Carlos Gamerro - The Adventure of the Busts of Eva Perón

Just then the accountant popped the feathery ostrich egg of his head back round the open door.

‘Ah, Marroné, one little thing I was forgetting. Happy Innocents’ Day! You were born yesterday. See you tomorrow.’

For one puzzled second Marroné sat there with his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the point of the door frame where the laughing gnome’s bald pate had been. Then, with feverish fingers, he grabbed the newspaper to check the date, which could only be… 28th December: the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Sonofabitch.

* * *

Back on the sun-drenched pavement, Marroné realised he had no money on him, not even for bus fare, never mind a taxi: the bent copper had taken his last peso. He could always take a taxi and pay when he reached home, but his house keys were in his briefcase, which was still in the pulverised plasterworks, and, faced with the eventuality of finding no one there and having to deal with a furious taxi-driver — or the far worse one of his wife being in, refusing him entry and money, and having to deal with her and the taxi-driver — he decided to have a look round the now-bustling square in search of someone who would be moved by his appearance and could spare some change. He eventually settled on a young blonde girl in jeans, Flecha trainers and open Chairman Mao shirt over her gym-vest, who was out walking her collie under the old palo borracho that stood at the centre of the square and stretched the umbrella of its foliage over all. She not only agreed to give him the money he needed without pulling the usual face of disgust or annoyance, but gave him a smile and a ‘Good luck, comrade’ before following the shaggy dog tugging at its lead. He watched her walk away, mottled with green and gold sunlight and shade: give her a neatly tied bun and she’d make a nice Evita, he caught himself thinking.

The journey on the 152 bus didn’t feel too long, as he fell asleep after a few blocks; and had it not been for an opportune police roadblock at the Presidential Residence in Olivos, where the bus was stopped to check the passengers’ papers, he would have ended up going all the way to the terminus. It was around noon and, as he wandered the leafy pavements, the plumes of smoke from countless Sunday asados , climbing over walls and fences and into his nostrils, reminded him that he hadn’t had a bite to eat in over twelve hours. If he was lucky — if they weren’t at his in-laws’ — he’d find lunch ready and waiting when he arrived. It hadn’t occurred to him to ring and tell them to expect him. What a surprise they had in store!

Little Tommy was first out to greet him, slipping through the thick legs of Doña Ema, who had opened the door, and hugging his legs tight, repeating ‘Papi! Papi! Papi! Papi! Papi!’ as Doña Ema piped over her shoulder ‘Here he is at last, Señora!’, and when Marroné looked up from his son’s little head with tear-filled eyes, it was to see his wife roaring down the steep staircase like a Valkyrie on her heavenly steed. As ideas go, dropping in on Mabel unannounced after a fortnight’s absence, in the state he was in, had been about as good as poking a wasp’s nest with a stick.

‘Have you gone stark raving mad, Ernesto Marroné, or are you trying to drive me mad, or what? It’s been five days since we heard from you, then suddenly you turn up like this, out of the blue? We thought you’d died in that factory, do you understand? We thought you were dead! Five days we’ve been wandering the morgues and hospitals with Mummy and Daddy! Morgues, Ernesto! Do you understand what I’m telling you? I had to look at corpses! Corpses, Ernesto! And you didn’t even have the decency, the thought, the heart to pick up a phone? To let us know you were alive at least? You even ruined Christmas for us, made it the worst Christmas of my life! And Daddy calling all his judge friends and military friends and police friends, making a fool of himself, wasting his valuable time because I thought they’d killed you or taken you in! We’re cancelling your parents’ for New Year’s Eve and spending it with mine; it’s the least they deserve after all they’ve done! Where were you? What are you doing in those clothes, Ernesto? What have you got yourself into? Everyone saw you on the news, talking like a darkie, and I had to pretend it wasn’t you, that you were with me that day! The phone never stopped ringing! Ernesto, if they got you mixed up in anything funny, if they threatened you, we have to go to the police right away and straighten it all out. You’re different, Ernesto. What have they done to you? Did they kidnap you? Did they drug you? Did they brainwash you? Why won’t you say anything? What are you showing me your teeth for? How did you do that to yourself? Did you get into a fight too? Over a woman, over some dark tart? You got into a punch-up over a darkie? Don’t you lie to me, eh, don’t you go taking me for a fool, I know it was all a front so you could run off and go whoring. You’ve got some dirty black slumdog bit of fluff on the side, haven’t you? Have you had children with her too? Have you been leading a double life? Explain it to me, Ernesto, because if you don’t explain it to me I can’t understand. I can’t understand how a married man with a tiny, months-old baby is capable of abandoning his family and not even bothering to let them know he’s still alive. You know that what you’ve done is grounds for divorce? Daddy’s already spoken to the lawyer: she told me I could shut the door in your face if I wanted to. What has happened to you? Have you had an identity crisis? You went looking for your original family? Go and live with them then, go and live in some tin-pot neighbourhood and leave us all in peace! You’d be capable of that, just to get me off your back, wouldn’t you? You think I don’t see how your face twists with disgust when you introduce me as your wife? How you’re always comparing me to other people’s wives? When have you ever said an affectionate word to me in public? When? And when you do say something at home, it sounds as if you’ve memorised it from one of those books you lock yourself in the bathroom to read! Sir is ashamed of his wife, Sir could have done better. Do me a favour! Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? In those clothes with no teeth you can tell a mile off just what you are! Or do you think you’re the only one here who was forced to get hitched at gunpoint? You think I set you a trap, you think I was dying for it? Mummy and Daddy took me on that trip to forget you, and guess what? It was easy! Until I did the pregnancy test! The night of the wedding, after you fell asleep, you know what I did? Of course you don’t, because you don’t give a monkey’s about anyone but yourself. I spent the whole night up, crying. Crying because I’d married a man I didn’t love and who didn’t love me. A man who brings me the withered flowers they sell at traffic lights, so he won’t have to stop at a proper florist’s! A man who’s never given me a single orgasm in my life!’ At this Marroné covered the ears of little Tommy, who went on chanting his litany of ‘Papi! Papi! Papi!’, then pointed with his eyes at the doorway, which was filled by the chuckling bulk of Doña Ema, who seemed to find the scene as enormously entertaining as her afternoon soap. ‘What? You’re worried about Doña Ema hearing? You think we haven’t discussed any of this before? If I’m still on my feet and not in a mental asylum, it’s thanks to her, not you, I can assure you!’

Marroné would have liked to say about himself all the derogatory things he knew the other person was thinking or wanted to say or intended to say, but Mabel had beaten him to it, and as he was still a little dazed and couldn’t quite remember if the rule was about pleasing others, or getting others to think like you, he said instead, solemnly, to sober her up, ‘Sr Tamerlán is dead.’