Sira, page 29
The switchboard was practically giving off smoke; day and night, calls to Buenos Aires were requested so the first lady could speak to her husband or the cabinet ministers.
The dressmakers, hairdresser, and companion were the only ones staying here with Señora Perón. However, Dodero and Juancito came and went from El Pardo as they wished, as did the military aides, various attendants, the official photographer, the speechwriter, Father Hernán Benítez, and the embassy staff. They could request anything from the kitchens at any hour; the sound of orders being placed, people running, and doors slamming was constant, and organizational changes had been made everywhere. It was the first time someone from outside the family had stayed in the palace, and the lively troop of Argentines had blown to pieces the quiet bourgeois comfort in which the Francos lived. It was said that Doña Carmen was frothing at the mouth while swearing by all that’s holy that she would never host strangers in her home again.
It was also rumored that, though they shared the same residence, the guest preferred to keep to a bare minimum the amount of time she spent in the company of her hosts. With distance between them, in her rooms she behaved in her usual way, ranting and raving whenever she liked. There, among her people in her private space, she continued to refer to the Generalísimo’s wife as la Gorda, Fatty, though Doña Carmen was as thin as a rake. Of Franco, she maintained that he had the look of a shopkeeper, and their daughter, Carmencita, she renamed la Nena Mirona, Nosy Girl, on account of the young woman’s habit of observing her with fascination.
That evening, however, at that bullfighting hour, the atmosphere at El Pardo was unusually calm. I kept going, but still, nobody appeared. It was hot, and the late departure to Las Ventas must have been tense and unpleasant. But finally they’d left, and the staff knew the bullfight would last several hours. Another gala dinner had been organized by the mayor that evening, so the household had no preparations to make. I supposed the workers were enjoying a moment’s respite, some calm amid the storm, perhaps dozing in their quarters, doing crosswords, or listening to a serial on the radio. I continued slowly, my throat dry and my stomach tight. I was entering the official residence of the Spanish head of state, one of the world’s most controversial figures, with a reputation for showing not the slightest bit of mercy to those who crossed him. In my handbag I carried a British passport with a made-up name and a BBC card, credentials from a foreign corporation I didn’t really work for. No one had invited or authorized me to enter the building, other than an Argentine fat cat who was used to doing whatever he pleased, with the boldness that wealth brings. And my mission was to find two anonymous dressmakers, two simple workers, hardly illustrious guests.
If this had been some contest in sinister behavior, I would’ve taken all the prizes.
42
I entered a dimly lit corridor. The only sound I could hear was a heavy ticktock, ticktock, ticktock. A dozen paces on, I found its source on top of a chest of drawers: a splendid clock on a marble base. The time was twenty minutes past six.
From the walls hung banners and coats of arms, oil paintings and large tapestries. I opened a door, slowly turning its handle. Inside I found a palatial room with low tables and armchairs, a large ceiling chandelier, and frescoes on the walls. I assumed that this was a waiting room for nobles. I closed the door carefully and continued along the corridor. My footsteps were silent now on the thick carpet. I gripped the next door handle and again turned it slowly. The door creaked and I held my breath—this room was even bigger, with an enormous damask-draped table equally suited for feeding thirty people or hosting large meetings. I went on, detecting no trace of a human presence. Three doors later, I had to hold my hand to my mouth to contain a scream—I’d just peered into what I assumed was Franco’s office.
I retraced my footsteps in a hurry, intending to return to the courtyard. I was putting my head into the lion’s mouth, and I had to get out of there no matter what. But I heard voices in the distance, men’s voices—moving toward me or not, I couldn’t tell. Distraught, I decided to head back into the corridor, walking quickly, quickly, and looking over my shoulder. I dodged and turned, going down more corridors that went on forever, no longer stopping to open doors. I finally found a staircase and guessed that it would lead me to the private areas, away from visitors. I tiptoed up the steps without stopping. There was now silence again except for the constant ticktock, as if there were hundreds of clocks spread around the palace. Without pausing, I let myself be guided by my most primitive intuition: if I’d just been in the area meant for formal receptions, perhaps logic dictated that Señora Perón and her entourage would be staying in the diametrically opposite direction. After covering a long distance, I began to notice a thick smell of flowers. I sensed with relief that I hadn’t been wrong.
On top of every chest of drawers, console table, and shelf were enormous centerpieces, bunches, and arrangements of flowers, all competing to be the showiest and most colorful. Most had ribbons across them identifying their senders. The Spanish Trade Union Organization, the Provincial Court, the Guild of Printers, the Railway Workers’ Association . . . tokens of affection by the dozen for the Argentine first lady, giving off an almost nauseating fragrance.
The furniture and decorative objects were still sumptuous here, but something seemed different. Before long I realized that the walls and ceilings were newly painted in a much brighter white than the lifeless tone of the rest of the building’s interior. A ton of flowers, fresh paint, and a location at the opposite end of the palace. Everything indicated that now I was finally where I needed to be, even if no one was waiting for me.
I started knocking on the doors, but no voices came from behind them. I knocked harder. I waited. Nothing. In for a penny, I must’ve thought. As I had done downstairs, I opened them one by one. The first, a wide double door, led to a living room too elaborately furnished to be comfortable. The second opened onto a private dining room with a round table large enough for eight people. I imagined Eva Perón had breakfast or lunch there when she wanted to escape the tedious company of the Francos. I found nothing personal in either of these two rooms except another load of floral gifts.
The third room, however, was quite another matter. Still clutching the door handle, I contemplated the interior for a moment, lost for words. They’d turned this space into a sort of wardrobe, salon, and dressing room. Barely aware of what I was doing, with no thought to the possible consequences, I slowly went in. There was nobody here, either.
More than a dozen evening gowns, mantles, and shawls hung from the curtain rails. Waves and folds of silk, satin, lamé, and velvet spilled from up high, floating in the air, as if this were a dressing room at the opera. I cast my eyes over the pieces, and in a few brief seconds I was able to make out two very different styles. Some were sober and elegant, worthy of any dignitary on an official visit to Europe. Others were gaudy and overelaborate, more appropriate for stage productions than for a first lady.
Over the brocade upholstery of the sofas they’d spread out fur coats and stoles: sleek fox, smooth mink, a long ermine cape, sables. An enormous wardrobe with its doors open revealed her everyday outfits, in impeccable order. To the left were the two-piece suits, in plain tones with big shoulder pads, as straight and as sober as soldiers and reminiscent of the recently ended war. To the right, the day dresses, in an array of summer, floral, and polka-dot patterns.
Dazzled by the display, I approached a desk acting as a dressing table. On it sat tubs of cream, compacts, lipsticks, and talcum powders. Though I’d only seen her from a distance, I had the impression that Eva Perón had excellent skin, that she barely used makeup and only painted her lips bright crimson. I picked up a lipstick, recognizing the brand. I took the lid off, turning the base until a cylinder of pearly tangerine came out.
Another table, whose original function had perhaps been the serving of dainty refreshments, had been covered with a white towel. On top of it, hairdressing accessories were impeccably lined up. Brushes and combs with different uses. Crimpers, curlers, hairnets, rollers of all shapes and sizes. I found several hairpieces in the form of buns and chignons hanging from braided wire stands. There were also bottles of nail polish and a few more of perfume.
Against a wall, two Empire-style chests of drawers were home to the hats. Each one had its own stand: bonnets, caps, elaborate tiaras, headdresses with tulle or feathers, wide-brimmed summer hats of raffia, abaca silk, and pleated horsehair. With great difficulty I resisted the urge to try one on. The shoes were arranged in a long row on the floor, made-to-measure, no doubt, and numbering more than twenty pairs. The plainer day shoes were at one end, in python, lizard, or dyed leather. Then there were the evening models, jet black and sparkling.
They’d removed a pair of candelabra from a console table in the corner to set down a small blue leather trunk. I tried to open it, without success. I supposed it was the jewelry case and that someone was jealously guarding the key.
Back in London, Kavannagh’s reports had barely touched on the first lady’s “humble origins.” Cinderella from the Pampas, America’s prestigious Time magazine would later name her. The reference to the fairy tale, given what I saw in that reception room, would make perfect sense to me. No one who did not know otherwise could ever have suspected that such a display could belong to a woman who was not yet thirty, a daughter born illegitimately and raised in poverty in a dusty town, an ordinary-looking woman, with no great talent or education. Pursuing her childhood dream of becoming a performer, she had packed her handful of rags in an old hardboard suitcase and put on her hundred-times rewashed blouse, her skirt of cheap percale, and a shabby pair of shoes inherited from her mother. With this modest gear plus her dogged audacity, she took a train to the capital. She was fifteen and dark haired, with neither contacts nor money. Nevertheless, she managed to elbow her way into the world of radio drama, where she remained until her relationship with Perón changed the direction of her interests and she became one of the most powerful women on the planet.
Some people branded her a despotic upstart, others a benevolent angel. Some spurned her and others adored her. I didn’t know enough to be able to align myself with either of these two positions, but right then, looking at that scene, I became aware, fully aware, that Eva Perón was indomitable and afraid of nothing.
“Can I help you?”
I almost screamed. Behind me, I’d just heard the voice of an Argentine man. My presence had undoubtedly surprised him. Surprised and angered him, judging by his tone. A brand-new carpet had been laid in the rooms renovated for the guest, and this was why I hadn’t heard his footsteps. I pressed my eyes shut and wished for the ground to swallow me up. Then a light turned on in my mind and I exclaimed, “Don Julio!”
The entire file was suddenly available to me in my mind. Julio Alcaraz, Señora Perón’s personal hairdresser. Of mature years, serious about his profession, a family man. They’d met when she was aspiring to stardom. She’d never managed it, but along the way she had made some friends, and this stylist of actresses was one of her closest. From his hand came the elaborate pompadour hairstyle the first lady wore.
I strode toward him. He hadn’t moved from the doorway. A gray-haired fifty-something, I saw, not very tall. He was wearing pale trousers and a shirt unbuttoned at the chest, and over his shoulder he had draped a towel. I did more than just offer him my hand—I gripped his and practically forced him to shake it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m here on Señor Dodero’s recommendation. He gave me permission to meet you and your colleagues.”
He remained silent, motionless, a stern look fixed on his face. Who the hell is this intruder invading our sanctuary? he must’ve thought. I hadn’t bargained on encountering him either, but now I was aware that I had to win him over.
“Don Alberto insisted I should meet you. The work you’re all doing—to amplify Señora Perón’s elegance and make the tour a success—it’s magnificent.”
Dodero. Don Alberto. Don Alberto Dodero. I had a feeling that he was the key to not raising suspicion. I had to press home that I was there with the magnate’s blessing, though he seemed to have forgotten, or not deigned, to inform them. But the hairdresser remained unmoved. Emerging from his shirt pocket, like an identity badge, was the end of a comb.
At his lack of reaction, my brain began to race. Friendliness clearly wasn’t going to pay off. So I opted for another strategy, remembering the old adage that attack is the best form of defense.
“I’m very glad you’re finally here for our appointment, because I’ve been waiting for you quite some time.”
Now his expression did change, and he questioned my words with a frown.
“You didn’t receive the message from Don Alberto?”
Now I was the serious one, with a touch of irritated disbelief in my voice and feigned reproach on my face.
“These messengers are hopeless,” I mumbled with supposed indignation. “They should’ve told you I was coming. Our meeting’s scheduled for six o’clock sharp. I was very surprised not to find you here.”
He finally reacted, shrugging uncomfortably.
“We didn’t know . . .”
I tried not to show my delight. I’d done it. But just to be sure, I tightened the screw.
“It may not be your fault, but the delay has made me feel tremendously uncomfortable. I don’t know if there will be some consequence . . .”
I was sorry to be so impertinent, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get him on my side. Eva Perón was famous for her temperamental character and impetuous reactions. It was clear the hairdresser Alcaraz had no desire to anger her.
“I’ll fetch them right away . . . ,” he sputtered.
I followed him, any trace of my discomfort now gone. He went to the door at the end of the corridor, and I stopped a few paces behind him to wait. When he opened it, in the foreground I saw three enormous trunks, and a tall pile of hatboxes behind. Farther back still, I spotted the foot of a bed, Alcaraz’s own, perhaps. Maybe he was accommodated there so he would always be near Doña Eva, to do or undo her hair whenever needed.
He opened a window and waved his arm energetically. No one seemed to respond, so he tried again, moving both arms now like a windmill’s sails. Still no answer. In the end, he had no option but to stick his fingers into his mouth and whistle loudly across His Excellency’s regal gardens.
43
The personal stylists arrived a few minutes later in a fluster. They had been alarmed by Don Julio’s urgent gesticulations from the window, a sign that something wasn’t as it should be.
Asunta Fernández, from the Henriette fashion house, was in her forties and wore her hair gathered in a silk headscarf. Juanita Palmou, of the Paula Naletoff house, was of a similar age and was holding a pair of sunglasses and a light-colored, wide-brimmed hat in her hands. The former was tall and slender; the latter, curvy with a flushed complexion. I’d assumed the women tasked with ironing garments and doing up fasteners would be two tender young assistants I could easily have eating out of my hand, so I was surprised to find myself facing a pair of seasoned professionals, like the one my mother had been when she was employed at Doña Manuela’s workshop. Except these women were from Buenos Aires, where there was a great deal more money and glamour than there had been in an impoverished prewar Madrid. As a dressmaker, I’d skipped this intermediate step and gone from young seamstress with potential to owner of my own businesses, first in Tétouan and then in Madrid’s Salamanca neighborhood. But they didn’t need to know any of that.
I greeted them without the flippant insolence I’d used to neutralize the hairdresser’s mistrust. However, I continued to pull the necessary strings to win them over.
“I’m here on Don Alberto Dodero’s say-so,” I insisted. “I’m very sorry that nobody informed you I was coming.”
I waited for a reaction but they both remained stonily silent and were clearly uncomfortable. It had been a busy, complicated day for them, as every day had been since their arrival. Or, more likely, as all the days since long before that. It had been a busy, complicated day as every day had surely been since their respective fashion houses received the request to designate an employee to take care of the first lady’s wardrobe on her tour of Europe. She hadn’t been a regular customer of either house before that and had used their services only occasionally, since General Perón secured the presidency the year before. And of course, those dealings were rarely welcomed. As reputable ateliers and boutiques, both Henriette and Paula Naletoff had been dressing the ladies of the Buenos Aires aristocracy for many years—women of tremendous taste, class, lineage, discernment, and wealth. The very ones against whom the president’s wife was waging a merciless war. Or vice versa. Either way, the result was the same.
The request had been a catastrophe for both businesses. Neither wanted to risk upsetting or perhaps losing their exclusive clientele by having their names openly associated with the president’s wife, but refusing would be reckless. Nobody refused Eva Perón anything. Anyone who dared would face the consequences. The houses had agreed, of course, and prepared several exclusive outfits. And they put forward Asunta Fernández and Juanita Palmou as assistants, two trusted, prudent, and highly regarded employees who would perform the task with complete professionalism.
On the day of my visit, the planned itinerary had required four wardrobe changes: day wear for both the indoors and outdoors, two more outfits for an evening at the bullfight and a gala dinner. Which was perhaps why, once they’d finished their work and the official delegation had rushed off to Las Ventas, they’d allowed themselves to take the small liberty of visiting the palace swimming pool. Now, judging by their demeanor, they were convinced that it had been a bad idea. No one had given them permission, because there hadn’t been anybody to request it from; their only boss was the first lady, and occasionally Don Alberto Dodero. In their absence, they’d authorized themselves, and now, standing dumbstruck in front of me, they appeared to regret their mistake.
