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which Dr Dupuy had had shipped all the way from Tierra del Fuego. The chaplain accepted a second helping and, eyes half closed, savoured the food.
    ‘Congratulations, my dear doctor. This is delicious.’
    Dupuy accepted the compliment with a chilly smile and turned to the president.
    ‘Did you have a good day, señor?’
    He made a small gesture which the waiters immediately understood. They were to serve another round of Dom Perignon. Though in private, Dupuy addressed the president informally, he was careful to observe protocol when others were present. Behind the president’s display of strength, he knew, the man was sensitive and insecure.
    ‘I can’t complain. I spent the morning addressing the World Advertising Congress and I’ve rarely heard such an ovation. The business community is thrilled by what’s happening here. They say that in a couple of months we’ve managed to get the subversives on the ropes. We’ve flushed the rats from their nests. We inherited a country in chaos, now we live in an orderly society.’
    Ethel felt compelled to intervene.
    ‘Every night I prayed to God that you and your men would take power quickly. The Argentinian people were horrified to see the country in the clutches of that brainless burlesque dancer 6 . We were afraid that by the time you came to power, the country would be in ruins. I’ve been terribly impressed by how quickly you’ve restored order. Even Borges – a man of few words – said how proud he is of the army that saved the country from Communism. I heard him on the radio only a couple of hours ago.’
    ‘Ah, yes. I had lunch with Borges and a number of the intelligentsia. My advisers invited them so we could discuss cultural matters. Only one of them proved intractable – though it was the one person we least expected – a priest, a certain Father Leonardo Castellani.’
    ‘I thought he was dead,’ said Dupuy. ‘He must be at least eighty.’
    ‘Seventy-seven I was told. I see you know the man.’
    ‘Not really. I’ve read some of his writings. He translated a section of St Thomas Aquinas’ Summa Theologica and wrote a number of rather good crime novels. He was told that the Jesuits would punish him and indeed he was expelled from the order and sent into reclusion in a monastery in Spain. It was only a few years ago that the Vatican permitted him to say Mass again.’
    The president had barely touched his food. He was so thin, the other comandantes called him the Eel. It was a nickname that did not displease him. Even as a young cadet, he had been slippery, cold, inscrutable. Though he had not sought it, he had accepted the highest office in the land for the sake of the military. Even now, at the height of his power, he was still an eel, noted for his secrecy, his cunning, his good luck.
    ‘I had no idea the priest would prove so turbulent. I shall have to rebuke my advisers for inviting him. From the moment I saw him, he did not strike me as a man of God. He has a glass eye. A frozen, cadaverous eye. Over dessert, he had the gall to suggest that I release a former student of his from prison, someone named Conti. He ranted and raved like a man possessed.’
    ‘He always was possessed,’ Dupuy offered.
    ‘He started shouting that this student of his was a great writer who had been tortured half to death after his arrest.’
    ‘My God. What did you tell him?’ This from the wife with the swollen legs.
    ‘I told him the truth. I told him my government is at war against Communist subversives, but it does not resort to torture or to murder. Professor Addolorato, who was sitting on my right, managed to save the day. “How could you even think of bringing such an outlandish accusation to this table, Father?” he said.’
    ‘Addolorato is a fine man,’ his wife agreed.
    ‘You don’t know how grateful I am to him. The priest was about to launch into another diatribe, but Addolorato told him to calm down. “We are all living through troubled