"We should thank you…for having thought of us," she answered in her lowest voice.
He opened his hand to caress Catalina's hair. "You understand, don't you? You are going to live by my side. You'll have to forget many things…I promise to respect what is yours…You must promise me that never again…"
She raised her eyes, narrowing them with a hatred she had never felt before. Her mouth was dry. Who was this monster? Who was this man who knew everything, who took everything, who destroyed everything?
"Don't say it…" said the girl as she eluded his embrace.
"I've already had a talk with him. He's a weakling. He didn't really love you. He was frightened from the start."
With her hand the girl cleansed the places he'd touched on her face. "Of course, he's not strong like you…He's not an animal, like you…"
She wanted to scream when he took her by the arm, smiled, and made a fist. "Your little Ramón is leaving Puebla. You'll never see him again…"
He released her. She walked toward the brightly colored cages in the patio: that trill of the birds. One by one, as he looked on, motionless, she opened the painted doors. A robin peeked out and then flew away. The mockingbird hesitated, accustomed to his water and seed. She took him up on her pinkie, kissed his wing, and sent him off. She closed her eyes when the last bird had gone, and allowed the man to take her arm, to lead her to the library, where Don Gamaliel was waiting patiently.
I feel hands that take me under my arms and raise me to make me more comfortable on the smooth cushions, and fresh linen that is like a balm for my body, which is both hot and cold. I feel all this, but when I open my eyes I see before me that newspaper hiding the face of the reader. I think that Vida Mexicana is there, will always be there every day, will come out every day, and there will be no human power to stop it. Teresa-who is reading the newspaper-drops it in alarm.
"Is something wrong? Do you feel sick?"
I have to calm her with my hand, and she picks up the newspaper. No. I feel content, perpetrator of a gigantic joke. Perhaps. Perhaps the master stroke would be to leave behind a special will the newspaper would publish, a testament in which I would tell the truth about my honest enterprise in the area of freedom of the press…No. I've excited myself and brought back the shooting pain in my stomach. I try to reach out to Teresa, to ask for help, but my daughter is immersed in the newspaper again. Earlier, I had seen the day extinguished beyond the windows and had heard the merciful noise of curtains. Now, in the half light of the bedroom with its high ceilings and oak closets, I can't make out the people standing farthest away. The room is very large, but she's there. She must be sitting stiffly, with her lace handkerchief in her hands, her face devoid of make up. Perhaps she doesn't hear me when I whisper: "That morning I waited for him happily. We crossed the river on horseback."
The only one listening to me is this stranger I've never seen before, with his smoothly shaven cheeks and black eyebrows. He's asking me to say an act of contrition; I'm thinking about the carpenter and the Virgin, and he's offering me the keys to heaven.
"Well, what would you say…in a situation like this…?"
I've caught him by surprise. And Teresa has to ruin everything by shouting: "Leave him alone, Father, leave him alone! Don't you see that there's nothing we can do! He wants to go to hell and die just as he's lived, cold, mocking everything…"
The priest holds her back with one arm as he brings his lips close to my ear, almost kissing me: "They don't have to hear us."
And I manage to grunt: "Okay, then, be a man and get these bitches out of here."
He stands up amid the indignant voices of the women and takes them by the arm, and Padilla comes closer. But they don't want that.
"No, counselor, we can't allow that."
"It's customary…for years, ma'am."
"Will you take responsibility?"
"Don Artemio…I've brought you everything we recorded this morning…"
I nod. I try to smile. The same as every day. A man you can count on, this Padilla.
"The outlet is next to the bureau."
"Thanks."
Yes, of course, that's my voice, the voice I had yesterday-yesterday? I can't tell the difference anymore-and I ask Pons, my managing editor-ah, the tape is screeching; adjust it, Padilla, I listened to my voice in reverse: it screeches like a cockatoo's. There I am:
"What do you think about this business, Pons?"
"It's bad, but it'll be a cinch to handle, at least for now."
"Then now's the time to get the paper moving on it, no holds barred, okay? Hit them where it hurts. Don't hold back."
"You're the boss, Artemio."
"Good thing we've prepared our readers for this one."
"They've been talking about it for years now."
"I want to see all the editorials and page one…Bring it all over to my house, any time of day or night."
"You know what to do, the same slant for every story. A brazen red plot. Alien infiltration totally foreign to the essence of the Mexican Revolution…"
"The good old Mexican Revolution!"
"…leaders controlled by foreign agents. Tombroni's really got to give it to them; Blanco is to blast them with a column in which he equates the leader with the Antichrist, and the cartoons have to be scathing…How are you feeling?"
"Not good. The usual thing. It'll pass. We'd all like to be the men we used to be, right?"
"The men we used to be…right."
"Tell Mr. Corkery to step in."
I cough on the tape. I hear the hinges on a door opening and closing. I feel nothing moving in my stomach, nothing, nothing, the gases don't move, no matter how I strain…But I see them. They've come in. The mahogany door opens, closes, and the footsteps on the thick rug are soundless. They've closed the windows.
"Open the windows."
"No, no. You could catch cold and complicate everything…"
"Open them."
"Are you worried, Mr. Cruz?"
"I am. Sit down, and I'll explain why. Would you like a drink? Wheel the cart over. I don't feel very well."
I hear the little wheels, the clink of the bottles.
"You look okay."
I hear ice falling into the glass, the pressure of soda being siphoned out.
"Look, I'll tell you what's at stake here, in case your people haven't grasped it. Tell the central office that if this so-called union clean-up campaign goes over, we might as well do as the bullfighters do and cut off our pigtails…"
"Pigtails?"
"I'll put it as plainly as I can. We're fucked…"
"Turn that off!" shrieks Teresa, running over to the tape recorder. "Where do you think you are, don't you have any manners at all?"
I manage to wave my hand, make a face. I miss a few words on the tape.
"…what these railroad leaders are proposing?"
Someone nervously blows his nose. Where?
"…explain it to the companies. God forbid they should be so naïve as to think this is a democratic movement-try to see my point of view-aimed at getting rid of some corrupt union bosses. It isn't that."
"I'm all ears, Mr. Cruz."
That's right, it must be the gringo who sneezes. Ah-ah-ah.
"No. No. You could catch cold and complicate everything."