He turned on the light and then the hot water. He tossed his shirt on the toilet seat. He opened the medicine chest. He saw the things that belonged to both of them: toothpaste tubes, mentholated shaving cream, tortoiseshell combs, cold cream, aspirin, antacid pills, tampons, cologne, blue razor blades, brilliantine, rouge, antispasmodic pills, yellow mouthwash, prophylactics, milk of magnesia, bandages, iodine, shampoo, tweezers, nail clippers, a lip pencil, eye drops, eucalyptus nasal spray, cough syrup, deodorant. He picked up his razor. The blade was clogged with thick chestnut hairs. He paused with the razor in his hand. He brought it to his lips and involuntarily closed his eyes. When he opened them, that old man with bloodshot eyes, gray cheeks, withered lips-who was no longer the other, the reflection he'd learned so well-shot him a grimace from the mirror.
I see them. They've come in. The mahogany door opens and closes and their footsteps on the thick carpet are inaudible. They've closed the windows. They've drawn the curtains with a hiss. I'd like to ask them to open them, to open the windows. There's a world outside. There's strong wind blowing from the mesa, it shakes the thin black trees. I've got to breathe…They've come in.
"Go on over to him, child, let him get to know you. Tell him your name."
She smells good. She has a pretty smell. Ah, yes, I can still make out blushing cheeks, shining eyes, her entire young body, graceful, which comes closer to my bed, taking short steps.
"I'm…I'm Gloria."
"That morning I waited for him with pleasure. We crossed the river on horseback."
"See how he ended up? See? Just like my brother. That's how he ended up."
"Feel relieved? Do it."
"Ego te absolvo."
The fresh, sweet rustle of banknotes and new bonds when the hand of a man like me picks them up. The smooth acceleration of a luxury car, custom-built, air-conditioned, with a bar, telephone, soft cushions, and footrests-well priest, well? Up there too, right? That heaven represents power over men, innumerable men with hidden faces, forgotten names: last names from the thousand work lists of the mines, factories, newspapers. That anonymous face which sings me traditional songs on my saint's day, which hides its eyes under its helmet when I visit construction sites, which draws my caricature for the opposition newspapers: well, well? That does exist, that really is mine. That really is what being God is, right? To be feared and hated and whatever, that's really being God, right? Tell me how I save all that and I'll let you go through with your ceremonies, I'll beat myself on the chest, I'll walk on my knees to a sanctuary, I'll drink vinegar and wear a crown of thorns. Tell me how I save all that because the spirit…
"…of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen…"
He's still there, on his knees, with his washed face. I try to turn my back to him. The pain in my side keeps me from moving. Ooooh. He must be finished by now. I'll be absolved. I want to sleep. Here comes the pain. Here it comes. Oooooh. And the women. No, not these. Those who love. What? Yes. No. I don't know. I've forgotten that face. By God, I've forgotten that face. It was mine, how could I ever forget it?
"Padilla…Padilla…Get the story editor and the society-page editor over here."
Your voice, Padilla, the hollow sound of your voice on the intercom…"
"Yes, Don Artemio. Don Artemio, we've got an urgent problem here. The Indians are demonstrating. They want to be paid for their forests that were cut down."
"What? How much is it?"
"Half a million."
"Is that all? Tell the commissioner of the ejido to get them in line. That's What I pay him for. What next…"
"Mena's here, in the waiting room. What should I tell him?"
"To come in."
Ah, Padilla, I can't open my eyes to see you, but I can see your thoughts, Padilla, behind my mask of pain. The dying man is named Artemio Cruz, just Artemio Cruz; only this man is dying, right? no one else. It's like a bit of good luck that wipes out the other deaths. This time, only Artemio Cruz is dying. And that death can take place instead of another, perhaps your own, Padilla…Ah. No. I still have things to do. Don't count your chickens yet…
"I told you he was faking."
"Let him rest."
"I'm telling you he's faking!"
I see them, from far off. Their fingers quickly get the false bottom open, sliding it out with an air of great expectation. But there's nothing there. I'm waving my arm, pointing toward the oak wall, the long closet that takes up one side of the bedroom. The women run to it, open all the doors, slide all the hangers with their blue suits, with stripes, two-button jackets, made of Irish linen, without remembering that they aren't my suits, that my clothes are in my house, they push aside all the hangers while I point, with the hands I can barely move: perhaps the document is hidden in one of the inside pockets of a suit. Teresa's and Catalina's sense of urgency increases: now they're tearing through things in a fury, throwing empty jackets on the rug, until finally they've looked through all of them and they turn to stare at me. I can't keep a straight face. I'm held up by the pillows, and I breath with difficulty, but my eyes don't miss a single detail. I sense their speed and their covetousness.
I gesture for them to come closer. "Now I remember…In a shoe…I remember perfectly…"
Seeing the two of them down on all fours on the mound of jackets and trousers, digging through shoes, showing me their fat thighs, shaking their asses, panting obscenely-only then does the bitter sweetness cloud my eyes. I bring my hand to my heart and close my eyes.
"Regina…"
The grunts of indignation and effort made by the two women fade in the darkness. I move my lips to whisper the name. There isn't much time left for remembering the other, the one she loved…Regina…
"Padilla…Padilla. I want to eat something light…I don't feel right in the stomach. Come with me while they're getting this stuff ready…"
"What? You choose, build, make, preserve, continue: nothing else…I…"
"Right. See you soon. Say hello to everyone for me."
"Well put, sir. It'll be easy to smash them."
"No, Padilla, it isn't so easy. Pass me that platter…the one with the little sandwiches on it…I've seen these people on the march. When they decide something, it's hard to hold them back."
How did the song go? Exiled, I went down south, exiled, by the government, and the next year I came back north; oh, those terrible nights I spent without you, without you; not a friend, not a relative to worry about me; only the love, only the love of that woman made me come back…
"That's why we have to do something right now, when the bad feelings toward us are just starting, we've got to nip it in the bud. They don't have any organization, and they're putting everything they've got on the line. Come on, come on, have some of these little sandwiches, there's enough for two…"
"Useless agitation…"
I've got my brace of pistols, they both have ivory butts, and I can shoot it out with the railroad and its scabs. I'm a railroad working girl. My Juan's my pride and joy, I'm in love, you know, with the boy, I'm a railroad working girl. If you see me wearing boots, and you think I'm a soldier girl, well, I'm just a railroad girl, working on the central line.
"It wouldn't be if they were right. But they aren't. But you were a Marxist back when you were a kid, so you must understand these things better. You should be afraid of what's going on. For me, it's a little late…"
"Campanela's waiting outside."
What did they say? Did you want to? Hemorrhage? Hernia? Occlusion? Perforation? A volvulus? Involvement of the colon?
Oh, Padilla, I should push the button to make you come in. Padilla, I can't see you because I've got my eyes closed, I have my eyes closed because I no longer believe in that tiny imperfect patch, my retina. What if I open my eyes and my retina no longer perceives anything, no longer communicates anything to my brain? What do I do then?