I went to the Canettos’ for dinner one evening. In the long dining room there was only a lamp in the corner; most of the light came from candles on the table. Pablo was wearing a navy blue sweater of thick wool. He sat across the table from me. I could not stop looking at him: the tight black curly hair, the light blue of his eyes, the long eyelashes, the full lips. I had to be careful. I did not know whether he noticed me or what he thought about me. We talked about politics. Señora Canetto had no time for Carlos Menem. She thought that he was the worst sort of Argentinian, and she asked us to contemplate what foreign visitors would make of him and his wife. Señora Canetto said that he thought that Menem was going to be a good president.

Jorge and Pablo drove me to the station that night. Pablo seemed preoccupied as he went upstairs and got his coat. We stood in the doorway as Jorge turned the car. Pablo put his hands to his mouth to heat them with his breath. I said that it was cold. He said it would freeze your balls. I said nothing. When the car came I sat in the back seat and Pablo sat in the front. We did not speak as Jorge drove down the long road full of big houses. There was no other traffic.

When I felt something against my foot, I almost cried out. I thought for a moment that there was a mouse on the floor. But it was not a mouse. It was Pablo’s right hand confidently opening my shoelace. I reached down and touched his hand, but he paid no attention to this. He was searching for the shoelace of the other shoe and when he found this he opened it as well. Jorge had begun to talk about Menem and his wife’s family. I said that the new regime would have to make a deal with the army. By this time Pablo had taken his hand away and my two shoelaces were open.