Bipolar WINTER. Samuel David Steiner

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СКАЧАТЬ at best, and his lack of sleep didn’t encourage him to try.

      Anything, so long as it has a bed. “I’m sure it’s fine,” Aldo said, trying not to slur his words.

      “Would you like a wakeup call?” the concierge asked.

      “Not on your life.”

      “Perhaps a do not disturb message on the phone then?” the man said with a small smile.

      “That I’ll take you up on.” A few minutes later, Aldo fell onto the bed, without even bothering to remove his shoes.

      He woke to the sound of morning traffic rushing past his window. He pulled the heavy curtains open, and bright sunlight poured into the room. The trees lining the Avenida de Mayo were adorned with vibrant green and burgundy leaves. Oh, yeah. It’s summer here. He quickly showered and dressed, eager to explore.

      Buenos Aires, how long will I call you home? He made his way through the hotel lobby and out to the street. He hoped it wouldn’t be more than a week or two. The warmer weather was a welcome change, but he didn’t want to keep giving his mom vague answers about where he was and what he was doing. Allison had been equally nosy, though not for reasons he would prefer. She texted him regularly for updates, as though already aware he was no longer in Italy. He sighed. Having been relegated to the position of friend for so long, he should be happy for some kind of development in their relationship, but espionage wasn’t exactly what he had in mind.

      He meandered along the sidewalk, marveling at a large colorful mural depicting the road he was on. The streets were wider than he had expected and were crowded with traffic. Pedestrians passed by at a good clip, a few nodding their heads in greeting. He stepped into a small café and ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry. As he waited for his order, conversations swirled around him in multiple languages, German and Spanish predominant.

      Settling into a chair at a small bistro table outside, he pulled out his laptop. Forums were full of speculation about post World War II activities in Argentina, but the authors seemed to be mostly conspiracy theorists, ranting about unlikely possibilities and lacking any concrete proof. He found evidence of the Seventh-day Adventists’ involvement with Nazi propaganda in Germany prior to the war, but nothing that linked the church to the fugitive SS officials in Argentina.

      Sighing, he closed the laptop and glanced at the beautiful architecture around him as he sipped his coffee. I need for you to use your keen observational skills. Look around, ask questions, scrutinize, learn. Do what you do best . The pope’s words echoed in his head.

      Finishing his breakfast, he headed back to the hotel to drop off his laptop. As high-tech as it was, it proved to be more of a hindrance than a help. It was too easy to get sucked into the conspiracies and false information circulating the internet.

      Taking only his notebook and pen, Aldo walked around the city all afternoon, eventually finding a small bookstore a few blocks south of the hotel. He picked up some travel guides and chatted for a while with the American owner. The man chuckled as he told Aldo how he had fallen in love with a beautiful Argentine woman ten years earlier and never looked back. “Love has a way of changing your life,” the man said.

      I don’t doubt that. Allison changed his life the moment they met. Even with the mess created by his thesis, she never wavered in her support – she was the only one who believed in his work as much as he did.

      On an antique table behind the counter, Aldo noticed an old Remington typewriter, a half-typed page sticking up from the top. Following his gaze, the man smiled. “My memoirs.”

      “I’d like to read that when you’re done.”

      “It might be a while,” he chuckled again. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can help you with?”

      “Actually, I’m researching the history of Buenos Aires,” Aldo said. “Do you have any books that date back to the mid 1940s?”

      The man thought for a moment. “No, but there’s a used bookstore just up on Avenida 9 de Julio. Turn right on Lavalle and hang a left on San Martin. You might find what you’re looking for there.”

      “Thanks. And good luck with your manuscript.”

      Aldo followed the man’s directions, enjoying the two-mile trek and the opportunity to walk up the widest avenue in the world. He counted a total of sixteen lanes of traffic and shook his head, glad he’d opted to leave the rental car at the hotel.

      Walking through the door of the bookstore, he felt as though he’d stepped back in time. The rusty black bell above the door that announced his presence barely roused the attention of the old man behind the counter. He grunted an acknowledgment without looking up from his pile of dusty books.

      Aldo quickly found the section dedicated to history and browsed through the shelves. Most of the books on war contained typical historical accounts of battles, weaponry, and famous military heroes, but oddly nothing about the Nazis. He went back to the front and waited for the man behind the counter to look up.

      I’m the only patron here, old man . After a few moments, he cleared his throat.

      “¿Qué?” the old man grumbled.

      “Uh, I’m looking for something on war, circa 1945,” Aldo said, hoping he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by butchering the man’s native language. Spanish had similarities to Italian, both having evolved from Latin, a language he’d studied in university, but that did not help him here.

      “The books on World War II are over there,” the man muttered in heavily accented English, waving toward the section Aldo had just come from.

      “Right. Thanks,” Aldo said, “but I’m looking for something in particular…”

      The man’s eyes flicked up. “And that would be?”

      Why do I feel like he’s intentionally making this harder than it needs to be? With a sigh, Aldo asked, “Do you have anything about the Nazis who fled to Argentina after the war?”

      The man gave Aldo a long, hard look, as though evaluating him. A bead of sweat trickled down his face despite the oscillating fan situated at the end of the counter. The old man glanced over Aldo’s shoulder, his eyes scanning up and down the street through the shop’s front window, and then asked in a low voice, “And why would you want to know that?”

      “I’m, uh, a historian,” he said carefully.

      “Where did you study?”

      What does that have to do with anything? “I received my Ph.D. from the Pontifical Gregorian University,” Aldo said, holding the man's penetrating stare.

      The man quirked an eyebrow. Finally, he said, “Come back in an hour. I may have something for you then.”

      Huh? Did he misplace it or something? When the man continued to stare at him, Aldo decided not to push his luck. “Great! Thanks. Well, uh, see you in an hour,” he called over his shoulder as he headed out the door.

      Now what? An hour wasn’t enough time to make the trek back to hotel, so Aldo decided to take a walk and stumbled upon a small park. Plopping down on a wooden bench, he watched a few birds peck at the grass and pondered how his life had changed so drastically. Never would he have СКАЧАТЬ