Each sailor’s recollection started sometime in early April 1945. And he remembered exactly where he was, doing what, if any, task he performed on that fateful May 8th when the news that became known as Zero Hour arrived.

To a man, none thought he’d survive the war. The submariners knew Germany had lost World War II on D-Day. While there were fanatics, hardcore Nazis among them, most sailors remained clearheaded. They must. Putting ideology ahead of seamanship increased the likelihood of disaster.

God never entered their deliberations. There would be no absolution asked from Him. Everyone knew what he’d done for Germany. Better to express that sentiment as “for Germany” than the leader. Duty to country made their conduct palatable.

In their minds, at least.

That they served Germany instead of a lone figure somehow lessened any atrocities to which they’d been culpable. And, yes, despite postwar denials great swaths of Germans knew what crimes had been committed in their formerly good names.

The submariners’ warships had survived the Allies’ improved sonar, their accurate depth charge patterns. Ultimately superior detection methods had rendered their vessels fairly useless. Offensive actions beyond the relative safety of the North Sea, a big cove really, became futile into suicidal. Yet despite Allied air forces pulverizing nearly impervious submarine pens in Hamburg, Kiel, and Bremen, the remnants of Germany’s Unterseebootreeder remained unassailable.

Humans, though, lived amid rubble, depravation, surrounded by constant alarm, the stink of as yet unrecoverable rotting corpses, the panic ever present.

Sailors’ pea coats barely turned aside the spring chill. Both sea and sky were dull, making the horizon indistinguishable.

On one hand, plenty of these sailors regarded themselves as superfluous. After all, they were pale, thin seamen on the way to emaciation who couldn’t ply the water. On the other, who wanted to be absorbed into a Wehrmacht unit, handed a rifle, take a few target practice pegs then ordered to assault a vengeful enemy on land? Inside Germany, at that?

In the First World War, those combatants were known as “fodder.” “Meat for the grinder.” Certain death for an empty purpose should never be confused for heroism.

Immobilized on land as he was, each sailor tried making sense of where fate had delivered him. Then wondered where fate might ship him. The only certainty was the victor’s arrival. And after that, his expected pitiless subjugation of them.

James Hueffer might’ve thought the notes he’d given Matt Pfarrer would be dull. Modesty skewed the American ex-pat’s estimation of his ear. He needed to have trusted it more. Page after page Pfarrer read offered precise disillusionment of defeated German sailors.

Pfarrer had awakened while the rest of the bus passengers still slept. Dawn yet struggled in the east. To Pfarrer’s right rolled Argentina in deep black night. The motorcoach’s low undisturbed growl let his reading permit him to freshly walk in the steps men who acted nearly 15 years before his birth.

She slept so heavily that Pfarrer’s necessary jostling to pull Hueffer’s pages from his carryon didn’t bother his seatmate Lisa McKenzie-McKenzie a bit. Nor did the bright shaft from the light from above onto his seat. Indeed, McKenzie Squared was a trouper. He liked that.

The highest echelons of Germany’s war machine only acknowledged defeat at the very end, after the prime instigators had removed themselves from the blood-steeped and body-parts strewn stage. Rueful humorists had wanted the leader and his even shriller club-footed magpie mouthpiece to explain how pursuit of ordained glory had instead gone so askew. They promised triumph. The war drove Germany to its knees. But likely embarrassment at having been so utterly wrong led both master criminals to sidestep justice. And this through the most honorable means possible.

More than a few German sailors rued neither actor had taken such a step in 1933.
Reading from Hueffer’s decades ago notes, Pfarrer learned participants of the epoch assigned the greatest blame to the middle levels, “management,” not the executives. “Management” operated the killing machine, kept it running. Yet the same villains who had untold millions slaughtered saved the sailors with whom Hueffer eventually spoke.
Were the men occupying chancellery bureaus coldblooded ideologues? Or did they just serve to make trains run on time?

Or were they nefarious henchmen who determined though the war lost not to forsake the cause? What was their rationale? Final orders from beyond? Or personal deep-seated desires to continue the struggle through different channels on far shores? They knew well of adherents elsewhere dedicated to their cause of eradicating this human pestilence and that perversion of thought.

Perhaps engulfed in the choking throes of absolute abject insanity they envisioned a diffuse Reich that could nest in the world’s more decadent regions. From these then undermine such soft hosts and once again launch a movement that could finally expunge the “parasites,” the “inferiors.”

The above spurs saw themselves as the active agents for whom surviving U-boats were refitted, for which crews were assembled. Fighting men who’d transport them clearly saw their detested shipboard mates not as saviors, but unsavory.

None of the crews anguished about leaving Germany. A few Kameraden had local sweeties. Several had wives and families in the battered eastern region. Those sailors alerted them to escape as far west as possible. While the German public remained little-to-uninformed regarding the Russian Avalanche storming toward Berlin, verifiable scuttlebutt that horrified strong men not prone to frighten reported of the Red Army’s increasing depravity as it marauded west.

Some of the sailors even confessed writing to their wives if capture by the Soviets imminent, kill their children, themselves. Otherwise, find ways of surrendering to the Yanks or Tommies. With them survival would significantly increase. Implicit in every instance: “Do what you must!”

Several seamen considered deserting. But during those last months of war, roving SS and Gestapo units sought and remorselessly killed such men, these “traitors to the Reich!” Afterwards the vigilantes would display the corpses as warning to any others contemplating “betraying” Germany.

In English, the sailors’ options could’ve been judged as Hobson’s Choices. Killed in a bombing raid. Killed by depth charges. Killed while repulsing the enemy on land. When missions that would attempt to squirrel the regime’s true believers, its acolytes, from Germany became known and volunteers recruited, those who accepted the task saw the 99-1 odds – against – favorably.

Ships’ deck cannons had been removed. Onto those mountings were affixed watertight pods in which further provisions and cargo were stored. No torpedoes either. In those spaces once dedicated to “devilfish” additional voyagers were expected to be squeezed.

Realistically, even if the submarines had been armed, vastly outgunned as all would’ve been during sea battles, fighting was senseless – valor notwithstanding. The sole weapons permitted aboard? Side arms and cyanide capsules.
Seamen who reached South America never knew how many ships were dispatched, nor what percentage of these succeeded landing upon the peaceful shore.

Before Allied superiority rendered such sailing impossible, shipping could traverse Kiel Canal then slide into the English Channel and through there break into the North Atlantic. In April 1945, unopposed Allied air and naval power turned that shortcut into a shooting gallery. Though longer, no tediously terrifying, the strait joined by the Kattegat and Skagerrak let out into the North Sea.

While the Allies maintained a formidable obstacle in the Rhodes between England and Scandinavia, their emphasis centered on crushing Germany. What Allied fighting man didn’t want to be in on that kill? Freeing Norway and Denmark weren’t urgent. In waters distant from meaningful conflict with luck renegade shipping just might avoid detection and could evade pursuit.

The way to safety was time consuming, lengthy, and roundabout. Creep around the noreth of Scotland, sneak down Ireland’s West Coast, then prudently slip past Land’s End. If the ship hadn’t been sunk or captured, breathing inside it after the last hurdle might’ve become relatively easier
.
With the wolfpack era over, or as submariners called each early sea war period, “the Happy Time,” the Allies brazenly ruled North Atlantic waters between America and Europe. Its command discounted the Kriegsmarine mounting any efforts to assemble what remained of its submarine flotilla and through it disrupt shipping. Therefore, after certain points American and British navies estimated any threat eliminated. Which it was.

However, Allied high command lacked the imagination necessary to contemplate Germany might purpose those ships to spirit its keepers of the flame to welcoming shores. And years later even after learning such had occurred, denied it.

Submarines would either resupply at the Azores or Canary Islands. These were possessions of neutral Portugal or Spain, respectively. Since these transactions were made through secure accounts held in Lisbon or Madrid, both nations blithefully benefited from dark commerce conducted with Europe’s scourge.

The great advantages of nations retaining neutrality? Profits. No morals. No shame.

The Iberians provided fuel, provisions. They also always transferred gangs of German agents who’d slipped through Allied nets. These new black-shirted facilitators of death were also regarded unfavorably aboard the submarines. More so than the scoundrels who’d first shipped out with the crews. Rabid as the fanatics who boarded in Germany were, the new gangsters boiled hotter with Siegfried-like fury.

Like the leader, it was easy for the sailors to imagine all these men chewing carpets.

The sole aspect which momentarily relieved fear and tension somewhat wasn’t being in the relative safety of neutral waters. What restored, temporarily at least until anchoring in South America, their humanity, or what remained of it after nearly six years of total war, was fruit. Vegetables.

After condensed lifetimes of root plants, ersatz flour, potatoes, cabbage, and rumors of meat, crates of bright Iberian peaches, oranges, corn, grapes, olives, and tomatoes revived sailors’ eyes. Even better, the flavors of natural delights grown on that peninsula also reengaged, reinvigorated tongues through delicacy, succulence, piquancy, or sweetness.

Kameraden wolfed these bounties like the famished men they were.

And the aromas! Having been so long without, Nature’s pungencies beguiled with opium-like effect. It was enough to take men around foggy corners into the happiest logorrhea!

The Iberians even delivered cigarettes! Nowhere near as good as British or Turk or American blends. Yet after years of rolled tree bark those who smoked found satisfaction from whatever the Portuguese or Spaniards offered. Every three minutes of tobacco indulgence were inhaled gratefully. While anchored, the men smoked these acrid gifts like fiends.

Decades later more than one old Kriegsmariner joked to Hueffer the oranges alone could’ve had him jumping ship. Execution be damned if apprehended!

Levity aside, none recalled any of their mates abandoning the crew. After all, they were German sailors. They had duties to fulfil. They would remain Kameraden.

Of course, each man reluctantly left the islands where reprovisioning had fortified him. No. He left with a sense of melancholy.

After sailing from the Iberian possessions, the Atlantic seemed to ignore the absconders. So much so the sailing which had terrified them from Germany to the Iberian outposts lessened. Often the words “tedium” and “drudgery” popped up. All the more so when they crossed the Equator.

Here, Pfarrer mentally noted to ask Hueffer German the word for “pollywog.” If one existed. Did the Kriegsmarine even have a ceremony for its shellbacks?

Equatorial heat between transitting the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn enervated crews and human cargo. Although the ship now ran full out surfaced, it sweltered below decks. Topside wasn’t much better. Aside from the constant moist breeze, the horizon remained unchanged for the longest between lustrous blue sky and blue slate ocean. Endlessness mesmerized lookouts. How hadn’t the engines’ drones not driven crews and passengers mad? In some cases, even more so than they already were. Such longueurs endangered the submarine as much as any corvette’s depth charge attack.

Some sailors wondered what kind of Providence kept their submarine from being spotted by an errant British destroyer or a Brazilian Liberator above. The latter could’ve radioed coordinates to ships in the vicinity capable of intercepting them.

Only when nearing the Tropic of Capricorn did temperatures relent and torpor ease, letting prideful seamanship resume.

Seemingly aboard every U-boat there was at least one sailor who spoke Spanish. If the crew lucky enough, he was an officer. Usually, though, the would-be instructor had been some kind of engine room mate on a freighter. From these teachers, crews roughly learned Castilian rudiments. These lessons fractured a lot of boredom but also occasioned much headscratching.

Surprisingly, the best teachers proved being among the second batch of agents retrieved while anchored at the Iberians’ islands. Naturally as instructors they were demanding taskmasters. All they lacked were rulers. Or with such men, whips.

Since there were no expectations of further orders being sent, the wireless devoutly kept all apprised of Germany’s inevitability. After a time, skippers decided to end the charades broadcast by the Ministry of Propaganda. Captains ordered dials turned onto the BBC German Service. Once, that treasonous sacrilege would’ve sufficed as grounds for arbitrary court martial followed by summary execution.

The few dyed-in-the-wool Nazis aboard every boat bemoaned the breakdown of discipline. Nonetheless they also listened intently as each man’s old world further descended into smoke and ash.

Lisa McKenzie-McKenzie stirred beside Pfarrer. Her curly head had found a comfortable recline against his upper arm. Who knew how long her noggin had rested there while both slumbered. He let her remain pressed into his flannel shirt during the hours sleep had quit him to allow reading Hueffer’s notes. Again, the passenger light shining down on him hadn’t disturbed her at all.

With effort McKenzie Squared emerged from dreams. She turned her groggy head to gaze out the bus window. Wan morning light revealed a conveyor of featureless landscape. She then fixed her black eyes upon his face. A smile ruffled across her thin lips. She asked if she had snored.

Pfarrer answered, “Is a chainsaw loud?”

The expressions crashing across McKenzie Squared’s face told what she thought of his joke.

“Oh,” she said, “waste no charm on me.”

She tried stretching in her seat but only wound up doing shoulder and arm isometrics. Loosened somewhat, she delved into the back pocket of the seat ahead of her. From this pouch she withdrew a water bottle, a face cloth inside a baggie, and travel-sized toothpaste tube and brush. Items clutched, Pfarrer quickly rose aside out of her path. It took no genius to know had he stayed in his seat, McKenzie Squared would’ve been all knees and elbows clambering across him. She walked to the coach’s lavatory.

Hours earlier, he’d done the same routine: relieved himself, washed his face, brushed teeth. During her absence and still standing, he reached again into his carryon. From it he yanked a water bottle and several wrapped empanadas. He took a swig before disclosing then scarfing the small meat pies.

‘Cold empanadas are fine,’ Pfarrer decided. ‘But cold pizza is better.’

Mckenzie Squared marched down the aisle towards him. He gave her wide berth to enter and sit before retaking his own seat. She didn’t bother asking where they were.

Intuiting curiosity nevertheless, Pfarrer told her they were about an hour distant from their next scheduled stop/meal break. Then after that both knew 5-6 more hours of asphalt mashing until the “settlement,” Selknam.

“I don’t believe you’ve made this trip by bus again,” Pfarrer said.

“I don’t believe I’m making it again, either,” McKenzie Squared replied. “After the first time, Argentines smartened us up. Told us to take a flight from Buenos Aires to Rio Gallegos. And from there take a bus to Selknam. Film Board covered that expense no questions asked. But since ours is an excursion instead of direct trip …”

“But look how much more of Patagonia you’ve seen,” Pfarrer said, simpering.

She side-eyed him. “A lot of Patagonia reminds me of Saskatchewan. Which is why I live in Vancouver today and get to Montreal as often as possible.”

“And here I was thinking Saskatchewan was the hub,” he said.

“Silly you,” she drawled. After a moment, a softer McKenzie Squared asked whether she’d thanked him for the prior night’s dinner. Effusively he acknowledged that she had. She’d been a great dinner date.

Abruptly, McKenzie Squared asked, “The ristorante – it was a ristorante, right?”

He nodded. “Yes, Lisa. A ristorante. Not a trattoria. Not an osteria.”

She continued.

“It was great. The food, wine, service, beyond par. Exemplary. But what really, um, beguiled me was the setting.”

“Eh?” Pfarrer said.

So intent on her narrative, McKenzie Squared missed his response.

“That location it reminded me of that scene from La Dolce Vita. The first big one. The one that introduces who audiences will follow. On the via. Strata. At the café’s sidewalk seating. My favorite movie, by the way, La Dolce Vita. At one time I thought it would be La Belle et la Bête. You know, Beauty and the Beast. The Cocteau version.”

Pfarrer nodded. Growing up he’d spent many Saturday evenings watching plenty of foreign language classics on Metropolitan New York’s PBS station.

She further admitted an adoration for French movies encouraged the high school Lisa McKenzie-McKenzie to pursue learning French through college. Later, her immersions into the language enriched visits to Quebec and the Maritimes as well as France itself.

Giving stream of consciousness momentary free rein, McKenzie Squared added she endorsed all Anglophile Canadians learning their nation’s second language. They mustn’t necessarily become fluent. Just as James Hueffer had said about his German, learn enough to “get by.”

“English speakers would understand Quebeckers better,” she said. “And by speaking their language to them, they’d understand us better.”

Returned to the Argentine present, and assured Pfarrer was still with her, McKenzie Squared resumed their previous topic, La Dolce Vita.

“Our outdoor seating. The people promenading by, the cruising traffic. The seen and being seen. I saw that. I said at the time on the farm, ‘That’s what I want! That’s who I want to be!’”

“If there’s a next time,” Pfarrer said, “I’ll wear my best Mastroianni skinny black tie and you can be my, um, Anouk Aimeé.”

Raised eyebrows lifted her whole face. Impressed, she replied, “You have seen the movie!”

“But I will not be your

Steiner

,” he said, grinning.

“To me,” laughing, McKenzie Squared said, “La Dolce Vita became more magical than La Belle et la Bête. It, no lie, it got me to San Francisco. I was on my way to college in Vancouver. Then I heard the same field I wanted to study was offered in San Francisco. From Saskatchewan there is Vancouver. But from Vancouver there is San Francisco! Talk about making a sharp left turn.

“San Francisco has nothing in common with Rome. San Francisco has little in common with Vancouver. San Francisco had me happily learning how to swim in a life so far removed from my own I did discover that other person. The one I am supposed to be.”

“The one I am supposed to be,” Pfarrer murmured, grinning.

McKenzie Squared said, “While we were eating, a part of me hoped some paparazzi somehow saw some notables and angled cameras at them. Aggressively as paparazzo should do. Or better mistake us for local notables. I don’t know how you’d feel about it, but waking up the next morning, going to fetch the newspaper and somewhere inside it find yourself the stunned subject caught in a flash, well, Matthew Pfarrer, let me tell you, if I was in that picture, I’d use it on that year’s Christmas card!”

He barely stifled a loud laugh. Other passengers still slept. He did not want to be an untimely rooster.

She sedated her fervor. “Yes, it is funny. It should be because the truth is sometimes like that. And I’m not embarrassed. A couple of old movies first seen in a Saskatoon library – for us farmers “the big city” – or Main Street cinema in Regina scheduling retro fare between blockbusters ought to incentivize dreams into action.”

“Indeed, the power of movies,” Pfarrer said.

Grinning as well as agreeing with him, she repeated, “Indeed.”

McKenzie Squared then filled a pause between them with fits and starts.

“Tell me, but you don’t have to tell me. Have you taken, do you take Florencia there?”

Pfarrer verged on asking McKenzie Squared if she were somehow jealous of Florencia Cardinale, be that as it might. But he thought ahead and kept it to himself. He answered in the negative. Rather than seeing her expected relief, McKenzie Squared looked disappointed. He explained.

“I could take Florencia there. A couple of other restaurants I enjoy as well. But while she’d be appreciative, and show it, those places wouldn’t satisfy her.

“I’ve figured her out as best as any man can any woman. Especially if that man is an American, uh, norteamericano, and the woman a Porteña. Particularly one in Florencia’s circumstances. The casual dining spots, the ristorantes, I find marvelous she’d regard as jumped-up neighborhood dining rooms. No. Much as Florencia loves a good meal, she adores exquisite settings beyond her milieu.

“You speak French. Did I use that word right?”

McKenzie Squared gave him an approving nod. Pleased with himself, Pfarrer continued.

“When we dine, we go whole hog. So much so, some of these places have me struggling to remember my high school Home Ec formal dining lessons. Like which glasses are for water, red, and white wine. What fork to use for the fish dish. I think as long as you start at the outside and work your way towards the main plate you won’t be seen as too uncouth.”

McKenzie Squared eyeballed him incredulously. Pfarrer answered her silent disbelief.

“Okay. Much of that was exaggeration.

“But you can tell, or I can tell, or I can tell you that Florencia just absolutely exults in rooms her life wouldn’t otherwise allow her entry. Most of all, because of the big one. No money. She goes with me, cash is covered. Amply.”

Pfarrer knew accompanied by him, on his arm, Florencia was an equal among the rarefied. And when seated and served, he saw her absorbing the nuances of the raised stratum they sat among. Seeing it through her eyes Pfarrer saw it driving her. The striving. This he admired without question. It was a part of her process. Learning the steps then, should the day arrive, when she rightfully took her place among them, Florencia would enter knowing how to carry herself. She’d enter knowing how to act. She would belong.

“But I must be honest. Sometimes in some of those luminous places, the chow doesn’t measure up to my favorites. I think some of them are trading on their perceived prestige. You know, plating and stuff.”

McKenzie Squared digested what Pfarrer said. Coyly, she asked him a question.

“Would you ever squire me to one of those fabulous restaurants?”

He dismissed any presumption he wouldn’t. “In a second! You often eat in Montreal? You got to know which glass is for white and which is for red. That and how to crack a lobster.”

She let several moments pass before speaking.

“If you were pulling my leg any harder, you’d be breaking a wishbone, right?”

He smiled the innocent smile of clear guilt. “Here. Let me stuff your displeasure back in the lantern.”

Pfarrer confessed to McKenzie Squared the one facet about Florencia he congratulated himself for recognizing while not belittling or mortifying her through mention. Florencia Cardinale only owned one garment meant to impress. A little black dress. Who knew? Maybe it had been her mother’s. Or a garment of a sister who got married and determined she could pass that bait onto Florencia. Pfarrer didn’t know. He never asked. Nor would he ever. The constancy of her apparel remained unsaid between them.

Of the dress, Pfarrer said, “She looks good in it. She keeps it in pristine condition. But still. That and the one strand of pearls. I don’t think it’s hers. I suspect it’s a ‘communal’ necklace. Whoever has the big date that night, she gets the string.

“Of course, I can’t ask. Truthfully, she looks terrific in the dress and pearls no matter how many times I’ve seen her wear them.”

Then he went on to explain one of the serendipitous results of Rosario. Without any scheming – his – beforehand, it led to what “developed” between them.

On the final full day of their Rosario stay, the pair strolled through a park. It must’ve been her favorite because none of their sunny vineyard tours would be complete without visiting this greensward. As usual, Florencia lectured him on what he should know about wine so that when the article appeared readers should believe the author knew plenty about vintages.

On the plaza sat kiosks. These offered all kinds of sundries. One sold jewelry. Pfarrer was aware enough to see she enjoyed browsing at this stand. The others might rate glimpses. But this one, this one attracted her attention.

“Like I said, it sells jewelry. I see the pull. I tell her, ‘Let’s look at this.’ Her reaction is between startled and ‘Yeah, daddy!’”

A senora hawked rings, necklaces, bracelets, ankle chains, and bangles. Pfarrer possessed perception. He understood Florencia “wants.” No problem. The problem became what to award that didn’t confuse their then employer-employee relationship. So he excluded rings. In his reckoning, too intimate. Cross them right off. Necklaces? He found them either too obscure or too showy. An ankle chain? Again, in his mind, that would’ve connoted her as his slave. Bracelets and bangles then. Decorative without inferring any below surface currents which could be mistaken for infatuation.

The saleswoman offered quite an assortment of bracelets and bangles. Plastic. Wood. Tin. Silver. Florencia eyed the first two categories. That dissatisfied Pfarrer. He suggested she peruse the higher-end wares. Both the seller and prospective customer perked up.

Florencia lingered over the tin selections. Although he appreciated the craftsmanship, Pfarrer saw the silver ones bore superior filigrees. Florencia would’ve been content to pick from the lesser assortments. For himself he decided that wouldn’t do. Here the writer asserted himself.

Pfarrer gently insisted she perhaps assess the silver goods. He even helped her along. Knowing as much about women’s accessories as he once did wine, the writer became a sort of soft carny barker. He extolled the virtues of the precious bands arrayed before Florencia. He invented various advantages to circling wrists in plata that leaned heavily into the plainly comedic.

His made-up enticements had the sought-for result. Besides laughter, these eased Florencia’s reluctance to choose and accept delectable items. She would’ve been satisfied with a bangle and a bracelet. Both would’ve been beyond the expectations of her week, much less this day.

Pfarrer remembered their first dinner date at the Hotel Jaures. Actually, she’d met him at the Jaures. Too afraid or ashamed for him to collect and whisk her away from her barrio, she met him there instead. He recalled how bare her wrists had been on that evening. He recalled how this had bothered him. No, his not knowing why such a determined lovely as Florencia Cardinale was shorn of trifles. That a darling the likes of Florencia Cardinale wasn’t weighted down by such sparkling decorative wares.

On the list of crimes, it was insignificant. But to Pfarrer it sufficed as “recognizable.”

He pushed on her spree. Of course, she needed to agree. His choices had to become hers. He just wasn’t buying in lots, a la Gatsby and shirts. In the end, Florencia Cardinale bubbled in joy. Any more so and she might’ve wept. This from a man who wanted nothing from her.

Another who might’ve wept was the saleswoman. Pfarrer’s rough estimation of sales probably meant she’d cleared a substantial amount. In cash. It might’ve been sufficient enough for her to have learned these three English words: “God Bless America!”

Once a chunk of Argentine dollars passed from his hands into the saleswoman’s, Pfarrer hoped she also double bagged Florencia’s purchase. No. Instead, the senora pulled a leather pouch from beneath a shelf under her stand. Looking at the receptacle, one saw a good amount of fine dedicated Argentine leather handiwork.

The bag was the sort of expensive item one usually sold, not tossed in. The graciousness among all three was immense as well as genuine.

From here, Florencia led Pfarrer to one of the excellent local restaurantes tourists to Rosario seldom discover on their own. He would remember the meal and her company as a mutually enhanced pleasure during this juncture of the evening.

At the end of dining, Florencia retired to their hotel. She left him to indulge in several cold beers. This allowed initial cobbling of the forthcoming article. No way Pfarrer saw developments taking the unexpected exchange it did.

“So that’s how it started?” McKenzie Squared asked. “Call that Kismet?”

After ruminating, Pfarrer said, “No. More like a man and a woman on the same road. A pair going the same route. For different purposes, see? Together but separate. Until life lets them converge.”

(Continuará)

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