De profundis clamavi.
De profundis clamavi.
Look at me now, listen to me, shine a light into my eyes, don't put me to sleep in death / Because on the day you eat from his table you will certainly die / Don't rejoice in the death of another, remember that we all die / Death and hell were cast into the pit of flame and this was the second death / That which I fear, that is what comes to me, that which strikes me with terror, that possesses me / How bitter is your memory for the man satisfied with his riches / Have the portals of death opened for you? / Sin came into the world through woman, and because of woman we all must die / Have you seen the portals of the region of darkness? / Your weakness for the poor and the drained of strength is good / And what fruit did they obtain, then? Those for which they now feel shame, because their end is death / Because the appetite of the flesh is death.
Word of God, life, profession of death, de profundis clamavi, Domine,
omnes eodem cogimur, omnium versatur urna
quae quasi saxum Tantaleum semper impendet
quid quisque vitet, numquam homini satis cautum
est in horas
mors tandem inclusum protrahet inde caput
nascentes morimur, finisque ab origine pendet
atque in se sua per vestigia volvitur annus
Omnia te vita perfuncta sequentur
Chorus, sepulchre; voices, pyre; you will imagine, in the zone of forgetting of your consciousness, those rites, those ceremonies, those twilights: burial, cremation, balm. Exposed at the top of a tower, so that the air, not the earth, will disintegrate you: locked in the tomb with your dead slaves; wept over by paid mourners; buried with your most highly prized objects, your entourage, your black jewels: vigil, guarding,
requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine de profundis clamavi, Domine
Laura's voice, as she spoke of these things, sitting on the floor with her knees bent, with the small bound book in her hands…says that everything can be fatal to us, even that which gives us life…she says that since we cannot cure death, misery, ignorance, we would do well, in order to be happy, not to think about them…she says that only sudden death is to be feared; which is why confessors live in the houses of the powerful…she says be a man, fear death when you're out of danger, not in danger…she says the premeditation of death is the premeditation of freedom…she says how softly you tread, oh, cold death…she says the hours will never forgive you, the hours that are filing down the days…she says, showing me the taut knot cut…she says is not my door made of double thicknesses of metal?…she says a thousand deaths await me, since I expect only my life…she says how can man want to live when God wants him to die…she says, of what use are treasures, vassals, servants…
What use? what use? Let them intone, let them sing, let them wail. They will not touch the sumptuous carving, the opulent inlay, the gold-and-stucco moldings, the vestry dresser of bone and tortoiseshell, the metal plates and door handles, the paneled coffers with iron keyholes, the aromatic benches of ayacahuite
wood, the choir seats, the baroque crownwork and drapery, the curved chairbacks, the shaped cross-beams, the polychromed corbels, the bronze-headed tacks, the worked leather, the claw-and-ball cabriole feet, the chasubles of silver thread, the damask armchairs, the velvet sofas, the refectory tables, the cylinders and amphora, the beveled game tables, the canopied, linen beds, the fluted posts, the coats of arms and the orles, the merino rugs, the iron keys, the canvases done in four panels, the silks and cashmeres, the wools and taffetas, the crystal and the chandeliers, the hand-painted china, the burnished beams, they will touch none of that. That will be yours.
You will stretch out your hand.
A day, which, nevertheless, will be an exceptional day; three or four years ago; you will not remember; you will remember by remembering; no, you will remember because the first thing that you remember when you try to remember is a separate day, a day of ceremony, a day separated from the rest by red numbers; and this will be the day-you yourself will think it then-on which all the names, persons, words, and deeds of a cycle ferment and make the crust of the earth groan; it will be a night when you will celebrate the New Year; your arthritic fingers will have difficulty grasping the wrought-iron handrail; you will jab your other hand deep into your jacket pocket and descend laboriously.
You will stretch out your hand.
(1955: December 31)
With difficulty, he grasped the wrought-iron handrail. He jabbed his other hand deep into the pocket of his robe and laboriously walked down the stairs, without looking at the niches dedicated to the Mexican Virgins. Guadalupe, Zapopan, Remedios. As the setting sun came through the windows, it bathed in gold the warm silks and the drapery that billowed like silver sails; it reddened the burnished wood of the beams; it illuminated half of the man's face. He was wearing his tuxedo trousers, shirt, and tie: draped in his red robe, he looked like a tired old magician. He imagined his guests repeating the same performances that once upon a time they had put on with unique charm. Tonight, he would be annoyed to recognize the same faces, the same clichés that year after year provided the proper tone for his New Year's Eve party-the feast of St. Sylvester-in his enormous Coyoacán residence.
His footsteps echoed emptily on the tezontle floor. Slightly cramped in their black patent-leather slippers, his feet dragged along with that staggering heaviness he could no longer avoid. Tall, rocking on indecisive heels, his barrel chest thrust forward, and his nervous hands with their thick veins dangling at his sides, he slowly made his way along the whitewashed corridors, treading on the thick wool carpeting. He caught sight of himself in the lustrous mirrors and in the crystalware displayed in the colonial breakfronts, as he ran his fingers over the metal plates and door handles, the paneled coffers with iron keyholes, the aromatic benches of ayacahuite wood, the opulent marquetry. A servant opened the door of the grand ballroom for him. The old man stopped for the last time in front of a mirror and straightened his bow tie. With the palm of his hand, he smoothed the few curly gray hairs that remained on his high forehead. He squeezed his cheeks to push his false teeth into place, and walked into the room with its shiny floor, a vast expanse decorated with colonial pictures-St. Sebastian, St. Lucy, St. Jerome, and St. Michael. Its glowing cedar floor, from which the rugs had been removed to allow dancing, opened onto the lawns and brick terraces.
At the far end of the room, the photographers were waiting for him, gathered around the green-damask armchair, under the fifty-candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The clock on the mantel struck seven; a fire was blazing because it had been so cold the past few days. Two leather hassocks flanked the fireplace. He greeted the photographers with a nod and sat down in the armchair, arranging his stiff shirtfront and his piqué cuffs. Another servant led in the two gray mastiffs with their red dewlaps and melancholy eyes and placed their rough leashes in the master's hands. The bronze studs on the dogs' collars glittered with reflected light. He raised his head, squeezing his dentures back into place. The flashbulbs gave a tone of fresh plaster to his large gray head. As they asked him to strike new poses, he insisted on straightening his hair and running his fingers along the two heavy bags that hung off the sides of his nose and gradually disappeared into his neck. His high cheekbones still had the old hardness, though even they were crisscrossed by a network of wrinkles that began at his eyelids, which seemed to sag more and more every day, as if to protect his eyes, which expressed a combination of amusement and bitterness, their greenish irises hidden in the folds of loose skin.