“My dear Anita, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time,” Luisa began, “there was a beautiful girl by the name of Camilla. She came from a prominent family and was destined for a fortuitous marriage.”

“To one of Rosas’s cousins, wasn’t it?” someone asked.

“No, his nephew.”

“Ahem, ladies. May I continue?” They all quieted as Luisa began to talk again. “However, Camilla was in love with another. A meek and handsome young priest, with eyes like the sea and a face so handsome that women wept over his devotion to Christ. However, the priest could not resist the beautiful Camilla. It was a secret love affair until our young Camilla found that she was with child. It was then that the priest and Camilla stole away.”

Luisa moved through the kitchen with the grace of a dancer. All our eyes were locked on her as she wove her story. “Our ill-fated couple found their way to another village. They thought they had run far enough away. They thought the ruse they invented, a young married couple looking to make a fresh start, was convincing. But what they forgot was, once you cross Juan Manuel de Rosas, you can never get far enough away.

“Rosas and his army found them,” Luisa continued, “and our couple was brought back to Buenos Aires. There was no trial because in Argentina there is only one sentence when you break the law…death.” Luisa paused for effect as everyone in the room crossed themselves. “First, they put the young priest in front of the firing squad, so that Camilla was forced to watch her lover die. Then it was her turn, but as she was tied up and the guns were raised, poised to fire, the archbishop called out for the soldiers to stop. ‘What about the baby?’ he protested. ‘Surely Senhor Rosas could have sympathy for the child.’ Rosas considered this, for after all he was a good Catholic. ‘Baptize the womb!’ he ordered. Camilla’s belly was quickly baptized before the firing squad killed her.”

I gasped.

“This is why, my dear Anita, we are all so nervous about our new president’s best friend,” Luisa said.

That night I lay in bed, tossing and turning. Every time my eyes closed the vision of a pregnant Camilla haunted me.

“Tesoro mio, what troubles you?” José turned on his side, his head resting in the palm of his hand.

“Is Rosas as awful as they say he is?”

José’s face darkened as he focused on a spot somewhere around my collarbone. “He is worse.” He met my eyes. “What stories were the women discussing in the kitchen?”

“We were talking about the priest and his lover, Camilla.”

“Oh, that is a good one but alas, not my favorite.” He rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.

“Which story is your favorite?”