Guillermo Lousteau: in memoriam

By: César Vidal - 03/07/2026

I was working in my Washington office when I received an urgent call from my daughter. The call was incredibly painful. Guillermo Lousteau had just passed away. In the following minutes, the news was confirmed by two other Argentinians—one of them Mariano Caucino—who had learned of it immediately. I had to stop what I was doing, and suddenly, a flood of memories, images, and experiences came rushing back to me. I'm not going to elaborate here on Guillermo Lousteau's immense intellectual stature, the books he wrote, or his time in the media. I'm not going to do so for two reasons. First, these are facts that everyone has access to, and second, they weren't the most important things for me. Above all, I remember Guillermo Lousteau as a great, truly great friend.

Before my exile in the United States began, I hadn't had the opportunity to meet Guillermo Lousteau. He was informed of my presence by a Spanish liberal economist named María Blanco. In previous years, she had worked as an economics expert on my radio programs, and at that time—almost fourteen years ago—she told Guillermo that “César Vidal has gone to Miami.” Guillermo's response was actually a question: “Which César Vidal? THE César Vidal?” To which María Blanco replied: “Yes, THE César Vidal.”

My arrival in Miami wasn't easy. I had narrowly escaped a bomb attack that would have ended my life, and I landed in the United States with practically nothing. The only person who offered me help selflessly and without my asking was Guillermo. Let me explain. I knew quite a few people in Miami. I had even done favors for some of them in Spain when they were trying to find something as unusual as a publisher for their books. But I didn't ask anything of those acquaintances, and I can tell you now that I received nothing. Some seemed to vanish into thin air. Others looked the other way. There were even those who tried to prevent me from appearing in the local media, perhaps thinking I might be competition. And, yes, there were also those who abused my trust and even stole from me. Since I was starting not from scratch, but from below zero, the reader can imagine that it wasn't an easy start. The only exception was Guillermo. It's true that he wasn't successful. He couldn't find a publisher for my books in Argentina, nor could he find anything that could help my struggling finances in the United States, but he tried and tried even without knowing me at all beforehand.

The reader will understand that we soon became friends. This was primarily because Guillermo and I shared some rather uncommon viewpoints. For example, neither of us held partisan political views nor dreamed of playing a role in the politics of our home country. He, undoubtedly, because he had already held such a position, and I because I didn't think it realistic to return to a place where they had tried to kill me and where I knew I had bitter enemies on both sides of the political spectrum. Precisely for this reason, we both viewed the future predictions made by other exiles with great detachment. They simply seemed to us to lack any basis whatsoever and to be closer to wishful thinking than to a cold, hard analysis of reality. This perspective was reinforced, above all, by our knowledge that Miami was a microclimate—Guillermo's expression—where things are seen very differently from how they really are, and especially from how they are viewed from Washington. Sharing a common dissent often creates strong bonds.

During our long hours of conversation, we rejected countless predictions that were being enthusiastically touted but which we saw as baseless. Time would prove us right time and again.

But politics—thanks to Guillermo I discovered the Institute—was only one part of our conversations. One afternoon a week, I would make a special tea, Guillermo would buy some pastries, and we would spend two or three hours talking about film at my house. Guillermo was an extraordinary cinephile and knew entire scenes from movies by heart, like, for example, Ronald Colman's *The Prisoner of Zenda*. Since we both loved classic cinema, we would eventually end up talking about everything under the sun.

Of course, we didn't always see eye to eye or agree. For example, Guillermo was convinced that I was a very old soul who had reincarnated countless times and that in a previous life I had been, for instance, a doctor in Ancient Egypt. I—who don't believe in reincarnation—politely disagreed with his point of view. Nevertheless, the hours we spent chatting, analyzing, and comparing opinions were undoubtedly some of the best I've had in this country.

As everything in life comes to an end, one day he told me he was returning to Argentina. His wife was mainly driving him to be close to the family. I was deeply saddened because my best friend was leaving, as well as the most cultured, the most elegant, the most intelligent, the most insightful, and above all, the most entertaining. Perhaps it was because, after all, I may have an American passport, but I'm still European, and it's well known that Argentinians are often described as being almost European.

We hadn't spoken in a while because distance, among other things, takes its toll. However, I always asked about him whenever I ran into a mutual friend, like my dear Mariano Caucino. The news of his death brought a pang of sorrow, followed by a flood of memories filled with gratitude and humor, wit and erudition, warmth and elegance. Honestly, I don't think we'll meet again in another life, but I do hope to see him once more on the other side of death. Until then, from the bottom of my heart, I wish him peace.

«The opinions published herein are the sole responsibility of its author».