Suddenly, over to the left there was a shout. There were too many people in front of me; I could not see what was happening. I jumped in the air, but there was a tree blocking my view. The crowd was pushed back from the platform and we had trouble keeping together and stopping the people in front of us from stepping on our feet. When Susan said something to me in English, several people in front turned and looked at us. Their gaze was not exactly hostile, but it was curious and unfriendly and tinged with darkness. We did not speak again. Now we could see a cavalcade of white horses, their riders carrying flaming torches and wearing gaucho hats, moving toward the platform. There was cheering and shouting and whistling as the crowd focused on the man who was clearly Carlos Menem. When the men in gaucho dress dismounted they accompanied him to the platform and stood behind him, their torches in their hands. His speech was patriotic and full of clichés about the future and the past of Argentina, but he held the crowd with the power in his voice. I watched Susan examine him; it was the first time I had seen a sort of awe in her face. Menem had now begun to shout and the crowd was transfixed; it reminded me of that night in Buenos Aires when the war had broken out and Galtieri came onto the balcony. This crowd had the same rawness, listening as though no one had ever spoken words like this before. I thought that it was possible that all over Argentina now there were men who could talk like this, and town squares full of people listening to them, and that this meant nothing, our country had never been short of demagogues and easy language; but afterward Susan and Jorge were absolutely sure that this was an important moment we had witnessed.

We had dinner that night at a corner table in the hotel restaurant with a small man in his early forties. His name was Polish or Hungarian and he lived in Buenos Aires. He was the man who had alerted Susan to the existence of Menem, and he was the campaign manager, as far as we could make out, although he was not a Peronist and had no background in the movement. It was hard to work out what his background was. I could not even tell whether he was rich or poor. He spoke no English; he said very little, and when he spoke he addressed himself entirely to Susan, and treated Jorge and me as though we were her bodyguards. As the meal progressed, it became clear that he had known Susan for some time, and that he had a determined campaign strategy, and from now on could depend on her full cooperation. When he stood up to go, I noticed that he had a limp. I watched him leave the hotel, and then I turned toward Susan and Jorge. They were watching him too. None of us said anything. We went to the desk in the lobby and collected our keys. I kissed Susan goodnight and nodded at Jorge and went ahead of them up the wide stairs of the old hotel to bed.