The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

by Carlos Gamerro

  ‘Well, Colorado, for a start you can tell your happy people to up and leave right now. The party’s over.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Are you questioning a direct order?’

  Marroné watched the colour rise to Paddy’s neck and cheeks. He had seen him like this at school when some master or other was giving him a mouthful. The newcomer’s high-handedness made Marroné smile to himself. At school no one could keep Paddy down. How much less now that he had the whole of the people behind him.

  ‘No,’ said Paddy, bowing his head.

  Marroné was dumbfounded. He was in the presence of something unheard of, or at least beyond his ken. Paddy taking orders, meekly and obediently.

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong, you tell me. You reckon there’s a lot to celebrate? You liberated a factory, true… but 99.9 per cent are still in the hands of the capitalists and the bureaucracy. And by making the workers owners of the company, you’re actually deproletarianising them… giving them a taste for capitalism. A typical liberal, petit bourgeois deviation, and proof that the proletarianisation process in you is only skin-deep… Scratch your surface a bit and all that good old English education shines through. You’ve been fraternising with the unions too long, Colorado. Our organisation does not pander to trade unions: it dictates to them. We can’t afford to fight for the workers’ creature comforts in this one and then let them go all bourgeois on us: they have to be toughened up and made ready to seize power. We’re not asking for soap for the toilets any more; we’re making the Revolution not just for the happy few,’ he said, taking in the motley throng with a sweep of his hand, ‘but for everyone. So now, if you haven’t got the balls for the Revolution, just let us know and we’ll sort it out no sweat, because there are hundreds of comrades willing to lay down their lives in your place. A strike’s no laughing matter, Colorado. As long as there’s a single Argentine that suffers, it’s our duty to suffer with them. What are you celebrating here? The fact that, while you’re stuffing your faces, the underfed minors working in the Tucumán sugar mills are starving to death? Or that you’re getting pissed here while our comrades fighting in the mountains are drinking their own, just like they had to in Che’s column?’

  Paddy made the most of the pause to collect his scattered thoughts.

  ‘The strike, the occupation, the recovery… it was decided by all of us, in assembly. We should hold another one if we’re going to suspend the celebrations. And I don’t think the vote will go in our favour…’ he countered. ‘Me, I don’t give orders to anyone here.’

  ‘I know, Colorado. I do. Look,’ he said, resting one hand on Paddy’s shoulder, who tensed visibly as if someone had just jabbed him with an awl. ‘I know that at the end of the day you’ve done important work here. Even your deviations weren’t the product of bad intentions. So I’ll make an exception and let you in on a couple of things. If Ernesto agrees, that is.’

  Marroné nodded and acknowledged the courtesy with a curt smile.

  ‘The leadership has something big up its sleeve… First, we’re going to get the union back… You know what I’m talking about. Babirusa’s one block we can’t afford to stumble over again, you know that better than me… Meanwhile, mingling with all these lovely citizens strolling in through the gates you so generously left open, the big cheeses from the union are wandering around taking notes on the means of access, the cracks in the defence and the folk they’re going to whack – with you top of the list. That’s one reason to wrap this carnival up: it’s a serious breach of security. Easily fixed though. I’ve sent for our people; they’ll be here before nightfall. But your liberal antics have called for a stronger remedy. I’m relieving you of your duties, Colorado. You’re being moved to the military front. That way you’ll still be fighting for all of… them.’ He gestured vaguely towards the factory building. ‘Just in a different arena. Look on it as a promotion if you like. We have to move forward, Colorado, take the leap to the next stage. The days of the specialist cadre are over; what we’re looking for now are all-rounders who’ll tackle anything we throw at them. Every militant has to be a soldier prepared to lay down his or her life.’

  Marroné was about to chip in with a helpful quote from The Corporate Samurai, but thought better of it, as it might give him away. Paddy frowned, more concerned now than annoyed, until in the end he ventured to ask:

  ‘You’re going to whack Babirusa. And you want me in on it.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No… But… Is it necessary? We’ll wipe the floor with them at the elections. Just look at all this.’

  ‘I have. You said the same thing last time. And two days before the election Babirusa got into bed with the management and they fired all the comrades on the rival list. Babirusa’s a traitor to the workers’ cause. And he has the blood of several of your comrades on his hands, in case you’d forgotten.’

  Paddy had starting to fume again.

  ‘Course I haven’t forgotten. Are you suggesting…’

  ‘I never suggest; I say. So? You’re scared?’

  ‘No, Miguel. It’s just that your way we erase all differences. Even if that traitor Babirusa bags the elections with fraud – or with blood – he’ll still be branded a traitor. But if we whack him, what does that prove? You can whack anyone, makes no difference if it’s Tosco or Vandor.’

  ‘See what a petty petit bourgeois you are? All we need now is for you to start carrying on about the sacred value of human life. Know what, Colorado? In case you hadn’t heard, our objective here isn’t to end up moral champions, but to make the Revolution. The Revolution isn’t for the faint-hearted, in case you didn’t know. Now, let’s get the job done because I’m starting to get a bit pissed off. We’ll have tea and scones together another day if you want to go on talking. Right, you’ve a five-o’clock appointment on the last bench at the station, downtown platform. Meanwhile we’ll pull the plug on this little shindig. Coming, Ernesto? People still don’t know me around here, so I’ll leave the talking to you.’

  Marroné nodded because he was in no position to refuse, though he’d rather have stayed with his dejected friend. He grabbed him firmly by one arm all the same and gave him a hearty slap of encouragement on the other, but then turned round out of reflex to make sure he hadn’t stained Paddy’s white overalls with coloured chalk.

  ‘I like El Colorado,’ Miguel said to Marroné as they walked away. ‘Give him time and I think he’ll make a helluva cadre. Trouble is, he was a bit old when we got hold of him. Certain vices are very deep-rooted after a certain age… You can’t wash the stigma of English school away with a bit of elbow grease. Training a real worker cadre takes years, as you well know. Ah well… A bit of the old hand-to-hand won’t hurt him. So there’s no need for you people to worry because, as you can see for yourself, everything here’s right on track…’

  At these words Marroné almost slapped his forehead. So that was it! Miguel had taken him for an observer sent by the upper echelons, and he’d gone to town on Paddy’s reprimand in order to ingratiate himself. It had felt familiar from the start, a paranoia, commonplace enough in the world of business, that became attached to every newcomer to the office. Oh, well. Miguel’s misunderstanding could work to his advantage if he was careful not to put his foot in it.

  ‘You work at Tamerlán, don’t you?’

  Had Miguel rumbled him? Marroné’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Keep your friends close…’ he mumbled.

  ‘Brilliant,’ concluded Miguel. ‘Always need somebody on the inside. Impeccable operation from start to finish… ran like clockwork. Did you come up with the plan?’

  ‘I just sent in the intelligence,’ answered Marroné with a false modesty that Miguel took as a yes, as Marroné had expected him to.

  Joined by Miguel, who followed him everywhere like his shadow, Marroné went about waking up the workers sleeping it off under the trees, ordering them to down some coffee and don the right hat; he had the entrance gate clo
sed and gave the gatekeeper strict instructions to open it only for those who were leaving; he had the embers doused, the unopened demijohns stored in the warehouse, the footballs rounded up, the tails of the kites rolled up, and the general shower of paper cups and plates, serviettes, plastic bottles and butt-ends that had fallen on the green lawn raked into piles and swept into binbags. It wasn’t a pleasant task but it had to be done, and a sign of the new-found discipline and influence among the workers was that, although a few grumbled and others answered him with a reluctant ‘Now, Ernesto?’, not one argued or shirked when it came to doing their jobs. His companion was more impressed by the minute, and Marroné, who was bursting with pride, could see himself in the not-too-distant future sharing his rich experience with a spellbound audience in a leadership seminar. ‘A born leader will lead no matter what,’ was the byword that formed magically in his mind, and he made a mental note to jot it down in his notebook as soon as he found time for a breather.

  The people Miguel had promised arrived in a minibus that same night. There were six of them: four men and two women, all young, thought Marroné, though he never got to see them up close. They wore jeans or work trousers, training shoes and t-shirts or open-necked work shirts, and carried long bags so heavy they seemed to stretch their arms; their load clunked with hardware when they set it down. Miguel spent five minutes whispering to them, after which they melted into the shadows.

  ‘If you agree,’ Miguel said to Marroné as soon as they’d gone, ‘I’ll take over the military command, so we don’t get under each others’ feet. But we’ll plan the overall strategy together.’

  They decided to set up the command post in Sansimón’s office, which had been vacated at Marroné’s suggestion ‘to put an end to unfair privileges’. The moment they set foot in it, they reeled from the stink of confinement: the sweat, the fags, the spilt beer, the stale food and yes… even rancid semen. In the space of just a few days the top brass had shed their veneer of civilisation, which apparently included basic hygiene. Marroné gave the cleaning committee a stern telling-off: just because they were bosses and exploiters of the working class didn’t justify their having been kept in degrading conditions. We don’t want to come down to their level, he told the committee, taking inward delight in the squalid scene; and, quick as a flash, they opened the windows to let some fresh air in, took out the rubbish, sprayed the place with deodorant and vacuumed the floor. He and Miguel stuck around sipping maté until dinner-time, with lights off to be on the safe side as the broad window looked onto the street, making them sitting ducks for any crack snipers posted out there. Bringing all his business acumen to bear, Marroné said little and listened hard, asking precise questions and giving open-ended answers, constantly reminding himself it was Miguel not him who was under examination, which his counterpart did indeed seem absolutely convinced of and talked a blue streak in his efforts to ingratiate himself with the superiors who had sent Marroné in to spy.

  ‘The idea is that each occupied factory acts as a trap for the union’s bully boys, the Triple A and the police. We plant a platoon of fighters in each, under heavy cover. Then we whack some union bureaucrat, see, to provoke them. When they waltz in thinking all they’re up against is workers with small arms and no target practice, they’ll cop the surprise of their lives. They won’t catch us napping again; this’ll be their Ezeiza massacre, you can be sure of that. And when the people see them running out, they’ll realise we’re the only ones who’ll stand by them.’

  Marroné nodded at everything in agreement and even permitted himself the luxury of implying that none of this would be overlooked when the comrade came up for promotion. But that night, after taking a shower and donning clean overalls – a garment he now felt as comfortable in as if he’d been wearing it all his life – and lying down on the sofa bed in what had once been Garaguso’s office, he found it impossible to get to sleep: every little noise made him jump, imagining as he did that it might be the crunch of a boot, the hammering of a semi-automatic rifle, the sound of a grenade rolling across the floor; so he decided to get up and do the rounds of the pickets on guard duty to make sure they were all alert and at their posts. The night was as cool and clear as the day had been hot and radiant and, remembering that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve (or rather today, as it had just struck midnight), he looked up at the sky, as if searching for a new Star of Bethlehem to announce the birth of… who? The new Ernesto Marroné?

  The armed guards at the main gate were clearly visible, silhouetted against the police floodlights; low voices could be heard at the sentry posts on the eastern perimeter and at the northern corner, and the night fires burnt brightly; only at the southern corner did darkness and silence reign: there lay El Tuerto and Pampurro, fast asleep, having been at the bottle throughout. Pampurro was leaning against a tree trunk with a certain decorum, and El Tuerto was sprawled on the damp grass, snoring, saliva dribbling from his open maw. Marroné stooped to pick up the fallen weapon, which turned out to be Sansimón’s Smith & Wesson, and cocked it by El Tuerto’s ear, but got no more response out of him than a resounding grunt. Pushing him with the tip of his shoe, he rocked him back and forth until one sleepy eye opened.

  ‘I think you dropped this, comrade,’ he said, swinging the gun on one finger by the trigger guard.

  Hauling himself upright, El Tuerto gave him a roguish grin and held out his upturned wrists as much as to say ‘It’s a fair cop’, while Marroné slowly uncocked the gun and laid it on El Tuerto’s open palms. He gave him a quick two-fingered salute and walked away whistling, making a V for victory at the whispered ‘Thanks, Ernesto!’ behind him. They were good men after all, just a bit short of training.

  He hadn’t run into any of the Montoneros Miguel had sent for, but that came as no surprise: professionals of their standing wouldn’t let themselves be spotted that easily. But the exception proves the rule, Marroné confirmed yet again as he crossed the entrance to the right transept and made out a figure beyond the green machines, sitting with its back to him under one of the many lights that hung from the roof, orbited by insects. It was one of the two girls, he found out as he approached stealthily and saw her long, chestnut hair tumbling loose down her back. As he walked around her, he discovered what it was that had her so engrossed: on her lap lay an open book. In his surprise – she was the first reader he’d come across since he’d arrived – he must have made a noise, for a second later the girl had dropped the book with a startled shout and was pointing her FAL straight at his head. But this wasn’t what left Marroné paralysed and open-mouthed; it was the face of the young woman now staring into his, her eyes bulging with fright. Marroné had recognised her immediately. It was Eva. She too seemed to recognise him, because she instantly lowered her gun and saluted.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  Marroné said the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘At ease, comrade.’ He pointed to the fallen book. ‘Reading, are we?’

  Impulsively Eva made to grab it, but Marroné stopped her with a chivalrous palm and crouched to pick it up. It was a paperback with a fuchsia-pink cover, from the base of which rose a forest of raised hands, two or three with open palms, but most with index fingers pointing upwards; Marroné’s almost physical sensation of discomfort was so intense that he couldn’t help glancing at Eva’s face to see if she had noticed. But she only seemed concerned about the book, whose predictable title, The Wretched of the Earth, meant nothing to him, even though the name of its author, Frantz Fanon, was vaguely familiar. Out of sheer curiosity he opened it at random.

  ‘Please can I have it back?’ begged Eva, holding out her hand. ‘I swear it won’t happen again…’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Marroné said, all condescension and bonhomie. ‘Guard duty can get pretty tedious, I know. But I don’t need to tell you what could have happened if it had been the enemy instead of me.’

  She nodded contritely, brushing the hair from her face. There was no doubt about it: she was t
he Eva in the photonovel and, with her light-brown hair down like that, she reminded him especially of the young woman posing cheerfully in her polka-dot bathing costume: he would have liked to make her laugh, see her smile again, this time in the flesh.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  ‘María Eva,’ she answered, after a slight hesitation.

  Of course, thought Marroné. It was her nom de guerre, obviously, and it would have to do, because a guerrilla leader would never ask for her real one.

  ‘So María Eva’s a reader, is she?’ he said in a tone that was trying to be pleasant but, he realised too late, made him sound like a secondary-school teacher ticking her off. ‘Don’t worry,’ he hastened to correct it. ‘We’ll keep it just between you and me this time. I’m an avid reader too, I read whenever I can, even on the… er… the bus,’ he said, nimbly negotiating the hurdle he had inadvertently set himself. ‘May I?’ he said, opening up the book at random and starting to read:

  To begin with, the impossibility of going up to a woman, the risk of never seeing her again another day, suddenly lend her the same charm as illness or poverty will to a place they prevent us from visiting, or the fray in which we shall surely die to the dull days we have still to live. So that, were it not for habit, life should seem delicious to those people who may at every hour be in danger of dying – all mankind, that is. Then, though the imagination is carried away by the desire for something we cannot possess, its flight is not held back by a reality fully perceived, in these chance meetings in which the charm of the passer-by generally stands in direct proportion to their briskness. The night may fall and the coach go fast, in the country, in a town, but there is no female torso, mutilated like an ancient marble by the speed which draws us on and the dusk which shrouds it, that, at every corner of the road, in the depths of every lighted shop, does not fire Beauty’s arrows at our heart – Beauty, which tempts one to wonder at times if it is anything in this world but a makeweight added by our imagination, overwrought as it is by regret, to the fleeting and fragmentary shadow of a woman passing by.