The Eagle's Throne

18. BERNAL HERRERA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN

Ex-President César León came to visit me. At first I didn’t even recognize him. That young man with wavy black hair is now a mature man with wavy white hair. Those matinee idol’s wavy locks are what define him for me, politically and morally as well as physically. They remind me of that old song, “The Waves of the Lagoon”: “Some waves come, while others go, some to Sayula, some to Zapotlán. . ” The question is: Where is Sayula in the mind of César León, and where is Zapotlán?

What follows is a summary of the brief conversation we had, along with my conclusions, since León was (and perhaps still is?) your friend. You gave him the advice that ensured his popularity early on. Free the political prisoners, president. Flatter the intellectuals. Attend all the civic and cultural ceremonies. Assume Benito Juárez’s republican mantle. Replace the trade unions’ leadership. New faces. Change is accepted as a sign of moral renewal. (We all know that the opposite is true: A new bureaucrat has all the ambitions that the old one has already fulfilled. Thus the new one will be more voracious than the old one.) Cooperate with the gringos on everything, except Cuba. Cuba has provided and continues to provide the opportunity to pay lip service to our independence. Thanks to Cuba we’re no longer the main target of the campaigns, plots, and occasional violence that the United States has unleashed on Latin America. The United States is a kind of Captain Ahab on the quest for a Moby Dick that may yet satisfy the American obsession with viewing the world in black and white. Gringos go mad if they can’t tell who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy — and Mexico was the bad guy for a century and a half until, thank God, Fidel Castro turned up and became our lightning conductor. César León made the gringos understand that the problem was a bit more complex than the plot of an old Western. Mexico would be the United States’ most loyal Latin American ally, but this would only be plausible if Mexico maintained a healthy relationship with Castro in the interest of keeping the lines of communication open (issue number one) and playing a role in Cuba’s transition after Castro’s death (issue number two). It was the latter promise that failed us all. The old comandante is still there, ninety-three years old, and I read in the paper that he’s just opened a Sierra Maestra theme park.

Now, I’m not saying that you yourself invented Mexico’s policies toward Cuba and the United States, my dear friend, because that would be like saying you discovered lukewarm water. With the seductive wiles for which you are famous, you simply planted these policies in the mind of the young president César León, who was practically a gringo then— trained at Princeton and MIT before he had to take on Mexico’s defensive foreign policy, a bit like the tortoise sleeping alongside the elephant.

You also reminded him that a newly elected president in the newly restored PRI system (this was fourteen years ago) would do well to be a thorn in the side of relatives and friends of the outgoing head of state, because that was the way to satisfy public opinion and give people the illusion of a fresh start.

César León. We haven’t even mentioned his name since he won the 2006 elections. We decided, simply, that he was a nonperson.

But the fact is that he’s come back. And President Terán has welcomed him with open arms.

I said to him, “Be careful, Mr. President. César León is like the scorpion that says to the frog, ‘Carry me on your back across the river. I promise not to sting you.’ And nevertheless, the scorpion stings the frog. . ”

“I know the fable,” the president said to me, smiling. “ ‘It’s in my nature,’ the scorpion says. In this case, though, León is the frog and I’m the scorpion.”

“What do you want, then? To sting him or to make it to the other side?”

“That’s something I’ll decide in good time. Patience.”

I’m giving you this background information, my dear friend, so that you can understand my chat with César León last night.

He began with his little “humility” recital.

“I’ve learned so many things in exile. I want to be a factor for unity. Soon, someone will have to take President Terán’s place and we’ll be holding elections in the middle of some very serious difficulties.”

He enumerated the latter, which you and I know very well: the students, the workers, the peasants, the gringos. . He practically volunteered to act as intermediary in every case. He talked about the support he has in the old PRI, splintered apart primarily because of his intolerant, authoritarian, and arrogant attitude toward the end of his term. He even threw in a Latin quotation (he seems to have spent his time in Europe reading the classics): “ Divide et impera. . ”

I played dumb, asked him to translate for me.

“ ‘Divide and rule,’ ” he said smugly.

So that’s it, I said to myself, you’re here to triumph by dividing, bastard. I kept the comment to myself. I wanted to hear him say it — it would be like hearing a song that was a hit twenty years ago played on an old scratched record. He repeated the bit about wanting to be the best ex-president ever, a Mexican Jimmy Carter, never complaining, behaving as if nobody had ever done him any wrong. In other words: He’s come back, thirsting for power, just like the shipwreck survivor floating adrift on the raft of the Medusa for years and years, surrounded by water and yet unable to drink a drop.

He said that he wanted to be a factor for unity and cooperation in what remained of the old, fractured PRI. In other words: He wants to take over the party and rebuild it by making promises to all the old corporate bases, weakened at present but not without latent power, and then bring together all the disparate interest groups, the local power bases and strongmen — unfortunately spawned by our fledgling democracy and our president’s laissez-faire attitude — in a unified opposition party that can kick us out of power.

And he very cynically suggested that he could act as a go-between, connecting the presidency and our unmanageable Congress, given that there’s no majority at San Lázaro and all bills proposed by the executive branch are either stalled or shelved entirely.

In a word, he was offering me his help to head off these obstacles and to clear the path to the presidential elections.

I sat there looking at him, totally speechless. I don’t have to tell you that this didn’t make him uncomfortable at all. His scheming little eyes sparkled and he said very slowly, “Herrera. . Whatever happened. . didn’t happen.”

I stared at him intensely.

“Mr. President,” I said, with due courtesy, “when you were incomparable, you didn’t hate anyone. Now that you’re among equals, who is it that you hate?”

His answer was cunning and self-satisfied.

“The question, Mr. Secretary, is to whom are you equal?”

I had to laugh at his undeniably sharp wit, but the laugh froze on my lips when his eyes suddenly stopped sparkling and he said something to me in that powerful, menacing voice he always used to use to intimidate his allies as well as his enemies.

“If you want my advice, stay out of the Moro case.”

I can only assume that he’d already anticipated my reaction, unless he’d become incredibly stupid or incredibly naïve, which in the end are one and the same thing. My reaction, you understand, was essential in the presence of such a wily, dangerous man.

“Apparently, Mr. President, you don’t seem to realize that your days are over. . ”

“And everything that happened then. . never happened? Let’s see, how can that be possible?”

“Quite simply, the laws you once abided by have nothing to do with the laws we live by today. . The problems have changed, the solutions have changed and, I must reiterate, times themselves have changed.”

“Ah, but you and I, despite our different problems and times, will always, ultimately, commit evil acts if committing evil acts is necessary, won’t we?”

He then raised his leonine head and looked at me with arrogance and scorn.

“Don’t touch the Moro case, Mr. Secretary. As long as you don’t touch it we’ll get along famously.”

“Oh, shut up!” I said, losing my patience. “I know what really happened in the Moro case, but I’m not interested in doing the police’s work.”

“Well, let’s see. The police might do their job so thoroughly that you’ll be the one who ends up in prison.”

At that, I jumped up and snapped, “You’re nothing but a lost dream.”

“No.” He smiled as he walked to the door before turning to face me one last time. “Quite the opposite. I’m a living nightmare.”

I slammed my fist into my forehead after César León closed the door behind him. I should never have lost control in the presence of that viper.

In what direction, my dear friend, do the waves in the lagoon go now?