The man now called on Señor Claudio Canetto to come to the platform. I felt that the atmosphere was too informal for the speech; and when Señor Canetto began to talk about his love for Argentina, for its flag and its customs and its people, I wanted to hide under the table. This was meant to be a party, not a boring political broadcast, and Señor Canetto seemed not at all anxious to stop speaking once he had started. He spoke about the purity of Perón’s vision and his own friendship with Perón and then about his own willingness to serve his fatherland, to put his personal interests aside in favor of the interests of Argentina. I could not wait for this to end. I noticed Jorge standing in the shadows watching his father with great attention as though he believed in him. I caught Donald’s eye and he winked at me as if to say that neither of us was being fooled by this speech.

After the speech, some men stood up and applauded Senor Canetto, but it was all subdued. Soon, the singer in the red dress returned to the bandstand. We went over to the bar and got some drinks and then walked around the garden. It was a beautiful hot night; the sky was clear. Suddenly, there was shouting behind us and we could hear some chairs being disturbed and some glasses being knocked over. I thought that a fight had broken out. We stood and watched, but it was hard to make out what was going on. Then we saw that four middle-aged men in suits, two of whom I recognized from the Malvinas dinners, the sort of men who had come with their wives as old friends of Señor Canetto’s, were carrying a fifth man toward us. He was wriggling and struggling and a woman who was obviously his wife was screaming. She was a small woman with a large bust.

They dragged the man, two of them holding him by the shoulders, two by the legs. His wife was jumping up and down. Her husband tried to kick and punch and pull himself free, his face was red with anger and fear, but the others were determined, they laughed and shouted as they ferried him in our direction. Several other men followed them, roaring encouragement. Susan asked me if I had any idea what was going on. The woman continued singing in Portuguese and some people sat at the tables as though nothing were happening. I could see the man’s face clearly, his look of panic as his wife continued to shout and gesticulate, imploring the men to stop. We walked after them in amazement; the oil executives were suddenly animated and interested. The crowd had now reached the terrace below the house. Behind us, Jorge came running down. I asked him what was going on.

“They always throw this man into the swimming pool. They have been doing it since they were in the military academy together. My father asked them not to do it tonight. They are crazy.”