"No one goes in there," Lunero said, coming out of his dance of terror and anguish, his silent farewell on his last afternoon with the boy. It was probably five-thirty, and the agent wouldn't be late.
"Try running inland," he had said yesterday. "Just try. We've got something better than bloodhounds: all those poor bastards who'd rather turn in a runaway than know that somebody saved himself from their fate."
No: Lunero, imprisoned, after all, by terror and nostalgia, was thinking about the coast. How big the mulatto seemed to the boy when he stood up and looked at the rapid flow of the river toward the Gulf of Mexico! How tall his thirty-three years of cinnamon-colored flesh and pink palms! Lunero's eyes were on the coast, and his eyelids seemed to be painted white, not because of age, which lightens the eyes of people of his race, but out of nostalgia, which is another form of growing old, more ancient, going back. There was the sandbar that broke the flow of the river and stained the first frontier of the sea brown. Farther out, the world of the islands began, and then came the continent, where someone like him could lose himself in the jungle and say he'd returned. He did not want to look back. He breathed deeply and looked toward the sea, as if toward a dream of liberty and plenitude. The boy lost his modesty and ran toward the mulatto. His embrace only reached up to Lunero's ribs.
"Don't go, Lunero…"
"Cruz, boy, for God's sake, what else can I do?"
The distressed mulatto patted the boy's hair and could not avoid that moment of happiness, the gratitude, the pain he'd always feared. The boy lifted his face: "I have to speak to them, tell them you can't go…"
"Inside?"
"Yes, inside the big house."
"They don't want us there, Cruz. Don't ever go there. Come on, let's get back to work. I won't go for a long time. Who knows if I'll have to go at all."
The murmuring afternoon river received Lunero's body. He dove in to avoid the words and the touch of the boy who had been with him his entire life. The boy went back to candle making and smiled again when Lunero, swimming upstream, imitated the flailing of a drowning man, shot up like an arrow, did a somersault in the water, came up again with a stick in his teeth, and then, on the bank, shook, making funny noises, and finally sat down behind the boy, with the smooth pieces of bark in front of him, and picked up his hammer and nails. He had to consider it again: the agent wouldn't be long. The sun was going down behind the treetops. Lunero fought off thinking what he should be thinking; the edge of bitterness cut through his happiness, now lost.
"Bring me more sandpaper from the shack," he ordered the boy, certain that those were his parting words.
Could he go like that, wearing his everyday shirt and trousers? Why take more? Now that the sun was going down, he would keep watch at the entrance to the house road, so the frock-coated man wouldn't have to go near the shack.
"Yes," said Ludivinia, "Baracoa tells me everything. How we live from the work of the boy and the mulatto. Would you care to acknowledge that? That we eat thanks to them. And you don't know what to do?"
The old lady's real voice was hard to understand; she was so used to muttering to herself that it flowed out with the stillness and gravity of a sulphurous spring.
"…What your father or brother would have done, gone out to defend the mulatto and the boy, keep them from being taken away…If necessary, give up your life so they won't trample us into the dust…Are you going to do it, or shall I go, shitass?…Bring me the boy!…I want to speak to him…"
But the boy couldn't distinguish the voices, not even the faces: only the silhouettes behind the lace veil, now that Ludivinia, in a gesture of impatience, ordered Master Pedrito to light the candles. The boy moved away from the window and, walking on tiptoe, sought out the front of the big house, with its columns smeared with soot, with its forgotten terrace, where the hammock of Master Pedrito's bacchanals was hanging. And something else: above the lintel, held up by two rusty hooks, the shotgun Master Pedrito carried on his saddle that night in 1889, which he'd kept ever since, oiled and ready: here in the citadel of his cowardice, because he knew he'd never use it.
The twin barrels shone brighter than the white lintel. The boy crossed by it. What had been the main hall of the hacienda had lost its flooring and roof; the green light of the first hours of evening poured in, illuminating the grass and soot where a few frogs croaked, where pools of rainwater stood stagnant in the corners. From the opposite end of the house—what was left of the old kitchen—appeared the Indian Baracoa, with incredulous eyes. The boy hid his face in the shadow of the hall. He went out on the terrace and brought back a few adobe bricks, which he piled up to reach the shotgun. The voices grew louder. They reached him as a mix of thin fury and stuttered excuses. Finally, a tall shadow left the bedroom: the tails of his frock coat snapped in agitation, and his leather boots thundered on the tiles of the corridor. The boy didn't wait. He knew which path those feet would take; he ran, with the shotgun in his arms, along the path that led to the shack.
And Lunero was already waiting, far from the big house and the shack, in the spot where the red-dirt roads crossed. It was probably seven o'clock. He wouldn't be long in coming now. He peered up and down the highway. The agent's horse would raise a raging dust cloud. But not that distant roar, that double explosion Lunero heard behind him, which for an instant kept him from moving or thinking.
The boy crouched behind the branches with the shotgun in his hands, afraid the steps would find him. He saw the tight boots pass, the lead-colored trousers, and the tails of the frock coat—the same one he'd seen yesterday: he had no doubts when that faceless man walked into the shack and shouted, "Lunero!" And in that impatient voice the boy discerned the irritation and menace he'd noticed yesterday in the attitude of the frock-coated man looking for the mulatto. Who would be looking for the mulatto unless he was going to take him away by force? And the shotgun weighed heavy, with a power that prolonged the boy's silent rage: rage because now he knew that life had enemies and that it was not any longer the uninterrupted flow of river and work; rage because now he would know separation. The trouser-covered legs and the lead-colored frock coat emerged from the shack, and he took aim along the barrel and squeezed the trigger.
"Cruz! Son!" shouted Lunero as he neared Master Pedrito's shattered face, the shirtfront stained red, the false smile of sudden death. "Cruz!"
And the boy, as he came out of the bushes, trembling, had no way to recognize the face drenched in blood and dust, the face of a man he'd always seen from afar, almost undressed, with a jug tipped up and a torn undershirt over a hairless, pale chest. This man was not the other, just as he wasn't the gentleman who came down from Mexico City, elegant and neat: the one Lunero remembered; just as he wasn't the child caressed, sixty years before, by the hands of Ludivinia Menchaca. It was only a face without features, a blood-soaked shirtfront, a stupid grimace. Only the cicadas moved: Lunero and the boy stood still. But the mulatto understood. The master had died for him. And Ludivinia opened her eyes, moistened her index finger on her lips, and put out the candle on her night table. Almost on her knees, she walked to the window. Something had happened. The chandelier had tinkled again. Something had happened. For all eternity. Shaken by the double report. She heard the faraway voices until they faded and the insects started their chorus again. Only the cicadas. Baracoa crouched down in the kitchen; she let the fire go out and trembled to think that the time of gunpowder had returned. Ludivinia, too, stood still, until, in the silence, she was overcome by that thin fury and no longer fit in the enclosed bedroom. She went out stumbling, made smaller by the night sky that appeared through the holes in the burned-out great house—a small worm, white and wrinkled, stretching out her arms in hope of touching a human form that for thirteen years she knew to be close but which only now did she wish to touch and call by name instead of nurturing in thought alone: Cruz, Cruz without a real first or last name, baptized by the mulattoes with the syllables of Isabel Cruz or Cruz Isable, the mother who was run
off by Atanasio: the first woman on the property to give him a son. The old woman was unfamiliar with the night; her legs shook, but she insisted on walking, on dragging herself along with her arms spread, ready to find the last embrace of life. But only a sound of hooves and a cloud of dust approached. Only a sweaty horse which stopped with a whinny when Ludivinia's hunchback form crossed the road, and the agent shouted from the saddle: "Where did the boy and the black go, you stubborn old bitch? Tell me where they went, or I'll set the dogs and men on you!"
"Shitass," she said to the face she couldn't quite see high up on the saddle. "Shitass," she repeated with the snort of the horse near her raised fist.
The whip crossed her back, and Ludivinia fell to the ground as the horse whirled around, covering her with dust, galloping far off from the hacienda.
I know they've pierced my forearm with that needle; I scream before I feel any pain; the herald of that pain travels to my brain before my skin feels it…oh…to warn me of the pain I will feel…to put me on guard so that I realize what's happening…so that I feel the pain more intensely…because…realize…weakens…turns me into a victim…when I realize…the powers that will not consult me…will not take me into account…any longer: the pain organs…slower…overcome my reflex organs…pain which is no longer…that of the injection…but the same one…I know…that they're touching my stomach…carefully…my swollen stomach…doughy…blue…they touch it…I can't stand it…they touch it…with that soapy hand…that razor that shaves my stomach, my pubis…I can't stand it…I scream…I must scream…they hold me down…arms…shoulders…I shout to them to let me…let me die in peace…don't touch me…I will not allow you to touch…that inflamed stomach…sensitive…like a wounded eye…I will not allow…I don't know…they stop me…they support me…my intestines don't move…don't move, now I feel it, now I know…the gases build up, don't escape, are paralyzed…those liquids that ought to flow don't flow anymore…they swell me up…I know it…I have no temperature…I know it…I don't know where they're taking me, whom I can ask for help, directions, so I can get up and walk…I strain…I strain…the blood doesn't come…I know it doesn't get to where it should…it should have come out my mouth…out of my anus…it doesn't come out…they don't know…they're guessing…they palpate me…they palpate my pounding heart…they touch my pulseless wrist…I double up…I double up…they take me by the armpits…I'm going to sleep…I tell them…I ought to tell them before I go to sleep…I tell them…I don't know who they are…"We crossed the river…on horseback"…I smell my own breath…fetid…they lay me back…the door opens…the windows open…I run…they push me…I see the sky…I see the blurred lights that pass in front of my eyes…I touch…I smell…I see…I taste…I hear…they bring me…I pass next to…next to…along a corridor…decorated…they bring me…I pass, touching, smelling, tasting, seeing, smelling the sumptuous carvings—the opulent marquetry—the moldings made of stucco and gold—the dressers inlaid with bone and tortoiseshell—the metal plates and door handles—the paneled chests with iron keyholes—the aromatic benches of ayacahuite wood—the choir seats—the baroque crowns and skirts—the bowed seatbacks—the bronze nailheads—the worked leather—the cabriole claw-and-ball feet—the damask chairs—the chasubles of silver thread—the velvet sofas—the refectory tables—the cylinders and amphorae—the beveled card tables—the canopied, linen-covered beds—the fluted posts—the shields and orles—the merino-wool rugs—the iron keys—the paneled paintings—the silk and cashmere—the wools and taffeta—the crystal and the chandeliers—the handpainted china—the burnished beams—they will not touch that…that will not be theirs…my eyelids…I must raise my eyelids…open the windows…I turn over…big hands…enormous feet…I sleep…the lights that pass before my raised eyelids…the lights of heaven…open up the stars…I don't know…
You will be there, on the first ridges of the mountains behind you, which grow steadily in height and expanse…At your feet, the slope descends, still cloaked in leafy branches and nocturnal screeching, until it blends in with the tropical plain, the blue carpet of the night which will rise, round and encompassing…You will stop on the first platform of rock, lost in the nervous incomprehension of what has happened, of the end of a life which you secretly thought eternal…The life of the shack covered over by bell-shaped flowers, of swimming and fishing in the river, of candle-making, of the company of the mulatto Lunero…But facing your internal convulsion…one needle piercing your memory, another piercing your intuition of the future…this new world of the night and the mountain will open, and its dark light will begin to make its way in your eyes, also new, and dyed by what has ceased to be life in order to become memory, the memory of a boy who will now belong to the untamable, to something different from his own powers, to the wideness of the earth…Liberated from the fatality of a single place and birth…enslaved to another destiny, a new, unknown destiny which looms behind the mountain lit by stars. Sitting down, catching your breath, you will open to the vast, immediate panorama: the light of the sky crowded with stars will reach you constantly and forever…The earth will spin in its uniform course around its own axis and a controlling sun…the earth and moon will revolve around each other, around the opposite body, and both around the shared field of their weight…The entire royal court of the sun will move within its white belt and the stream of liquid dust will move before the external conglomerations, around this clear vault of the tropical night, in the perpetual dance of entwined fingers, in dialogue without direction and within the frontiers of the entire universe…and the winking light will go on bathing you, the plain, the mountain with a constancy alien to the movement of the star and the turning of the earth, its satellite, other heavenly bodies, the galaxy, the nebula; alien to the frictions, the cohesions, and the elastic movements that unite and compress the power of the world, of the rock, of your own united hands that night in a first exclamation of astonishment…You will want to fix your eyes on a single star and gather all its light, that cold light, as invisible as the widest band of light from the sun…but that light doesn't allow itself to be felt on human skin…You will squint your eyes, and in the night, as during the day, you will not see the true color of the world, forbidden to human eyes…You will become confused, distracted, in the contemplation of the white light that penetrates your pupil with a cutting, discontinuous rhythm…From all its springs, all the light of the universe will begin its swift, curved flight, bending itself around the fugitive presence of the sleeping bodies of the universe itself…By means of the mobile concentration of the tangible, the arcs of light will come together, separate, and create in their rapid permanence the complete contour, the framework…You will feel the lights arrive, and at the same time…the insignificant tastes of the mountain and the plain: myrtle, papaya, the huele-de-noche and the nightshade, the dwarf pineapple, the tulip-laurel, vanilla, the tecotehue, the wild violet, the mimosa, the tiger lily…you will clearly see them recede, all of them, farther and farther into the background, in a dizzying ebb of frozen islands…ever more distant from the first opening and the first shot…The light will run to your eyes; will run at the same time toward the most distant edge of space…You will dig your hands into the seat of rock and close your eyes…You will again hear the noise of the cicadas close by, the bleating of a lost flock…Everything in that eyes-closed instant will seem to move simultaneously forward, backward, and downward to the ground that holds it up…the flying buzzard linked to the pull of the deepest turn of the Veracruz River, then later poised on the immobility of a peak, ready for the flight that will rend the constancy of the stars in dark waves…And you will feel nothing…Nothing seems to move in the night: not even the buzzard will interrupt the quiet…The race, the spin, the infinite agitation of the universe will not be felt in your quiet eyes, feet, and neck…You will contemplate the sleeping earth…All the earth: rocks and mineral veins, the mass of the mountain, the density of the plowed fields, the river's current, men and hous
es, animals, birds, unknown strata of subterranean fire, they will all oppose the irreversible and imperturbable movement, but they will not be able to resist it…You will play with a chunk of rock as you wait for Lunero and the mule: you will toss it down the hill so that for a minute it will possess a swift, energetic life of its own—a small, wandering sun, a diminutive kaleidoscope of double lights…Almost as swift as light which gives it contrast; almost immediately a lost speck at the foot of the mountain, while the illumination of the stars continues streaming from its origins, imperceptibly, in absolute speed…Your ability to see fades in that lateral precipice into which the stone rolls…You will rest your chin on your fist, and your profile will lie on a line with the night horizon…You will be the new element of the landscape which will quickly disappear to seek the other side of the mountain, the uncertain future of its life…But here life will already have begun the next phase, ceasing to be the past…Innocence will perish, not at the hands of guilt, but at the hands of amorous astonishment…So high, so high, you've never been so high…You've never seen treetops from this angle…The accustomed nearness of the world hugging the river will be only a fraction of this unsuspected immensity…And you will not feel small as you contemplate and contemplate, in the serene idleness of uncertainty, the distant cloud banks, the undulating plane of the earth, and the vertical ascent of the sky…You will feel better…orderly and distant…You will not know yourself to be on new ground, emerged barely a few hours ago from the sea, to smash mountain chain against mountain chain and crumple itself like a piece of parchment squeezed by the powerful hand of the third epoch…You will feel tall at the top of the mountain perpendicular to the fields, parallel to the line of the horizon…And you will sense yourself in the night, in the lost angle of the sun: in time…There, far away, are those constellations really the way they look to the naked eye, one next to the other? Or does an uncountable time separate them?…Another planet will revolve above your head, and the time of the planet will be identical to itself: the obscure, distant rotation consummates itself, perhaps, in that instant, the only day of the only year, a mercurial measurement forever separated from the days of your years. Now that time will not be yours, just as the present of the stars you will contemplate again, seeing the past light of a different, perhaps dead, time, will also not be yours…The light your eyes will see will be only the ghost of the light that began its journey countless years ago, countless centuries: is that star still alive?…It will live as long as your eyes see it…And you will only know that it was already dead as you looked at it, the future night in which it ceases to reach your eyes—if it still exists—the light that really burst forth, in the now of the star, when your eyes contemplated the ancient light and thought to baptize it with your eyes…Dead in its origin what will be alive in your senses…Lost, burnt out, the wellspring of light that will go no traveling, now without origin, toward the eyes of a boy in a night in another time…In another time…Time that will be filled with life, actions, ideas, but never be the inexorable flow between the first milestone of the post and the last of the future…Time that will exist only in the reconstruction of isolated memory, in the flight of isolated desire, which will be lost once the chance to live is used up, incarnate in this singular individual that you are, a boy, already a moribund old man, who this night links together, in a mysterious ceremony, the tiny insects climbing the stones on the slope and the immense stars that spin silently above the infinite depth of space…Nothing will happen in the silent minute of earth, firmament, and you…Everything will exist, move, separate in a river of change which in that instant will dissolve it, age, and corrupt everything without a single voice to sound the alarm…The sun is burning itself alive, iron is crumbling into dust, aimless energy is dissipating in space, masses are wearing out in radiation, the earth is cooling into death…And you will wait for a mulatto and an animal, to cross the mountain and begin to live, to fill time, execute the steps and gestures of a macabre game in which life will advance as life dies; a dance of madness in which time will devour time and no one alive can halt, the irreversible course of death…The boy, the earth, the universe: in those three, someday there will be no light, on heat, on life…There will be only total, forgotten oneness, nameless, without a man to give it a name: space and time, matter and energy all fused into one…And all things will have the same name…None…But not yet…Men are still being born…You will still hear Lunero's long "Helloooo" and the sound of horseshoes on the the stone…Your heart will still beat in an accelerated rhythm, because you are conscious that after today the unknown adventure begins, the world is opening, offering you its time…You exist…You are standing on the mountain…You answer Lunero with a whistle…You are going to live…You are going to be the meeting point, the universal order's reason for being…Your body has a reason for being…Your life has a reason for being…You are, you will be, you were, the universe incarnate…For you, the galaxies will light up and the sun will burn…All so that you can love and live and be…So that you will find the secret and die without being part of it, because you will possess it only when your eyes close forever…You, standing there, Cruz, thirteen years old, at the edge of life…You, green eyes, thin arms, hair made coppery by the sun…You, friend of a forgotten mulatto…You will hear Lunero's long "Helloooo"…You will compromise the existence of the infinite, bottomless freshness of the universe…You will hear the horseshoes on the stone…In you, the star and the earth touch…You will hear the report of the rifle after Lunero's shout…Above your head will fall, as if returning from a voyage without origin or end in time, the promises of love and solitude, of hatred and effort, of violence and tenderness, of friendship and disillusion, of time and oblivion, of innocence and surprise…You will hear the silence of the night without Lunero's shout, without the echo of the horseshoes…In your heart, open to life, this night; in your open heart…
The Death of Artemio Cruz Page 31
