He handed me a thin file and said he had something else to do, so I could read it and photocopy any of it if I wanted. He shook my hand again and left the room. I felt cheered by his friendliness, the ease with which he seemed to operate. I sat down and began to pick my way through the life and times of Carlos Menem. The first thing I took note of was his hairstyle and his long and elaborate sideburns. All the photographs were of him smiling, or laughing, or play-acting, or standing beside a beautiful woman, or even between several beautiful women. Six months earlier he had made a speech about the need for resources to be plowed into the provinces rather than the capital, and then more recently he had called on the government to begin negotiations with the International Monetary Fund about restructuring the national debt. There was a short news item with no date on it reporting his declaration that he would be a candidate in the next presidential election. The report referred to him as an ex-Peronist.

I put these cuttings aside and perused the photographs again: he looked like a popular singer, one of those crooners you saw on television on a Saturday night, wearing trousers that were too tight and closing his eyes and stretching out his hand at the end of every phrase. Or maybe he looked like someone from La Rioja, maybe they all looked like that up there. And he had views on the economy. And some sort of relationship with Peronism. I did not know whether this added up or not, but I wrote each point down. I knew that I would never vote for him. I hated the look of him, the cheap glamor. But I would never watch television on a Saturday night; my own preferences were not to be relied upon. Also, he was already governor of a province; he had made a large number of people believe in him. As I photocopied the cuttings I realized that Susan would probably have seen the file; she left nothing to chance. The best thing to do, I thought, would be to write a report for her, using what information I had here and adding whatever I had learned from my conversations in the Canettos’ house. I should write out for her some account of the strong man in local politics, especially in the north, the idea of the political family, with the leader at the center and all those for whom he has done favors surrounding him. I knew that there were versions of it in the United States, and in every other country, but in La Rioja, and perhaps in all of Argentina, especially when people wanted something done urgently about inflation and unemployment and national morale, the idea of a strong man from a remote place would have to be taken very seriously. I left the file back on the table with a note of thanks for the librarian and as I walked back to my office I felt efficient and useful, renewed almost, and I looked forward to our trip.