Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘What do they want now? More money?’

‘If only, Marroné, if only. I sometimes regret the fact that kidnappings in this country aren’t performed by the Mafia. At least with them you know where you are; we speak the same language. But all this nonsense about improving the conditions of our workers — always the workers, mind you; the office staff be damned, as if we didn’t suffer too — all this welcoming like lords the delegates that yesterday we spurned like dogs, all this dishing out of food in the shanties… Give me a break! You know what they want now? You know the latest thing they’ve come up with? They want us to put a bust of Eva Perón in each of our offices. Even in this one! Can you think of anything more absurd?’

Marroné didn’t answer, as he was already mentally totting up the number of busts needed to meet the new demand. Eighth floor: the ‘Valhalla’, the meeting room and two other offices; seventh floor: nine offices, a hallway…

‘The hallways too?’

‘What do I know? You’d better include them, can’t be too careful. Maybe they want them in the bathrooms as well, so she can watch us whip it out. I’m telling you, Marroné, I’m at the end of my tether. First Sr Fuchs — may he rest in peace — now Sr Tamerlán… Are we the only company in the country with presidents to kidnap? These boys ought to practise a more effective system, like crop rotation… They have it in for us, I reckon. Rather unfair considering our staff are 100 per cent Argentine. Fuchs had been a citizen for years and Sr Tamerlán has lived here since he was ten. No need to remind you that he arrived on the 17th of October 1945 of all days… But these boys don’t know a thing about history. Oh well. Just so long as they don’t take it into their heads to torch us, the way they do the foreign companies…’

Clearly Govianus the accountant needed to get this off his chest, and Marroné instantly recalled Principle Four of the ‘Six Ways to Make People Like You’ listed in Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People : ‘Be a good listener. Encourage others to talk about themselves.’

‘But you and your family have very tight security, don’t you?’

‘Regrettably. Do you know what it’s like having guards in your living room from dusk till dawn? One of them never flushes. They’re taking over the house bit by bit. Now they’ve commandeered the remote control. Think about it. The Mod Squad, Police Woman, Starsky & Hutch … I only get a break on matchdays. My wife and I had to buy ourselves a telly set for the bedroom. And no one dares ring the bell any more. The other day they pulled a gun on the soda-man and had him drink a squirt from each of the siphons he was delivering. In case they were trying to poison me, they explained later. You could hear the belch all the way to Burzaco. But my problems are insignificant next to Sr Tamerlán’s. Time is running out, Marroné. It’s been six months. The kidnappers are losing their patience. Look.’

Govianus was holding out a rectangular stainless-steel box, the kind used to sterilise and store hypodermics in, coated with a thin film of frost. Marroné took it. It was ice-cold to the touch, as if it had just been taken out of the freezer.

‘Open it, open it.’

Marroné tried, but his fingers kept on slipping on the frost and the steel wouldn’t yield. Eventually he managed to work a nail into the groove and lifted the lid. The moment he laid eyes on the contents he let out a yell and flung them in the air.

‘A finger! It’s a finger!’

‘Of course it’s a finger, Marroné! It’s Sr Tamerlán’s finger! Thank your lucky stars its owner isn’t around to see the way you treat it. Well don’t just stand there gawping. Help me find it!’

They had to crawl about among electricity and phone cables, chair legs and wheels, to find the two halves of the box and its grim contents. Marroné was unfortunate enough to find the finger. It was livid, mottled with yellow and grey, and the nail, despite being neatly manicured (‘as if deliberately spruced up for its big day’ was the gruesome thought Marroné’s mind whispered in his ear) had a menacing air about it, like one of those amulets made out of animal claws. He looked around queasily for something to pick it up with and, when Govianus looked away, he pulled a plastic bag out of the waste-paper basket, slid his hand in and bagged it like a dog turd. Through the plastic the cold of the dead flesh played up and down his spine like a xylophone. Carefully he replaced the finger in its hollow of cotton wool and returned the box to the surface of the desk. An incisive question flashed across his brain.

‘Can we be sure it’s Sr Tamerlán’s finger?’

‘It’s tested positive with police forensics, which I needn’t tell you is no guarantee in this country. But I daresay all of us in this company know that finger well. Correct me if I’m wrong, Sr Marroné.’

Govianus had tilted his head slightly and lowered his glasses to the bridge of his nose, his naked eyes staring at Marroné over the frames as if daring him to disagree. He wasn’t wrong of course. Until that moment Marroné had not truly been aware of the degree of savagery or fanaticism of the men they were up against. Cutting off Sr Tamerlán’s index finger was like cutting off Samson’s hair, Cleopatra’s nose, Caruso’s tongue or Pelé’s legs; like kicking Perón’s teeth in or castrating Casanova. These men were capable of anything! Nothing was sacred to them! They were no doubt aware of the profound significance that Sr Tamerlán’s finger held for all the employees in his company, and by mutilating him they had struck right at its innermost core. There had been no better-guarded secret in the company, yet they had uncovered it. But then again it was common knowledge that the subversives had infiltrated the government, the trade unions, even the army. Why should they be the exception? They’re everywhere, thought Marroné with a shudder; you never really know who you’re talking to. While Govianus answered a phone call, Marroné let his gaze rest on the once vital finger that had until recently ruled their lives and now lay inert in its steel sarcophagus, and for an instant his eyes welled with tears. It was the same one, no doubt about it. How could he have been in any doubt? He remembered the exact day he had made its acquaintance, together with the man it was still attached to, because it was, amongst other things, the very day that marked the onset of the inveterate constipation that had afflicted him ever since: the day Sr Tamerlán had interviewed him in person and offered him the post of head of procurement, which he still held. That meeting had changed his life, had had a profound effect on him. Thanks to his MBA in Marketing from Stanford and certain family contacts he had sailed comfortably through the pre-selection process, but it was common knowledge in the business world that the final requirement for joining any of the companies in the Tamerlán Group was a personal private interview with the great man himself. It was rumoured that, when it came to selecting management staff for his companies he had an infallible method for separating the wheat from the chaff, though none of the applicants — successful or otherwise — had wanted to divulge what it consisted in: a tacit pact of silence that only deepened the mystery and added grist to the mill of rumour and speculation. It was known that, after the kidnapping and death of Sr Fuchs, Sr Tamerlán had completely restructured the company, secretly sifting through the entire management staff, orchestrating rises and falls, and removing those whose loyalty to the new president was not what it should be, in order to create many a vacancy like the one Marroné had aspired to.