Do I even have a right, my love, to write to you, to leave a letter of love and desperation on your false grave? May I ask God to intercede, to tell me the truth, since no human being is willing to tell me anything? Wherever you are, think of how many times God hears us. Count for yourself, and you’ll see what the answer is. Never.
This makes me think of a heresy, Tomás, and I’ll tell it to you here, at your grave.
“How many times can we be expected to rescue God?”
I’ve reached the limits of my endurance. I will not resign myself, my love. I will not tell myself, “Tomás is dead. Accept it.”
No. Instead I spend my nights wide awake, saying to myself, “If no one but God can hear my questions, and even God says nothing, then what can I do to make Him answer me?”
Tomás, my love. Give me back my life. You made me who I am. I was someone else before you. Perhaps I was nothing before you. In your arms I became a woman. And now that I no longer have you with me, I have to hold back my tears because, if I cry, I know that something even worse will happen to me. Tears will release the sadness, the grief that I haven’t been able to express.
Will there be no resting place?
I love you, I love you, I think of you all the time.
I hear boleros on the café jukebox (radio and television aren’t working; newspapers are selling very well now), and I remember our love.
No me preguntes más
déjame imaginar
que no existe el pasado
y que nacimos
el mismo instante
en que nos conocimos. . . .1
But the music fades away when I walk through the cemetery gate and read the inscription at the entrance:
STOP: THE PROVINCE OF ETERNITY BEGINS HERE,
WHERE EARTHLY GRANDEUR TURNS TO DUST.
29
TÁCITO DE LA CANAL TO PRESIDENT LORENZO TERÁN
Mr. President, I thank God for the crisis we now find ourselves in, caused by the knee-jerk reaction of our neighbors to the north, since it gives me a chance to leave a written record of my loyalty to you. I applaud your decision to place lasting principles above and beyond any and all other transient considerations. I know all too well that for you our ultimate purposes must always be ethical. There can be no other way. All I need is to look at your hands, Mr. President, to know that they’re capable of making miracles happen. You have a kind of sixth sense that other humans lack. And that intuition will have told you that I’m here to protect you and to prevent certain people from getting near you, people who might inconvenience you. Or, dare I add, people who aren’t humbled by your presence. You know, sir, that I obey your orders before you even utter them. And to this virtue I add another. Keeping things in strict confidence is a habit I’ve cultivated all my life. What I’m trying to say is that you can place your utmost trust in me. I know that I owe everything to you, and that by doing anything to hurt you I would only be hurting myself. I reiterate my position so that in the upcoming presidential succession of 2024, you remember that you will face opponents who wish to remain in opposition indefinitely because they are so scared of actually exercising power. But you will also encounter people like me who are already close to the nucleus of power but have never felt any ambition to wield power themselves. That’s why, Mr. President, I feel I can speak to you with truly impartial conviction.
Bear in mind, Mr. President, that you should possess the imperial gift of inflexibility. Let other people be the good guys. You don’t have the right to be a good guy. The people of this country will get down on their knees in respectful tribute to power, but they will not accept bonhomie and much less artlessness in a presidential figure. We respect the emperor, we respect Montezuma, we respect the Spanish viceroy, and we respect the dignified dictator honored by the rest of the world, like Porfirio Díaz was. And also, of course, we respect the rightful, legitimate man, defender of the nation and distinguished citizen of the Americas, don Benito Juárez. Can you think of anyone more solemn than he? Have you ever heard a single joke about Juárez? Didn’t he go down in history as Juárez the Impassive? Didn’t Juárez come up with that saying: “For one’s friends, justice and grace. For one’s enemies, the law”?
By this I don’t mean to imply that solemnity is synonymous with imperial arrogance—it’s synonymous with republican sobriety, but illuminated with the glowing halo of monarchy. Yes, let’s always be a hereditary republic, a monarchy with a six-year cycle, and in the interest of that tradition we must make sure we maintain the dignity of the presidential throne and restrict access to it as much as possible. For this reason, I venture to offer you a bit of advice regarding certain members of the cabinet who like to brag about their “access” to your office and who are perhaps a bit too chummy with you. Mr. President, don’t engage with inferiors. Always show them their place. Don’t listen to their biased advice—because there’s no such thing as unbiased advice when the person being advised is the president of the nation.
Mr. President, I work for you. I’m no different from the majority of our compatriots. Every good Mexican works for you. Because if things go well for the president, things go well for Mexico. Allow me to tell you, then, that at this particular political hour here in this country, there are eight small parties. And then there is you.
The gloppy guacamole that results from this abundance of small parties can only be eaten with the spoon of a strong president who knows how to take advantage of it. Put this idea to the test, Mr. President, now that the elections are looming. Mexicans don’t know how to govern themselves. History has proven this. Just watch them welcome the message of your renewed authority with gratitude and relief. I tell you this in the spirit of democracy. There’s no such thing as a soft-core dictatorship that doesn’t eventually degenerate into hard-core tyranny. You’re better off the other way around: starting hard and degenerating into something softer.
Please forgive my bluntness. I’m a guard dog, I know. I accept my role with humility. You, on the other hand, may act according to the free will your position grants you. But what would you think of a cabinet chief—a position I’m honored to have been conferred—who didn’t speak to you honestly? On a more humorous note, let me tell you that I’m not like the secretary who was asked the following question by the general, president, and head of state Plutarco Elías Calles: “What time is it?” To which the secretary responded, “Whatever time you say it is, Mr. President.”
I am a man who is accustomed to doing things he dislikes.
Use me as you wish.
30
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
My fair lady, there is someone I believe I’ve mentioned before: Penélope, the secretary who works in Tácito de la Canal’s office. Her full name is Penélope Casas and she’s a female freighter. She moves through the office like a transatlantic ship on the high seas, supervising the administrative tasks and cheering the girls on (for the lack of cheer in that office is as deadly as Tácito’s bad breath), acting sometimes as their confidante and counselor, and at other times as a shoulder for them to cry on. You see, Penélope has a heart as big as her bosom, and her bosom is covered by a shawl the size of a flag. Her dark-skinned face is dotted with pockmarks, the vestiges of childhood smallpox, which she halfheartedly conceals with a layer of matte powder. Her lips are heavily painted, as if to distract the eye, and presided over by two dense eyebrows joined in the middle like the celebrated eyebrows of Frida Kahlo. And as for her hair, María del Rosario, I think our lofty Aztec goddess must get up at four in the morning to create those rib-boned braids, those tottering towers that crown her head, and that torrent of bangs that hides her narrow, low forehead.
I’m telling you all this only to emphasize the very powerful figure cut by our bureaucratic goddess Coatlicue, so that you can imagine how shocked I was to find her yesterday absolutely motionless, wracked with sobs, the tears soaking the tissue under her forlorn face.
“Doña Penélope, wha
t’s the matter?”
She couldn’t stop crying. She raised her fist, which was clutching some papers, and only after a moment or two was she able to say, “Totally worthless, Mr. Valdivia, like the Argentinian patacón, toilet paper, that’s what those shares are worth—nothing at all! Less than a pack of Kleenex!”
She passed me the handful of papers. They were shares of Mexicana de Energía, the utility company that declared bankruptcy yesterday and put thousands of small-time shareholders in the poorhouse—all the humble shareholders who put their faith in the privatization of the national energy company during the presidency of César León, who followed the example of Fidel Castro when he allowed foreign companies to invest in energy, a smoke screen that effectively shushed the noisy Mexican nationalists.
As it happens, MEXEN declared bankruptcy yesterday, putting shareholders like Penélope out on the street. MEXEN’s investors, of course, had already earned themselves millions by keeping their mouths shut about the imminent bankruptcy and selling their own shares when they were still worth something.
I’m telling you things you already know, my dear lady, so that I can get to the part you don’t know.
Let me take it step by step.
When MEXEN was structured as a private company during the days of César León, the directors put a number of shares up for sale— in the usual fashion, the kind of shares Penélope bought. But at the same time, in order to lure some very robust companies (insurers, banks, industry) to invest in MEXEN, the board gave these companies the assurance of confidential information that would allow them—at the very least—to double their initial investment in a matter of months. To this end, MEXEN was created as a double company. One was the public company open to small-time shareholders. The other was the secret company reserved for the investors with the deepest pockets.
Small shareholders like Penélope did not have access to the more privileged company. In fact, they didn’t even know it existed.
How did I learn all this? Through our archivist don Cástulo Magón.
Borne by the sea of Penélope’s tears, I said to Cástulo, “Get me the MEXEN file.”
The old man replied, “Which one?”
I was taken aback by his response.
“How many are there?” I asked.
“Well, there are three. There are the official files, the confidential files, and the ‘shredded wheat.’ ”
“The ‘shredded wheat’?”
“Yes. The files they told me to destroy. Shredded, you know.”
“And why didn’t you do it?”
“Oh, sir, I respect these documents.”
Impassive, I let him go on.
“Did you know that don Benito Juárez, fleeing the French occupation forces, went from the capital to the northern border with three stagecoaches packed solid with the official papers of the republic?”
“Yes, Cástulo, I did know that. But what does that have to do with anything?”
The old man was flushed with pride.
“A paper that finds its way to my hands is a paper that never disappears, sir.” And puffing out his chest, he added, “In my hands, a document is sacred. It will never be lost, I assure you.”
“Do the people upstairs know about this loyalty of yours?”
“It isn’t loyalty to anyone, don Nicolás. It is my duty to the nation and to history.”
And how were the famous documents classified? Well, those that were available for consultation were filed under “Mexicana de Energía (MEXEN).” The secret documents, under “Privatization Models.” And the ones don Cástulo had hung on to had no title at all, except for the aforementioned breakfast cereal, “shredded wheat.”
I’ve had a feverish night, María del Rosario, reconstructing the shady deals of the MEXEN board. I summarize them herewith. The executives reserve their confidential information for the big investors, keeping the small-time shareholders in the dark. For example: The big investors were once informed that the company owned about a hundred companies that were not going to go public so that they could keep the dividends under wraps, and thereby avoid distributing the profits. MEXEN is a cover, a smoke screen for interconnected investments yielding exponential earnings.
These operations don’t appear on the company’s quarterly balance sheets. MEXEN discloses its profits to its small, highly privileged group of investors, not to the masses of poorly informed shareholders. In short, the company’s main profits favor one group over the other.
The name of the game is confidentiality. But the managers are playing a triple game, because they’re cheating both shareholders and investors for their own personal gain. A matter of hiding certain conflicts of interest. If you invest legitimately in MEXEN, your money may go to a company that doesn’t allow public investment, or one that is the government’s exclusive domain. Neither the small shareholders nor the big investors know this. The former are kept happy with minor earnings and the latter with major earnings. Nobody asks any questions. But the MEXEN managers can be company employees and principal partners at the same time. They distribute 10 percent of the earnings for their shareholders, and keep 90 percent for themselves.
How? By multiplying dual companies. For example, MEXEN Subsidiary A is really a part of Subsidiary B but the directors tell everyone that they’re two different companies. When Subsidiary A takes a dip in profits, alleging failed agreements with Subsidiary B (which is nevertheless a simple mask for Company A), the directors of A keep the real profits and make the shareholders absorb B’s imaginary losses as if they were A’s losses. Meaning: A is not the partner that has been hurt by B. It is exactly the same as B, but makes B take the hit for its losses. The directors and big investors keep the profits. And the losses are passed on to shareholders like Penélope.
But these con men have gone even further, María del Rosario. They created a Company C in order to attract investment and make loans to Company A. Company A promises to issue more shares in the event that C’s investments fall, to keep C solvent. Company B invests millions in Company C, and Company C in turn invests in Company A.
But this is where the mistakes and the catastrophes start piling up. Company A forces Company B to buy stocks at fixed prices in six months to protect itself from an eventual drop in the market. B gets ahead and buys when the price is low, earning millions. Company A protects itself by selling shares to C. But when the value of the shares in fact drops, Company A gives shares to C in order to keep the entire operation solvent. And then Company A begins to issue more and more shares, devaluing those held by people like Penélope.
At this point the big guys have already made their killing, having taken in millions at the shareholders’ expense. This means they’re now free to declare bankruptcy because they’ve already made their astronomical profits. And anyway, at that point, the best thing for everyone is to wrap up the little game and start a new one before they fall into one of their own traps.
It’s like the story of the fox that knows all the traps the hunters have laid out for him, but doesn’t know that the trap he himself laid down to trick the hunters will be precisely the thing that nails him in the end.
María del Rosario, one of the advantages of a bureaucracy like ours is that the archivists never change because nobody ever thinks of them. They’re forgotten pawns or, depending on the circumstance, people who are easily sacrificed on the great chessboard. And the swift bishops of the game know that the pawns are unaware of their own value. What I mean is, they don’t know what they have in their own archives. María del Rosario, the humble archivist don Cástulo Magón has just determined the outcome of the presidential succession in Mexico.
“Where did these documents come from, don Cástulo?”
“Don Tácito de la Canal handed them to me personally.”
“Did he tell you to keep them a secret?”
“No, not at all. He knows he can trust me with anything. Only once did he ever say to me: ‘Destroy these papers. They’re of no consequ
ence. We are going to drown in all these ridiculous papers.’ ”
Don Cástulo ran his hand across the little hair-bridge he combs over his balding head.
I almost said to him, “He could have destroyed them himself.”
Again I thought of Nixon. Of how every last testimony had to be saved, even the criminal kind, even if only for two reasons. Politicians think all their actions have tremendous historical importance. And they are arrogant enough to think they’re above the law. And perhaps, as well, they mysteriously fear they will be discovered as the bureaucrat who destroyed documents. Here, of course, the guilty party would be poor old Cástulo.
But when don Cástulo handed me the pile of incriminating papers, there was yet another surprise. The documents had the name “Tácito de la Canal” written on them, in his own handwriting. And that, my dear lady, was when I had to ask myself, “Why would a criminal ever sign papers that would single him out as perpetrator of a colossal fraud?”
31
MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN TO NICOLÁS VALDIVIA
Your information, my cherished friend, is priceless. It makes me want to go running out to the palace balcony, ring the Independence Bell, and proclaim the truth for all the world to hear. In politics, however, timing is everything. In fact, politics is all about knowing how to gauge the moment. Easier said than done. It’s hard to reconcile intelligence and passion in the interest of fulfilling one’s obligations.
You and I have agreed that our task is to prevent Tácito de la Canal from becoming president. And finally, thanks to you, we have the cards we need to play. We can forget about insulting Tácito. People forget insults. Hatred simmers. Irritation boils over. Frustration is unacceptable and unwittingly gives way to chaos, which then causes people to behave irrationally, and that encourages the most dangerous and counterproductive political adventures. In other words, let us proceed according to some kind of method. Our poor country has suffered too long from endemic dysfunction. It has endured almost constant starvation and demoralization. Oh, Mexico: so many wounds, and so little time for them to heal.
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