Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Ramírez defiantly when Gómez had finished. ‘I’ll shoot myself before I end up like you.’ At that moment a young woman with ashen hair and a timid chin, who hadn’t opened her mouth till then, began sobbing softly, and when Nidia gently asked her ‘What’s the matter, Dorita?’, Marroné jotted down the missing name.

‘I hate it when you fight,’ she said, through her tears and sniffles. ‘I find all that violence really upsetting.’

‘Don’t listen to them, silly. You know what men are like. If it isn’t politics, it’s football. They’ll have made up by tomorrow, you’ll see, as if nothing had happened,’ Nidia consoled her. And then to Gómez and Ramírez, ‘You’re a right pair, you two are.’

‘I want to go home,’ Dorita insisted, laying it on thick.

Marroné decided the time had come to intervene. It was now or never.

‘Have any of you ever done any visualisation?’

The seven pairs of eyes fixed on him. He had their attention now. Stage one was complete.

‘Ernesto Marroné, Procurement, Tamerlán & Sons,’ he introduced himself, shaking hands with each in turn and looking them in the eye with a smile to establish a more personal link through direct physical contact. ‘Do you mind if I interrupt for a minute? Because we’re ultimately all in the same boat and, if we all pull in the same direction, we may all go home safe and early. I’ve been following your conversation carefully and the words that kept coming to mind were frustration … discouragement… helplessness … anger . There’s nothing worse than feeling trapped in an unpleasant situation and thinking we can do nothing about it, true? There are times when life feels like a life sentence, and our home or our office the prison we serve it in. Yes it’s true this may not be the best job in the world: it’s routine and boring, and the pay’s never enough. And how do we react to all that? We grumble, we protest, we ask them to give us a raise, to change our job description, to change our boss. And when they don’t, we feel helpless and frustrated. And now I ask you… What have you done to change things? Because if you can’t change your job, you can change the attitude you bring to work. And if you can’t change your boss, you can try and get the boss you’ve been landed with to change. You aren’t happy with your boss… And what makes you think your boss is happy with you? Happy to see faces that reflect nothing day in day out but depression and discontent?’

He paused to gauge his audience’s reaction. Apart from the predictable expression on Gómez’s face, who was smoking a cigarette as much as to say ‘I’ve heard this one before’, he had the undivided attention of the rest of the group, whose ranks had swelled with the arrival of four more office workers — three men and a woman — who had homed in on the change of energy. Marroné was pleased. He had more than half the hostages on his side.

‘Personally I tend to be an optimist. Some,’ he cast a sidelong glance at Gómez, who smiled back politely, ‘would say that being an “optimist” is synonymous with being a dreamer or naive. But “optimist” is derived from “optimise”, which means securing the best conditions even under the most adverse of circumstances. We were talking about prisons just now. I hope that, after all that’s been said, you’ll agree with me that the real prisons are inside us: in our heads, our hearts, our souls… And to escape from them we’ve all been supplied at birth with a file, a hairpin, a skeleton key: creativity. It’s commonly thought that some people are “born” creative,’ Marroné’s fingers notched the air with inverted commas, ‘like inventors, artists, thinkers — and that others aren’t. It’s like saying people are born athletic, or muscular. Creativity is a universal potential, and as such it can be trained with specific exercises designed to trigger “boinks!” in the right side of our brains — the creative side. One of these exercises I was telling you about is visualisation. So… shall we give it a go?’

‘I’ll pass if you don’t mind,’ said Gómez, yawning conspicuously and getting up from his seat. ‘Someone over there looks like they’ve found a newspaper. I’ll see if I can borrow the classifieds. You can tell me about it later.’ He waved goodbye to his colleagues, who, now that the source of toxic energy was at arm’s length, looked more receptive and relaxed.

‘All right then. Please make sure you’re sitting comfortably. If any of your clothing feels too tight, please loosen it: ties, gentlemen; heels, ladies; belts if you’re wearing one. Great. Now, close your eyes and try to relax. Breathe deeply, become aware of every breath you take. Veeery good. Breeeathe. Iiiin. Oooout. You can see blue skies. In the sky there are clouds. Each of the clouds is a negative thought, a source of anxiety. There are days when they all come together and overwhelm you, covering the sky till you can’t see a single crack of blue. But not today. Today each one is a fluffy little white cloud, and you’re just watching them float by overhead. And you feel mooore at ease and mooore relaxed. And every passing cloud is smaller than the one before. Until there are no more clouds at all and your eyes are lost in the immensity of the blue sky. No more anxiety. You’re at peace. It’s time to begin.’

He paused to gauge the participants’ general state of mind and was pleased with what he saw.

‘Darkness,’ he said suddenly, and watched as a rictus of apprehension spread across their relaxed features. ‘You’re in a dark place, so dark you can’t see your hands. You touch the walls: they’re smooth and cold, and as you walk around them you can find no opening. You feel trapped. You want to get out. You can’t breathe.’ Suárez’s forehead was once again marbled with sweat, and he was tugging at his shirt collar as if it were choking him. Time to ease up. ‘Suddenly you see a crack of light at floor level. It’s a door. You open it,’ he said, and saw everyone untense their eyes and breathe with relief. ‘There is some light, and it allows you to see a spiral staircase going down and down, round and round. I’m going to count as you descend. Ten, nine… you’re going down… eight, seven… deeper… six, five, four… deeper and deeper… three… two… one. You’re in a vast building that has the appearance of a cathedral. The light’s pouring in through tall, stained-glass windows. You stroll around among different-coloured machines. You’d like to find out what they do and how they work. All in good time. Now, you come to a metal door. You open it. On the other side there’s a large room with long wooden tables and shelves all the way up to the ceiling. They’re packed with plaster figures. You look at them. You can touch them if you want to. Have you seen how smooth they are? Ever wondered how they’re made? Want to find out? There’s someone standing beside you now. Don’t be alarmed,’ he said, noticing several people start. ‘He’s a friend. He’s wearing a white coat and a red helmet, and he wants you to take his hand. You take it. You let him lead you. In front of you there’s a shallow pan full to the brim with liquid plaster. You sink your hands into it. Feel how cool it is? You stir it round and round, you feel like a child again.’ They were becoming more and more involved in this exercise of the imagination and, in some cases, totally immersed in it: Dorita, for example, was kneading her skirt with clenched hands and rubbing together her thighs and knees while emitting little panting noises. ‘Your friendly worker now leads you over to a series of casts. They all look the same on the outside: you can’t guess what figures lie within. Want to find out? Pour some liquid plaster into the first one. Careful now! Don’t spill any!’ he said with mock severity, and several of them actually jumped, then relaxed again and smiled. ‘One by one, you fill them all. By the time you’ve finished the last, the first one has set. Your friendly worker helps you open it: slowly now, carefully, you don’t want it to break. And as you open it, little by little, you can see a nose, lips, eyes… Who could it be? The suspense! Now you’ve removed the cast and there she is for all the world to see. It’s Eva Perón. Have you made just one bust of Eva? No, lots! For, when you open the next cast, there’s another, and another, and another… All fresh and immaculate. Look at them… Aren’t they beautiful? And you made them! Don’t you feel proud? Now, you leave them to dry. You say goodbye. Goodbye to your friend too. You retrace your steps… no need to rush… you cross the cathedral, you reach the staircase. You start climbing. One… no need to hurry… two, three, four… you keep on climbing… five, six, seven… you’re almost there… eight, nine and… ten. You open your eyes. You’re awake. You’re back in the room, but you’re not the same as before… am I right?’