I already knew that for the Old Man declarations of conviction came, like hors d’oeuvres, before the main course.
“You know something, Valdivia? I’m tired of keeping secrets that most people have already forgotten or don’t care about. So a president’s brother had his wife’s lover killed and then was poisoned to death? Mystery! So some stripper rammed a guitar into the face of a jealous ex-president and left him with only one eye? Mystery! So a certain ex-president was ruined by a dozen women who conspired to abandon him under the sun on a deserted beach until he burned to a crisp? Mystery! Anecdotes from our national political comedy. You tell me if anyone cares about these things now.”
With his index finger he lifted up the silent parrot and stroked his many-colored feathers.
“There are other secrets, however, that could change the course of history if they ever got out.”
He closed his mouth. The parrot returned to its spot on the Old Man’s shoulder. I kept my expression blank.
“In politics,” he went on, “one mustn’t let the train guide the driver.
María del Rosario sent you here for your baptism of fire. That was what she said, the old bitch. Really she sent you here to find out my secret. And you found out nothing. You went back each time with a heap of advice. A bag of potatoes.”
Then he did something unusual. He tossed his cane aside, and it clattered against the floor. Now, I said to myself, everyone will turn around and look at us. But no. Nobody flinched. The pact between the Old Man and the regulars under the arches was indestructible. He grabbed my fist and with the strength of an athlete tightened his grip until my hand hurt. Strangely, I started to imagine him naked, to wonder what his muscles were like, because at his age flesh usually sags, everything goes soft, but that old man pressed his iron fist around mine with a vigor that seemed to come from his head and his balls.
“Not this time, Valdivia. Not this time.”
What did he mean? The parrot stayed mysteriously silent, as if the Old Man had filled him with Nembutal, or perhaps the parrot knew when to play the fool and distract people, and when to behave with what the Old Man’s nemeses, the French, refer to as sagesse— a wisdom that is knowledge, experience, restraint, and courtesy.
“You know, the dirty and the sacred have something in common. We don’t touch either,” he said, gazing at the parrot instead of me.
The rings under his eyes seemed to darken further.
“Do you remember Tomás Moctezuma Moro?”
I was almost offended by the question. Moro was the candidate who had won the 2012 presidential election and then was assassinated before taking office. New elections had been held while the country was still in shock, and in 2013 the colorless president of the Emergency Coalition was sworn into office—a dull, forgettable secondhand president known only for his inefficiency, his obliging transience, his weakness. Congress governed during that period, and governed badly. United at first in elevating a Mr. Nobody to the presidency, they quickly reverted to a gorilla guerrilla war, so to speak. Congress dictated policy to the best of their knowledge and belief, and the president—what was his name, for God’s sake?—simply obeyed, his fingers crossed.
That’s why Lorenzo Terán sparked so much enthusiasm in 2017, when his strength and personality—so evident, so strong—carried him to the presidency on a wave of triumph and hope. He won 75 percent of the votes, the remaining 25 percent divided among the small parties that had long since been unable to inspire the voters.
Tomás Moctezuma Moro. A forgotten moment. Another political ghost. A presence yesterday, a specter today.
“An honest man,” the Old Man said. “I can vouch for that. He thought of himself as the Hercules who was going to clean the stables of Mexican politics. And I warned him, ‘It’s dangerous to be really honest in this country. Honesty may be admirable but it ends up becoming a vice. You have to be flexible about corruption. I know you’re honest, Tomás, but close your eyes—like divine justice—to the corruption around you. Remember, first, that corruption lubricates the system. Most politicians, government employees, contractors, et al. won’t have another opportunity to get rich once the six-year presidential term is over. They’ll go back to oblivion. But they want to be forgotten, so that nobody accuses them of anything, and rich, so that nobody bothers them. Then another gang of villains will turn up, but denying them the chance to pocket anything would be a mistake.
“ ‘What you need,’ I told Tomás, ‘is to surround yourself with opportunists because you can control the corrupt. It’s the pure man who’s the problem, he’s the one who just gets in your way. In Mexico there should be only one honest man, the president, surrounded by a lot of tolerated and tolerable yes-men who in six years’ time will disappear from the political map.
“ ‘The bad thing about you,’ I said to Tomás Moctezuma Moro, ‘is that you want the map and the land to match. Look, live at peace in the center of the map and let the corruption brokers cultivate the land.’ ”
The Old Man sighed and I could almost feel a tremor in the hand that was still pressing down on mine with incredible strength.
“He didn’t listen to me, Valdivia. He proclaimed his redemptive intentions right, left, and center. That way, he believed, he’d gain the greatest popular support. And he was acting out of conviction, without a doubt. He was going to put an end to corruption. He said it was the lowest form of stealing from the poor. That’s what he said. The thieves were going to go to jail. The poor would have protection against abuse.
“ ‘Slow down, Tomás,’ I told him. ‘They’re going to crucify you if you go around playing the redeemer. Don’t announce what you intend to do. Do those things when you’re sitting on the Throne, just like Cárdenas did. Don’t destroy the system. You’re part of it. Good or bad, it’s the only one we’ve got. What are you going to replace it with? You can’t just invent something overnight. Be satisfied with making an example of a few scapegoats at the beginning of your term. Make a moral statement early on and then you can rest.’ But he didn’t listen to me. He was a messiah. He believed in what he was saying.”
I was stunned. He crossed himself.
“Who killed him, Valdivia? The list of potential murderers is as enormous as the cast of The Ten Commandments. Do you remember? Drug traffickers. Local bosses. Governors. Local presidents. Corrupt judges. Crooked policemen. Bankers fearful that Moro would take away the public subsidies that financed their private incompetence. Union leaders afraid that Moro would force them to be voted in and approved by their union members. Truck drivers overpricing their merchandise. Millers exploiting the corn-producing local farmers. Loggers turning forests into deserts. New landowners controlling land, seeds, and tractors while impoverished farmers continued to use the ox and the wooden plow.”
Did the Old Man sigh, or was it the parrot?
“The list is endless, I tell you. Then add the mystics, all those mad-men who want to save the country by killing presidents. And then the international conspiracy theories. The gringos scared that Mexico would get out of hand because they knew they weren’t going to have an easy time manipulating Moro. And as always the Cubans—both the ones in Miami afraid that Moro would help Castro, and the ones in Havana afraid that Moro, apostle of human rights that he was, would make problems for Castro. The list of problems went on and on . . .”
Now he looked me in the eye.
“I’ve never met a politician who made as many enemies as quickly as Moro did. He was a thorn in everyone’s side. I told him that he had too many enemies, that he was an obstacle for everyone, that he was in danger. . . .”
He didn’t let go of my hand. But his eyes weren’t his. They were the eyes of the night, of a bat, of prison.
“I ordered the murder of Tomás Moctezuma Moro.”
Need I tell you why you must destroy this tape? And why I had to communicate with you so urgently?
I love you,
N.
52
NICOL�
�S VALDIVIA TO TÁCITO DE LA CANAL
Sir: I’ll be brief. This letter will be delivered to you by Jesús Ricardo Magón, whom I trust implicitly. I won’t waste time on matters you and I know about already. I simply want to warn you that the incriminating documents are in my possession, and well protected.
Someone as undeniably intelligent as you will understand why I’m not going to make them public. If they were to become public knowledge that would be the end of any higher political aspirations for you. Such a scandal would seriously impede your candidacy. President Téran was aware of this. Your rival the ex-secretary of the interior, Bernal Herrera, whose position I have the honor of filling, knows. María del Rosario Galván, whom you have treated in such an ungentlemanly way, also knows, but given her fine political mind, she understands that it’s better to lose you, Mr. De la Canal, and to see you retire from public life. In exchange, those of us who know about your objectionable dealings will maintain a discreet silence.
The papers will remain locked away for one simple reason. They incriminate too many people. Bankers, administrators, and businessmen who are more useful to the country stimulating growth than purging their sins in the Almoloya jail. After all, what did their indiscretions in the MEXEN deal really amount to? Streams in a mighty river of investments, tributaries of the river of essential capital and savings that the country needs to move forward.
There are two things you have to weigh here: On one hand, Mexico’s progress; on the other hand, your guilt. Which is heavier? You’re going to say you’re not the only guilty party. Are you spiteful enough to drag down your accomplices? As for me, I think we will all be better off if everyone keeps their composure and remains silent. Also, I think it would be a good idea for you to take a long vacation. A permanent vacation, I would even suggest. Acapulco is surely more tempting than Almoloya. And we won’t say anything to your mischievous little friends, neither you nor I. Why don’t we just leave them in peace? What I’ll do is promote stricter laws governing the management of publicly and privately held companies, in the interest of eliminating fraud and insider trading, ensuring access to corporate accounting data and severely punishing the PDGs (excuse the French, that means Présidents Directeurs Généraux) who sell shares at high prices weeks before they plummet, knowing that those who take advantage of inflated prices, like the despicable Bush Jr. and Cheney, get out in time, leaving the smaller investors to take the hit. Like that woman Penélope Casas, who worked in your office. Do you remember her?
I propose to establish a presumption of guilt jure et de jure for those corporate pirates, so that it will be up to them to prove their innocence in court. I repeat: I’m going to protect the small-time investor who was cheated for lack of information, confidential information that the company chiefs and their accountants possessed. But I’m going to look to the future, not the past. Punishing the past only shows an inability to manage in the present, or plan ahead. I won’t make that mistake. But your file still exists, de la Canal, and it contains the evidence of a crime that we might be forced to expose, not to condemn the past but for the sake of the future.
Consider yourself warned. I won’t initiate any action against you or any of your co-conspirators in fraud. However, if you start making waves, either to save your own skin (which would be very imprudent), to get buried along with your accomplices, or to have the masochistic satisfaction of taking others down with you as you kill yourself . . . in that case, Mr. De la Canal, the full weight of the law will come crashing down on your bald head.
Consider yourself, then, under the sword of Damocles.
I remain your loyal and steadfast servant,
Nicolás Valdivia
UNDERSECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR
53
TÁCITO DE LA CANAL TO ANDINO ALMAZÁN
Mr. Secretary, my esteemed friend, I turn to you from the bottom of the pit into which my political enemies have thrown me. That is the state of things. Some win, some lose. But in politics there are many twists and turns. Perhaps my present disgrace and the low profile I’m being forced to maintain are in fact the best possible mask for me to use as I prepare my surprise comeback.
They say all is fair in love and war. I’d say the same goes for politics and business. I know that the undersecretary of the interior, a former subordinate of mine, has sent you a series of documents that implicate me in the MEXEN case. He himself has told me that he’s not going to pursue me because I would drag too many other powerful people down with me. I claimed that I was only following the orders of the president, César León.
Nicolás Valdivia looked at me coldly.
“The president is untouchable. The secretary is not.”
“Principles are good servants of bad masters.”
“That’s true, Mr. De la Canal. Don’t worry, from now on your hands will be clean. Because you won’t have any hands. . . .”
I do not surrender, Secretary Almazán. Not even if they were to cut off my hands, because I’d still have feet to kick with. I’ve spoken to the other people involved mentioned by Valdivia, to remind them that we’re in this together. That I only signed those papers under orders from President César León.
They laughed at me. Below I offer a literal transcription of the conversation I had with the banker most deeply involved in the complex MEXEN business scheme.
“I’ve come to discuss the MEXEN affair,” I said to him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The MEXEN shares.”
“But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”
“Excuse me?” I admit I was shocked, but I knew what he was playing at, and said, “No. That’s why I’ve come here. To find out about it.”
“If I were you, I’d stay in the dark. You’ll be better off.”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Because it’s secret,” he conceded for a moment, like a fisherman dangling a worm in front of a fish, and then ended by saying, “And it’s best to leave it at that.”
“Secret?” I said, giving away my shock. “Secret for me, who made it all possible with my signature?”
“You were just a tool,” he responded, barely hiding his scorn.
“For what purpose?”
“For keeping the deal secret.”
He looked straight through me, as if I were a window.
“Don’t lose your grip, Mr. De la Canal.”
“But I . . .”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
I haven’t given up, Mr. Almazán. I spoke to one of the press barons. He owes me, a man who always found the doors to President Lorenzo Terán’s office open, thanks to me.
I’ll be brief.
When I asked him to defend me, at least by publishing a favorable profile of me, and maybe launching a personal rehabilitation campaign, he said, “A good journalist should never annoy his readership by eulogizing. He should only attack. Praise is boring.”
I admit I was furious, Andino.
“You owe me a lot.”
“True. The powerful always need charity.”
“All it takes is an order to one of your lackeys. . . .”
“Mr. de la Canal! I’ve never done anything like that! My contributors are independent!”
“Do you want me to prove the opposite?” I shouted, indignant. “Do you want me to bribe one of your journalists?”
I expected a cold stare from the businessman. Instead, he looked at me with the charity he’d just mentioned.
“Mr. de la Canal. My journalists are not dishonest. They’re incapable of being dishonest.”
I know that what I’m transcribing could damage me and tarnish my image. But I haven’t got many rounds of ammunition left, Mr. Almazán.
In truth I have only one.
Let me be frank. I’ve come to respect and admire you—and your family. You’re lucky to have a devoted wife, Josefina, and three lovely little girls, Teté, Talita, and Tutú. What you don’t have is much of a bank account.
You live off your salary and your wife’s inheritance— what remains of one of the old agave fortunes of the Yucatán’s “Divine Caste.” . . .
I have a proposition. The fact that the MEXEN deal failed doesn’t rule out the possibility of other profitable ventures. Perhaps my political fortune is in the doghouse right now, but a good deal is always a good deal. And although I’m no longer in power, you still are—in charge of public finances, no less—which means that you can generate the kind of money required for something one might call an investment opportunity.
This is my plan.
Through a publicly held company you and I will offer investors with good credit ratings the chance to acquire mortgages that have been preapproved by the authorities (that is, you, Mr. Secretary) with the promise that, as of a certain date, they may be sold to any bank at a profit of two percent. In other words, guaranteed profits and very little risk. There won’t be any shortage of sharks or sardines for this venture because before the first period of investment’s up, you and I will recruit new investors, and with the money we get from them, we’ll pay the dividends to the first group, who’ll be very happy—and taken in.
The first group of investors will be grateful for the profits and will help us recruit new partners. The new partners will inject the necessary money to pay the dividends out to the previous group of investors.
This way, Andino, we’ll ensure a financial pyramid in which we attract new investment because of the profits of the existing investors, and quickly build up capital.
Unfortunately, the number of investors isn’t limitless, and once people stop investing in the pyramid it’ll collapse like a house of cards.
You and I, however, will have made our pile by extracting the profits at each stage of the operation. Then the company will be declared insolvent, we’ll be in the hands of the bankruptcy laws, and the company will be given an administration order rather than going into liquidation.
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