We watched inflation continue to rise and labor unrest intensify. It was clear to us that Alfonsín would leave no heir or political legacy. And whoever would replace him, Señor Canetto and his friends were sure, would have to have a base in Peronism, without being anti-American, would be more right-wing than Alfonsín, would have no connection to the generals who ran the war, but still have allies in the army. Often, this was discussed late into the night. I had realized early on that Señor Canetto himself had political ambitions, and I now realized that his friends had ambitions for him too. Such meetings were, I suppose, held all over Argentina in those years.

I never believed that Señor Canetto had any of the skills required, but he believed that he did, and so did some of his friends, enough for them to find out what was happening, how they could win support. He learned, through his neighbor, that there were people close to the American Embassy who wanted to fund serious democratic parties in Argentina so that the next elections would see an orderly transfer of power from Alfonsín to a civilian successor. Reagan’s administration, it was believed, wanted no more dictators in South America; it wanted to fund and support Christian Democratic parties. I do not know what enquiries were made, but Señor Canetto phoned me to say that there was a series of receptions being held by two people whom he believed were American diplomats. They needed people to attend who spoke English and who could talk to them about the democratic possibilities. He had an invitation for me, he said. And that is how I came to meet Susan and Donald Ford.

PART TWO

Somewhere, in the vast underground archive in one of their buildings—in Washington maybe, or wherever it is they store things—there must be a file about my first meetings with the Fords. I imagine strip lighting and shadows and gray-blue metal shelving. As I wander the narrow corridors between the stacks, I imagine the neutral, dry smell of paper. And there somewhere—classified as secret, or not to be opened until some year in the future, or coded in some way that few can understand—their account of me and others will be folded, preserved. Will it be in her round, clear, beautiful longhand? Will he have typed it on the small, electric machine he kept on a table at a right angle to his desk? Did they know that they gave me confidence in myself, and, in certain ways, they changed my life?