Santa Evita

(O)-(O)-(O)-(O)

Peròn was at her side, holding her hand, when the end finally came. He would never forget how it felt when the flesh beneath his fingers went limp. As he watched the nurses prepare her body for the embalmer, Peròn just sat there, numb.

“Time of death- twenty hours twenty-five.” The doctor wrote it on a piece of paper, and then slumped into a chair. He, too, was mourning for Evita. The mother of the deceased, Dona Juana, sobbed quietly in a corner while Eva’s priest read from the Bible.

“Padre nuestro que estás en los cielos
Santificado sea tu Nombre
Venga tu reino
Hágase tu voluntad. . .”

Peròn lightly touched the emaciated face. Had this cold, empty shell once been Evita? This corpse had no sign of the sparkle, the sheer magic that had been his wife. This impostor could never have been Argentina’s rose.

“En la tierra como en el cielo
Danos hoy el pan de este día
y perdona nuestras deudas. . .” A tear fell from the priest’s eye.

“Como nosotros perdonamos nuestros deudores
y no nos dejes caer en al tentacion
sino que líbranos del malo. Amen.”

“Amen,” Dona Juana echoed.

A few minutes later, cries of anguish came from throughout the presidential palace. “Santa Evita!” they screamed. “Evita, Evita!” Peròn could vaguely hear snatches of conversation outside.

“Inform the radio stations.”

A pause. “The theatres as well?”

“Of course.”

“It’s so terrible. . .she was so young!”

“I know.” Another pause. “You had better leave- we mustn’t keep the people waiting.”

“Adios, then.”

“Good day.”

Dona Juana sobbed some more. “All our hope is gone, Juan. She took it with her.”

Peròn nodded sadly, too full of shock to speak.

“Argentina will shed many tears tonight,” she added, brushing stray hairs away from her daughter’s face.

Sure enough, within minutes, they heard the faint cries: “Evita!” “Holy Eva!”. A few even screamed for “Madre!” Snatches of Peronist songs were heard, and much weeping, just as Dona Juana had predicted. Peròn threw open the French Windows and stepped onto the balcony. Nothing had prepared him for the sight below.

Thousands of descamisados stood outside the gates, holding up candles and pictures of their saviour. Children were throwing flowers. The sun was just setting, casting an eerie glow over the mourners. Dona Juana burst into tears once more as a giant portrait of Evita was raised.

“Peròn! Peròn! Peròn!” the crowd roared.

Then, and only then, did President Juan Peròn permit himself to cry.