Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘No. I… I meant a bust… like a statue… in stone… or plaster…’ he concluded, his voice growing smaller with each word.

Puzzled, his chaperone stared at him, but only for a moment. Then, with a knowing look, he gestured to the three Evas to cover up.

‘Oh. Busts. As in… busts… Like the ones they have in schools you mean, don’t you? We haven’t any… no demand for them. We do have a statue, though. Would you like to see it?’

Marroné nodded in relief, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe because a statue was something graspable in all the confusion.

The fountain was round and lined with coloured tiles. At its centre stood the statue of Eva, naked: her long hair loose in the breeze, one slack, cupped hand barely covering her sex, the other raised above her head, innocently holding out an apple, from the core of which flowed the water that enfolded her arm like a transparent fabric; her small, not-too-pert breasts; her belly with its taut roundness; her exquisite buttocks and dreamy thighs. All this enthralled him with its beauty. But it was on her features, her smile that belied the stiffness of the marble, that his gaze dwelt. Because he had recognised her: it was his very own María Eva.

‘It’s… it’s her,’ he stammered.

‘Yes, it’s a pretty good likeness, isn’t it? We’re all very proud of her here. And she has her admirers. There are those who come just to see her. A number of people have wanted to buy her. But she isn’t for sale. Real Carrara marble, mark you,’ he clarified, making her right buttock ring with a flick of his nail. ‘Go on, feel her.’

Marroné stretched out a trembling hand, which his companion caught in mid-flight.

‘Marble dolls it is then. Come with me. I think I have just the thing for you.’ He’d started getting pushy as soon as he thought Marroné had a weakness for kink. ‘You sound like you’re looking for something really special.’

Marroné took another sip of cider and nodded. It must have been either fatigue or confusion that made the bubbles go to his head like champagne, and he felt the onset of a wild euphoria that was no less pleasant for being quite out of place.

‘This, for example,’ said his guide, pointing to a large red brocade sofa on which a few perfumed toffs were sniffing panties and evening shoes, stroking silk stockings and plunging their noses into thick mink coats, ‘is Fetishists’ Corner. We provide only the very best. See that sable coat? It’s the one Eva was wearing when she received her decoration from the hands of the Generalísimo. Franco, I mean. And that salmon pink and blue feather cape is a Dior exclusive.’

‘Are they all the real thing?’

‘The ones that aren’t, are perfect replicas. Not even Dior himself could tell the difference. The blokes in suits,’ he said, taking in the throng of punters with a gesture, ‘are masochists. More than anything they like spending hours in the waiting room, seeing her minister to the needs of the darkies and the workers first, right under their noses. They’d stay there for ever if it was up to them; when morning comes, the cleaning staff have to shoo a lot of them out with their brooms. They love that too.’

A hairy bald man in a light-blue tutu was dancing on tiptoe, holding a magic wand with which he would, now and again, daintily tap his companions, who would lift their snouts from Eva’s undergarments in reply, give a low growl and then go back to their ferretings.

‘Dior again. Some aren’t content just to touch them. The Good Fairy costume was so popular we had to make five replicas. So, if that’s your thing, you’ll have a ball. Now, if you ask me, I’d recommend the ones of flesh and bone. We cater for all tastes, as you’ll see. I’ll give you the price list: lady with whip, ten thousand pesos, yes, the one in boots and black leather; Eva in furs, the one you’ve just seen, twelve thousand; horsewoman in white pleated shirt, riding crop and riding boots with spurs, ten thou — doesn’t that bun look deliciously tight?; governess with cherry lips, stiletto heels and pointer, also ten thou — she comes with a class in Peronist Party doctrine; Admiral Evita, that one, no, the one in the tailleur with the gold buttons, braid and epaulettes, eight grand, and that’s pretty much it in our disciplinary line. Next up are the princesses and Hollywood stars: The Prodigal Woman, that one over there in velvet, with dark ringlets, twelve thousand — the dress is authentic, isn’t she a dead ringer for Hedy Lamarr?; the one over there… no, no, the one in the peasant costume, with the plaits behind her ears… she’s the one from The Circus Ride — a little on the dull side, she’s on special offer at seven, but I wouldn’t recommend her. The one in gold lamé, twelve thousand — get a load of the tits on her…’

‘And… the one in the flowery dress?’

‘Ahh… You fancy her, do you? Delicious little pair of funbags as well. That one’s Perón’s lover, Tigre island model, ten thousand — good enough to eat. In the Evita Duarte line — which won’t burn a hole in your pocket — there’s the little rising star, the one rolling her eyes like Betty Boop, very twenties, eight grand; that little chick in the Boca shirt and hot pants is doing good business, eight again — a real bargain; and last there’s the country wench, able and willing to keep the old boss happy, four thousand five hundred. What else? Oh. The Santa Evita line: there’s the Madonna of the Poor, complete with halo, twelve thou — hasn’t a stitch on under that cloak; the one with the hair-weaves in the mantilla and the black silk dress, with the Order of Isabella the Catholic Cross over her bosom, thirteen thou — had her audience with the Pope in that habit she did… And I think that’s it, apart from the specials.’

‘The specials?’

His companion’s voice dropped several decibels:

‘Cancer victim. Twenty thou. Thirty-three kilos.’

Marroné gave a low whistle.

‘Gosh!’ He was slightly tipsy from the cider and gradually getting into the spirit of the proceedings.

‘She really does have cancer. Pays for her treatment with whatever she pulls in here.’

‘They’re still pretty pricey though, aren’t they? They’re not exactly tailored to a worker’s pocket, shall we say.’

His guide looked at him for a few seconds with a sort of a halfway smile, unsure whether to take him seriously or not; in the end he decided not to.

‘You really do get into character, don’t you? I admire the realism,’ he said, holding Marroné’s filthy rags between thumb and forefinger, smelling them and wrinkling his nose in disgust. ‘Don’t get me wrong… it isn’t a criticism, you understand,’ he said, pointing floorwards with his eyes. ‘Still, those espadrilles… a bit old hat if you ask me. Adidas trainers are way more “shanty” these days. Which company are you from?’

‘The game’s up,’ thought Marroné with an inward sigh, he’d been found out. Perhaps it was his English-school accent that had given him away.

‘Tamerlán & Sons.’

‘Ohhh… You should have said so in the first place. Old customers… If your dear President had stuck with us, we wouldn’t be lamenting his sad plight. The guards here are top drawer. A lot of punters bring their own, of course, the neighbourhood being what it is. Look, over there, that’s a colleague of yours if I’m not mistaken.’

Marroné followed his pointing finger, and could barely contain his surprise when he saw, nuzzling the equestrian Eva’s riding boots and trying to lick their soles, the irreproachable Aldo Cáceres Grey on all fours, dressed as a beggar except for his exposed arse, the crack of which the rider was languidly caressing with her crop.