I knew that I had been recommended to them by Señor Canetto’s neighbor. He phoned me to say that this would be a good chance for me. He told them that I knew the scene and spoke two languages and might be useful to them. Thus I had two reasons to be there: to find work as a translator, or local helper, and to interest them in Señor Canetto’s candidacy. I remember that I dressed carefully that day, I wore a suit and a tie, I had my hair cut and was shaved, I put polish on my good shoes. But I am sure that I still looked uneasy and awkward as I stood alone with a drink in my hand, having arrived in a taxi and waited at the door while another guest arrived by car and handed the keys over to a uniformed guard who parked it for him. A servant woman in a white uniform guided me to the large square room with long windows on three sides. I recognized nobody. Everyone there must have wanted something as well, must have had a secret reason to be present. No doubt their names are in the archive too, and maybe there’s a code to describe their motives. I never saw any of them again, and I noted each face in those first few minutes. I do not know if they had reason to return to this house, if there were more parties where people talked quietly and smiled and gestured subtly as though they were imitating a set of protocols they had learned from a manual or a movie.

A servant came with a tray of drinks and I grabbed a second whisky and added some ice and water, even though I had only half-finished my first. It gave me time to myself, a sudden opportunity to concentrate. But when I lifted my head and sipped my drink and took in the room once more, I had one or two seconds of pure ease. I felt ready for this, whatever it was. And in one of those moments it happened: I was approached by Donald Ford and Susan, his wife. They worked, I already knew, for an organization called the Institute for Economic Development, but they were close to the embassy, and I think their position was understood by everybody who was there, though in all the time I knew them the letters CIA were never mentioned. I remember their white teeth, her blonde smile, and her frail frame against his tough, all-male friendliness. It was easy to smile in return, offer a firm handshake, speak in a way which seemed oddly authoritative. It was as though I had hired a double for this first encounter, someone who had known only certainty and optimism, who could choose words with care, hold his glass with equanimity as he introduced himself and told them what campaign he was working on.