Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘So he took the lot!’ the old man went on, unable to contain himself. ‘But it’s time to tear off the mask! You are my true sons! You are my heirs! What you’re doing here is nothing more than taking back what belongs to you!’

There was pandemonium: hard-hats flying up in the air, effusive hugging and kissing, and in the midst of it all, unnoticed or almost unnoticed, came the brief, disconsolate remark addressed by a glassy-eyed Sansimón Junior to his father, who, arms folded, loomed giant-like high up on the stage.

‘You too, Dad?’

Marroné felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Paddy, who had climbed up. For a few seconds they looked on in silence.

‘It’s like I said, see?’ said Paddy eventually. ‘There you have a perfect example of revolutionary consciousness. Old Sansimón is breaking the family ties and class conditioning, and making a stand with the vanguard of the proletariat and the working class.’

‘You reckon?’ Marroné answered him with more sadness than he would have wished. ‘I thought he was just doing it to humiliate his son.’

‘You don’t have to go on pretending, Ernesto. I’m onto you. You aren’t what you seemed either. You never cease to amaze me. Did you have this all worked out with the old man?’

Marroné shook his head. His eyes were on the patriarchal, almost prophet-like posture that Sansimón Senior had struck, and he was too busy with his new idea to answer his friend.

‘Fetch me the Moses.’

‘What?’

‘The big one, at the gate. Oh, and a sledgehammer, too.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘It’s green-hat time for me.’

As he waited for the statue, Marroné gestured for silence. It didn’t take long: by now he had all these fierce strikers eating out of the palm of his hand. Mark Antony himself couldn’t have done better.

‘Comrades!’ he said, and the effect of his voice on the crowd was like oil on troubled waters. ‘We have all of us, here at the Sansimón Plasterworks, just been very privileged: we have been shown a glimpse of a new society, a new Argentina, where capital and work can march not in conflict, but hand in hand as General Perón and Comrade Eva wanted them to. What Sr Sansimón Senior has done here today is a landmark, and an example to us all, including his son, although right now he doesn’t look too happy about it.’ They all cheered except the butt of the joke, who had been studying Marroné’s face with a frown and redoubled attention ever since he’d taken the floor again. Was he about to recognise him? Well, there wasn’t much he could do about it: the die was cast. ‘This, comrades, is the real, deep meaning of the word revolution: when those who only yesterday were enemies meet today in brotherhood. And now, comrades, the factory is ours. And not because it’s been given to us, even if we are grateful to Sr Sansimón Senior for his gesture; they have merely given back to us what was ours in the first place: this is not an act of charity, but of justice, as Comrade Eva would have wished. The question now is what to do with it? A factory in the hands of its workers… Can it be the same factory as before? A new world has opened up before us. What do we want to do with it? The same old thing… or something new? Time to get creative, comrades. Let’s all put the green hat on for a minute.’

The workers all looked at each other, or rather at their different-coloured helmets with mounting puzzlement.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ Marroné clarified. ‘ Imagine you’re wearing it.’

And that was when Sansimón pounced.

‘I know you! You’re Macramé you are! Tamerlán’s head of procurement!’ Then to the others, ‘Don’t listen to him! This man’s deceiving you for his own wicked ends!’

A spectral silence fell. The eyes of the crowd went from Sansimón to Marroné and back to Sansimón, as if they were watching a game of tennis. The spell was broken by a timid voice, which, preceded by a raised hand, rose from the heart of the expectant throng.

‘That’s not a green-hat proposal.’

There were murmurs of approval for the keenness of the observation, and a ripple of faint applause. The thin-boned, timid-looking young man who had made it smiled with pleasure and even blushed slightly. Again the note of discord came from Sansimón.

‘Green hat my arse! This man’s an executive from a rival company! Now I get the picture! They want to put me out of business and then buy us for peanuts! They’re using you! Can’t you see?’

‘Brown hat, brown hat!’ several of those present demanded. ‘If he’s going to spread the shit, he should be wearing the right hat!’

An obliging hand landed the right hat on Sansimón’s head with such force that the peak came down to the bridge of his nose. Like some circus clown act, they had to help him wrestle it off and put it on again properly.

Still a little befuddled, he began to rant and rave again, but Marroné milked the pause provided by the gag for all it was worth. He spread his arms wide and opened his fingers to call for silence. A couple of elbows to the ribs got the message across to Sansimón.

‘White hat reply,’ enunciated Marroné, and traded his blue hat for the white of Pampurro, who was still on the platform. ‘White, the colour of facts. What Sr Sansimón says, comrades, is all true.’

A sigh of dismay rippled through the congregation. It was exactly what he was looking for. Like stealing candy from a baby, he thought to himself.

‘It’s true, comrades, because, like all good manipulators, Sr Sansimón deals in half-truths. It’s true that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth… But it’s also true that I’m adopted and came from a home more humble than many of you. It’s true that I came here as an executive of Tamerlán & Sons… Who have I kept it from? But taking part in this occupation has changed me, and today I feel like one of you! Just look at me… Is this the face of a boss, an oligarch, an exploiter of the working class?’ (‘No, no,’ several people shouted back.) ‘It’s true that I was posh… a little bourgeois… a… All right, let’s hear it, brown hats!’

‘A nob! A ponce! A toffee-nosed git!’ they supplied enthusiastically, with broad grins.

‘Thank you, comrades… I expected no less. As I was saying, every word is true… But it’s also true that Perón was a soldier and Evita was an actress, and if it’s rich kids we’re talking about, Che Guevara knocks me into a cocked hat!’ he concluded just in time, as a fork-lift truck came trundling through the crowd in the direction of the stage, with the imposing bulk of Michelangelo’s Moses wobbling in its metal maw.

The Sansimón incident had been a godsend: it had allowed him to inject a little excitement into what otherwise would have been idle time. All those who were with him on the stage, including an increasingly dumbstruck Paddy, helped unload the plaster colossus with the utmost care so that it wouldn’t topple over and end up in smithereens on the floor. ‘If they only knew what I had in store for them,’ thought Marroné, smiling inwardly. After thanking everyone, he asked them all to climb down, as he needed as much space as possible for the next stage. At his request an obliging comrade had laid the sledgehammer at his feet for when he needed it. All eyes were fixed on him; the green helmet was back on his head. Rolling up the sleeves of his overalls, Marroné took a step forwards. The time had come to show these amateurs what a decent audiovisual presentation was all about. If only Sr Tamerlán were there to see it, he thought, before launching into his speech.

‘You’re all familiar with this gent aren’t you, comrades? You’ve been seeing him day in day out — some of you for years on end — every morning when you come in to work and every evening when you leave. Some of you may know that this is an exact replica of Michelangelo’s Moses, the original of which is in Rome. Moses, gentlemen, was a prophet who led his people out of slavery and guided them to the Promised Land, though he himself never set foot in it. Some of you — I can see it in your eyes — think you’ve already guessed why I’ve had it brought here. You think I’m going use it to draw an analogy between Sr Sansimón and Pharaoh, between the liberation of the people of Israel and the liberation of the workers of this plasterworks. Well, you’re right. And wrong. Just as this Moses is and isn’t the real thing. You know what the difference is between this Moses and the one in Rome, comrades?’