“Veronique, where are your manners?” Kate had returned and was aghast to find her
daughter drinking from the container like a sailor. “And in front of the guests!”
“I thought he was the bartender.” Veronique turned. “And who might you be?”
“Alex. I’m a friend of Goyo’s. He invited me to join him over the holidays.”
Veronique wiped her lips with her sleeve and gave him a level gaze. “Well then, it’s
beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.”
The rest of the evening was a blur to Alex. After cocktails, they had dined on sea bass in
cream sauce with asparagus and scented rice. Dessert was a Pavlova, sweetened whipped cream
slathered over a meringue, a specialty of the family’s pastry chef.
Alex didn’t taste a thing. His entire attention was focused on Veronique, listening
attentively as she joshed her brother and tossed her hair in mock indignation when he teased her
back.
Later that evening, after everyone had retired for the evening, Alex and Goyo took a
bottle of Scotch whiskey and climbed onto the narrow widow’s walk that hung high above the
entrance. They found two stools and sat overlooking the ocean as the moon cut a long silvery
line upon the water.
Goyo pulled a pair of shot glasses out of his trouser pocket and poured two drams,
handing one to his silent friend. “What’s eating you?”
Alex stared dreamily out over the ocean, awash with emotion. “I think I’m in love.”
“Thought so.” Goyo stared at his glass. “You know, you are my dearest friend, and there
is nothing I would deny you.” He snapped back his drink and pointed a finger at Alex. “But if
you break my sister’s heart, I would never forgive you.”