Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

The week before the interview he had spent in eager anticipation of the meeting, which would mark a watershed in his life — if, that is, all went smoothly; if he could say the right thing at the right time, sit back and let Sr Tamerlán take the floor, smile a lot, offer condolences for the demise of his late partner, try to strike the proper balance between sincerity and formality. He could think of nothing else: each and every night of that interminable week he had bombarded his wife at dinner with stories of the mythical Tamerlán; he would dandle his son on his knees, and instead of ‘horsey-horsey’, would come out with ‘tam-tam-Tamerlán’; and in bed, before going to sleep, he and his wife would get embroiled in all kinds of monomaniacal speculation about the traps Sr Tamerlán might set him at the ever-so-mysterious interview, which he sought to pre-empt by reading and rereading Warren P Jonas’s Are You Ready for Your Job Interview? , until the pages dropped out. It was rumoured that many who had smoothly negotiated the hurdles of Rorschach, handwriting, psychological and a battery of other tests bit the dust on this final strait, Marroné would remark, fairly quaking with the thrill of it. And far from getting bored, his wife would feed the flames with newspaper and magazine cuttings about Sr Tamerlán. And, at night, in the breaks afforded them by the boy’s night terrors, they made love with an ardour unknown even in their early days — although, as often happened in moments of great anxiety, Marroné usually came early. But once, almost without trying, he must have got a hole-in-one, for, exactly nine months later Mabel gave birth to little Cynthia, and when he first clapped eyes on her, Marroné thought he could make out the unmistakeable traces of Sr Tamerlán’s features in the little girl’s, as if at the delicate moment of conception the mental image that never left his head had been imprinted on the malleable surface of her cells.

In those fraught days not even such releases of tension would allow Marroné to sleep: he would spend the rest of the night awake, running through all the possible variations of his impending conversation with the great company man, planning strategies and evaluating possible scenarios and outcomes. The most important thing — the real trick — was to stay off the beaten track, to dare to innovate — to be, in a word, creative. There could be nothing more tedious for a restless man of genius like Sr Tamerlán than the tawdry routine of a job interview. But this one Marroné would make unforgettable. He would seize the initiative from the off: for instance, he would find something in the office to praise sincerely — a picture, an antique lamp, the wood panelling — as had James Adamson, president of the Superior Seating Company, in his interview with Mr Eastman, as he had read in How to Win Friends and Influence People . Sr Tamerlán’s stern face would immediately light up and he would go on to tell him the history of the object in question: ‘It has been in my family for generations. My father, at the start of the Great War…’ The conversation would at once assume a relaxed, informal tone: with jubilation they would discover common interests, like big-game hunting or Wagnerian opera — interests that, if truth be told, had recently been acquired by Marroné after acquainting himself with Sr Tamerlán’s tastes, through reading old issues of sporting magazines and listening to The Valkyrie till he dropped. Won over by the open smile and sincere interest of his aspiring head of procurement, Sr Tamerlán would gradually lower his guard and confess his most intimate fears: of not being the efficient storm pilot his fleet of companies needed to navigate the unpredictable climes of the national economy; of not being able to compete with the ghost of his late partner and predecessor in the efficient handling of the intricate conglomerate; or — prophetically — of becoming the victim of an attack by the very people who had kidnapped and murdered his partner. By degrees the conversation would shift from the personal to the managerial: one by one Marroné would drop in suggestions on how to streamline the company’s management, taking the precaution to pass these off as ideas of Sr Tamerlán’s own, which he, Marroné, was merely plucking from the air and making explicit , as recommended in Raymond Schneck’s Sit Your Boss on Your Knees . On the spot he would be offered the post of marketing manager, which he had secretly longed for, with the promise of the vice presidency, which Sr Tamerlán’s rise to the presidency had left vacant, glimmering almost within reach like a ring on a merry-go-round — at which moment Marroné’s fantasy reached the dizzying summit of this stairway of imaginary questions and answers, and dropped him back on the twin realities of the as-yet-unconsummated meeting and the scorching bed, on which he feverishly tossed this way and that, buffeted by the elbows of his sleeping wife, until the cogs and gears of his desires and fantasies meshed again, and Marroné’s mind once more started the laborious ascent of the seemingly endless spiral staircase of his waking dreams. His brain glowed like a lump of burning coal, and he turned the pillow over and over in futile attempts to cool his head. The ironies of fate: his innards had him running to the bathroom that week at all times of day and, as D-Day approached, at night too, as if they knew such irresponsible freedom would end for ever upon the fateful day of the feared and longed-for interview.

Which did not take place in the as yet non-existent bunker — in those days a mere archive and storage space in the basement — but at the antipole of the building, under the bulging dome of amber crystal that crowned the stately turn-of-the-century construction’s upper floor, baptised by Sr Tamerlán himself with the poetic name ‘Valhalla’.

Sr Tamerlán’s desk, an imposing mahogany catafalque, was placed precisely beneath the crystal dome and, being a sunny day, Marroné was met on entering by the sight of his future employer submerged in a nimbus of golden light that isolated him from the surrounding atmosphere, as if he inhabited a reality of a different order and as if the desk, the objects strewn about it and the man himself sitting erect on his curved-armed throne were made of a more refined material, of gold and light.

‘That desk…’ Marroné began his well-rehearsed routine.

‘Drop the pants, please.’

Sr Tamerlán had spoken without looking at him, without even looking up from the folder he had been leafing through — a bid for tender perhaps — and on hearing this unusual request, Marroné’s eyes scoured the enormous room in case the words had been intended for someone else and he was about to make a fool of himself. No, they were the only ones there. Marroné undid the buckle, loosened his belt, then the inside button of his James Smart trousers. As they were a wide fit he had no trouble pulling them over his shoes, except for the left heel, which got caught, forcing him to hop briefly on one leg. He folded them carefully, but having nowhere to put them, he hung them over his bent arm. His underpants, however, were worn and cheap-looking, and he was glad his shirt tails hid them from view.

‘Those too,’ said Sr Tamerlán without so much as a glance, as if taking it for granted that Marroné’s initial response would be dictated by modesty.

Marroné obeyed, recalling at that instant an enigmatic phrase attributed to Sr Tamerlán by a reliable source: ‘Anyone who wants a career with us has to wear the company’s underpants.’ It was no doubt a reference to whatever it was that was about to happen. Sr Tamerlán closed the folder, rose from his chair, rounded the desk and walked towards him with his hands clasped behind his back, looking him up and down. For a moment Marroné feared Sr Tamerlán would open his mouth and examine his gums. Outside the enchanted circle of light Sr Tamerlán might pass for an ordinary human being, until he fixed his eyes on yours. Then, what the yellow light had softened leapt at you like a dog loosed from its muzzle: two eyes as blue as icebergs, and as hard. But it was only when Marroné looked down at his hands that sheer terror enabled him to wrest back the words that his surprise had taken from him: with his left hand Sr Tamerlán was pulling a proctologist’s rubber finger-stall over his right index finger.