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“Evita,” Perón said, “say hello to my good friend Manfred.”

“It is always a pleasure to meet any acquaintance of el Coronel,” the young blonde said.

“I am enchanted, señorita,” von Deitzberg said.

“I didn’t catch the name, señor,” Evita said.

“My name is Jorge Schenck, señorita.”

“I thought el Coronel just said your name is Manfred,” Evita said.

“What this is, my dear,” Perón explained, “is state business. That’s not his real name, and you’ve never seen him.”

“Oh!” Evita said. “It’s like that, is it?”

Perón repeated the earlier gesture, this time closing his left eye and pulling the skin below the right eye down with his finger.

“Might one guess that you’re not a Porteño, Señor Schenck?”

“Only if you call me Jorge,” von Deitzberg said. “Actually, I live in Río Negro. Outside Bariloche. I’m what they call an ‘ethnic German.’ I’m a German who now calls Argentina his home.”

“And what, if one may inquire, do you do in Bariloche?”

She talks very strangely, stiltedly formal. What the hell is that all about?

“Well, I have a number of business interests—May I call you

Evita, señorita?”

“Of course you may, Jorge.”

“I’m glad you raised the question, Evita. Among my interests is real estate. I’ve come to see Juan Domingo about a property in which I think he will be interested.”

“What’s that all about?” Evita asked.

“Well, as I’m sure you can appreciate, Evita, a man in Juan Domingo’s position here in Buenos Aires is always in the public eye. Sometimes that’s bothersome.”

“Absolutely,” Perón agreed. “Just between us and the wallpaper, just before you came, Manfred, I was explaining to Evita . . . again, I have to say . . . why we have to be careful where we are seen together. I have a number of enemies.”

“You also have a lot of friends, including this one, Juan Domingo,” von Deitzberg said. “And all of us are sympathetic to your problem.”

“You see, Evita?” Perón said. “That’s just what I was telling you.”

“Sometimes I get the idea you’re ashamed of me,” she said more than a little petulantly.

“Don’t be silly,” Perón said. “What you should know, Man . . . Jorge, is that Evita herself is in the public eye. She is a radio actress on Radio Belgrano.”

“Oh, really?” von Deitzberg said. “I should have guessed. You have a lovely voice, Evita.”

“Why, thank you.”

“So when we go out to dinner, there is usually someone who sees us and says to their friends, ‘Oh, look, there’s Evita Duarte, the radio actress, out with some officer.’ Or: ‘Oh, look at the beautiful blonde with el Coronel Perón.’ Or, worst of all: ‘Oh, look, there’s that beautiful blond radio actress Evita Duarte out with the Secretary of Labor, el Coronel Perón.’ ”

“It’s really not that bad, sweetheart,” Evita said. “And it’s the price you just have to pay for being prominent.”

“Sweetheart”? Suspicion confirmed.

Maybe it’s finally occurred to him that there would be objections to a president known to have an affinity for adolescent girls.