“We were very impressed with you, you sounded English to us, even though we know you’re Argentinian,” she said as soon as the waiter had walked away. I said nothing. “We feel lucky to have met you, and would like to see you some more.” I smiled, but still could think of no reply.

“Are you married?” she asked.

“No,” I said. She held my gaze.

“And you live alone? With your family?”

“Alone.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it? I believe that most people live at home here until they get married.” Again, I said nothing. I wanted her to ask me about politics, about our campaign.

“Are your parents still alive?” she asked. I told her that they were dead.

“When did they die?” she asked.

“My mother died two years ago next month,” I said.

“And your father?”

“He died when I was twelve.”

“And you’re an only child?”

“Yes.”

“It must be hard for you being alone here.” She looked at me across the low table waiting for some response. I wondered if I could ask her now what she thought of Argentinian politics and if I could take her to meet Señor Canetto.

“It must have been hard for your mother when your father died,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“How old was he?”

“He was in his early sixties.”

“Did he die suddenly?”

“No. He was sick for a long time.”

“With what?”

“His heart was bad.”

“Did your parents love one another?” she asked. Once more she looked at me expecting me to confide in her. No one had ever asked me such a question before. She waited.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“What was your father like?”

“He was dark, he didn’t look like me at all.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with him?”

I talked to her about them for more than an hour that afternoon, and she listened as though it were vital for her to know. I told her how he used to pick me up and put me on his back and hold my feet in his hands as though his hands were pedals. I don’t know why I told her that. It was the best thing, the happiest memory I had of him. I told her that I loved it when he gave me his full attention, but sometimes, most of the time maybe, he was distant, and it was hard to distract him. My eyes filled up with tears as I spoke about him, how much I missed him after he died and how I could never speak about him to my mother, as though he were a guilty secret between us, as if his death were a crime, something best forgotten, a terrible darkness which neither of us could face. When I stopped talking Susan said nothing, and for some time neither of us broke the silence across the table.