Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

The workers looked at each other doubtfully, but their eyes sparkled and half-smiles crept over the corners of their mouths; their hesitation wasn’t a sign of rejection or distrust, but the initial reticence of children before the party entertainer summoning them to a game: a mixture of desire, a little embarrassment and bags I go first.

A worker in a green helmet — the one with a jutting acromegalic chin like tango singer Edmundo Rivero’s, and one of the party that had burst into Sansimón’s office that far-off morning when all this began — raised a large, heavy hand, like an asbestos glove filled with steel. Marroné invited him up onto the platform. He was followed by: the black-helmeted Saturnino, Baigorria’s grim companion the night of the bosses’ Bacchanal; Baigorria himself, wearing a yellow hat; a young Indian-looking man called Zenón wearing a red helmet, who had helped Marroné replace his ruined suit; and the fat man in the brown helmet and milky-white eye that everyone called El Tuerto. Marroné was wearing the blue hat of the propagandists, having spent the day before phoning in to various radio programmes to outline the rationale and progress of the occupation. All they needed now was a white helmet, and the group would be complete. But the last one up there — Pampurro by name — wore green.

‘Ok, we have a problem. We’ve got two green hats up here, but we’re still missing a white hat. Looks like our good leaders have had a fit of embarrassment ( laughter ). Well, Pa… Colorado? Can you lend us yours? Come on, don’t be shy. Lend us it a bit, will you? We’ll give it back afterwards. Promise.’

With a fixed smile, Paddy swapped helmets with Pampurro and donned the green one, and Marroné smiled: a sudden picture from their schooldays — Paddy’s red hair and the green Monteith shirt — flashed before his eyes.

‘Right, now comes the interesting bit. Pay attention. When the factory belonged to Sr Sansimón here ( general laughter, jeers, face like thunder of said Sansimón, who had been scrutinising him for some time as if trying to work out where they’d met. Marroné thanked his stubble which, though sparse, had altered his appearance considerably ), each colour stood for a section: white for the bosses, red for the workshop, black for maintenance… With the occupation we’ve turned things around: now it’s the leaders who wear the white hats ( only one person laughed — the young sculptor from the workshop — the irony being lost on the rest ), the blue hats who do the propaganda and the yellow hats who do the cleaning; except that the hats are rotated periodically and therefo… and that’s why the tasks are, too. What I’m proposing to you is closer to the second way than the first. In this debate each colour has a task: white is neutral, and the one wearing it has to present the facts as they stand, the way things are, not the way we want them to be, as objectively as they can. Red is the colour of passion, of high temperatures, so the one wearing the red hat has to speak from his feelings — anger, exasperation, fear — whatever they may be…’ He was improvising, thinking on his feet, but each idea immediately found its proper place and expression, the words following one another effortlessly. His brow seemed to have been touched by some divine inspiration — just like Eva Perón whenever she spoke to the people. ‘Yellow is the colour of the sun, comrades, and the one wearing it…’ he touched Baigorria’s head for a second, ‘… has to give a positive, optimistic appraisal of the situation. The one wearing the black hat, however…’ he looked at Saturnino, who, with his permanently gloomy expression, was tailor-made for the part, ‘… always has to imagine the worst, warn us of the possible consequences — the most serious he can imagine — of our actions and decisions. Green is the colour…’

‘… of hope!’ shouted an enthusiastic voice in the crowd. They were behind him now, no doubt about it.

‘Of course,’ Marroné conceded with a TV presenter’s smile, ‘and of nature too, of all new things that grow… The one wearing the green hat has a very tough, a very special mission.’ He paused until Edmundo Rivero’s face had taken on the required gravitas. ‘He has to be creative . He has to contribute new ideas. Even if they’re absurd, even if they sound ridiculous, even if they seem to go against reason and experience.’ It would have been quicker and simpler to say that the one in the green hat had to apply lateral thinking, but he doubted whether a single one of his audience was familiar with the concept. ‘That leaves us the brown hat.’ He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with the brown one; he had one colour left over and he’d run out of ideas. Why not let them be a bit creative too huh? ‘Let’s see now… What can the brown hat do, comrades?’

‘Spread the shit!’ shouted another voice in the crowd, and they all celebrated the witticism with laughter and raspberries.

‘Exactly! At every meeti… at every assembly there’s always a trouble-maker, a party-pooper, a shit-spreader. That, comrade,’ he said, slapping El Tuerto on the back, who was laughing in anticipation, making his bombastic pot-belly ripple with delight, ‘will be your task. But mind you don’t mess it up. There’s a difference between spreading bad blood — sowing doubt and discord — and alerting us to risks or keeping an eye out for all that can go wrong as we draw up our plans for the struggle ahead. That’s the job of our friend in the black hat,’ he said, turning to Saturnino, the corner of whose mouth barely twitched in acknowledgement. ‘Right. I think we’re all set, aren’t we?’ he asked, and paused to see if they noticed his mistake.

Several hands went up and waved at him insistently.

‘The blue hat! The blue hat, Ernesto!’

‘Huh? You what?’ Marroné played stupid, eventually rolling both eyes upwards to ‘discover’ with pretend embarrassment the blue hat sitting atop his own head. He took it off and slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand.

‘Blue. The colour of the sky, which is all-seeing because it’s above and beyond us. The one wearing the blue hat — in this case, me — is the conductor of the orchestra, the organiser. And also the one who sums up and draws conclusions. But we’ve still a way to go before we get to that. Like any other game, the best way to learn is by playing. So I suggest we get cracking and just see as we go along. So, let’s kick off with the white hat. How are things going, Pampurro, my friend?’

‘Eeeh… Well… Errr… The occupation’s been on for a week now, and most of our demands have been met. The morale of the comrades is still high, though a few of us are getting a bit tired, actually…’ began Pampurro, rubbing the sole of his work-shoes on the rough boards of the stage.

‘Hold on a second,’ Marroné interrupted him politely. ‘I think we’re encroaching on red hat territory here. Zenón?’

‘I reckon we’ve been too soft… Sr Sansimón here’s been exploiting the workers for years… If we set him to work in the Blue Sector eight hours a day, with the noise those machines make so you can’t hear yourself think, breathing in that dust all day long so you can’t sleep at night for coughing, with that lot shouting at the workers through their megaphones to work harder and charging them for every piece they break… I reckon he’d give us everything we’re asking for before the day’s out, comrades.’

‘A wonderful green-hat type of proposal!’ Marroné intervened. ‘See? We’ve only just started and we already have a new idea. Get the bosses to do our jobs, so they can experience what the workers have to put up with first-hand. Anything to add, comrade?’ he said, turning to Edmundo Rivero, who stared back at him in asinine bewilderment. He clearly wasn’t the most suitable candidate for the green hat; Marroné would have to find a way to get it to change owners asap.