02.1 Rubicon

Borys Jasinski, Polish mathematician living in Switzerland with his wife and two sons, arrived in Buenos Aires from Madrid. As soon as he passed the gate, two of the officers from immigration tailed him.

“Señor Jasinski!” called the officer.

“Yes!” he stopped.

“Your passport!”

“Why? I have stamped it,” he said.

“Por favor!”

Jasinski handed his passport.

“Polonia!”

Jasinski looked at the other officer and handed over his Polish passport as well.

“This way, please!” directed the officer, “Your taxi is waiting.” And the second officer took over his trolley loaded of four suitcases. They escorted him to a Mercedes-Benz.

At one point, he felt something wrong. He expected no one to receive him and carried very complex gadgets in the luggage. Jasinski insisted, “Take me back to the airport!”

“Señor!”

“Stop the car!” he ordered uncertainly, “This is the wrong way!”

And the car actually pulled up on the curb. The officer produced a file and showed him a gold voucher in his name, “Here! Señor Borys Jasinski booked at Avenue Palace Hotel, issued from Banco de la Nación.”

“Aah! The bank!” he cried.

“Sí, sí, el Banco…”

Finally, everything came clear and faint chuckles lit their faces.

After a long drive from Ezeiza International Airport to the iconic hotel on Avenida Alvear in Recoleta, Jasinski was ushered to the reception lobby for a welcome drink. An exotic interior with golden pillars and chandeliers in sparkling crystals.

The girl at the reception glanced at the voucher and smiled, “Diplomat!”

The officer defined, “Señor Jasinski is a VVIP,” and he told the visitor, “I will bring your passports in about an hour.”

“Thank you,” replied Jasinski.

The receptionist girl accompanied him, “Follow me, sir! Welcome to Buenos Aires!”

“Thank you,” he returned.

“Is this your first time in Argentina?”

She took him up the lift to the fourth floor where the hallways were carpeted in gold and blue. He came to learn a while later that it was referred to as a Diplomat Floor and wired. As they turned into another endless corridor, there appeared a slender woman with French looks, walking up at rapid pace. She wore a red headpiece and in a black dress, a coat hung on her arm. They exchanged greetings briefly in the encounter.

The girl guided him down another hallway and finally reached 464, “Suite de lujo!”

A spacious room with the Rococo style furniture and architecture, really ornamental and theatrical. A lobby draped in gold and an elegant bedroom with tall white walls, marble bathroom and personalised toiletries.

“Excellent!” cried Jasinski.

“Le mirador!” she drew the drapes that gave a splendid view over the river and parks. A porter brought his luggage. He could not tip them enough.

It was five. He picked the telephone by the bed and listened to the operator. “I want to make a long-distance call to Switzerland.”

He called his wife, Hanna Jasinska, to give word that he arrived safely and his accommodation at Avenue Palace Hotel was quite exquisite.

He readied for dinner and climbed up to the rooftop terrace to observe a magnificent view of the sunset over the city. Jasinski sat down for a drink at the Avenue Roof Bar.

Afterwards, he decided to check at the reception and collect his passports. At that hour, soaring high halls on the ground floor sparkled with lights reflected on the pillars, on a white marble floor and highly polished door knobs. Jasinski asked the receptionist, “Have you got my passports?”

“What is your suite, sir?” he asked.

“Four-Six-Four.”

“I am afraid, sir,” he checked, “nothing has been delivered.”

“Do you know if…” he felt a shadowy movement behind his back. The lady he saw earlier on the fourth floor came to pause by the counter with a cigarette in her hand.

She spoke, “Have you got my bag?”

The receptionist replied, “No ma’am, I am sorry, it is still not here and no word.”

“I want to talk to the manager,” said the lady in fluent English; dyed black hair, blue eyes, five feet seven, in her mid-thirties. Borys Jasinski thought she was British.

“I’m afraid, the manager is not in. I will leave a message on his desk.” And that woman stepped away.

“My passports!” Jasinski engaged, “He said he’d return them in an hour!”

“Who was this person?”

“An officer from the immigration.”

“Offices will be closed by now. You can try in the morning,” said the receptionist.

“Never mind!”

Jasinski reached the phones and tried to call a contact from the bank. Having had no luck, he returned to the reception and asked, “Is it possible to talk to the manager?”

“Manager is not in,” replied the receptionist, “I can leave a message.”

Jasinski decided, “Please do.”

He entered the restaurant and a waiter checked his room number, “Will you prefer to sit indoors or out in the garden?”

“Which place is less crowded?”

“Outside, Jardin d’Hiver.”

“Is it cold out there?”

“No señor, it’s an orangery.”

He felt at ease in a quiet setting, seated at a corner in the Winter Garden, few guests at the tables and candles lit all around. A living garden decorated of plants in stoneware and ceramic vases, some hanging from the ceiling. Each and every piece of glass and tableware custom-made with the hotel logo or even that of Ralph Lauren.

He ordered a wine, entremets or salad, trying to push aside that delicious Argentine meat.

Quite coincidentally, that lady from the fourth floor reached a table in the middle and a table away from him. A waiter attended. She lit a cigarette and gave a blunt nod to Jasinski. He nodded back.

An hour passed and the dishes served. Jasinski noticed how this mysterious woman dig into the dishes, slurping those meatballs – she ate a lot.

When they all left, Jasinski sat drinking his wine and smoking a cigarette. He asked the waiter, “Do you know that lady?”

“Comtesse Claudine Cartier.”

“French!”