“Nonetheless, a lot of our companies here are worried,” Susan said. She stood up and gathered the plates and left them on a table in the corner. She carried over an apple pie and cream. Donald opened a bottle of white wine which had been in an ice bucket. After a while a servant came with a pot of coffee. There was silence while we ate.

“What about Señor Canetto’s campaign?” I asked.

“We are interested, and would certainly be prepared to make some resources available,” Donald said. “We’ll have to talk about it some more, it’s hard for us to work out what tone people are using, and there are a few other players we’d like to look at, we’d like your opinions about. Maybe you could translate for us, explain things? You seem very competent,” Donald said.

“Competent?”

“We would value your opinion,” Susan said.

A FEW NIGHTS after this I dreamed about being found out. In my dream they came here, Donald and Susan and their advisers, and there were police cars blocking off the street and flashing lights illuminating the whole apartment as men with American accents dragged me from my bed and accused me of fooling them. In the morning I felt all the guilt that was in the dream.

I NEVER TOLD them what hours I worked in the Instituto San Martín, or how badly I was paid, or how dingy the place was. I told them where I worked, but they would not have known the other self that climbed the wide, old-fashioned, wrought-iron staircase of the school. They made me perform for them: in their house I was alert and bright. I knew things. In the school I merely knew English grammar and the times of my classes and the names of some of the students. And I knew that the place could close at any time, or that my hours would slowly trickle away, or that they would stop paying me for holidays, as they had already done with one of my colleagues. I hated climbing the stairs and opening that main door, and every day as I went there I dreamed of escaping.