Your new novel, Qué quedará de nosotros (What Will Remain of Us), takes place during the Falklands War. You were only 14 years old in 1982. What do you remember from that time?

I remember a lot. I remember the euphoric surprise with which my mother woke us up that morning holding a transistor radio in her hand, and how the whole of society and all areas of it immediately became obsessed with the Falklands. Suddenly, at school, in your neighbourhood, while shopping, in the media... everything was about the Falklands. At first, it was simply the joy of recovery, seen not as the beginning of a war, but as the end of a usurpation. The British response was very likely to be forceful, but it came as a complete shock because Argentine society is very self-referential: for us, the legitimacy of the claim was obvious and we thought that for the world, and even for Britain itself, it was unquestionable. That initial euphoria then turned into war euphoria.

Today, is the Falklands issue still an unquestionable one for Argentine society?

There is practically unanimous agreement and the iconography of the Falklands is very present: the silhouette of the islands is everywhere. The war is not a topic we talk about much, but the Falklands are. If you ask an elderly person or a seven-year-old child, both will tell you that the Falklands are Argentine.

In 1982, the war being so close, were people’s daily routines unaffected?

In an analogue society, where communication channels were scarce, unidirectional, and controlled by a military dictatorship, the military government’s version was considered ‘the truth’, and we all accepted it until it became impossible for the dictatorship itself to deny reality. When they said, “Our forces have surrendered today, 14 June 1982”, there was no way to hide the truth. And that’s when public opinion shifted from fervour, passion and optimism to frustration, anger and rejection of the military.

There’s some kind of tenderness in the three main characters when they’re going off to war and they’re excited about thing such as flying in aeroplanes.

The thing is, they don’t know they’re going to war. They and their commanders are going to take control of the islands until a diplomatic solution is found. We know that they are completely mistaken and that it is a ridiculous and naive illusion, but – and I can tell you that when you review veterans’ testimonies, it is also true – they board the planes thinking, “I’m going to the Falklands and I’m going to be one of the first Argentinians to set foot on this land that we have been claiming for 100 years.” The reality, the cold, the hunger, the trenches, the waiting, the naval bombardment, the moment when the British shells begin to fall... these are the final triggers that make them realise that, “Yes, I have gone to war”.

What was it like documenting such a significant event for Argentina?

It is a very significant event, but one that we talk about very little. And I am referring to the war, not the Falklands. There is a great deal of first-hand testimony – the veterans themselves have felt the need to put their experiences into words – a lot of interviews and many self-published memoirs of enormous testimonial value. There are also academic works on military history, some of them British. For them, this conflict was their last war fought alone, against another distant country, with the logistical problem of transporting a fleet thousands of kilometres to the South Atlantic. They produced a great deal of military history work on the subject, which was also a source for reconstructing the day-to-day reality of a war, something that fortunately is far removed from the personal experience of almost all of us.

However, the novel does not focus on that story with a capital S, but rather on everyday life...

That’s my usual literary perspective. Perhaps it is more noticeable in these novels because, as it was such a notable historical event, there are very prominent political leaders: Margaret Thatcher, Ronald Reagan, Galtieri... I wanted to get down to the level of the infantry soldiers, of civilians called up to do their civic duty, and make them my main characters.

What do these characters, who you usually call ‘minor’, despite their enormous complexity, allow you to do?

They allow me to explore humanity. The fact that they are anonymous gives me a lot of freedom to make their biographies whatever I want them to be. If I were to move in high society, I would owe those characters a certain rigour. One can invent, or falsify known biographies, while these characters can be universal. Their anonymity and smallness make them any one of us.

That reminds me of something you once said: that “human beings are less different from each other than we think”. Do you have a global perspective in this respect?

I know I am unable to have a global perspective, and all I can do is talk about my little village. But in fact, my little village is much more universal than I once thought. When I started writing and publishing, I thought that my little village was inaccessible to those who were not from there. But one of the surprises that this international career has brought me is that someone with a life that seems totally different from mine, says, “Ah, I understand these people”. Not me, but those characters. And that’s where I hold my thesis that on the surface we are not alike, but deep down we truly are. For better or for worse.

In your latest novels, you return to Argentina. Is that a conscious decision?

Well, I feel that, in part, it is. I have a degree in history, and my future was going to be in academia until this literature thing happened. I’m very interested in what we talk about and what we think about our past, because I believe that’s the main thing about history: thinking about the past in terms of the present. And I’m interested in what we say, and I’m alarmed by what we don’t talk about. I feel like all societies keep some things quiet, topics we avoid because they make us uncomfortable, not necessarily because they’re painful. For Argentina, for example, the military dictatorship is a painful subject. But we have talked and written a lot and made films, plays and songs about human rights violations. The Falklands War makes us feel guilty and we don’t talk about it. Because, beyond the fact that as a society we have projected the blame on to the military – and I’m not saying that the military is not to blame – we are also responsible. For that euphoria, that naivety, applauding Galtieri, waving flags, suspending all our conflicts for the sake of the national cause and sending thousands of soldiers to fight a very difficult war with a sense of levity that they did not deserve. We don’t talk about that, and I feel it’s good that we do.

When you give birth to characters, do you use real references or do you create them from scratch?

No, in general they are not based on anyone, precisely because of the freedom we mentioned earlier. Of course, they have real elements, but only a few and spread across different characters. Just as they have elements of me... but again spread across different characters. Traits that I like and traits that I don’t like. There are characters I identify with more than others because they are kinder, better people. But when I’m creating the ones I don’t like, their traits come from somewhere... They are also in me, and I think that’s why writing is so cathartic.

There is something very cinematic about your work. As you are also a screenwriter, do you see images in your mind when you write?

Just as there are authors who work with words, abstract thoughts and reflection, I work with actions that I see, with people moving and doing things. First, I construct the scene and then I see how I can narrate it. I have a very visual way of creating, and I think that has helped some of my novels appeal to people in the film industry, who have felt a certain empathy with my language.

In addition to Qué quedará de nosotros, the Falklands War is also present in Demasiado lejos (Too Far Away), which will be released in Spain in May.

The two novels are like mirrors. Demasiado lejos takes place during the same period, but in Buenos Aires. Some of the characters are relatives of the soldiers in Qué quedará de nosotros. For example, in the first chapter of Qué quedará de nosotros, Carlitos, one of the soldiers, is awakened by his mother with the news. In Demasiado lejos, that scene is his mother listening to the radio and running out into the street. There is a whole series of characters who reconstruct that fictional war that they live through and that most Argentinians live through. But they are two independent books that do not require each other.

And are you already working on your next book?  

Yes, I’m writing a detective novel, trying to move away from the historical themes of some of my recent works so as not to get stuck in a rut. The danger I see when you’re successful – because I think I’ve been successful with my books – is that you can become complacent. So I started writing fiction as a form of catharsis. It’s a detective novel set in the present day, and the main characters are old people. The theme of old age naturally appeals to me – I’m 57 and that’s what’s coming. In my books, I try to construct a story and offer it to the reader, but at the same time I try to take things from myself and see them from the outside. Because, of course, as you get older, the questions you ask yourself keep changing.