Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

Marroné nodded because he was in no position to refuse, though he’d rather have stayed with his dejected friend. He grabbed him firmly by one arm all the same and gave him a hearty slap of encouragement on the other, but then turned round out of reflex to make sure he hadn’t stained Paddy’s white overalls with coloured chalk.

‘I like El Colorado,’ Miguel said to Marroné as they walked away. ‘Give him time and I think he’ll make a helluva cadre. Trouble is, he was a bit old when we got hold of him. Certain vices are very deep-rooted after a certain age… You can’t wash the stigma of English school away with a bit of elbow grease. Training a real worker cadre takes years, as you well know. Ah well… A bit of the old hand-to-hand won’t hurt him. So there’s no need for you people to worry because, as you can see for yourself, everything here’s right on track…’

At these words Marroné almost slapped his forehead. So that was it! Miguel had taken him for an observer sent by the upper echelons, and he’d gone to town on Paddy’s reprimand in order to ingratiate himself. It had felt familiar from the start, a paranoia, commonplace enough in the world of business, that became attached to every newcomer to the office. Oh, well. Miguel’s misunderstanding could work to his advantage if he was careful not to put his foot in it.

‘You work at Tamerlán, don’t you?’

Had Miguel rumbled him? Marroné’s heart skipped a beat.

‘Keep your friends close…’ he mumbled.

‘Brilliant,’ concluded Miguel. ‘Always need somebody on the inside. Impeccable operation from start to finish… ran like clockwork. Did you come up with the plan?’

‘I just sent in the intelligence,’ answered Marroné with a false modesty that Miguel took as a yes, as Marroné had expected him to.

Joined by Miguel, who followed him everywhere like his shadow, Marroné went about waking up the workers sleeping it off under the trees, ordering them to down some coffee and don the right hat; he had the entrance gate closed and gave the gatekeeper strict instructions to open it only for those who were leaving; he had the embers doused, the unopened demijohns stored in the warehouse, the footballs rounded up, the tails of the kites rolled up, and the general shower of paper cups and plates, serviettes, plastic bottles and butt-ends that had fallen on the green lawn raked into piles and swept into binbags. It wasn’t a pleasant task but it had to be done, and a sign of the new-found discipline and influence among the workers was that, although a few grumbled and others answered him with a reluctant ‘Now, Ernesto?’, not one argued or shirked when it came to doing their jobs. His companion was more impressed by the minute, and Marroné, who was bursting with pride, could see himself in the not-too-distant future sharing his rich experience with a spellbound audience in a leadership seminar. ‘A born leader will lead no matter what,’ was the byword that formed magically in his mind, and he made a mental note to jot it down in his notebook as soon as he found time for a breather.

The people Miguel had promised arrived in a minibus that same night. There were six of them: four men and two women, all young, thought Marroné, though he never got to see them up close. They wore jeans or work trousers, training shoes and t-shirts or open-necked work shirts, and carried long bags so heavy they seemed to stretch their arms; their load clunked with hardware when they set it down. Miguel spent five minutes whispering to them, after which they melted into the shadows.

‘If you agree,’ Miguel said to Marroné as soon as they’d gone, ‘I’ll take over the military command, so we don’t get under each others’ feet. But we’ll plan the overall strategy together.’

They decided to set up the command post in Sansimón’s office, which had been vacated at Marroné’s suggestion ‘to put an end to unfair privileges’. The moment they set foot in it, they reeled from the stink of confinement: the sweat, the fags, the spilt beer, the stale food and yes… even rancid semen. In the space of just a few days the top brass had shed their veneer of civilisation, which apparently included basic hygiene. Marroné gave the cleaning committee a stern telling-off: just because they were bosses and exploiters of the working class didn’t justify their having been kept in degrading conditions. We don’t want to come down to their level, he told the committee, taking inward delight in the squalid scene; and, quick as a flash, they opened the windows to let some fresh air in, took out the rubbish, sprayed the place with deodorant and vacuumed the floor. He and Miguel stuck around sipping maté until dinner-time, with lights off to be on the safe side as the broad window looked onto the street, making them sitting ducks for any crack snipers posted out there. Bringing all his business acumen to bear, Marroné said little and listened hard, asking precise questions and giving open-ended answers, constantly reminding himself it was Miguel not him who was under examination, which his counterpart did indeed seem absolutely convinced of and talked a blue streak in his efforts to ingratiate himself with the superiors who had sent Marroné in to spy.

‘The idea is that each occupied factory acts as a trap for the union’s bully boys, the Triple A and the police. We plant a platoon of fighters in each, under heavy cover. Then we whack some union bureaucrat, see, to provoke them. When they waltz in thinking all they’re up against is workers with small arms and no target practice, they’ll cop the surprise of their lives. They won’t catch us napping again; this’ll be their Ezeiza massacre, you can be sure of that. And when the people see them running out, they’ll realise we’re the only ones who’ll stand by them.’

Marroné nodded at everything in agreement and even permitted himself the luxury of implying that none of this would be overlooked when the comrade came up for promotion. But that night, after taking a shower and donning clean overalls — a garment he now felt as comfortable in as if he’d been wearing it all his life — and lying down on the sofa bed in what had once been Garaguso’s office, he found it impossible to get to sleep: every little noise made him jump, imagining as he did that it might be the crunch of a boot, the hammering of a semi-automatic rifle, the sound of a grenade rolling across the floor; so he decided to get up and do the rounds of the pickets on guard duty to make sure they were all alert and at their posts. The night was as cool and clear as the day had been hot and radiant and, remembering that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve (or rather today, as it had just struck midnight), he looked up at the sky, as if searching for a new Star of Bethlehem to announce the birth of… who? The new Ernesto Marroné?

The armed guards at the main gate were clearly visible, silhouetted against the police floodlights; low voices could be heard at the sentry posts on the eastern perimeter and at the northern corner, and the night fires burnt brightly; only at the southern corner did darkness and silence reign: there lay El Tuerto and Pampurro, fast asleep, having been at the bottle throughout. Pampurro was leaning against a tree trunk with a certain decorum, and El Tuerto was sprawled on the damp grass, snoring, saliva dribbling from his open maw. Marroné stooped to pick up the fallen weapon, which turned out to be Sansimón’s Smith & Wesson, and cocked it by El Tuerto’s ear, but got no more response out of him than a resounding grunt. Pushing him with the tip of his shoe, he rocked him back and forth until one sleepy eye opened.

‘I think you dropped this, comrade,’ he said, swinging the gun on one finger by the trigger guard.

Hauling himself upright, El Tuerto gave him a roguish grin and held out his upturned wrists as much as to say ‘It’s a fair cop’, while Marroné slowly uncocked the gun and laid it on El Tuerto’s open palms. He gave him a quick two-fingered salute and walked away whistling, making a V for victory at the whispered ‘Thanks, Ernesto!’ behind him. They were good men after all, just a bit short of training.