Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘So,’ said Paddy as if he’d been given the answer he was expecting, ‘what do you want the busts for?’

‘It’s for an order,’ said Marroné, trying to contain his growing exasperation. ‘I’m head of procurement for a construction company, and they sent me to purchase them. My brief is to get quality, price and, above all in this case, fast delivery, which, incidentally, your blessed occupation is making rather difficult. I’m not after the Holy Grail, just a few mass-produced plaster busts. It isn’t much to ask. Couldn’t you just cut the crap and run them off for me, eh? Make my life a little easier? Some of us can’t afford to just drop everything and devote ourselves to changing the world. We have responsibilities, a job, a family to keep… I’m sorry,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Must be the heat.’

‘It’s all right, Ernesto, don’t worry. It’s a start.’

‘The start of what?’ Marroné asked with a trace of alarm.

‘Cuba wasn’t liberated in a day. I sent them packing the first time they came to talk to me too. But here I am,’ came Paddy’s oblique reply.

‘Who talked to you? What about?’

‘Look, I’ve got to go now. There are so many things we have to see to… It’s extremely important that the strike goes well because it’s a rehearsal for something bigger… If the workers see they can do this, they’ll want more… We can’t fail them.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘I’ll bring you some reading matter tonight. And tomorrow, if you still want to know who we are, we can talk some more. I’m not saying we don’t bite… The thing is who . Oh, and another thing,’ he added with a knowing wink before leaving, ‘I promise you that, if we start production again, I’ll do everything in my power to give priority to your ninety-two busts.’

* * *

He realised something was amiss when he entered the cathedral and saw the hail of forms, receipts, invoices, carbon-paper, memos, chequebooks, letters, envelopes, folders, box-files, typewriter ribbons and other office equipment fluttering like confetti, hanging from the banisters in streamers and garlands, carpeting the floor and the machines, and lending the factory the general appearance of city streets at the start of the office workers’ holidays. The area in front of the service lift was littered with aluminium food trays and disembowelled ham and cheese rolls, and when he looked up at the internal balcony, he caught sight of yet another tray, spinning as it fell, orbited by floating rolls, and had to leap aside to avoid it. As he climbed the spiral staircase, he could hear a confused buzz of hysterical shouting and laughter, and when he reached the platform, his suspicions were confirmed: the office workers had run riot, and were charging up and down the gangways and platforms with armloads of card-index boxes and box-files that they hurled over the banisters with whoops of jubilation. Led by Gómez and Ramírez, a picket line of administrative staff were attempting to storm the offices of the executives, who had set up barricades of filing cabinets and other office furniture, and were putting up resistance from within, the office workers shouting slogans like ‘Down with privilege!’, ‘We won’t eat rubbish!’, ‘Tarts for overtime!’ and, from those within, a mixture of threats and entreaties: ‘We can talk it over!’, ‘We’ll sack the lot of you!’, ‘Calm down and we’ll talk!’ The two commissars had lost control of the situation and, leaning over the banisters, were shouting to their comrades.

Ramírez embraced Marroné exultantly when he saw him.

‘You were right, Marroné! It was just a matter of daring! We can if we want to!’

Horrified, Marroné tried to explain to him that they hadn’t grasped the gist of his proposal, but Ramírez was already off somewhere else and didn’t hear him. Some of the men were lighting their ties as if they were the Stars and Stripes, while others had torn off their shirts and were jumping about in their vests, wheeling them over their heads and chorusing ‘He cheats, he farts, he takes it up the arse! Sansimón, Sansimón!’ and ‘Garaguso is a wanker and he shags for Sansimón!’; the women, with Nidia and Dorita at their head, were hammering their shoes on the floor to break off their high heels, and two maniacs (one of whom was none other than the irreproachable González) were lugging the big pot of hot coffee brought to them by the workers in order to tip it over the railings; but, stumbling headlong into a fallen typewriter, they tripped and spilt its entire contents over the terrified Marroné, who for the third time in two days thought his final hour had come, until he realised the coffee was lukewarm and had succeeded only in ruining his James Smart suit and Italian shoes.

‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you bloody fools!’ he blurted out.

González’s blue eyes opened wide in genuine concern.

‘Ernesto! My God! Are you all right? Let me help you!’ he stammered, stretching out an inept pair of hands towards the sodden suit.

‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!’ shrilled Marroné, on the brink of hysteria, slapping the hands away. He regretted it immediately when he saw the hurt expression in the two blue puddles looking back at him.

‘It was an accident,’ murmured González, about to blub.

‘What’s happened?! Didn’t you carry on with the activity?’

‘We were working in groups like you told us,’ stuttered González, as if his boss had just shouted at him, ‘and we kept smelling those mouth-watering asados they’re making downstairs… We were sure this time it was for us too. As a token of us joining the struggle, see… But when we saw them coming in again with the same old rolls and burnt coffee… I dunno… we just lost it.’

Paddy was right, Marroné said to himself, grinding his teeth in an effort to restrain himself: it was impossible — im-poss-ib-le — to expect anything from people like this. You set up a visualisation for them and got them working in teams — one of the simplest, most elementary creativity exercises! — and they ended up behaving like schoolchildren on a graduation trip. He looked around in search of a culprit to vent his exasperation on. His eyes lit upon one of the commissars. Lugging the weight of his sodden clothes, coffee running in torrents between cloth and skin and overflowing out of his shoes, he plodded purposefully towards him.

‘You lot,’ he pointed at him with a stiff and trembling finger. ‘You lot are responsible for this. That was my best suit! Made to measure! Just look at it!’

The guard, a young worker of twenty-five with Indian features, looked him up and down before replying.

‘I’ve never had a suit to ruin.’

Marroné wasn’t going to let him get away with that. Not this time. Not in a million years.

‘Don’t give me that. No. Just because you lot have always got social injustice on your side you think you can get away with murder. No way. You want to occupy the factories? Be my guest. You want to take over the country? Go right ahead. But this suit here, you’ll have it cleaned or buy me a new one. We all have to take responsibility for our actions. I demand a solution.’

The worker shrugged.

‘You can drop round the storeroom if you like. They’re sure to have something to change into there.’

As the coffee cooled on Marroné’s body, so did his irritation. There wasn’t much else he could do under the circumstances.

‘Where?’ he asked with resignation.

‘Go down in the service lift and turn right…’

Dorita emerged from the offices and ran to him.

‘Sr Ernesto, are you all right? Did you scald yourself? Can I do anything to help?’