I knew how important they were. I still believe that they were involved in every cent which the United States put into the campaign for the election of Carlos Menem and maybe other candidates. I do not know—perhaps they did not know themselves, so shadowy was the chain of command—how much real power they had. But they could make decisions, I was sure, without consulting anybody. I never once underestimated them.

I did not understand that they would change things for me, and then they would fade. I was excited by them, by the idea that they had a hidden agenda here, by the idea that they were outsiders. But in the end there was nothing hidden: they both were simpler and more straightforward than I had ever imagined, perfect diplomats. I glamorized them, I could not imagine life without them, they filled my days. In time, I knew that there would be no drama, there would instead be efficiency, quiet work done, and then they would slip away and go home.

After a while, when we had spoken about my mother’s Englishness and my accent, Donald drifted away and joined another group. It was when we were left alone that Susan asked me if it had been difficult for me during the war, if I had had divided loyalties. She listened as though she were memorizing each sentence. I told her how the war had made it clearer to me than ever before that I was Argentinian. I had no divided loyalties during the Malvinas War. I told her that even though we had political problems here at that time, we had right on our side. She narrowed her eyes for a moment in recognition. This was serious. I stood there and watched her believing me. She knew that I represented Jorge’s father, who was a Peronist and still had connections with the party, and she knew how important it was for her country to come to terms with all the wounded heat of Argentinian nationalism. I knew as I stood there that I could offer her something, that I could be of use to her, bring her closer to the heart of things. It was a matter of language and gesture, of knowing the key to various codes. It was, in the end, a matter of knowing English.

Donald took me across the room and introduced me to various Americans working in the oil business. Among them was a small Argentinian in his forties trying to speak English, using a pronounced British accent for some of his words, but without enough grammar and vocabulary to make sense. The Americans seemed irritated by him, and had little interest in what he was saying. They nursed their drinks and looked about the room as though patiently waiting for the party to be over.