There’s an English author who is a polite and studious fellow with a queer theory that has birth two novels and one short story about gods, ghosts and myths. He says, in short, that ghosts, like gods and legends before, are born because someone believes in them. We still exist because you want us to. Because you need us, all the ghosts and gods that you have cried for and loved (or yes, hated) mingle around waiting for your sacrifices to keep us going.
Most of your sacrifices are easy, and plentiful even though you don’t realize your doing it: you envy me. Or hate me. Read about me. You give me time. You idolize me. Or, and this is a recent development I’m still getting use too: you sing about me.
I should thank Mr. Webber. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be able to move outside of Argentina (not that I need to, they adore me enough to live as real and wholly as I did in life.) as I do.
And I wouldn’t go England like I never did in life, and I wouldn’t find this little cramp theatre tucked away in London’s West End.
It’s with a certain amount of vanity that I admit to seeing the show that bears my name. I like the profiles of me that gleam down. I like the chorus cheering my name. The crowds back home never did it with such devotion and never solely for me.
Evita! Evita! Evita Peron, la Santa Peronista!
The girl they have playing me is a small little thing. You wonder how that loud voice is kept all locked up in that tiny little ribcage. The guy they have playing Juan is Australian with his hair slicked back like Count Chocula. Cute though, a little too vain and melodramatic to be my man.
Not to mention, my man wouldn’t be caught dead wearing Argentina’s flag like a bandoleer.
But enough about the staging, it’s to my favorite song: that wondrous anthem to my…what exactly?
It won’t be easy, you’ll think it’s strange…when I try to explain how I feel, that I still need your love after all I’ve done…you won’t believe me…
Well, of course they wouldn’t have. My people were not idiots, nor were they foolish to believe for a moment that when I started out- it was for anyone besides me. Peron loved the people. I believed in him. He made us believe. All of us… he let us see his dream and realize it was possible.
…Yeah right. Whatever.
Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina…the truth is I never left you! Through all my wild days, my mad existence, I kept my promise…don’t keep your distance.
This play is about my ambition. About the coldness and the manipulation I used to get where I was. How I, a ‘whore’ from the gutters bit, lied, cheated and slept my way to the top. It’s all true. Peron knew it. I knew it.
But that’s the thing about being a ghost or a legend…history has a way of polishing us up, decorating us rainbow high- tossing out the bad and, if like in my case, it can’t making it beautiful and believable.
I was called the people’s savior, Peron’s whore. I am both in this modern incarnation I use to remain with you. I was both.
Funny how ghosts work, huh?
Muse: Eva Peron
Real Person Fiction
Word Count: 568