“The Yankees would give us the same if we became less independent.”
“And why don’t you?” snorted Bernstein, amused. “It’s what Marx recommended. Anyway, you’re not independent, you simply lack the advantages of total integration with the North American world. Compare California to Coahuila. The whole American Southwest would still be a flea-bitten wasteland in the hands of Mexico.”
“Sara said in her message that she believed in civilizations that endure, not in transitory powers.”
“And for believing the same as she, we were persecuted and murdered for centuries. A civilization without power is already archaeology, whether it knows it or not.” He removed his eyeglasses to emphasize his lack of defenses. “A destiny that one suffers deserves compassion, but a destiny one controls is detestable. We will not be detained by this paradox. We worked hard. Nothing was ever given to us. Have you ever asked yourself why, with fewer arms and fewer men, we always defeated the Arabs? I’ll tell you why. When Dayan founded the 101st Commando, he established one ironclad rule: no wounded soldier would ever be abandoned on the field of battle and left to the mercy of the enemy. All our soldiers know that. Behind them stands a hard-working, democratic, and informed society that will never abandon them. Our weapon is called solidarity, and it is serious, not second-hand rhetoric as it is in Mexico. Do you understand?”
“I fear a society that feels itself absolved of all guilt, Professor.”
“Apparently, our only guilt is that of controlling our destiny. And when destiny is controlled, you’re right, it is called power. For the first time, we have it. We have assumed its responsibilities. And its inevitable pitfalls. Would you go so far as to claim that Hitler was right? After all, his final solution would have avoided today’s conflicts. Think about it: only total extermination in Nazi ovens would have prevented the creation of Israel. Men create conflicts. But conflicts also create men. During the Mandate, the British had concentration camps for Jews and Arabs in Tel Aviv and Gaza. What right did they have to judge the Germans at Nuremberg for identical crimes?” He replaced his spectacles, his eyes focused, the fish ceased to swim. “Throughout history, there have been only executioners and victims. It’s a banal observation. It is less banal to stop being victims, even at the cost of becoming executioners. The other option is to be eternal victims. There is no power without responsibility, including responsibility for crimes. I prefer that to the consolation of being a victim, even to the applause of posterity and the compassion of good souls.”
Bernstein rose from his chair and walked to the window and opened it. The sounds of Coatzacoalcos were accompanied by a dizzying rush of elemental odors, fruit, sugarcane, excrement, mixed with the artificial odors from the refinery.
“Look.” Bernstein leaned from the window and waved his good hand toward the market. “They’re slaughtering cattle. An esthete might say it recalls a painting by Soutine. On the other hand, through the eyes of an animal lover or a vegetarian…”
He closed the window and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his jacket sleeve. Felix sat motionless, empty glass in hand.
“Professor,” he said, finally. “Your power depends on others. Arms and money. You recruit both. That’s all right. But every day they will be more difficult to obtain. You know it. Jewish families in Mexico, in Argentina, in the United States, everywhere, are becoming more Mexican, more Argentinian, more North American, they’re drifting away from Israel, and in a few years no one will give you anything. Why don’t you give a little before it’s too late and you find yourself alone once again? Alone and hated and persecuted.”
Bernstein wagged his head and a strange resignation appeared in his eyes. “Sara accused me of being a hawk. You know, the third floor of this hotel was destroyed by lightning. Doves took over the ruins. And as no one ever repairs anything here … Vultures fly high overhead, especially here, around the market slaughterhouse. Every day, they kill a vulture or two trying to feed on the dead flesh of the cattle. Dead meat is what the buzzards like, they don’t bother the doves. It’s true. Someday we’ll be forced to abandon the occupied territories. Oil weighs more heavily than reason. But we shall have left behind cities and citizens, schools and a democratic political system. When the Arabs return, there will be peace only if they respect our new pilgrims, those who remain there. That will be your famous meeting of civilizations. That will be the acid test of peace. If not, everything will begin all over again.”
Again Bernstein approached the window. He peered in vain through the sheer curtains. A sudden tropical downpour had been unleashed.
Bernstein whirled to face Felix. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m remembering the conviction with which you used to expound economic theories at the university. From your lips, every theory was convincing, from Quesnay to Keynes. It was why we loved your classes. It was why we followed and respected you. You never pretended to be objective, but your subjective passions had the effect of being entirely objective. Professor, you didn’t come here to recover from a wound inflicted by a mysterious bullet. Much less to convince me of the rights and motives of Israel. Enough talk. I’m going to ask you to hand over what I came here to get…”
It wasn’t caramels in the bulging pockets of Bernstein’s wrinkled, sweat-stained jacket. Felix leaped from his chair and grasped the professor’s fat neck; he twisted the injured arm, pulling it from the protective sling, and Bernstein howled with pain, his free arm upraised, a tiny Yves-Grant.32 clutched in his hand. He let the pistol fall on the chessboard floor. Felix released his grip on Bernstein and picked up the automatic. He leveled it at the professor’s trembling belly.
His aim never wavering, he emptied Bernstein’s suitcase, tossing aside all its contents. He ordered Bernstein to precede him to the bathroom, where he opened the leather kit of personal toilet articles; he squeezed out the toothpaste, he tore open capsules of medicine, he removed the straightedge razor and ripped out the lining of the kit bag. With Bernstein before him, he returned to the bedroom and slit open the lining of the suitcase. He searched the closet and, for good measure, shredded the blue-striped seersucker hanging there. He repeated the process with pillows and mattress. He tore down the mosquito netting to examine its yellowed canopy. Throughout, Bernstein, seated on his precarious rattan throne, watched, unmoving, the grimace of pain yielding to an insulting smile.
“Take off your clothes,” Felix ordered.
He searched the clothing. Naked, Bernstein resembled a gluttonous child who’d turned into the mountains of cotton candy he’d consumed.
“Open your mouth. Remove your bridge.”
Only one orifice remained. Felix knelt. He pressed the barrel of the pistol against Bernstein’s kidney and inserted a finger up his rectum. He felt only the convulsions of the old man’s uncontrollable laughter.
“Nothing there, Felix. You’re too late.”
Pistol in hand, Maldonado rose to his feet and cleaned his finger across Bernstein’s lips. Even the professor’s gesture of revulsion could not check his amused chortles. “Nothing, Felix. You find yourself with empty, if slightly filthy, hands.”
Felix’s eyes were clouded with sweat, but the pistol never wavered. There could be no better target than the massive bulk of his former mentor. “Tell me just one thing, Professor, so I don’t go away empty-handed. After all, I brought you that…” He waved the pistol toward the newspaper-wrapped package.