said the minister of health to her deputy assistant, “you must fly me to one of those resort towns on the edge of the lake. Set me up in a striped tent. Send in kids who need booster shots. The mayor and I will split a bottle of cold Spanish wine; then we will blow up the last storehouse of canned milk…” The minister paused. Caroline, the deputy, was looking tired. “Lina, what godforsaken place am I visiting tomorrow?” the minister asked. “Campo del Norte,” came the answer. “Water adequate, sewage okay, no cholera, frequent dysentery…” Señora Marta Perera de Lefkowitz, minister of health, listened and memorized. Her chin was slightly raised, her eyelids half-lowered over pale eyes. This was the pose that the newspapers caricatured most often. Pro-government papers did it more or less lovingly—in their cartoons the minister resembled an inquisitive cow. Opposition newspapers accentuated the lines under Señora Perera's eyes and adorned her mouth with a cigarette, and never omitted the famous spray of diamonds on her lapel.
