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This may go easier than I thought it would.

“Well, all I know is that it’s a problem even for someone like me,” von Deitzberg said. “Who is not in the public eye. Just between us and the wallpaper, I have a lady friend, and we have the same problem.”

“You’re married, Jorge, is that what you’re saying?” Evita asked.

“We haven’t lived together for some time,” von Deitzberg said. “It just didn’t work out, and then it turned nasty. We can’t go to dinner anywhere in Buenos Aires. My lady friend and I, I mean. If we do, my wife hears about it by breakfast and—Well, you can imagine.”

“I understand,” Evita said sympathetically. “So what do you do?”

“We do what I came here to suggest to Juan Domingo—and this was, of course, before I had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Evita—that he seriously consider doing himself.”

“Which is?” Perón asked.

“Have a vacation retreat in Bariloche,” von Deitzberg said. “And I think I have found just the place for you. For you both.”

“Oh, really?” Evita said.

“I left my briefcase by the door,” von Deitzberg said. “Let me go get it.”

“Well, there it is,” von Deitzberg said, pointing to a dozen or more large photographs laid out on Perón’s dining room table. “Estancia Puesta de Sol, two hundred and fifty hectares on the shore of Lake Nahuel Huapi. A nine-room villa, plus servants’ quarters, with most of the land in forest. Harvestable forest. What do you think, Juan Domingo?”

“I love it,” Evita said. “Oh, sweetheart!”

I should have been a real-estate salesman.

“Again between us and the wallpaper, I’m a little strapped for cash,” Perón said.

“That’s not a problem,” Von Deitzberg said. “I took title to this place when it came on the market, and your credit is good enough with me.”

Perón obviously was trying to come up with the words to squirm out of it.

“But this is something you would want to consider at your leisure,” von Deitzberg said. “Not just jump into.”

“Yes, I would agree with that,” Perón said. “Haste does make waste.”

“So what I would suggest you and Evita do is go have a look at it.”

“I’d love to,” Evita said.

“How would we do that?” Perón quickly objected. “It’s three days by train out there. If we only spent a day there, we’d be gone a week. I don’t have the time for that.”

“And eight hours by air,” von Deitzberg said. “I know because I just came back to Buenos Aires by air.”

“Really?” Evita asked.

“South American Airways now flies there twice a day, with a stop at San Martín de los Andes,” von Deitzberg said. “The morning flight leaves Aeropuerto Jorge Frade at eight-thirty.”

“You’re not suggesting we do this tomorrow?” Perón asked, incredulous.

“Oh, darling, why not?” Evita said. “I’m so sick of this dreadful little apartment. And I’ve never flown. Please?”

“I’m not sure we could get seats on such short notice,” Perón said.

Evita said what von Deitzberg was thinking: “Of course you can. You’re on the board of directors of SAA. They’ll find seats for us. Will your lady friend be going, too, Jorge?”

“Yes, of course. I think you’ll like each other.”

Inge will be a little surprised, and probably not pleased to hear we’re going back to Bariloche. She really got airsick on the way here.