The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

by Carlos Gamerro

  ‘What you want?’ asked the voice within.

  ‘I’m looking for Eva,’ replied Marroné, without hesitation.

  As if he’d hit upon the password, he heard the sliding of heavy bolts, and the door squealed open.

  ‘Step inside, please. Eva is expecting you. Please join the line.’

  The doorman was wearing the livery of a footman in Peronist colours: light-blue Tyrolean suit embroidered with gold thread, frilly white open-necked shirt with the Party badge on the chest pocket, silk stockings and black patent-leather slippers. Marroné took his place at the end of the line. Two things surprised him. The first was the ragged appearance of his companions: there were plebs like himself, beggars and slumdogs; peasants and farmhands too, even a gaucho in full regalia; a few workers in overalls and helmets; a fat man in a leather jacket who looked like a trade unionist; and, last, a couple of toffs in impeccably tailored suits – each of them clutching a letter. The second thing he noticed was that they were all men, and adults: no women or children in sight. Oh, they must have shown in the women and children first, thought Marroné. Like the Peronist slogan went. Did it? Or was he getting it mixed up with the safety procedures for evacuating a ship? The queue wound round the corner of a corridor, then climbed a few stairs, at the top of which Eva’s office surely awaited. At first the queue hardly budged, which didn’t surprise him because Eva, as he well knew, had only just arrived; but after a few minutes she must have settled in because they started to shuffle steadily forwards.

  So it was true, thought Marroné to himself. All those rumours, all those legends. Evita is among us, Evita is back. Evita is alive, just as the graffiti he’d always found so absurd claimed. She hadn’t died in ’52 – her cancer had somehow been cured; or maybe it was all a ruse to trick her enemies into believing her dead, and so the much-trumpeted corpse that had been paraded everywhere had been nothing but a simulacrum. But if that were so, Eva should be over fifty by now, and the woman he had followed down the narrow alleyways of the shanty town looked not a year older than Eva when she died – or even several years younger – but then again, many people claimed her illness had shrivelled her to the likeness of a doll. Might she have been frozen? Perhaps that had been the job of the famous Doctor Ara: to keep her dormant until a cure for her illness was found. Or what if she had actually died but her impeccably preserved body had been reanimated intact by the Umbanda rituals of Minister José López Rega, much given to dabbling in the occult, and the sleepwalking Eva he had been following was in fact a zombie? He was only too aware of how deranged these thoughts were (though in fact they were less outrageous than the tangible reality they scrabbled to explain).

  He had reached the top of the stairs now and was through the doors to Eva’s office, and there she sat, in her Louis Quinze chair, behind an imposing mahogany desk, legs crossed, bun bunched, answering the requests whispered in her ear by each petitioner and reading their letters with radiant smiles, every inch the Eva he had followed. Save for one detail: instead of wearing her white dress, dripping with jewels, this Eva was nude.

  Marroné looked ahead, at the line of men standing between them, then behind, at the newcomers. No one else seemed to have noticed the anomaly, or they were all turning a blind eye out of politeness or embarrassment. Or was this a case of the Empress’s new clothes? He looked again at those ahead to see how the procedure worked. Like fettered galley slaves, the men shuffled forward in single file, heads bowed, hats in hands (those wearing them, at least), their postures and contrite expressions redolent of the faithful taking communion. On reaching her desk, they would each hand her their letter and she would open it, read it, write something on a card, hand it to them with a smile and let them in. Only with those in authentic English or Italian suits did the procedure vary somewhat: she responded to their letters not with a fresh smile, but with an indignant scowl, pointing a compelling arm to a corner, where others of their ilk stood and waited. The man in front of him, a tramp with dishevelled hair and grubby, foul-smelling clothes, prostrated himself before her and asked to kiss her hand, to which Eva graciously consented. And finally it was Marroné’s turn, and such were his embarrassment and her composure that he was the one who felt naked and exposed.

  ‘Welcome to the Eva Perón Sexual Aid Foundation. All your desires will be satisfied. Did you bring your letter?’

  Marroné tried to keep his eyes on her face, but they kept slipping downwards to the violet nipples and the dark bush peeping out from between her crossed thighs. There was another reason, apart from the ones on view, for his bewilderment: this Eva was not the same one he’d followed through the alleyways of the shanty town. The darkening of her complexion could at least be blamed on the change from moonlight to electric light, but her ears stuck out like a chimpanzee’s and were made doubly prominent by the severely tied hair, whose style was different again: rather than the usual high bun, this one, as befitting her attire, wore an altogether less austere, more bouffant chignon.

  ‘Well?’ said Eva encouragingly.

  ‘No… er… the letter no…’

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Eva nonchalantly. ‘You can ask me for whatever you want, don’t be afraid. Whisper it in my ear if you’re embarrassed,’ she concluded, aligning one of her radio dishes in his direction.

  ‘Busts,’ blurted Marroné in the end. ‘I want busts of Eva.’

  Eva jotted something down on a card with the letterhead of the Foundation and handed it to him with a smile. Marroné made for the door through which those ahead of him had exited.

  More surprises awaited on the other side. The door led to a vast lounge decorated in the official Peronist style: a soft blend of Soviet Constructivism and Californian Provençal, with touches of neoclassical stucco; around this fantastic décor strolled as many as a dozen and a half Evas. There were Evas with chignons and Prince of Wales-check suits; Evas in veils and hats; Evas in summer dresses with their hair down; a Dior queen bejewelled from head to toe; another wrapped in sumptuous furs; another encased entirely in black vinyl; one wearing nothing but stockings and suspenders, and another not even that, both with stern-looking buns. Upon closer inspection the variety of builds and features became apparent: they were unified in a general ‘Evita’ look by the high or low heels to even up their differences in height, the make-up to lighten their skin tones, the clothing to flatten the bustier ones and, above all, the dyed hair: it wasn’t for nothing that the naked ones with no distinguishing features wore the obligatory bun. A crowd of men swarmed about each, like drones about a queen bee and, try as he might, nowhere could Marroné spot the Eva who had led him there.

  His nostrils filled with the scent of cheap eau de cologne and his ears with a shrill voice before his eyes located the source of both.

  ‘First time, am I right?’

  Slick as butter in a hot pan, a footman had slid up to him wearing an embroidered jacket that barely covered his backside, tight torero trousers and bright satin slippers, all in light blue and white and gold. Marroné nodded, still speechless.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’

  He groped in the recesses of his stunned mind for something to say.

  ‘Well… At long last… the happiness of the people.’

  One particularly insistent worker kept sticking his nose under the bell-shaped Dior skirt, trying to crawl under it on all fours, while Eva waltzed around him with amused giggles, tapping him with her fan in mock discouragement.

  Marroné’s companion gave a brief forced laugh, followed by a hirsute handshake:

  ‘Aníbal Vitelo at your service. As is everyone here at the Foundation. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to… look around.’

  ‘Allow me then. I shall be your cicerone.’

  One of the three waitresses swept by, serving cider from a bottle with the profiles of the presidential couple on its label: she was wearing high heels and a sober tailleur that, when she turned round, he saw was held together by nothing mo
re than two satin cross-straps, leaving her back, buttocks and legs totally exposed. Marroné’s guide took two glasses and handed one to him to toast Eva.

  ‘Cheers… Here’s to all of this… What have you ordered? Can you show me your card?’

  Marroné held it out to him in a daze, only now noticing what it said. The naked Eva had scrawled ‘’ in an illiterate hand. Aníbal clapped his palms in the air. The three nearest Evas turned around as one.

  ‘Let’s see, girls…’

  One was wrapped from head to foot in a sumptuous sable coat that rippled over her in superb folds like the skin of an animal too big for its body; Marroné’s eyes took in the marbled pallor of her complexion, the purplish lips, the dainty feet shod in still daintier shoes. Another, the tallest, floated over in a gold lamé dress, like someone out of a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film: train fanning out behind her, wasp-waisted sleeveless corsage pushing up her breasts, gold sandals with pearls, and banana curls. The third wore a simple floral-print summer dress, flat-soled sandals and loose chestnut hair and, for one hopeful moment, Marroné thought his own María Eva had come back to life. But when he looked more closely, he realised it wasn’t her.

  ‘This poor little greaseball wants to see Eva’s bust.’

  The Eva in furs had only to open her sable coat wide, as she hadn’t a stitch on beneath; her large, marmoreal breasts were pear-shaped and stretch-marked, lined with faint little sky-blue veins. The Eva in the floral dress first helped the Hollywood Eva unfasten the hooks that girded the corsage to her body, then, while her companion levered first one then the other white breast from her bra cups, she had only to loosen one shoulder strap then the other to pull the dress down to her navel and display her small, round breasts.

  ‘So, comrade? What do you think? Does Eva deliver or doesn’t she?’

  In his infinite tiredness and confusion Marroné felt he was slowly coming apart, separating into his component parts: while his mind waved its legs in the air like an upturned beetle, searching for words to clarify the ridiculous misunderstanding, his nether regions responded to the display of female flesh with a pulsing erection and waves of sexual obfuscation that rose to his cheeks and clouded his sight. He clung to his sense of duty as to a mountain ledge.

  ‘No. I… I meant a bust… like a statue… in stone… or plaster…’ he concluded, his voice growing smaller with each word.

  Puzzled, his chaperone stared at him, but only for a moment. Then, with a knowing look, he gestured to the three Evas to cover up.

  ‘Oh. Busts. As in… busts… Like the ones they have in schools you mean, don’t you? We haven’t any… no demand for them. We do have a statue, though. Would you like to see it?’

  Marroné nodded in relief, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because a statue was something graspable in all the confusion.

  The fountain was round and lined with coloured tiles. At its centre stood the statue of Eva, naked: her long hair loose in the breeze, one slack, cupped hand barely covering her sex, the other raised above her head, innocently holding out an apple, from the core of which flowed the water that enfolded her arm like a transparent fabric; her small, not-too-pert breasts; her belly with its taut roundness; her exquisite buttocks and dreamy thighs. All this enthralled him with its beauty. But it was on her features, her smile that belied the stiffness of the marble, that his gaze dwelt. Because he had recognised her: it was his very own María Eva.

  ‘It’s… it’s her,’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes, it’s a pretty good likeness, isn’t it? We’re all very proud of her here. And she has her admirers. There are those who come just to see her. A number of people have wanted to buy her. But she isn’t for sale. Real Carrara marble, mark you,’ he clarified, making her right buttock ring with a flick of his nail. ‘Go on, feel her.’

  Marroné stretched out a trembling hand, which his companion caught in mid-flight.

  ‘Marble dolls it is then. Come with me. I think I have just the thing for you.’ He’d started getting pushy as soon as he thought Marroné had a weakness for kink. ‘You sound like you’re looking for something really special.’

  Marroné took another sip of cider and nodded. It must have been either fatigue or confusion that made the bubbles go to his head like champagne, and he felt the onset of a wild euphoria that was no less pleasant for being quite out of place.

  ‘This, for example,’ said his guide, pointing to a large red brocade sofa on which a few perfumed toffs were sniffing panties and evening shoes, stroking silk stockings and plunging their noses into thick mink coats, ‘is Fetishists’ Corner. We provide only the very best. See that sable coat? It’s the one Eva was wearing when she received her decoration from the hands of the Generalísimo. Franco, I mean. And that salmon pink and blue feather cape is a Dior exclusive.’

  ‘Are they all the real thing?’

  ‘The ones that aren’t, are perfect replicas. Not even Dior himself could tell the difference. The blokes in suits,’ he said, taking in the throng of punters with a gesture, ‘are masochists. More than anything they like spending hours in the waiting room, seeing her minister to the needs of the darkies and the workers first, right under their noses. They’d stay there for ever if it was up to them; when morning comes, the cleaning staff have to shoo a lot of them out with their brooms. They love that too.’

  A hairy bald man in a light-blue tutu was dancing on tiptoe, holding a magic wand with which he would, now and again, daintily tap his companions, who would lift their snouts from Eva’s undergarments in reply, give a low growl and then go back to their ferretings.

  ‘Dior again. Some aren’t content just to touch them. The Good Fairy costume was so popular we had to make five replicas. So, if that’s your thing, you’ll have a ball. Now, if you ask me, I’d recommend the ones of flesh and bone. We cater for all tastes, as you’ll see. I’ll give you the price list: lady with whip, ten thousand pesos, yes, the one in boots and black leather; Eva in furs, the one you’ve just seen, twelve thousand; horsewoman in white pleated shirt, riding crop and riding boots with spurs, ten thou – doesn’t that bun look deliciously tight?; governess with cherry lips, stiletto heels and pointer, also ten thou – she comes with a class in Peronist Party doctrine; Admiral Evita, that one, no, the one in the tailleur with the gold buttons, braid and epaulettes, eight grand, and that’s pretty much it in our disciplinary line. Next up are the princesses and Hollywood stars: The Prodigal Woman, that one over there in velvet, with dark ringlets, twelve thousand – the dress is authentic, isn’t she a dead ringer for Hedy Lamarr?; the one over there… no, no, the one in the peasant costume, with the plaits behind her ears… she’s the one from The Circus Ride – a little on the dull side, she’s on special offer at seven, but I wouldn’t recommend her. The one in gold lamé, twelve thousand – get a load of the tits on her…’

  ‘And… the one in the flowery dress?’

  ‘Ahh… You fancy her, do you? Delicious little pair of funbags as well. That one’s Perón’s lover, Tigre island model, ten thousand – good enough to eat. In the Evita Duarte line – which won’t burn a hole in your pocket – there’s the little rising star, the one rolling her eyes like Betty Boop, very twenties, eight grand; that little chick in the Boca shirt and hot pants is doing good business, eight again – a real bargain; and last there’s the country wench, able and willing to keep the old boss happy, four thousand five hundred. What else? Oh. The Santa Evita line: there’s the Madonna of the Poor, complete with halo, twelve thou – hasn’t a stitch on under that cloak; the one with the hair-weaves in the mantilla and the black silk dress, with the Order of Isabella the Catholic Cross over her bosom, thirteen thou – had her audience with the Pope in that habit she did… And I think that’s it, apart from the specials.’

  ‘The specials?’

  His companion’s voice dropped several decibels:

  ‘Cancer victim. Twenty thou. Thirty-three kilos.’

  Marroné gave a low whistle.

  ‘Gosh!
’ He was slightly tipsy from the cider and gradually getting into the spirit of the proceedings.

  ‘She really does have cancer. Pays for her treatment with whatever she pulls in here.’

  ‘They’re still pretty pricey though, aren’t they? They’re not exactly tailored to a worker’s pocket, shall we say.’

  His guide looked at him for a few seconds with a sort of a halfway smile, unsure whether to take him seriously or not; in the end he decided not to.

  ‘You really do get into character, don’t you? I admire the realism,’ he said, holding Marroné’s filthy rags between thumb and forefinger, smelling them and wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Don’t get me wrong… it isn’t a criticism, you understand,’ he said, pointing floorwards with his eyes. ‘Still, those espadrilles… a bit old hat if you ask me. Adidas trainers are way more “shanty” these days. Which company are you from?’

  ‘The game’s up,’ thought Marroné with an inward sigh, he’d been found out. Perhaps it was his English-school accent that had given him away.

  ‘Tamerlán & Sons.’

  ‘Ohhh… You should have said so in the first place. Old customers… If your dear President had stuck with us, we wouldn’t be lamenting his sad plight. The guards here are top drawer. A lot of punters bring their own, of course, the neighbourhood being what it is. Look, over there, that’s a colleague of yours if I’m not mistaken.’

  Marroné followed his pointing finger, and could barely contain his surprise when he saw, nuzzling the equestrian Eva’s riding boots and trying to lick their soles, the irreproachable Aldo Cáceres Grey on all fours, dressed as a beggar except for his exposed arse, the crack of which the rider was languidly caressing with her crop.

  ‘Ah… Marroné…’ he stammered in embarrassment when he saw him loom over him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Cáceres Grey’s expression was that of a life member of the Jockey Club, in his favourite easy chair in the library, on seeing the butcher from the corner shop, who has just been admitted for a look round. Marroné knew that expression all too well; too often had he been on the receiving end of it at school, and a fierce smile of triumph spread inwardly across his lips.