"Oh, Don Artemio, do you feel okay?"
"It's nothing, just the heat. This glare. What's going on, Mena? How about opening the windows?"
"Right away…"
Ah, the noises of the street. Suddenly. It's impossible to tell one from the other. Ah, the noises of the street.
"What can I do for you, Don Artemio?"
"Mena, you know how enthusiastically we defended President Batista, right down to the last moment. But now that he's no longer in power, it's not easy to do. It's even harder, in fact, to defend General Trujillo, even though he's still in power. You represented the two of them, so you'll understand…It's hard to make a case for them."
"Don't worry, Don Artemio, I'll see to arranging things. But with so many nuts around…And while we're at it, I've brought along a short article that explains the work of the Benefactor…Nothing more…"
"Good. leave it to me. Díaz, good thing you came in when you did. Print this on the editorial page with a phony signature…Mena, I'll be seeing you. Stay in touch…"
In touch. Touch. Stay in touch. In touch with my white lips, ooooh, a hand, give me a hand, oh, another pulse to revive mine, white lips…
"I blame you."
"Does that make you feel better? Good. We crossed the river on horseback. We went back to my part of the country. My country."
"…we'd like to know where…"
Finally, finally, they're giving me the pleasure of coming to me on their knees, physically, to ask me for it. The priest hinted at it. It must be that something is going to happen to me soon, for these two to have found their way to my bedside with that tiny tremor I can't help but notice. They're trying to guess what my joke will be, the final joke I've enjoyed so much by myself, the definitive humiliation whose ultimate consequences I won't be able to enjoy, but whose initial spasms delight me right here and now. This may be my last little flame of triumph…
"Where…" I murmur with so much sweetness, so much secrecy…"Where…Let me think…Teresa, I think I remember…Isn't there a mahogany box…where I store my cigars…? It has a false bottom…"
I don't have to finish. The two of them get up and run to the huge, horseshoe-shaped desk, where they think I sometimes pass away my insomnia-ridden nights reading: they wish it were so. The two women force open the drawers, they scatter papers, and finally find the ebony box. Ah, so it was there all along. There was another one there. Or someone took it. Their fingers must get the second clasp, hastily sliding it off. But there's nothing there. When was the last time I ate? I urinated a long time ago. But eating. I vomited. But eating.
"The Undersecretary is on the phone, Don Artemio."
They closed the curtains, didn't they? It's nighttime, isn't it? There are plants that need the moonlight to flower. They wait until nightfall. The convolvulus. At that shack there was a convolvulus, at the hut by the river. The flower opened in the afternoon, yes.
"Thank you, miss…Hello…Yes, this is Artemio Cruz. No, no, no, no, no, reconciliation is impossible. It's a clear-cut attempt to bring down the government. They've already managed to get the unions to abandon the official party en masse; if things go on like this, what will your power base be, Mr. Undersecretary?…Yes…It's the only way: declare the strike null and void, send in the troops, rough them up, and put the leaders in jail…Of course, things are that serious, sir…"
Mimosa, too. I remember that the mimosa has feelings; it can be sensitive and modest, chaste and palpitating, alive, the mimosa…
"…yes, of course…oh, and one thing more, just to put my cards on the table: if you people show weakness, my associates and I will take our capital out of Mexico. We need guarantees. Listen, what do you think will happen, for example, if in two weeks a hundred million dollars leaves the country?…What?…No, I do understand. Of course!…"
That's it. It's all over. Ah. That's all. Was that all? Who knows. I don't remember. I haven't listened to that tape in a long time. I've been masquerading for a long time, and in fact I'm thinking about things I'd like to eat, yes, it's more important to think about food because I haven't eaten for hours, and Padilla disconnects the recorder, and I've kept my eyes closed and don't know what they can be thinking or saying-Catalina, Teresa, Gerardo, the child, no, Gloria went out, she left with Padilla's son, they're kissing out in the hall, taking advantage of the fact that no one's there-because I keep my eyes closed and only think about pork chops, pork roast, barbecue, stuffed turkey, the soups I like so much, almost as much as I like desserts, oh yes, I always had a sweet tooth and in this country the desserts are delicious, candied almond and pineapple, coconut and curd, ah, custard too, cakes from Zamora, I think about those Zamora cakes, candied fruit, red snapper, bass, filet of sole, I think about oysters and crabs…
We crossed the river on horseback. And we reached the sandbar and the sea. In Veracruz.
…mussels and squid, octopus and seviche, I think about beer, as bitter as seawater, beer, I think about venison Yucatán-style, I think about the fact that I'm not old, no, although one day I was, in front of the mirror, and stinking cheeses, how I love them, I think, I want, how that relieves me, how it bores me to hear my own exact, insinuating, authoritarian voice acting out that same role, always, what a bother, when I could have been eating, eating: I eat, I sleep, I fornicate, and the rest of it-what? what? what? who wants to eat sleep fornicate with my money? You Padilla and you Catalina and you Teresa and you Gerardo and you Paquito Padilla-is that your name?-the one who's been chewing on my granddaughter's lips in the half-light of my room or of this room, you who are still young, because I don't live here, you are young, I know how to live well, that's why I don't live here, I'm an old man, is that right? An old man filled with manias, who has a perfect right to have them because he screwed himself, see? He screwed himself screwing everyone else, he chose just in time, like that night, ah, I've already remembered it, that night, that word, that woman. Why can't they give me something to eat? Why? Get out: oh, what pain: get out: motherfuckers.
You will utter it: it's your word, and your word is my word; word of honor, a word between men: wheel word: mill word: imprecation, intention, greeting, life project, affiliation, memory, the voice of those in despair, liberation of the poor, order of the powerful, invitation to fight and to work, epigraph of love, astrological sign, threat, jeer, word under oath, pal at parties, and when you get drunk, sword of courage, throne of power, tooth of the cunning, coat of arms for the race, life preserver when you've reached your limits, summary of history: Mexico's password: your word:
Motherfucker
We're the number-one motherfuckers around here
Quit fucking around
Now I'm gonna fuck him up
Get outta here, you little fucker