And it is then that Catalina will approach you, to ask if you want anything, you who at that instant can attend only to your growing pain, trying to repulse it with your will to sleep, to rest, while Catalina cannot avoid making that gesture, that hand stretched forth which she will quickly withdraw, fearful, and press to her matronly bosom, then extend it again, and this time rest it, trembling, on your forehead. She will caress your forehead and you will not know it; you are lost in the acute concentration of pain. You will not realize that for the first time in decades Catalina has placed her hand on your brow, caressed your forehead, pushing back the sweat-matted gray hair that covers it, and then caressing it again in fear and thankfulness, grateful that tenderness is overcoming fear, in an embarrassed tenderness, ashamed of itself, with a shame that finally seems attenuated by the certainty that you don't realize she is caressing you. Perhaps, as she runs her fingers over your brow, she whispers words that seek to mix with that memory of yours that never ceases, lost in the depth of these hours, unconscious, exempt from your will but fused with your involuntary memory, which slides along the interstices of your pain and repeats now the words you didn't hear then. She, too, will think of her pride. There the spark will be born. There you will hear her, in that common mirror, in that pool that will reflect both your faces, that when you try to kiss will drown both of you in the liquid reflection of your faces. Why don't you look the other way? There you will find Catalina in the flesh. Why do you try to kiss her in the cold reflection of the water? Why doesn't she bring her face to yours; why, like you, does she sink it in the stagnant water and repeat to you now that you are not listening to her, "I let myself go"? Perhaps her hand speaks to you of an excess of freedom that defeats freedom. Freedom that raises an endless tower that does not reach heaven but splits the abyss, cleaves the earth. You will name it: separation. You will refuse: pride. You will survive, Artemio Cruz, you will survive because you will expose yourself to the risk of freedom. You will triumph over the risk and, without enemies, will become your own enemy
in order to continue the battle of pride. You've conquered everything else; the only thing left is to conquer yourself. Your enemy will surge forth from the mirror to fight the last battle: the enemy nymph, the nymph of thick breath, daughter of gods, mother of the goatish seducer, mother of the only god to die during the time of man. From the mirror will emerge the mother of the Great God Pan, the nymph of pride, your double, once again your double: your ultimate enemy on the earth whose population has been effaced by your pride. You will survive. You will discover that virtue may well be desirable but only pride is necessary. Yet the hand that at this moment is caressing your brow will reach the end and with its small voice silence the shout of challenges, remind you that only at the end, even if it is at the end, pride is superfluous and humility is necessary. Her pale fingers will touch your feverish brow, will try to ease your pain, will try to say to you today what they did not say to you forty-three years ago.
(1924: June 3)
He didn't hear her say it when she awoke from her fitful sleep. "I let myself go." Lying at his side, her chestnut hair covering her face; and in every fold of her flesh she felt weary moisture, the fatigue of summer. She covered her mouth with her hand and foresaw the new day's vertical sun, the afternoon thundershower, the evening transition from suffocating heat to coolness. She did not want to remember what happened during the night. She buried her face in the pillow and said again: "I let myself go."
The cold, clear dawn erased the pride of the night and came through the half-open window of the bedroom. Once again it defined the details the darkness had confused in a single embrace.
"I'm young. I have a right…"
She put on her nightgown and fled from the man before the sun could rise over the line of mountains.
"I have a right. It has the blessing of the Church."
Now, from her bedroom window, she saw in the distance how
the sun crowned Citlaltépetl Mountain. She cuddled the child in her arms and stayed by the window.
"What weakness. Always when I wake up, this weakness, this hatred, this disdain I don't really feel…"
Her eyes met those of the smiling Indian coming through the garden gate. He took off his hat and bowed…
"…whenever I wake up and see his body asleep next to mine…"
His white teeth gleamed, especially when he was near her.
"Does he really love me?"
The boss tucked his shirt into his tight trousers, and the Indian turned his back on the woman's window.
"Five years have gone by…"
"What brings you here so early, Ventura?"
"I let my ears lead me around. Mind if I fill my gourd?"
"Is everything ready in town?"
Ventura nodded, walked to the well, sank his gourd into the water, took a drink, and filled it again.
"Maybe he himself has forgotten why we were married…"
"And where do your ears lead you?"
"To the news that old Don Pizarro hates the sight of you."
"That I already knew."
"My ears also tell me he's going to take advantage of the goings-on today to get even…"
"and now he really loves me…"
"Blessed be your ears, Ventura."
"Blessed be my mother, who taught me always to keep them clean and free of wax."
"You know what has to be done."