The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

by Carlos Gamerro

  ‘Errrr… He’s one of our suppliers. He had to make an urgent delivery to us and… found himself prevented from doing so due to this wee health problem he’s got… hernia. So I had to take charge myself. Which is why I’m dressed like… Oh, this is where I work,’ he said, pointing at the building. ‘I’m head of procurement here, if you’ll allow me.’ He pulled out his wallet again and took out his business card. Cracked and crumpled as it was, it looked like a leftover from a job he’d been fired from years ago.

  The policeman didn’t so much as look at it, handing both sets of papers straight to his partner, who flicked his fag onto the street and got hold of the radio. Marroné took a discreet look at his watch: it had been twenty minutes since he’d called Govianus; as things were, his only hope was to keep the policemen busy until the accountant got there. His officer had gone back to tugging at the ropes and tarpaulin.

  ‘Would you mind?’

  With a sigh, Marroné began to struggle with the knots, taking as long as he dared without arousing suspicion. When he pulled the tarpaulin to one side, a big fat beam from the still-rising sun fell on the first row of Evas like a spotlight. At least two were broken.

  ‘And what’s all this?’

  ‘Eva Perón,’ he said, for want of a better answer.

  His partner called him over from the car. They whispered to each other for a few seconds, then his cop came over, the holster of his gun now conspicuously unfastened.

  ‘You’ll have to come with us.’

  ‘Listen, Cunstable… Officer…’ Then he remembered that one’s own name was always the sweetest in any language and, after glancing at his badge, added: ‘Duquesa…’ The surname was bizarre, and now it sounded like he was taking the mickey. ‘It’s taken me two weeks – the worst two weeks of my life – to get hold of these fu… busts, and if I don’t deliver them today, right now, the life of a very important person could be in jeopardy, and when they find out that you, Officer… The president will be here in just a few minutes – he’s the one I just phoned – so I’d ask you to be a little patient and kind…’

  Marroné had again dug the bivalve out of the depths of his pocket and now, opening it, he tugged at the tip of a note; but, being all stuck together, they came out in a single wad, which it would have been rude to hold on to once proffered. The policeman took it between thumb and forefinger, then slid in a fingernail to divide it into two equal halves, like someone opening a sandwich to get rid of the filling, and handed one to his partner. He opened the back door of the Ford Falcon and ushered Marroné inside.

  ‘Five minutes.’

  They felt like the longest five minutes of his life. The sun beat down on the tin roof and the sweat ran down his forehead in thick beads. The two cops had confiscated his crackers and milk, which they sampled without a word; he was desperate for a sip but didn’t dare to ask: he had to appear friendly and relaxed to avoid their suspicions.

  ‘Looks like it’s going to turn out hot, eh?’

  They didn’t even bother to look at him in the mirror. The second hand ticked implacably on its course – only one and a half turns to go. His whole being was concentrated on the narrow rectangle of the rear-view mirror, which reflected nothing but the broad avenue, now a barren moor void of cars and pedestrians.

  But Govianus arrived in the nick of time. Marroné, expecting a car to pull up behind him, at first didn’t recognise the accountant when he saw him sauntering down the embankment of Avenida Belgrano, whistling, rolled-up newspaper under one arm, hands in the pockets of his white-striped tracksuit bottoms, which, added to the matching top, the cream-coloured Adidas sneakers and the sunglasses, gave him the air of a football coach, while the two men on either side of him – a blond man with an American-style buzz cut and a swarthy one with a moustache, both also in sportswear – looked more like wrestlers or boxers. Completely ignoring the officers, who did get salutes from his bodyguards and responded in kind, Govianus inhaled deeply as if in the mountains, and looked around him.

  ‘Actually this is rather nice on a Sunday morning, eh? Almost…’ he checked his surroundings again to see if they would supply him with the word he was looking for, ‘… bucolic. I’ll have to come more often.’ Then he leant into Marroné’s window and, with a confidential nod, gestured towards the front seat: ‘Friends of yours?’

  Brushing the crumbs off his uniform, the first policeman got out of the passenger seat and gave him a stiff two-fingered salute.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Sir, in this case, is the president of the company, and this gentleman you have been entertaining so kindly until I arrived is, believe it or not, one of my top executives.’

  The policeman’s attitude changed radically. Despite his joviality and informal appearance, the accountant radiated so imperious an air of authority you could almost touch it. And if any doubts remained, his bodyguards were there to clear them up.

  ‘And if I wanted to corroborate…’

  ‘You have only to call Commissioner Major Aníbal Ribete on your radio, or better still Commissioner General Eduardo Verdina. Oh, but how foolish of me. They’ll probably still be at home at this time of day. Luckily, I have their private numbers memorised. I suppose that, being a question of such extreme importance as this, they won’t mind if we get them out of bed on a Sunday morning.’

  The rest of the time was spent on formalities; Marroné would have liked his money back, but felt that, all in all, he’d got off fairly lightly, and left it to Govianus, whose sangfroid and calm, almost blasé, composure he’d found truly impressive, to finish getting rid of the police, get the concierge out of bed (he was holed up with a tart and Govianus asked for her number, for future reference, before sending her away), slap the keys to the pick-up into his open palm for him to put it in the car park and post his bodyguards at the door. Stressed and drained as he was, Marroné felt relief that someone else should be taking charge at last, and took no further initiative beyond warning the concierge of the fragile nature of the cargo, underlining the fact that they were ‘Busts, in assorted media; some are works of art’, for Govianus’s benefit, who, so far, no doubt owing to the need to tackle more immediate matters, hadn’t so much as bothered to glance at them.

  ‘So, Marroné. Here we are again,’ said Govianus, adjusting his glasses and resting his elbows on the arms of his chrome chair.

  They were back in the bunker, on either side of the armoured desk, but not all was the same as before. The vault seemed to have shrunk, along with its furnishings; or perhaps, paradoxically, it was just that in his sportswear the accountant looked much more imposing than in his usual poorly cut suits. Or, thought Marroné, drawing in air before starting on the tale of his adventures, it was he who had grown. Before allowing him to begin, Govianus conjured from a bar concealed behind sliding panels a bottle of nice, cold mineral water, together with a glass, in what Marroné chose to think of as a first token of recognition for successfully completing his mission. As he spoke, Marroné downed glass after glass, feeling better with every gulp; the slight phosphorescence of the submarine twilight was a balm to his tired eyes and, though the air-conditioning was off, the air felt as cool and fresh as a wine cellar.

  When he’d finished his account – which didn’t take too long, for, while there was much to tell, there was also much that was beside the point, and he left out many details – Govianus sat there staring at him for a few seconds without saying a word, as if trying to take in the new image of a man he may have underestimated (it was understandable; not even Marroné himself had, in his wildest dreams, imagined himself capable of so much), then held out the newspaper, now unrolled, across the desk. As he read the headline Govianus was tapping, Marroné’s soul slumped floorwards; had the blood clotted in his veins and all his remaining teeth fallen out simultaneously, he couldn’t have been more stunned.

  Kidnapped Businessman Murdered

  Well-known construction magnate Fausto Tamerlán, who was being held by an extremist left-wi
ng group, was found murdered today. After an unsuccessful rescue attempt, in which at least four people lost their lives and the same number were injured, the body of the 40-year-old businessman was found last night in the Lomas de Zamora area. Tamerlán had been kidnapped by the outlawed subversive organisation in June this year. His charred remains were found inside the premises where he was being held captive. The premises were set on fire by the extremists when surrounded by members of the armed forces and police taking part in the operation.

  The Operation

  The intervention by the joint forces began with a police surveillance operation after reports from neighbours alerted the authorities to unusual movements in a bungalow at the junction of Catamarca and Monseñor Chimento, 500 metres from the Municipal Park and the same distance from the Arroyo del Rey. After the arrest order for the property’s inhabitants had been duly served and several warning shots fired into the air, the occupants opened fire on the forces of law and order, who successfully repelled the aggression. A cordon was set up and the ensuing exchange of shots was intense and prolonged. After nearly an hour of gunfire, a series of loud explosions was heard from within the premises, which were almost immediately engulfed in flames. The rebels are thought to have doused the interior with fuel before detonating their grenades. They then took advantage of the ensuing chaos to attempt to break through the cordon, at which point they were brought down by the regular forces. Due to the quantities of fuel used and the violence of the explosions, the property was no more than a heap of smoking ruins by the time fire-fighters arrived at the scene.

  On the Inside

  Amongst the rubble were found the lifeless bodies of Sr Fausto Tamerlán, apparently executed by the outlaws on finding themselves surrounded, and a person of male sex, whose identity had not been ascertained at the time of going to press. Sr Tamerlán’s body was swiftly identified by the missing index finger from the right hand, severed previously by his captors as a way of exerting pressure in the hostage negotiations. Police Sergeant Alberto Cabeza and two conscript soldiers, who have not been named, were injured in the shoot-out and the explosions.

  ‘No… no… no… no… no… no… no…’ he heard a voice repeating as he read, which, of course, turned out to be his own.

  And then it dawned on him: it was punishment for stealing the busts! The evil enchanters were sending him a premonition of the consequences of his actions! Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to put things right! He would go up to his office, grab a fresh chequebook, drive the clapped-out old pick-up all the way back to Ciudad Evita – but only after unloading it – and pay those two fine old gents triple their asking price! And when he got back he would no longer be met by the contrite face of Govianus, but by Sr Tamerlán’s, smiling and safe at last! ‘Couldn’t he somehow turn back time?’ he whimpered inwardly, restraining himself from grabbing the newspaper and tearing it to pieces.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marroné,’ said Govianus, stretching out to pat the forearm into which he had sunk his face. ‘I know you did all you could, but in times like these it’s rarely enough. I would like to have told you last night as soon as the news reached us, but I had no way of contacting you. Let’s just say we lost track of you there for a few days. Anyway, if it’s any consolation, I don’t believe getting the busts here a couple of days sooner would have changed anything. Because, between you and me, it’s better not to believe all you read in the papers. You know what those warning shots were? Mortar shells. The subversives couldn’t have surrendered even if they’d wanted to; not even the cockroaches were spared. Looks like it’s all part of a novel way to discourage further kidnappings: they take out the hostage along with the goons.’

  As Govianus spoke, Marroné looked up every now and then to glance at the headline in case the bad news had turned to good, or the newspaper to an albatross taking flight on paper wings.

  ‘And we did everything we could not to let either the army or the police find out, believe you me. They must have followed Ochoa.’

  Marroné looked up again from the hollow of his forearm.

  ‘Ochoa? Was he there?’

  Govianus tapped with one index finger on the part of the article where it said ‘person of male sex, whose identity’.

  ‘He was carrying the cash for the first payment. Procurement is your field, after all, so we felt it was only right for your department to handle things, Marroné. And as you weren’t around…’

  He refrained from completing the phrase out of courtesy, but he couldn’t have made it clearer to Marroné: Ochoa had died in his place. Govianus took out a packet of Benson & Hedges, muttered ‘I had given up’, offered him one and lit it after his refusal.

  ‘What about the money?’ asked Marroné, trying desperately to cling on to something.

  Govianus blew a series of smoke rings in reply.

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Well, if we’re keeping track, we’ve come out on top: had he made it, there’d still be two more payments to go. Anyway, for better or worse, it all seems to be over now.’

  ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘We all go home, Marroné. Better get some rest, we’ve a busy week ahead of us. Want me to call you a car?’

  ‘No, I meant with the busts… the ones I brought.’

  ‘Oh, yes, right. I’d forgotten. We’ll put them up anyway, so now if they kidnap me, we’ll have saved a bit of time. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Errr…’ The accountant’s previous remark had reminded him he had no way of getting home. ‘My car… I left it at Sansimón’s, and I… I’d prefer not to have to go back and get it. Can we have it sent over? Maybe not today, but tomorrow?’

  ‘No can do, Marroné. It was burnt.’

  ‘What do you mean it was burnt?’

  ‘Sansimón set fire to it personally.’

  ‘But he can’t do that. It’s a company car!’

  ‘And I needn’t tell you what he wanted to do to you. It’s understandable: the man was upset. He told me you incited the workers to mutiny personally. Luckily, he remembered you by another name, and I didn’t take the trouble to correct him. But I advise you to let someone else deal with any plasterwork orders for a time. Oh, and some well-dressed men came snooping around asking for a certain Macramé. I told them no one by that name worked at the company, of course. By the way, Marroné, the overalls suited you, eh? You looked very comfortable in them.’

  Marroné’s eyes opened wide in two panic-stricken Os.

  ‘We saw you on the news. People in the company talked of nothing else all week.’ Govianus leant over the table slightly and lowered his voice to ask him, ‘Tell me something, Marroné. Just between you and me… You wouldn’t be an infiltrator by any chance?’

  Marroné got up from his chair and, sensing that his legs might not be strong enough to bear his weight, rested his palms on the desk. He had to make a supreme effort of will to master the quavering of outraged honour in his voice.

  ‘Sr Govianus, in the past I think I have demonstrated my unswerving loyalty to the company and to the person of Sr Tamerlán.’ Hysteria fought for control of his throat. ‘There are people who gave their lives for those busts to be here today,’ he said, on the brink of tears. ‘I nearly lost my own on several occasions.’

  ‘Everyone’s giving their life for something these days,’ remarked Govianus, with measured scepticism. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. It must be something in the water. I mean, if they do it willingly, to my mind… But you know how it is. Afterwards they always want something in return.’

  ‘You do not know… you do not know…’ Marroné hiccuped, ‘what I have been through these last few days. Look. I gave my teeth for the company!’ he said, lifting his upper lip with two fingers to display his broken incisors. Only after freezing with gums bared and upper lip curled like a dog’s, did he realise the gesture might have come over as rather melodramatic, for, though Govianus had recoiled and clapped his hands over his mouth in shock, he could also have bee
n trying to disguise his laughter.

  ‘All right, Marroné, I’ll take your word for it. This time we’ll put it down in the debit column as an excess of zeal. But do try to act with caution from now on. Just in case your efforts to save the company end up bringing down the capitalist system.’

  Marroné sat back down in his chair in a series of stop-motion poses like some articulated dummy. He left his hands resting on the metal surface so that Govianus wouldn’t notice how badly they were shaking.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What happens to the company? Will you go on as president?’

  ‘Ah. Until the Family decides otherwise… But just between you and me… I’m a little tired. These are not good times for the company man. We seem to be to blame for all the world’s ills. Besides… being an accountant, I don’t want to be reduced to counting up to nine one day, then eight the next, then seven…’ He wiggled his fingers in the air and bent them one by one to illustrate. ‘And that’s the best-case scenario. I’m not cut out to be a hero, Marroné, never mind a martyr. But you… You’ve demonstrated truly incomparable loyalty and efficiency… So I was thinking… of offering you the…’

  Marroné opened his mouth as if to speak but could manage no more sound than a gaping fish. A spasm had seized his throat like a hand and squeezed it tight. Him?