Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

‘Actually this is rather nice on a Sunday morning, eh? Almost…’ he checked his surroundings again to see if they would supply him with the word he was looking for, ‘… bucolic. I’ll have to come more often.’ Then he leant into Marroné’s window and, with a confidential nod, gestured towards the front seat: ‘Friends of yours?’

Brushing the crumbs off his uniform, the first policeman got out of the passenger seat and gave him a stiff two-fingered salute.

‘Sir?’

‘Sir, in this case, is the president of the company, and this gentleman you have been entertaining so kindly until I arrived is, believe it or not, one of my top executives.’

The policeman’s attitude changed radically. Despite his joviality and informal appearance, the accountant radiated so imperious an air of authority you could almost touch it. And if any doubts remained, his bodyguards were there to clear them up.

‘And if I wanted to corroborate…’

‘You have only to call Commissioner Major Aníbal Ribete on your radio, or better still Commissioner General Eduardo Verdina. Oh, but how foolish of me. They’ll probably still be at home at this time of day. Luckily, I have their private numbers memorised. I suppose that, being a question of such extreme importance as this, they won’t mind if we get them out of bed on a Sunday morning.’

The rest of the time was spent on formalities; Marroné would have liked his money back, but felt that, all in all, he’d got off fairly lightly, and left it to Govianus, whose sangfroid and calm, almost blasé, composure he’d found truly impressive, to finish getting rid of the police, get the concierge out of bed (he was holed up with a tart and Govianus asked for her number, for future reference, before sending her away), slap the keys to the pick-up into his open palm for him to put it in the car park and post his bodyguards at the door. Stressed and drained as he was, Marroné felt relief that someone else should be taking charge at last, and took no further initiative beyond warning the concierge of the fragile nature of the cargo, underlining the fact that they were ‘Busts, in assorted media; some are works of art’, for Govianus’s benefit, who, so far, no doubt owing to the need to tackle more immediate matters, hadn’t so much as bothered to glance at them.

‘So, Marroné. Here we are again,’ said Govianus, adjusting his glasses and resting his elbows on the arms of his chrome chair.

They were back in the bunker, on either side of the armoured desk, but not all was the same as before. The vault seemed to have shrunk, along with its furnishings; or perhaps, paradoxically, it was just that in his sportswear the accountant looked much more imposing than in his usual poorly cut suits. Or, thought Marroné, drawing in air before starting on the tale of his adventures, it was he who had grown. Before allowing him to begin, Govianus conjured from a bar concealed behind sliding panels a bottle of nice, cold mineral water, together with a glass, in what Marroné chose to think of as a first token of recognition for successfully completing his mission. As he spoke, Marroné downed glass after glass, feeling better with every gulp; the slight phosphorescence of the submarine twilight was a balm to his tired eyes and, though the air-conditioning was off, the air felt as cool and fresh as a wine cellar.

When he’d finished his account — which didn’t take too long, for, while there was much to tell, there was also much that was beside the point, and he left out many details — Govianus sat there staring at him for a few seconds without saying a word, as if trying to take in the new image of a man he may have underestimated (it was understandable; not even Marroné himself had, in his wildest dreams, imagined himself capable of so much), then held out the newspaper, now unrolled, across the desk. As he read the headline Govianus was tapping, Marroné’s soul slumped floorwards; had the blood clotted in his veins and all his remaining teeth fallen out simultaneously, he couldn’t have been more stunned.

Kidnapped Businessman Murdered

Well-known construction magnate Fausto Tamerlán, who was being held by an extremist left-wing group, was found murdered today. After an unsuccessful rescue attempt, in which at least four people lost their lives and the same number were injured, the body of the 40-year-old businessman was found last night in the Lomas de Zamora area. Tamerlán had been kidnapped by the outlawed subversive organisation in June this year. His charred remains were found inside the premises where he was being held captive. The premises were set on fire by the extremists when surrounded by members of the armed forces and police taking part in the operation.

The Operation

The intervention by the joint forces began with a police surveillance operation after reports from neighbours alerted the authorities to unusual movements in a bungalow at the junction of Catamarca and Monseñor Chimento, 500 metres from the Municipal Park and the same distance from the Arroyo del Rey. After the arrest order for the property’s inhabitants had been duly served and several warning shots fired into the air, the occupants opened fire on the forces of law and order, who successfully repelled the aggression. A cordon was set up and the ensuing exchange of shots was intense and prolonged. After nearly an hour of gunfire, a series of loud explosions was heard from within the premises, which were almost immediately engulfed in flames. The rebels are thought to have doused the interior with fuel before detonating their grenades. They then took advantage of the ensuing chaos to attempt to break through the cordon, at which point they were brought down by the regular forces. Due to the quantities of fuel used and the violence of the explosions, the property was no more than a heap of smoking ruins by the time fire-fighters arrived at the scene.

On the Inside

Amongst the rubble were found the lifeless bodies of Sr Fausto Tamerlán, apparently executed by the outlaws on finding themselves surrounded, and a person of male sex, whose identity had not been ascertained at the time of going to press. Sr Tamerlán’s body was swiftly identified by the missing index finger from the right hand, severed previously by his captors as a way of exerting pressure in the hostage negotiations. Police Sergeant Alberto Cabeza and two conscript soldiers, who have not been named, were injured in the shoot-out and the explosions.

‘No… no… no… no… no… no… no…’ he heard a voice repeating as he read, which, of course, turned out to be his own.

And then it dawned on him: it was punishment for stealing the busts! The evil enchanters were sending him a premonition of the consequences of his actions! Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to put things right! He would go up to his office, grab a fresh chequebook, drive the clapped-out old pick-up all the way back to Ciudad Evita — but only after unloading it — and pay those two fine old gents triple their asking price! And when he got back he would no longer be met by the contrite face of Govianus, but by Sr Tamerlán’s, smiling and safe at last! ‘Couldn’t he somehow turn back time?’ he whimpered inwardly, restraining himself from grabbing the newspaper and tearing it to pieces.

‘I’m sorry, Marroné,’ said Govianus, stretching out to pat the forearm into which he had sunk his face. ‘I know you did all you could, but in times like these it’s rarely enough. I would like to have told you last night as soon as the news reached us, but I had no way of contacting you. Let’s just say we lost track of you there for a few days. Anyway, if it’s any consolation, I don’t believe getting the busts here a couple of days sooner would have changed anything. Because, between you and me, it’s better not to believe all you read in the papers. You know what those warning shots were? Mortar shells. The subversives couldn’t have surrendered even if they’d wanted to; not even the cockroaches were spared. Looks like it’s all part of a novel way to discourage further kidnappings: they take out the hostage along with the goons.’