The Death of Artemio Cruz

(1955: December 31)

With difficulty, he grasped the wrought-iron handrail. He jabbed his other hand deep into the pocket of his robe and laboriously walked down the stairs, without looking at the niches dedicated to the Mexican Virgins. Guadalupe, Zapopan, Remedios. As the setting sun came through the windows, it bathed in gold the warm silks and the drapery that billowed like silver sails; it reddened the burnished wood of the beams; it illuminated half of the man's face. He was wearing his tuxedo trousers, shirt, and tie: draped in his red robe, he looked like a tired old magician. He imagined his guests repeating the same performances that once upon a time they had put on with unique charm. Tonight, he would be annoyed to recognize the same faces, the same clichés that year after year provided the proper tone for his New Year's Eve party-the feast of St. Sylvester-in his enormous Coyoacán residence.

His footsteps echoed emptily on the tezontle floor. Slightly cramped in their black patent-leather slippers, his feet dragged along with that staggering heaviness he could no longer avoid. Tall, rocking on indecisive heels, his barrel chest thrust forward, and his nervous hands with their thick veins dangling at his sides, he slowly made his way along the whitewashed corridors, treading on the thick wool carpeting. He caught sight of himself in the lustrous mirrors and in the crystalware displayed in the colonial breakfronts, as he ran his fingers over the metal plates and door handles, the paneled coffers with iron keyholes, the aromatic benches of ayacahuite wood, the opulent marquetry. A servant opened the door of the grand ballroom for him. The old man stopped for the last time in front of a mirror and straightened his bow tie. With the palm of his hand, he smoothed the few curly gray hairs that remained on his high forehead. He squeezed his cheeks to push his false teeth into place, and walked into the room with its shiny floor, a vast expanse decorated with colonial pictures-St. Sebastian, St. Lucy, St. Jerome, and St. Michael. Its glowing cedar floor, from which the rugs had been removed to allow dancing, opened onto the lawns and brick terraces.

At the far end of the room, the photographers were waiting for him, gathered around the green-damask armchair, under the fifty-candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The clock on the mantel struck seven; a fire was blazing because it had been so cold the past few days. Two leather hassocks flanked the fireplace. He greeted the photographers with a nod and sat down in the armchair, arranging his stiff shirtfront and his piqué cuffs. Another servant led in the two gray mastiffs with their red dewlaps and melancholy eyes and placed their rough leashes in the master's hands. The bronze studs on the dogs' collars glittered with reflected light. He raised his head, squeezing his dentures back into place. The flashbulbs gave a tone of fresh plaster to his large gray head. As they asked him to strike new poses, he insisted on straightening his hair and running his fingers along the two heavy bags that hung off the sides of his nose and gradually disappeared into his neck. His high cheekbones still had the old hardness, though even they were crisscrossed by a network of wrinkles that began at his eyelids, which seemed to sag more and more every day, as if to protect his eyes, which expressed a combination of amusement and bitterness, their greenish irises hidden in the folds of loose skin.

One of the mastiffs barked and tried to get loose. At the exact moment he was pulled out of his chair by the powerful dog, a flashbulb went off, and his expression of rigid astonishment was captured in the photograph. The other photographers stared severely at the man who had taken the photo. The guilty party pulled the black plate out of his camera and without a word handed it to another photographer.

When the photographers were gone, he reached out his trembling hand and took a filtered cigarette out of the silver box on the rustic table. He had difficulty getting the lighter to work and, nodding all the time, slowly reviewed the hagiography of the old oil paintings, all varnished, all stained by large empty spaces of direct light which effaced the principal details of the pictures but which, by the same token, contributed an opaque relief to the corners with yellow tones and reddish shadows. He ran his fingers over the damask and inhaled the filtered smoke. The servant approached soundlessly and asked if there was anything he wanted. He nodded and asked for a martini, very dry. The servant opened two carved-cedar doors, revealing the built-in, mirrored bar filled with colored labels and bottled liquids, emerald-green opal, red, crystal-clear-Chartreuse, peppermint, aquavit, vermouth, Calvados, Armagnac, vodka, Pernod, Courvoisier, Long John-and the rows of crystal glasses, some thick and squat, others thin and tinkling. He signaled to the servant to go to the cellar and bring up the three wines for dinner. He stretched his legs and thought of the pains he had taken in the construction and comforts of this, his real home. Catalina could live in the mansion in Las Lomas, devoid of personality, identical to the residences of all other millionaires. He preferred these old walls with their two centuries of quarried stone and red tezontle, which in a mysterious way brought him closer to events of the past, to an image of the country he did not want to lose completely. Yes, he fully realized that it was nothing but a simulacrum, a wave of the magic wand. Yet the woods, the stone, the wrought iron, the moldings, the refectory tables, the cabinetwork, the cross-pieces in the doors, the panels, the fabric on the chairs-all of it-returned to him, with just a slight hint of nostalgia, the scenes, the very air, the tactile sensations of his youth.

Lilia whined; but Lilia would never understand. What could a ceiling of antique beams say to such a girl? What could a barred window opaque with rust say to her? What could the sumptuous feel of the chasuble over the fireplace, covered with gold scales and embroidered with silk thread, say to her? What could the aroma of the ayacahuite chests say to her? The washed shine of the kitchen with its Puebla tiles, the archbishop's chairs in the dining room…? The mere possession of these things was as rich, as sensual, as sumptuous as that of money and the obvious signs of plenitude. Oh yes, what total pleasure, what absolutely personal pleasure…Only once a year did his guests participate in all this, in his celebrated New Year's Eve party, the feast of St. Sylvester…A day of multiplied pleasures, because his guests had to accept this as his real home and think of the solitary Catalina, who, at about this time, would be having dinner in the house in Las Lomas accompanied by Teresa and Gerardo…He, on the other hand, would introduce Lilia and open the doors to a blue dining room, with blue china, blue linen, blue walls…where the wines flow and the platters are brought in piled high with rare meats, rosy fish, savory shellfish, secret herbs, specially made sweets…

Why did this moment of rest have to be interrupted? The indolent clumping of Lilia's feet on the floor. Her unpainted nails on the door to the hall. Her face slathered with cold cream. She wanted to know if her pink dress was all right for this evening. She didn't want to be out of place again, as she was last year, and arouse his scornful rage. Oh-ho, already having a little drink, eh? Why didn't he ask her if she wanted one? His distrust was starting to annoy her, with the liquor locked away and that bossy butler who wouldn't let her into the wine cellar. Was she bored? As if he didn't know it. She wished she were old, ugly, so that he'd kick her out once and for all and let her live as she pleased. She can leave whenever she wants? And live on what? Without luxury, without the mansion? Lots of money here, lots of luxury, but no happiness, no fun, not even the right to have a little drink. Of course she loves him. She's told him a thousand times. Women put up with anything; it all depends on how much tenderness they get in return. A woman can get used to a young man or an old one. Of course she's nice to him; what a thing to ask…It'll be eight years they've been living together, and he's never made a scene, never chewed her out…He just made her…But another little fling would do her the world of good!…What? Could anyone think she was that dumb?…All right, all right, he never knew how to take a joke. Sure, but he realizes how things are…No one lasts forever…Crow's feet around his eyes…Their bodies…Except that he was also used to having her around, wasn't that right? At his age, it's hard to start over. No matter how many millions…It's work, and you can waste a lot of time hunting down a woman…The bitches…know so many tricks, they like to take things slow…prolong the first stages…say no, have doubts, the waiting, the temptation, oh, all that stuff!…And make fools of the old men…Of course she's more comfortable…And she doesn't complain, no, not a chance. He's even flattered that people come to pay their respects every New Year's Eve…And she loves him, yes, she swears, she's too used to him…But how bored she gets!…Let's see, what's the big deal about having a few close friends-women? What's the big deal about going out once in a while to have fun, to…have to drink somewhere, once a week…?

He never moved. He never gave her the right to annoy him, and yet…a warm, indolent lassitude…completely alien to his character…made him stay there…holding the martini in his hardened fingers…listening to the nonsense spouted out by this woman who grew more vulgar every day and less, less…No, she was still desirable…even if he couldn't stand her…How was he going to keep her in control?…Everything he controlled used to obey him, but now, after a certain inert prolongation…of the strength of his youth…Lilia would leave him…It weighed on his heart…He couldn't dispel that…that fear…There might not be another chance for him…being left alone…He laboriously moved his fingers, his forearm, his elbow, and the ashtray fell on the rug and spilled the damp yellow butts at one end, a layer of white dust, gray outside, black inside. He bent down, breathing hard.

"Don't bend down. I'll just call Serafín."

"Yes."

Perhaps…Tedium. But disgust, repulsion…Always, imagining, hand in hand with doubt…An involuntary tenderness made him turn to look at her…

She was watching him from the door…Spiteful, sweet…Her hair bleached ash-blond, and that dark skin…She, too, could not go back…She'd never get him back, and that made them equal…no matter how age or personality separated them…Make a scene, why?…He felt tired. Nothing else…No more things, no more memories, no more names than those he already knew…He again caressed the damask…The butts, the spilled ash did not have a good smell. And Lilia, standing there with her greasy face.

She at the threshold. He sitting in his damask armchair.

Then she sighed and sauntered to the bedroom, and he waited, sitting, not thinking about anything until the darkness surprised him by showing him his reflection so clearly in the glass doors that led to the garden. The boy came in with his tuxedo jacket, a handkerchief, and a bottle of cologne. Standing up, the old man allowed the servant to help him into the jacket and then unfolded the handkerchief so he could sprinkle a few drops of scent on it. When he put the handkerchief into his breast pocket, he exchanged glances with the servant. The boy lowered his eyes. No. Why should he bother to worry what this man might feel?

"Serafín, get rid of these butts right away…"

He straightened up, leaning both hands on the arms of the chair. He took a few steps toward the fireplace, caressed the wrought-iron poker from Toledo, and felt the breath of the fire on his face and hands. He stepped forward when he heard the first whispering voices-delighted, admiring-in the entryway. Serafín had just finished cleaning up the mess.

He ordered the boy to stoke up the fire. The Régules walked in just as the boy shifted the logs with the poker and a huge flame shot up. Through the door that led to the dining room came another servant, carrying a tray. Roberto Régules took his drink while the young couple-Betina and her husband, the Ceballos boy-toured the room hand in hand, in ecstasy over the old paintings, the stucco moldings, the carved beams, the polychromed corbels. His back was to the door when the glass smashed on the floor with the tinkle of a broken bell, and Lilia's voice shrieked something in mocking tones. The old man and the guests saw the unmadeup face of the woman, who peeked in, holding on to the door handle: "Haaaapy Neeew Yeear! Don't worry, honey, I'll be okay in an hour…and then I'll come down…I just wanted to tell you that I'm gonna take it easy next year…real easy!"

He walked toward her with his shuffling, laborious gait, and she shouted, "I'm bored watching TV all day…honey!"

With each step he took, Lilia's voice rose higher and higher. "I know all the cowboy shows by heart…bang-bang…the Arizona marshal…the Indian camp…bang-bang…I'm starting to hear those squeaky voices in my dreams…honey…just drink Pepsi…that's all…honey…security and comfort; insurance policy…"

His arthritic hand slapped her face devoid of makeup, and her bleached curls fell over her eyes. She stopped breathing. She turned around and slowly went away, rubbing her cheek. He went back to the Régules and Jaime Ceballos. He stared fixedly at each one for a few seconds with his head held high. Régules took a sip of whiskey so he could hide his face in the glass. Betina smiled and walked toward her host with a cigarette in her hand, as if asking for a light.

"Where did you ever find that huge chest?"

The old man stood aside, and Serafín lit a match close to the girl's face, forcing her to move her head away from the old man, turning her back on him. At the end of the corridor, behind Lilia, were the musicians, wrapped in scarves and shivering with cold. Jaime Ceballos snapped his fingers and spun on his heels, like a flamenco dancer.

On the table whose legs ended in dolphins, and under the bronze candelabra: partridges soaking in a bacon-and-sour-wine sauce, hake wrapped in leaves of tarragon mustard, wild duck in orange glaze, carp surrounded by roe, Catalonian bullinada thick with the smell of olives, coqauvin flambé in Macon, pigeons stuffed with pureed artichoke, platters of fresh eel resting on mounds of ice, brochettes of pink lobster in a spiral of lemon skin, mushrooms and slices of tomato, Bayonne ham, boeuf bourguignon sprinkled with Armagnac, goose necks stuffed with pork-liver paté chestnut puree and fired apple skins with walnuts, onion and orange sauces, garlic and pistachio-nut sauces, almond and snail sauces. An inaccessible point glowed in the old man's eyes as he opened a door carved with cornucopias and fat-buttocked putti polychromed long ago in a Querétaro convent. He opened the doors wide and emitted a dry, hoarse laugh each time a butler offered a Dresden plate to one of the one hundred guests, who then joined in the percussion of knives and forks against the blue china, the crystal goblets stretched toward the bottles held out by the servants. And he gave the order to draw open the curtains blocking the glass doors to the garden, where bare cherry trees and clean statues of monastic stone cast their shadows: lions, angels, monks, having emigrated from the palaces and convents of the Viceroyalty. The fireworks exploded: huge illusory castles shot into the heart of the winter sky, so clear and so far away; the white and sparkling introduction mixed with the red flight of a fan in which was woven a streak of yellows; fountain of the open scars of the night, festive monarchs flashing their golden medallions on the black backcloth of the night. Behind his closed lips, he laughed that grunted laugh. The empty platters were refilled with more fowl, more seafood, more rare meats. Naked arms circulated around the old man heavily seated in a niche among the old choir chairs, inlaid, carved exuberantly with fantastic crests and baguettes. He sniffed the perfumes, he peered at the overflowing decolletés of the women, the shaved secret of their armpits, their earlobes weighed with jewels, their white necks, and their slim waists where the swirl of taffeta, silk, and gold net began its flight; he breathed in that smell of after-shave lotion and cigarette smoke, lipstick and mascara, feminine slippers and spilled cognac, of labored digestion and nail polish. He raised his glass and stood up; the servant handed him the leashes of the dogs, who would accompany him for the rest of the evening. The shouting of the New Year burst forth: glasses smashed on the floor and arms hugged, squeezed, rose up to celebrate this feast of time, this funeral, this pyre of memory, this fermented resurrection of all facts, while the orchestra played a traditional New Year's Eve tune, "The Swallows," the resurrection of all the facts, words, and things that died in this cycle, to celebrate the preservation of these one hundred lives who held back their questions, men and women, in order to say to each other, at times with tear-filled eyes, that there will never be a time like this one, the one lived and prolonged during these instants artificially extended by the bursting of skyrockets and bells hurled into the sky. Lilia threw her arms around him as if asking forgiveness. He knew, perhaps, that many things, many small desires, had to be repressed so that a single moment of plenitude could be completely enjoyed, without any prior expense, and that she would thank him for it: he said it in a whisper. When the violins in the ballroom began to play "The Poor People of Paris" again, she, making a face he knew only too well, took him by the arm. But he refused with a shake of his head and walked, preceded by his dogs, to the armchair he would occupy for the rest of the evening, facing the couples…He would amuse himself watching those faces-false, sweet, cunning, malicious, idiotic, intelligent-thinking about luck, the luck they all had, they and he…faces, bodies, the dances of free beings, like him…They vouch for him, they assure him as they move lightly over the waxed floor under the glittering chandelier…freeing, blotting them out, his memories…The perversely force him to enjoy this identity even more…liberty and power…He wasn't alone…these dancers accompanied him…That's what the warmth in his stomach told him, the satisfaction in his guts…black, carnivalesque escort of powerful old age, of the gray-haired presence, arthritic, laborious…echo of the persistent, hoarse smile reflected in the movement of those little green eyes…recent coats of arms, like his own…some even newer…spinning, spinning…he knows them…industrialists…businessmen…thieves…society boys…speculators…government ministers…deputies…news papermen…husbands…fiancées…go-betweens…lovers… The cut-off words of those who danced by him swirled in the air…

"Yes…We'll go after…But what about my father…I love you…Free?…That's what they told me…We've got plenty of time…So…like that…I'd like to…Where?…Tell me…I'll never go back…Did you really like it?…Hard to tell…That's finished…cute…divine…lost everything…got what he deserved…Hmmm…

Hmmm!…He knew to tell from their eyes, from they way they moved their lips, their shoulders…He could tell them what they were thinking…He could tell them who they were…He could remind them what their real names were…fraudulent bankruptcies…leaks about currency devaluations…price speculations…bank speculations…new latifundia…editorials at so much a line…inflated contracts for public works projects…a political hanger-on…spent every cent his father left him…thievery in state ministries…false names: Arturo Capdevila, Juan Felipe Couto, Sebastián Ibargüen, Vicente Castañeda, Pedro Caseaux, Jenaro, Arriaga, Jaime Ceballos, Pepito Ibargüen, Roberto Régules…And the violins played and the skirts flew and so did the tuxedo jackets…They won't talk about all that…They'll talk about trips and affairs, houses and cars, vacations and parties, jewels and servants, sicknesses and priests…But they're all there, in the court…before the most powerful…make them or break them with a line in the newspaper…force Lilia on them…with a little whisper make them dance, eat, drink…feel them when they come close…

"I had to bring him, just so he could see that painting of the Archangel, that one, divine…"

"It's what I've always said: only someone with Don Artemio's taste…"

"But how can we ever return the favor?"

"How right you are never to accept invitations."

"Everything was just so glorious that I'm speechless; speechless, speechless, Don Artemio; what wines! And that duck with the glorious things on it!"

…Turn your face and pay no attention…All he needed were the whispers…He didn't want to make it too clear…His senses reveled in the pure murmuring around him…touches, smells, tastes, images…Let them call him in giggles and whispers, the Mummy of Coyoacán…Let them make fun of Lilia with secret smiles…There they were, dancing before him…

He raises his arm: a signal to the orchestra leader. The music breaks off in mid-song, and everyone stops dancing. The strings take up an Oriental melody, a path opens in the crowd, a half-naked woman makes her way from the door, waving her arms and grinding her hips, until she occupies the center of the floor. A happy shout. The dancer writhes with a drum-like rhythm in her waist, her body smeared with oil, orange lips, white eyelids, and blue brows. On foot, dancing around a circle, moving her stomach in ever more rapid spasms, she picks out old man Ibargüen and drags him by the arm to the center of the floor. She sits him on the ground, arranges his arms so he looks like the god Vishnu, prances around him while he tries to copy her gyrations. Everyone smiles. Now she goes over to Capdevila, forces him to take off his jacket, to dance around Ibargüen. The host laughs, slumped down in his damask armchair, fingering his dogs' leashes. The dancer climbs on Couto's shoulders and urges other woman to imitate her. Everyone laughs. The guffawing horses wreck their riders' coiffures, and the ladies' faces flush with perspiration. Their skirts wrinkle and slip up above their kness. Some of the young men try to trip the apoplectic chargers who battle around the two old dancers and the woman with her legs spread.

He raised his eyes, as if coming back to the surface after being carried to the bottom by lead weights. Above the disarranged hairdos and the waving arms, the clear sky of beams and white walls, the seventeenth-century canvases, the angelic carvings…And to an attuned ear, the hidden scurry of immense rats-back fangs, pointed snouts-that inhabit the eaves and foundations of this ancient convent that once belonged to the Order of St. Jerome. Occasionally, they would scuttle immodestly in the corners of the hall, waiting by the thousands in the darkness above and below the happy revelers…waiting, perhaps, for the chance to take them all by surprise…infect them with fever and headaches…vertigo and cold tremors…hard and painful swellings in their thighs and armpits…black patches on their skin…vomiting blood…If he were to raise his arm again…so the servants would seal the doors with steel bolts…close up the exits from this house filled with amphorae and cylinders…beveled panels…canopied beds…iron keys…inlays and chairs…doors of double-thick metal…statues of monks and lions…And the whole crowd of them would have to stay here in quarantine…never leave the nave…douse themselves with vinegar…make bonfires of aromatic wood…hang rosaries of thyme on their bodies…indolently shoo away the green buzzing flies…while he ordered them to dance, live, drink…He looked for Lilia in the rolling sea of bodies. She was drinking alone, silently, in a corner, with an innocent smile on her lips, her back turned toward the dancing and the mock-jousts…Some men were going out to relieve themselves…their hands already on their flies…Some women were on their way to powder their noses…already opening their evening bags…He smiled in his hard way…the only reaction this display of joy and munificence provoked: he cackled in silence…He imagined them…all of them, each one, in a row, standing before the toilet bowls in the floor below…all urinating, with their bladders swollen with splendid liquids…all shitting out the remains of the food prepared over two days with care, taste, selection…all of it alien to this final destiny of the ducks and lobsters, the purees and the sauces…ah yes, the greatest pleasure of the entire evening…

Soon they were all tired out. The dancer finished her dance and found herself surrounded by indifference. People went back to their conversations, drank more champagne, sat down in the deep couches. Those who had excused themselves were returning, zipping flies, putting compacts back into evening bags. It was running its course. The minor, foreseeable orgy…the punctual, programmed exaltation…The voices went back to their soft singsong…to the classic dissimulation of the Mexican central plateau…Those old worries were coming back…as if to take revenge for the moment that had passed, the fleeting instant…

"…no, because cortisone makes me break out…"

"…you have no idea of the spiritual exercises Father Martínez is conducting…"

"…just take a look at her: who'd have ever said it; they say they were…"

"…I had to fire her…"

"…by the time Luis gets home, all he wants to do is…"

"…don't, Jaime, he doesn't like it…"

"…she got up on her high horse…"

"…watch a little TV…"

"…who can put up with the kind of maids you get today…"

"…lovers for over twenty years…"

"…how could anyone get the idea of giving that bunch of Indians the vote?"

"…and his wife all alone in her house; she never…"

"…it's serious policy matter; we've received the…"

"…I hope the PRI goes right on choosing people…"

"…that's what the President always says in the chamber…"

"…me, I sure would take a chance…"

"…Laura; I think her name's Laura…"

"only a few of us do any real work…"

"…if I hear another word about that income-tax crap…"

"…for thirty million lazy pigs…"

"…I'll move all my savings to Switzerland…"

"…Commies only understand one thing…"

"…don't do it, Jaime, no one's supposed to bother him…"

"…it's going to be the most incredible deal…"

"…being beaten over the head…"

"…just invest a hundred million…"

"…a divine Dalí…"

"…and get it all back in a couple of years…"

"…the people from my gallery sent it…"

"…or less…"

"…from New York…"

"…for a long time she lived in France; disappointments…is what they say…"

"…just us girls are going to get together…"

"…Paris, the city of light, par excellence…"

"…and have a good time…"

"…if you like, we can go to Acapulco tomorrow…"

"…laughing all the way to the bank; the wheels of Swiss industry…"

"…the American ambassador called to warn me…"

"…turn because of those ten billion dollars…"

"…Laura; Laura Rivière; she married again over there…"

"…in the company plane…"

"…we Latin Americans have on deposit there…"

"…no country is safe from subversion…"

"…of course, I read it in Excélsior…"

"…I'll tell you: a great dancer…"

"…Rome, the eternal city, par excellence…"

"…but he's now worth a penny…"

"…I made my money the old-fashioned way…"

"…oh, but, darling, it's like the Eucharist dipped in egg…"

"…you tell me why I should pay taxes to a government full of crooks…"

"…they call him the Mummy, the Mummy of Coyoacán…"

"…Darling, a sensational dressmaker…"

"…subsidies for agriculture?…"

"…I'm telling you: he always falls apart when he putts…"

"…poor Catalina…"

"…Yeah? And who's controlling the droughts and the frosts?…"

"…no way around it: without American investments…"

"…they say she was the great love of his life, but…"

"…Madrid, divine; Seville, just lovely…"

"…we'll never get out of this rut…"

"…you know what they say, there's only one Mexico…"

"…turns out it wasn't worth the trouble, understand?…"

"…the lady of the house; if it weren't…"

"…I get back forty-five centavos of every peso…"

"…they give us their money and their know-how…"

"…even before making the loan…"

"…and we still complain…"

"…it was twenty-some years ago…"

"…sure: bosses, venal leaders, whatever you want…"

"…he did everything in white and gold, you'll just die!…"

"…but the good politician doesn't try to reform reality…"

"…why, yes, I have the honor to be the President's friend…"

"…instead, we should take advantage of it, work with it…"

"…from the deals he's got with Juan Felipe, for sure…"

"he's got tons of charities, but he never talks about them…"

"…I just said to him: The pleasure is all mine…"

"…we all owe each other favors, am I right or am I wrong?"

"…what she would give to leave him!…"

"…if it were me, I'd be out of there, poor Catalina!…"

"…he talked them down, but it couldn't have been less than ten thousand dollars…"

"…Laura; I think her name's Laura; I think she was very beautiful…"

"…but what do you want, for heaven's sake, women are weak…"

The tides of dancing and talk brought them close and carried them away. But now this young man with an open smile and light hair hunkered down next to the old man, balancing a champagne glass in one hand, his other hand on the arm of the chair…The young man asked if he would rather he kept his distance, and the old man said, "You've done nothing else all night, Mr. Ceballos…" He didn't look at the young man…but kept his eyes fixed on the center of the uproar…an unwritten law…the guests were not to come too close, except to praise the house and the dinner, quickly…respect his inviolate territory…thank him for his hospitality and entertainment…the stage and the seat in the audience…Obviously, young Ceballos did not realize…"You know? I admire you…" He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes…He lit one slowly…without looking at the young man…who said that only a king could look at people with that kind of disdain, the disdain with which he was looking at them when…And he asked if this was the first time he'd ever come to…And the young man said yes…"Didn't your father-in-law…?" "Of course…" "Well, then…" "Those rules were made without consulting me, Don Artemio…" He gave in…With languid eyes…spirals of smoke…he turned to face Jaime, and the Young man stared back without blinking…mischief in his eyes…the interplay of lips and jawbone…the old man's…the young man's…he recognized himself, ah…he disconcerted him, ah…"What, Mr. Ceballos, what did you sacrifice?"…I don't understand'he didn't understand, he said he didn't understand'he exhaled a smile through his nostrils…"The wound we suffer when we betray ourselves, my friend…Who do you think you're talking to? Do you really think I'm fooling myself…?" Jaime held out the ashtray…Ah, they crossed the river that morning on horseback…"for some kind of justification…?" he observed without being observed…"Your father-in-law and other people you deal with must have…" They crossed the river, that morning…"That our wealth is justified, that we've worked hard to earn it…our reward, isn't that right?…" She asked if they would go together to the sea…"Do you know why I'm on top of all these little people…why I control them?…" Jaime held out the ashtray; he made a gesture with his cigarette butt…he came out of the ford with his chest bare…"Ah, you came over to me, I didn't call you…" Jaime narrowed his eyes and drank from his glass…"Are you losing your illusions?"…She repeated, "My God, I don't deserve this," raising the mirror, wondering if that is what he'd seen when he came back…Poor Catalina…"Because I'm not fooling myself…" on the other bank, they could make out the ghost of land, right, the ghost…"How do you like this party?"…vacilón, qué rico vacilón, cha cha cha…The air smelled of banana. Cocuya…"It doesn't matter to me…" he dug his spurs into his horse's flanks; faced him and smiled…"…my paintings, my wines, my comforts, which I control the same way I control all of you…" "Do you think…?"…you remembered your youth because of him and because of these places…"Power is its own reward, that's all I know, and to get power you have to be able to do anything…" but you didn't want to tell him how much it meant to you, you might have strained his affection…"exactly the way your father-in-law and I did it, the way everybody dancing here did it…" that morning I waited for him with pleasure…"the same way you'll have to do it-if that's what you want…" To work with you, Don Artemio, you might perhaps find a place for me in one of your businesses…the boy's raised hand pointed east, to where the sun rises, toward the lake…"Usually these matters are arranged in a different way…" the horses trotted slowly, parting the tangled grass, shaking their manes, raising a scattered foam…"your father-in-law would call and insinuate that his son-in-law is…" they looked each other in the eye and smiled…But, you see, I have other ideals…to the ocean, to the open sea, and Lorenzo ran, agile, toward the waves that broke around his waist…He accepted things as they are; he became a realist…"Yes, exactly right. Just like you, Don Artemio…" he asked if he'd ever thought about the other side of the ocean; all land is the same, only the sea is different…Just like me!…He told him there were islands…did he fight in the Revolution, did he risk his hide, was he an inch away from being shot?…the sea tasted like bitter beer, smelled like melon, quince, strawberry…What?…No…I…A ship leaves in ten days. I've booked passage…My friend, you just got here and the party's over. Hurry and pick up the crumbs…Wouldn't you do the same thing, Papa…on top of forty years because we were baptized in the glory of the Revolution…Yes…but what about you? Do you think all that can be inherited? How are they going to make it last…? Now there is that front. I think it's the only one left…yes…our power?…I'm leaving…You all showed us how…"Bah! I'm telling you, you've come too late"…I waited for him with pleasure that morning…Others might try to fool me; I've never fooled myself; that's why I'm here…they crossed the river on horseback…hurry up…fill your belly…because it's all disappearing…he asked if they would go to the sea together…What does it matter to me…the sea watched over by the low flight of the sea gulls…I'll die, and it'll make me laugh…the sea that only pokes its tired tongue out on the beach…and it will make me laugh to think…toward the waves that broke around his waist…I keep a world alive for which there are no measures…the old man brought his head close to Ceballos's ear…the sea that tastes of bitter beer…"Shall I confess something to you"…the sea that smells like melon and guava…his finger made a dry ping on the young man's glass…the fishermen dragging their nets toward the sand…"Real power is always born out of revolt…" Do I believe? I don't know. You brought me here, showed me all these things…And you…all of you…With his ten fingers outstretched, under the overcast sky, facing the open sea…and all of you…no longer have what it takes…

Again, he looked toward the dance floor.

"So," whispered Jaime, "may I come to see you…one of these days?"

"Speak to Padilla. Good night."

The clock in the ballroom struck three times. The old man sighed and snapped the leashes of the sleeping dogs, who instantly pricked up their ears and stood at the same time as he, bracing himself first on the arms of his chair, rose heavily and the music stopped.

He crossed the dance floor amid his guests' expressions of gratitude and the heads turned aside. Lilia made her way toward him: "Excuse me…" and she grasped his rigid arm. He with his head held high (Laura, Laura); she with averted eyes, curious. They wended their way along the path opened by the guests, the sumptuous crystalware, the opulent marquetry, the stucco-and-gold moldings, the colonial breakfronts inlaid with bone and tortoiseshell, the metal plates and knockers, the paneled coffers with iron keyholes, the aromatic benches of ayacahuite wood, the church choir seats, the baroque crownwork and drapery, the bowed backrests, the carved crossbeams, the polychromed corbels, the bronze studs, the embossed leather, the cabriole feet with their claw and ball, the chasubles sewn with silver thread, the damask armchairs, the velvet couches, the cylinders and amphorae, the beveled game tables, the merino-wool carpets, the four-paneled canvases, under the crystal chandeliers, the burnished beams, until they reached the first step of the staircase. Then he caressed Lilia's hand, and the woman helped him, taking him by the elbow, bending, the better to assist him.

She smiled. "You didn't get too tired now, did you?"

He shook his head and again caressed her hand.

I wake up…again…but this time…yes…in this car, in this coach…no…I don't know…it runs without any noise…it must be that I'm not fully conscious…no matter how wide I open my eyes, I can't make out…the objects, people…white, luminous ovals spinning around in front of my eyes…a wall of milk separates me from the world…and the things we touch and the voices of other people…I'm apart…I'm dying…I'm parting…no, an attack, an old man my age can have an attack…not death, not separation…I don't want to say it…I want to ask it…but I'm saying it…if I tried…yes…now I heard the superimposed noises of the siren…it's the ambulance…of the siren and my own throat…my tight and closed throat…my saliva drips through it…toward a bottomless pit…parting…a will?…ah, don't worry…there's a paper all signed, sealed, witnessed before a notary…I didn't forget anyone…why would I forget any of you, forgive any of you…?…isn't it delightful for you to think that right down to the last minute I thought about you to have my little joke?…ah, what a laugh, ah, what a joke…no…I remember you with the indifference of a cold transaction…I dole out this wealth they'll say came from my hard work…my tenacity…my sense of responsibility…my personal abilities…do it…calm down…just forget that I earned that wealth, that I risked it, that I earned it…now I give it all in exchange for nothing…isn't that right?…what do you call giving everything in exchange for everything?…call it whatever you like…they came back, they didn't give up…right, when I think about it, I smile…I mock myself, I mock all you…I mock my life…haven't I earned the right?…isn't this the appropriate, the only time to do it?…I couldn't mock myself while I was alive…now I can…my right…I'll leave you my testament…I'll bequeath you those dead names…Regina…Tobias…Páez…Gonzalo…Zagal…Laura, Laura…Lorenzo…so you won't forget me…separated…I can think it and ask myself…without knowing it…because these last ideas…I know it, too…I think, dissimulate…run out of my control, ah, yes…as if my brain, my brain…asks…the answer comes to me before the question…probably…they're the same thing…living is another separation…with that mulatto, next to the shack and the river…with Catalina, if we had ever spoken…in that jail, that morning…don't cross the sea, there are no islands, i t ' s n o t t r u e, I t r i c k e d y o u… f r o m t h e teacher…Esteban?…Sebastián?…I don't remember…he taught me so many things…I don't remember…I left him and went north…ah, yes…yes…yes…yes, life would have been different…but only that…different…not the life of this dying man…no, not dying…I'm telling you no no no…an attack…an old man, an attack…convalescence, that's it…another life…the life of another man…different…but also apart…oh, what a trick…neither life nor death…oh, what a trick…on the man's land…hidden life…hidden death…a fixed period of time…no meaning…my God…ah, that might be the last piece of business…who's putting his hands on my shoulders?…believe in God…yes, a good investment, why not…who's making me lie back, as if I wanted to get up out of here?…is there any other possibility to believe that we go on being even when we don't believe in it?…God God God…all you have to do is repeat a word a thousand times for it to lose its meaning, be nothing more than a string…of empty…syllables…God God…how dry my lips are…God God…illuminate those who are left…make them think of me once…in a while…make my memory…last…I think…but I don't see them clearly…I don't see them…men and women mourning…that black egg of my sight…cracks and I see…that they go on living…they go back to their jobs…idleness…intrigues…without remembering…the poor dear man…who hears the shovels digging the moist…earth…on h i s f a c e… t h e s i n u o u s advance…sinuous…sinuous…sinuous…yes…sensual…of those worms…my throat…drips into me like a sea…a lost voice that…wants to revive…revive…go on living…get on with life where it was cut off by the other…death…no…start over from the beginning…revive…choose again…revive…choose again…no…how icy my temples feel…what blue…nails…what a swollen…stomach…what nausea…from shit…don't die senselessly…no no…ah, bitches…impotent bitches…who have had every object money can buy…and a head full…of mediocrity…if at least…you had understood what those objects…were good for…how to use…these…things…but not even that…while I had it all…do you hear me?…everything…money can buy and…everything it can't buy…I had Regina…do you hear me?…I loved Regina…her name was Regina…and she loved me…loved me without money…followed me…gave me life…down below…Regina, Regina…how I love you…how I love you today…without having to have you near me…how you fill my chest with this warm…satisfaction…how…you flood me…with your old, forgotten…perfume, Regina…I remembered you…see?…look carefully…I remembered you before…I could remember you…just as you are…as you love me…as I loved you in the world…that no one can take away from us…Regina, the world…that I carry with me and save…protecting it with my two hands…as…if it were a fire…a small, living fire…that you gave to me…you gave to me…you gave to me…I may have taken…but I gave to you…oh black eyes, oh dark, aromatic skin, oh black lips, oh dark love I cannot touch, name, repeat: oh your hands, Regina…your hands on my neck and…the oblivion of finding you…the oblivion…of all that existed…outside you and me…oh Regina…without thinking…without speaking…existing in the dark thighs…of timeless abundance…oh my unrepeatable pride…the pride of having loved you…the unanswered challenge…what can the world tell us…Regina…what could it add to that…what logic could speak…to the madness…of our love?…what?…dove, carnation, convolvulus, foam, clover, key, chest, star, ghost, flesh: how shall I name you…love…how shall I bring you close to…my breath…how shall I beg you…to give yourself…how shall I caress…your cheeks…how shall I kiss…yours ears…how shall I breathe you in…between your legs…how shall I say…your eyes…how shall I touch…your taste…how shall I abandon…the solitude…of myself…to lose myself in…the solitude…of ourselves…how shall I repeat…that I love you…how shall I exile…your memory so I can wait for your return?…Regina Regina…that stabbing pain is coming back, Regina, I'm waking up…from that half sleep the sedative induced…I'm waking up…with the pain…in the center…of my guts, Regina, give me your hand, don't abandon me, I don't want to wake up and not find you next to me, my love, Laura, my adored wife, my saving memory, my percale skirt, Regina, it hurts, my unrepeatable tenderness, my turned-up little nose, it hurts, Regina, I realize it hurts: Regina, come, so I can survive again; Regina, exchange your life for mine again; Regina, die again so I can live; Regina. Soldier. Regina. Embrace me, both of you. Lorenzo. Lilia. Laura. Catalina. Embrace me, all of you. No. What ice I feel in my temples…Brain, don't die…reason…I want to find it…I want…I want…land…nation…I loved you…I wanted to go back…reason of unreason…contemplate from a very high place the life I've lived and then see nothing…and if I don't see anything…what reason to die…why die…why die suffering…why not go on living…the dead life…why pass…from the living nothingness to the dead nothingness…it runs out…it runs out panting…the screech of the siren…pack of dogs…the ambulance stops…tired…couldn't be more tired…land…the light enters my eyes…another voice…

"Dr. Sabines is operating."

Reason? Reason?

The stretcher slides out of the ambulance. Reason? Who goes there? Who goes there?

You couldn't be more tired, couldn't possibly be more tired; it's because you've traveled so far, on horseback, on foot, in the old trains, and the country just never ends. Will you remember the country? You will remember it, but it isn't only one country. It's a thousand countries with a single name. You will know that. You will bring with you the red deserts, the steppes of prickly pears and maguey, the world of the nopal, the belt of lava and frozen craters, the walls with golden church cupolas and stone battlements, the cities of stone and mortar, the cities of red tezontle, the towns of adobe, the villages of reed huts, the paths of black mud, the roads of drought, the lips of the sea, the thick, forgotten coasts, the sweet valleys of wheat and corn, the northern pastureland, the lakes of the Bajío region, the tall, slender forests, the branches laden with moss, the white peaks, the black plains, the ports with their malaria and their whorehouses, the calcareous husk of the henequen, the lost, rushing rivers, the gold and silver tunnels, the Indians without a common tongue, Cora tongue, Yaqui tongue, Huichol tongue, Pima tongue, Seri tongue, Chontal tongue, Tepehuana tongue. Huastec tongue, Totonac tongue, Nahua tongue, Maya tongue, the flute and the drum, the contredanse, the guitar and the harp, the feathers, the fine bones of Michoacán, the diminutive flesh of Tlaxcala, the light eyes of Sinaloa, the white teeth of Chiapas, the short-sleeved huipil blouses, the bow-shaped combs, the Mixtec tresses, wide tzotzil belts, Santa María shawls, Pueblo marquetry, Jalisco glass, Oaxaca jade, the ruins of the serpent, the ruins of the black head, the ruins of the great nose, the tabernacles and the retables, the colors and reliefs, the pagan cult of Tonantzintla and Tlacochaguaya, the old names of Teotihuacán and Papantla, Tula and Uxmal: you carry them with you and they weigh you down, they are very heavy stones for one man to carry: they don't budge and you have them slung around your neck: they weigh you down and they've gotten into your guts…they are your bacteria, your parasites, your amoebas…

Your land

You will think that there is a second discovery of the land in the hustle and bustle of war, a first footstep over the mountains and canyons that are like a challenging fist in the face of the desperate, slow advance of roads, dams, rails, and telegraph posts. This nature which refuses to be shared or ruled, which wants to go on being in its sharp solitude and gives men for their pleasure only a few valleys, a few rivers-she goes on being the sullen owner of smooth and unreachable peaks, of the flat desert, of the jungles and the abandoned coast. And men, fascinated by that haughty power, stand there with their eyes fixed on her power. If inhospitable nature turns her back on men, men turn their back on the wide, forgotten sea, rotting in its hot fecundity, boiling with lost riches.

You will inherit the land.

You will never again see those faces you saw in Sonora and Chihuahua, faces you saw sleepy one day, hanging on for dear life, and the next furious, hurling themselves into that struggle devoid of reason or palliatives, into that embrace of men which is broken by other men, into that declaration, here I am and I exist with you and with you and with you, too, with all hands and all veiled faces: love, strange, common love that wears itself out on itself. You will say it to yourself, because you lived through it and you didn't understand it as you lived it. Only in dying will you accept it and openly say that, even without understanding it, you feared it each of your days of power. You will fear that the amorous impulse will burst again. Now you will die and will not fear it any longer, because you will not see it. But you will tell the others to fear it: fear the false calm you bequeath them, fear the fictitious concord, the magical patter, the sanctioned greed, fear this injustice that doesn't even know what it is.

They will accept your testament: the respectability you won for them, the respectability. They will give thanks to the lowlife Artemio Cruz because he made them respectable. They will thank him because he did not resign himself to living and dying in a Negro shack. They will thank him because he went forth to risk his life. They will vindicate you because they will no longer have your vindication; they will no longer be able to invoke the battles and the chiefs, as you did, and shield themselves with those battles and leaders to justify plunder in the name of the Revolution and their own glory in the name of the glory of the Revolution. You will think and be astounded: What justification will they find? What obstacle will they overcome? They will not think of it, they will reap the benefits of what you leave them for as long as they can; they will live happily, will put on grieving and grateful faces-in public, you will not ask more of them-while you wait, six feet of dirt on your body; you wait until you feel the rush of feet over your dead face and then you will say:

"They came back. They did not give up."

And you will smile. You will mock them, mock yourself. It's your privilege. Nostalgia will tempt you: that would be the way to beautify the past; you will not do it.

You will bequeath the useless deaths, the dead names, the names of all those who fell, dead, so that your name might live; the names of the men stripped so that your name would have possessions; the names of the men forgotten so that your name would never be forgotten.

You will bequeath this country. You will bequeath your newspaper, the nudges and adulation, the people's awareness lulled by the false speeches of mediocre men. You will bequeath mortgages, you will bequeath a class without class, a power without greatness, a consecrated stupidity, a dwarfed ambition, a clownish commitment, a rotten rhetoric, an institutional cowardice, a clumsy egoism.

You will bequeath them their thieving leaders, their submissive unions, their new latifundia, their U.S. investments, their jailed workers, their monopolizers and their great press, their field hands, their hit men and secret agents, their foreign bank accounts, their slick speculators, their servile congressmen, their adulatory ministers, their elegant subdivisions, their birthdays and commemorations, their fleas and wormy tortillas, their illiterate Indians, their fired laborers, their despoiled mountains, their fat men armed with scuba gear and stocks, their thin men armed with fingernails. Take your Mexico: take your inheritance.

You will inherit the sweet, disinterested faces with no future because they do everything today, say everything today, are the present and exist in the present. They say "tomorrow" because tomorrow doesn't matter to them. You will be the future without being it; you will consume yourself today thinking about tomorrow. They will be tomorrow because they live only today.

Your people.

Your death. You are an animal that foresees its death, sings its death, says it, dances it, paints it, remembers it before dying its death.

Your land.

You will not die without returning.

This village at the foot of the mountain, inhabited by three hundred people and barely visible except for some glimpses of roof tiles among the leaves, which, as soon as the stone of the mountain fixes itself in the earth, curl on the smooth hillside that accompanies the river in its course to the nearby sea. Like a green half-moon, the arc from Tamiahua to Coatzcoalcos will devour the white face of the sea in a useless attempt-devoured in its turn by the misty crest of the mountains, origin and frontier of the Indian plateau-to link itself to the tropical archipelago of graceful undulations and broken flesh. The languid hand of dry Mexico, unchanging, sad, the Mexico of stone cloisters and locked-in dust on the high plateau, the half-moon of Veracruz will have another history, tied by golden strings to the Antilles, the ocean, and, beyond, to the Mediterranean, which in truth will only be conquered by the battlements of the Sierra Madre Oriental. Where the volcanoes join and the silent insignia of the maguey rise up, a world will die which in repeated waves sends its sensual crests from the parting of the Bosporus and the breasts of the Aegean, its splashing of grapes and dolphins from Syracuse and Tunis, its deep wail of recognition from Andalusia and the gates of Gibraltar, its salaam made by a bewigged black courtier from Haiti and Jamaica, its bits and pieces of dances and drums and silk-cotton trees and pirates and conquistadors from Cuba. The black land absorbs the tide. The distant waves will fix on the cast-iron balconies and in the portals of the coffee plantations. The effluvia will die on the white columns of the rural porticoes and on the voluptuous undulations of the body and the voice. There will be a frontier here; then the somber pedestal of the eagles and flints will rise. It will be a frontier no one will defeat-not the men from Extremadura and Castile, who exhausted themselves in the first foundation and were then conquered, without knowing it, in their ascent to the forbidden platform that allowed them only to destroy and deform appearances: victims, after all, of the concentrated hunger of statues made of dust, of the blind suction of the lake which has swallowed the gold, the foundations, the faces of all the

conquistadors who have raped it; not the pirates who loaded their brigantines with shields thrown with a bitter laugh from atop the Indian mountain; not the monks who crossed the Pass of the Malinche to offer new disguises to unshakable gods who had themselves represented in destructible stone but who inhabited the air; not the blacks, brought to the tropical plantations and softened by the depredations of Indian women who offered their hairless sex as a redoubt of victory against the black race; not the princes who disembarked from their imperial galleons and let themselves be fooled by the sweet landscape of palms and nut trees and ascended with their baggage laden with lace and cologne to the plateau of bullet-pocked walls; not even the leaders wearing three-cornered hats and epaulets who in the mute opacity of the highland found, finally, the exasperating defeat of reticence, of mute mockery, of indifference.

You will be that boy who goes forth to the land, finds the land, leaves his origins, finds his density, today, when death joins origins and destiny and between the two, despite everything, fixes the blade of liberty.