Sira, page 27
Next it was time to pin the Grand Cross of Isabella the Catholic on María Eva Duarte de Perón’s chest in the form of an ornate brooch. The decoration was intended to have tremendous symbolic value, and the piece’s material value, too, could not have been inconsiderable, with its solid gold, rubies, pearls, and numerous diamonds. In the center, on enamel, the two pillars of Hercules were linked with a ribbon that bore the inscription Plus Ultra. Very few people received such a high distinction—it was a grand gesture.
Following thunderous applause, the Argentine first lady responded with her own equally turgid speech in which she linked the spirit of the Catholic queen to still more allusions to faith, divine providence, and love between peoples. She read with ease—although the Spanish press had diligently omitted any mention of her past, from Kavannagh’s reports I knew that Eva Perón had for years been an actress, or an aspiring one, at least. She’d never found success, but the time she’d spent performing on the stage and, even more so, in radio plays, had prepared her to operate confidently in front of audiences, cameras, and microphones.
In broken but comprehensible Spanish, during the bus journey, the New York Herald Tribune correspondent had asked Valentín Thiebaut, the reporter for the Argentine newspaper Democracia, whether it was true that the scriptwriter had been put on the plane at the last minute by order of the Argentine president himself, because he was nervous about his wife’s oratorial abilities. By now, we all knew that Democracia was the Argentine newspaper most supportive of the Peronist regime, and someone even went so far as to say it was owned by the first lady.
While she continued to reel off the high-flown phrases that had been written for her, and as the photographers’ cameras flashed away, I focused on implementing my plan. The first objective I’d set for myself was identifying the members of her entourage I was to get close to. I located them in the front row, off to one side, surrounded by generals, clerics, and bigwigs. None of them was particularly distinctive, everything about them was in order, but somehow they seemed different from the Spanish officials, less stiff and uptight. The lady wearing mauve with an understated headdress of flowers I assumed to be Lillian Lagomarsino, companion and adviser. The older broad-chested gentleman I identified as Alberto Dodero, the shipping magnate who was coordinating and financing the unofficial later stages of the tour. And the younger man with slicked-back hair and pencil mustache I guessed was the brother, the womanizer who’d recently been a soap salesman and was now a vital cog in the presidential machinery. Juancito, they called him.
She finished her speech to another resounding ovation. At last, the staff hurried to open the balconies, and a deafening roar arose from the square. Franco and Eva walked out, followed by the most important officials and ministers. Radio Nacional de España microphones awaited them. The crowd seemed to be in a frenzy, the people euphorically waving flags and handkerchiefs, caps and placards. They began to chant with a pulsing rhythm that grew in force.
“What’re they saying?” my colleagues asked me.
We were packed together. I pricked up my ears, but it was hard to make out the exact words in the chanting that sounded more like drumming. Once I had the phrase, I turned around and repeated it, before translating. “Franco, Perón, un solo corazón,” the mass was singing in unison. Franco, Perón, a single heart. Finally, she took the floor.
Her speech was brief but extremely effective, and she expressed herself with passion and charisma. Off the cuff, without any notes now, she spoke about the poor, the disadvantaged, and laborers, about workers’ rights, social renewal, and justice for the people. Some of the Francoist officials at the back of the main balcony had sweat running from their temples. I imagined that to a few of them, her words echoed those of La Pasionaria, the exiled Republican heroine Dolores Ibárruri.
The hundreds of thousands of Madrileños, indifferent to the searing heat, continued to clap and cheer. The first lady’s actual words probably didn’t matter an awful lot to them, and they would’ve applauded just as fervently no matter what message came from her mouth. This was simply a jamboree, a free circus, a day off, plus they’d been told that the señora would bring bread and meat to Spain by the shipload, and that was all that really mattered. Franco, despite his guest’s rather subversive language, appeared jubilant as he took in the public’s response. This was precisely what he wanted: massive popular acclaim, a picture of a people united around their leader. For the world to see Spain celebrate him.
They were waving goodbye and we were about to return to the Throne Hall when a melody began to rise from the plaza.
“What’re they singing?” my supposed fellow journalists asked again.
It took a few seconds for me to realize it was “Cara al sol.” The massive crowd, spontaneously and unstoppably, with right arms held high, was now belting out the Falangist anthem, oblivious to the fresh image the new Acción Católica appointees were trying to project beyond Spain’s borders. To show her gratitude, or simply because she was caught up in the moment, Eva Duarte seemed to join with the crowd, and just for an instant, she appeared to give the old fascist salute. A grumble of disapproval came from the foreign journalists behind me. I looked around—the foreign minister’s face was transformed, Diego Tovar looked like he was going to bury his head in his hands, and other senior propagandists were either mumbling complaints or showing irritation in their expressions. The masses, meanwhile, continued to sing with fevered enthusiasm in the square. Inside the palace, some were already anticipating the reports that would appear in the international press the next day. Nothing has truly changed in Spain despite the outward reversals, the North American, British, and French newspapers would say. The new shirt that was once embroidered with the yoke and arrows of the Falange is still being worn. The terrible Rome-Berlin Axis of fascism had disappeared after the Second World War; but now, various reporters would note, another with a similar ideology seems to be emerging between Madrid and Buenos Aires. And Eva Perón, some would write, has come to Spain to ratify it.
The occasion was brought to an end. People gathered into small groups, exchanging opinions and saying their goodbyes, but no one dared leave until the Generalísimo and President Perón’s wife had gone out through the door. I watched the scene closely and waited for my chance, until I decided that yes, now was my moment. “Go get him,” I whispered to myself as I smoothed down my skirt. I put a huge smile on my face and walked gracefully toward my prey.
“Livia Nash, from the BBC Latin American Service,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s a real honor to meet you, Señor Dodero.”
40
The shipowner asked me to meet him on the Riscal terrace. I would’ve preferred somewhere more secluded—an office at the Argentine embassy, or some tucked-away corner of his hotel’s lobby instead of the balcony, for example. After my encounter with Ramiro, I wanted to avoid public places at all costs. Especially the busiest and most famous ones.
Oblivious to my concerns, Alberto Dodero arranged for a car to collect me from the press club: a sumptuous black Cadillac that made heads turn on its way through the streets. He was waiting for me, drinking a whiskey on ice and talking to two men who made themselves scarce as soon as he gave the sign. Around him, unsurprisingly, the place was crawling with curious bystanders. It was said that the entire city was on the lookout for the Argentine dignitary or members of her delegation. He kissed my hand, held my chair, and praised my appearance. He said he’d never been interviewed by such a beautiful woman. I accepted his gentlemanly courtesies with a neutral smile—I had little choice.
“As a matter of fact, Señor Dodero, it’s not going to be an interview in the usual sense of the word,” I explained while I placed the napkin on my knees. “It’ll be more like a relaxed conversation, if you don’t mind. We’re doing background work for an extensive radio report that will cover President Perón’s wife’s visit to Spain, to be broadcast on our service.”
“A lot of people listen to the BBC in Uruguay and Argentina,” he said, raising his glass in a gesture of appreciation. “It will be a pleasure to talk to you . . . Do I call you señorita or señora?”
I employed the strategy I’d used with Diego Tovar again.
“You can just call me Livia.”
He was over sixty and the most powerful shipowner in Río de la Plata—in fact, one of the most important shipowners in South America. He headed a group of family enterprises that owned hundreds of vessels, from huge freighters to ocean liners, tugboats to river launches. Far from becoming impoverished during the war, he had profited from it, thanks to the rise in freight prices. And since the conflict, he had in recent years been buying up former US Navy vessels at bargain prices, converting them from troop and weapons carriers to passenger and cargo ships. My companion that evening was rich, terrifically rich. Openly and unashamedly so.
He ordered for both of us without bothering to look at the menu. “The paella” was all he said. Someone must’ve recommended it. I did well not to point out that in Spain we usually ate paella for lunch and not for dinner at almost eleven o’clock. At Riscal, it seemed to be the star dish.
“All right, Señor Dodero, let’s start . . .”
“Please, call me Alberto,” he said. He had aplomb in spades, bags of skin under his eyes, and jet-black hair, which must’ve been dyed because not a single gray strand could be seen. “If you want me to call you Livia, I’ll simply have no choice but to be Alberto.”
“Let’s start then, Alberto, with the preparations for the tour. How was . . . ?”
I barely had to ask anything more because, from that point, it was all him. He paused only long enough to praise the paella that would be brought to us: a dish as colorful as a garish modern painting, made for two, but crammed with so many langoustines, lemon quarters, and strips of red pepper, it could have fed more than half a dozen.
With that tendency so common to self-assured men, Alberto Dodero dominated the conversation and spoke at length about I, my, and me almost until dessert. Born in Uruguay, he was the child of Italian immigrants with the sea in his blood: a son, grandson, and great-grandson of Genoese sailors. He’d taken all his tenacity and boldness to Buenos Aires as a young man and, together with his brothers, had managed to build an empire that connected the ports of the Río de la Plata with the rest of the planet. He’d been married twice, and his love life followed the pattern typical of a mature man with money pursuing eternal youth: his first wife had been a woman of his own age who gave him children; the second, a head-turning actress almost thirty years his junior. A lover of luxury and everyday elegance, he had properties and friendships all over the world. The former included the lavish Villa Betalba in Montevideo, Hotel Cataratas del Iguazú, and a summer mansion on the Côte d’Azur, overlooking the Mediterranean. The latter, a certain Ari Onassis, and the Peróns, of course.
Kavannagh’s report suggested, and my fellow journalists had confirmed, that Dodero was the supplier of the first lady’s jewelry—currently opulent pieces by Walser Wald and Ricciardi of Buenos Aires, soon to be replaced by items from French jewelers Cartier and Van Cleef & Arpels. He presented the pieces to Señora Perón, and she accepted them and sported them in public with enormous pleasure. There didn’t seem to be any conflict whatsoever between the shipping magnate’s business interests and his sumptuous generosity toward the president’s wife. It was said that she had a weakness for gold, whereas Franco’s spouse preferred pearls: different tastes and desires.
“And as I understand it,” I managed to ask when he held his glass of wine to his mouth, “when the tour leaves Spain, you will cover the cost of the European trip. Is that right?”
Dodero continued to speak openly without the slightest embarrassment.
“It’s a great honor for me that General Perón has accepted my backing for those stages. It means we won’t have to incur unnecessary expenses for the state, and I am paying from my own pocket with the utmost pleasure. Unfortunately, not all the European countries have been as generous as this one.”
He let out a loud burst of laughter, a langoustine’s head held between his fingers. Everyone around us looked at him, yet again. On any other day, every customer, every group, every couple at the restaurant would have minded their own business, keeping their attention on their food and their own conversations, indifferent to the buzz from the other tables. That night, however, the rumor had spread among the clientele that the sixty-something gentleman with the raven hair was an Argentine tycoon who was traveling in the company of Eva Perón.
“And on the subject of the latter stages of the tour, could you tell me what plans you have?”
That was the direction in which I wanted the conversation to go: to his immediate future rather than to his past, as worthy and as extraordinary as it was. But a couple of bystanders interrupted us, approaching for the sole purpose of shaking the magnate’s hand, perhaps to have something to boast about the next day. Welcome to Spain, señor! Give our thanks to President Perón! Viva Argentina, our great sister nation!
As soon as they’d gone, the shipowner went on to discuss the presidential party’s future visit to the Holy Father. Then he mentioned France, potentially Switzerland, perhaps Portugal. I had the impression that, at that point, Rome was the only guaranteed destination. It seemed that beyond the Pyrenees, no one was willing to stomach Señora Perón’s presence.
I listened until the waiter interrupted us with suggestions for dessert. As soon as he’d gone away with an order for flambéed soufflé, I stuck my pointed question in like a lance.
“And Britain? How are the plans for visiting London working out, Alberto?”
He diverted the conversation back to himself, his own dealings with British associates, his many trips to finalize operations there, the unused seaplanes he’d recently bought from the United Kingdom with the aim of dipping his foot into commercial aviation—a new and risky venture.
“But Señora Perón,” I insisted, “does she really have an interest in Britain, or do you think . . . ?”
He looked at me intensely while he held his solid-gold lighter to the tip of a Dunhill. There was a click, the flame popped up, and I immediately regretted my overenthusiasm. Perhaps I’d been too direct, but the dinner was reaching its end and I needed an answer, some firm response, before I could wrap up the meeting. I had to be careful, however, not to try his patience. I had no choice but to concoct a lie to get out of trouble.
“Because if you do end up traveling to England, perhaps the first lady would do us the honor of speaking on our service.”
He smiled with satisfaction, slowly letting smoke out through his nose, his eyes still fixed on me.
“I like determined women—”
He didn’t have the chance to go on—at that moment someone else approached the table. The man appeared behind me, so all he’d have seen of me was my bare shoulders, my dark hair gathered in a bun, and the back of my patterned outfit.
“My esteemed Señor Dodero, what an immense pleasure it is to find you here in Spain. Román Altares, at your service,” he added, holding out his hand. His accent sounded even more Argentine than the shipping magnate’s. “Please forgive my intrusion, both you and your beautiful companion . . .”
He looked to me, and sweat broke out on my back. His smile turned to stone. The greatest of my fears had been realized. Wearing an elegant three-piece summer suit and with brilliantined hair, attractive, a snake charmer, there was Ramiro Arribas. Again.
He reacted quickly, turning his eyes from me to Dodero. He cited a long string of names, places, and events. My companion gave a slight frown, as if trying to recall him without much interest. After a few seconds, and without much conviction, he muttered, “Yes, yes, I remember.”
Unable to remain calm, I got up from the table.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment . . .”
I headed to the bathroom. I would’ve liked to scream, swear, stick my face under the faucet. But no, I couldn’t lose control. I couldn’t allow that pig’s presence, his mere existence, to affect me. I clenched my teeth, breathed deeply.
Ramiro Arribas had become Román Altares, his new name different but relatively similar to the original. He was no longer speaking our language the way I did. Rather, his was now a fluent Buenos Aires Spanish. Things weren’t going too badly for him, judging by his appearance and the fact that, at least tangentially, he knew Alberto Dodero. But what the devil was he doing in Madrid if he supposedly lived in the Argentine capital? And what was he hoping to obtain from the shipowner, beyond a chance to introduce himself? I recalled Diego Tovar’s words at Villa Romana: Madrid was full of unclassifiable Argentines—opportunists, in all likelihood. And that profile fit Ramiro like a glove.
I washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror. The person I saw was not the unsuspecting girl that swine had manipulated at his will, the twenty-something he’d cheated and abandoned without a trace of remorse. Before me was the reflection of who I was now: a battle-hardened woman with a scarred soul, the world on her shoulders, and a tiny family in her care. “Do it for your son,” I whispered. But I immediately made a correction. Do it for your children, I told myself. For my little Víctor and for the child who’d never been born, the one that he had fathered and then destroyed when he abandoned us, the baby I lost among blood clots as I fled Tangier on a bus, alone and terrified after he left. For that ill-fated child, for my living boy, and for myself, I couldn’t allow Ramiro to upend me.
I walked back to the table with feigned ease and saw the bastard still speaking enthusiastically while Dodero fiddled with his lighter between his fingers, not paying much attention. Ramiro gave me his splendid smile when he saw me, the sly fox even starting to say something—to give a compliment to make an impression on the magnate, perhaps. I didn’t give him the chance. Ignoring him, still standing, I asked, “Could we leave, Alberto?”
