
The Day Mr. K died
International customs, Buenos Aires airport, Argentina, noon, october 27. I turn on my cell phone and the message "Kirchner dead" appears. It takes me a while to fully grasp it, and when I do, I look around and begin to feel a mixture of tense calm and bewilderment among the customs officials. A lot of things run through my head during these minutes. It had been a long time since I had felt this particular sense of contained crisis that I have experienced so many times in this country.