Argentine Case of the Unseen Leader

The president of Argentina speaks several languages. He is a published author. By all accounts, he is an intelligent and alert man, as well-educated as any leader in this country’s history.

These days, however, the popular image of Fernando de la Rua is of a man asleep at the wheel. Members of his own party have disowned him. In public, he is greeted by shouts of “Useless!” from some of the countless Argentines who blame him for the country’s precipitous decline.

On one of Argentina’s highest-rated television shows, a biting satire of the nation’s political class, he appears as a somnolent figure slumped in a chair.

“Fernando, wake up!” cries the actress who plays his wife.

Everything is crashing around De la Rua, the leader who stands between Argentina and a default on its $130-billion foreign debt, an event that would have grave implications for global markets.

Two years ago, he came to power with a promise to renew Argentine democracy by cleaning out corruption. Instead, he has found himself cast as his country’s Herbert Hoover, presiding over an economic collapse that has thrown millions out of work. This month, voters in midterm elections punished him with the worst defeat of his political career.

“He is a sharp man and very competent, but he has also been unlucky,” said Horacio Verbitsky, a columnist for the daily Pagina 12. “Now he’s been left without any constituency. Who does De la Rua represent? No one.”

In the days since the Oct. 14 electoral debacle--after which his Alliance coalition became an even smaller minority in both houses of Congress--there has been an aura of personal and political isolation about the 64-year-old president.

“I don’t think the feeling on the street is that De la Rua should resign or be cast aside,” journalist Bernardo Neustadt wrote in the magazine Veintitres. “People on the street believe that De la Rua doesn’t exist. That’s the saddest thing.”

Before the election, Neustadt was among those urging people to cast votes as a form of protest. Millions heeded the advice. In Buenos Aires, a stronghold of De la Rua’s Radical party, more people cast blank or nullified ballots than voted for Alliance.

The coalition has since split, with its leftist members saying they could no longer stomach the administration’s deep cuts in government salaries and pensions. The leading figure in the Radical party, former President Raul Alfonsin, has openly attacked De la Rua’s policies. Pollsters say the president’s approval rating has dipped below 20%.

Given the bleak political landscape, it isn’t easy for De la Rua’s dwindling band of supporters to keep up a brave face.

“The president has many, many allies,” insisted spokesman Ricardo Ostuni. “They are not concentrated in any one party or in any sector of society. His support is among the serious and thoughtful people of the country.”

De la Rua has said that this month’s electoral defeat will not lead to any substantial changes in his government’s “zero deficit” program, which was demanded by the international banking community.

“Although many people don’t like it, the only way out [of Argentina’s debt crisis] is to take the necessary measures,” Ostuni said. “No matter how much [our critics] scream and cry, there just isn’t anymore money left.”

The promise of more budget cuts has further infuriated De la Rua’s opponents, many of whom have raised their rhetoric to ever-higher levels of meanness. Alfredo Bravo, a newly elected senator from Buenos Aires, recently called the president “autistic”--a commentary on his famously reserved and distant manner.

“The president must be deaf, blind and mute,” Hugo Moyano, a labor leader, declared at a protest Thursday outside De la Rua’s offices. “Because he can’t see, he doesn’t listen, and he doesn’t speak.”

De la Rua never claimed to be a font of charisma. He began his 1999 presidential campaign with a commercial that declared, “They say I’m boring. . . .” He was to be a low-key antidote to the highflying swagger of his predecessor, Carlos Menem, now under house arrest on arms-trafficking charges.

Menem inspired those around him with his eloquence. De la Rua is, by contrast, a detail man. Insiders say he personally revises mundane aspects of the many presidential decrees he signs each day, a task previous chief executives left to their aides.

“He loses hours correcting these documents,” said a Radical party activist who has known De la Rua for much of the president’s three decades in politics.

Ernesto Seman, author of “Educating Fernando,” an account of De la Rua’s successful presidential campaign, paints a similar picture.

“He’s really fascinated with the idea of a zero deficit,” Seman said. “His approach to government is like that of a man running a deli. It makes him happy to see the books balanced at the end of the month.”

But Seman says Argentines are only getting what they voted for.

“What people see now as a defect used to be seen as a virtue,” he said. He and others argue that the president doesn’t have the political skills to rally even the members of his own party behind his economic plan.

Instead, De la Rua takes counsel from a small circle of loyalists, the most prominent of whom is his son Antonio, 27, who is engaged to the Colombian pop singer Shakira.

Antonio de la Rua is one of the many figures lampooned on “Videomatch,” a popular television show. He and his father are portrayed as “residents” in a recurring skit called “The Big Brother-in-law,” a takeoff on the internationally used “Big Brother” format, which portrays the activities of real people in a shared dwelling.

Earlier this year, a presidential spokesman took the extraordinary step of asking the comedians of “Videomatch”--and certain cartoonists--to tone down their satire. Their portrait of the president, he said, was demeaning.

“We didn’t like that,” said Gabriela Galareto, a spokeswoman for “Videomatch.” “We saw it as an attack on freedom of expression.”

The character known as “Fernando” is still on the show, played by a young actor in heavy makeup. He “lives” in the same house with his most vocal opponent, congressional Deputy Elisa Carrio, other politicians and relatives. Each week, viewers call in to choose which resident should leave. On Thursday night, Fernando begged viewers to vote him off the show.