Then there’s the question of our two official rivals, María del Rosario Galván and Bernal Herrera.
Their calculations are correct. In the democratic elections to be held in July 2024, Herrera will win. Nobody could possibly challenge him successfully. And you yourself are out of the running because of your present position. There’s no way you can succeed yourself.
In the space of fourteen years, from the age of twenty to thirty-four, you acquired an impressive education, what with your natural talent and my guidance and teaching. Now, however, I have to give you a piece of advice. Don’t be so precocious. Don’t reveal your true colors by shining too brightly now. Remember how the Old Man tried to trick you a couple of times—the Pastry War, Mapy Cortés, the conga, pim-pam-pum? You had no reason to know anything about Mapy Cortés or the conga. But you should have known about the Pastry War. Be careful. Don’t overestimate your newfound education. Don’t ever give anyone a reason to scratch your gold-plated surface and discover a baser metal beneath. Don’t give people cause for jealousy. Keep quiet about your education. Keep the illicit activity in check. It’s not always justified. We’re doing everything possible to consolidate our power base. But it has to stop there. A few dead people now and then? Only when absolutely necessary. You’ve already seen what it did to Arruza’s reputation. He was so busy showing off about his criminal activity that he never stopped to think that someone else might beat him at his own game, that someone would kill the great Cícero Arruza. And Moro—he had to be killed. But you made a mistake sending “Dark Hand” Vidales—he’s vindictive and convinced that his dynastic succession will keep the vendettas alive. You thought you were compromising him with your own guilt when you sent him to Ulúa. Don’t believe it. He’s the one who could compromise you. He’s going to give us a few headaches. What we have to do now is think of how best to neutralize him. Poisonous gifts, that’s what we have to give that viper. From now on, we have to seduce him to the point of putting him to sleep. Presidential lethargy has its advantages, you know. Terán just didn’t know how to exploit it. You need to figure out how not to be perceived as a violent man—make sure whatever violence you resort to is carried out in the name of “justice.” And be careful to keep the moment of truth at bay. But don’t think for a minute that the time for violence in Mexico is over.
My son, my beloved son. Surely you can understand the depth of my feelings—the feelings of a father who lost a precious—unequaled— woman, your mother, to the tyranny and brutal prejudice of her family, the Barrosos. She was the fragile altar of my strongest passion. Let the two of us rebuild this temple ruined by the lies, pretension, greed, and arrogance of the unscrupulous ruling class epitomized by the Barroso family, whose only heir is the perverse María del Rosario Galván. Do you think I’ll allow her to scheme in peace? Why should we have scruples with people who are unscrupulous with us?
Always remember: María del Rosario is from up there, the same social class as your mother. Think of María del Rosario as your mother, but with a fortune, mistress of a life that was denied Michelina. Avenge your mother’s cruel fate on María del Rosario.
I will take care of Bernal Herrera.
You are my creation, Nicolás. My heir. My partner. Together we’ll win. It’s all that matters: attaining power and keeping it forever.
Nicolás Valdivia, my son, power unites us as a longing for the truth. You and I are going to take possession of that truth.
I want to give you one more piece of advice. From now on, don’t let anyone find out what you’re thinking—not even me. Especially if you plan to betray me.
I promise you: In politics, any betrayal is possible. Or at least imaginable.
67
CONGRESSMAN ONÉSIMO CANABAL TO NICOLÁS VALDIVIA
Mr. President, I write to you in the strictest confidence. And with alarm. The heart and soul of the Congress of the Union have been violated. Well, only one office, but Congress is, after all, an inviolable whole. It is the sanctuary of the law, Mr. President. In any event, today I woke up to an urgent phone call from the building custodian, Serna.
In the middle of the night, someone entered the San Lázaro Legislative Palace. Someone deactivated the alarms, slipped past the guards, perhaps bribed the security people. I don’t know. Someone with power, evidently. Mr. President: The office of our friend the congresswoman Paulina Tardegarda, the woman to whom you and I are so indebted, has been ransacked. Her safe deposit box has been wrenched, yes, literally and completely wrenched out of the wall, leaving a gaping hole in its place, which makes the office look awful—we ’ll have to have the whole wall rebuilt, do you realize how much this will cost? (Speaking of expenses, when are you going to name a new treasury secretary now that Andino Almazán has left us?)
The worst thing isn’t that the safe deposit box has been stolen. The honorable congresswoman has disappeared, Mr. President. She isn’t at her apartment on Calle Edgar Allan Poe. Her housekeeper says she didn’t come home last night. We’ve already launched an investigation, on the quiet, of course. But she’s nowhere to be found. She’s vanished without a trace.
What could possibly have become of her? Do you know anything? If it were just that she’d taken a sudden vacation, or was having a good time with someone—well, fine. But the safe deposit box, too, Mr. President? The two things at the same time are what I find most alarming.
I need to know from you. Should we put out a national alert because Paulina Tardegarda has gone missing? Poor thing. She was no saint, but she wasn’t a sinner, either. I can’t imagine anyone would kidnap her out of passion—she wasn’t exactly attractive. She was big enough to kidnap someone herself if she wanted to.
In any case, I need you to authorize the national alert. I can’t do it; only you can. Otherwise, her remains will never be found. Or else they’ll turn up in a witch’s garden, and then turn out not to be hers. Or Paulina will have suddenly undergone plastic surgery like the famous drug trafficker, the “Lord of the Heavens.” Forgive me if this is out of line, don Nicolás, but you know, I think she had the hots for you. . . . Oh, sorry, sorry, who knows, maybe she was just trying to make herself a bit prettier. Poor Paulina, she could use it. . . .
Well, anyway, enough of all that. You do agree that this is a most urgent matter, I trust. I await your orders to take action or to let the issue die, whatever the president thinks best.
Your humble and loyal servant,
Onésimo Canabal
PRESIDENT OF THE HONORABLE CONGRESS OF THE UNION
68
BERNAL HERRERA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
You’re right, María del Rosario. They’ve changed the rules of the game. Valdivia may appear to respect the electoral calendar but I don’t believe there’s anything in his head or heart that will compel him to hand over the presidency on the first of December, 2024, if in fact I’m elected. We have a problem: There’s no viable politician out there to challenge my candidacy. Tácito, at least, would have been from the presidential cabinet like me. The mini-parties have no charismatic candidates to speak of. The local bosses will support whoever offers them the most protection. The danger for me is that I may end up alone out there. I’ll stand out, my stature will only make me vulnerable. The bad thing about being tall, said de Gaulle, is that we’re people who get noticed. His conclusion? “Tall men have to be more moral than anyone else.”
You once said to me, referring to Tácito, that hatred is more intelligent than love. And I’m going to keep on protecting myself from the illustrious Mr. De la Canal. I don’t trust his newfound humility. He wears it as if he just found it at a flea market. The filial love he professes is not to be trusted. Only believe in his loyalty to sex. According to my sources, he’s already seduced his father’s maid, a woman who calls herself “Gloria Marín.” Oh, well, as you once said to me, “Fidelity is so sad!”
María del Rosario, you and I are going to continue to act as a team, but this time we’ll be at a disadvantage. Don�
�t laugh at me if I warn you against any attempt to rekindle our old flame. It’s better to be frank. Falling in love again would only demonstrate that as a political couple we’ve suffered a setback and are trying to compensate for it. It would be proof of our weakness and disillusion.
I’m telling you this as a preventive measure. You seem to have become more sentimental lately, and perhaps that could help our situation. I have, too, and I’m tempted by the idea that you and I might be able to love each other again, the way we did at the beginning.
But it would be a weakness, and you know that. We’d be together only in order to lick each other’s wounds. We’d console each other today. And detest each other tomorrow.
Take a cold look at what our relationship was like at first. I only wanted to give you love. You wanted to want love. I believe the only kind of love that would satisfy you is a love that is pure desire. You couldn’t bear a secure, everyday affection. Without risks. You’re a woman who adores risks. You take it to extremes that some—people who don’t love you as I do—would call immoral. Stealing a man from another woman—or another man—makes you happy. Your erotic passion is so deeply ingrained that it has become completely and totally intransigent. Don’t deny it.
I am not obstinate. I am steady. And in my steadiness there’s no room for nostalgia for passion. I know: For you, being unfaithful doesn’t necessarily mean being disloyal. And for that reason, living with you would force me to do something that I don’t ever want to have to do again. I don’t want to be constantly examining and reexamining my relationship and my heart. Living with you would expose me to that agony, and it would be a never-ending one. Marucha, have you been faithful or not?
Thank God we never married. We managed to act as one without having to put up with each other. We can’t go back to what we were. You couldn’t bear it. I’ll give you the reason. Be lovers again? You and I know that the second time wouldn’t be just a mistake. It would be lunacy. Wouldn’t it? The best you could give me would be the necessary distance to love you so much that I would consider you unworthy of my love.
(You know that I admire you for what others despise in you.)
(Don’t torment yourself. Think of all the things we didn’t say to each other.)
Let’s not be tempted at this difficult moment to rekindle our passion. After all, it’s not as though we’ve broken up. We’ve just untied things. What do we have in common? We are powerless over love, and we are powerless over power if we’re not together.
I want to reaffirm our pact.
Remember that you and I could destroy each other. Better to stick together. Let there be peace between us. Our pleasure was too tempestuous. Now more than ever, let us proceed calmly.
Never forget that you and I have always been able to reach agreements even when we haven’t technically been in agreement.
Resign yourself as I have resigned myself. Surrender to my imagination, just as I surrender to yours. There, inside our minds, we can experience our passion forever.
I do have to admit, however, that right now the doors that open on to my mind are like the doors of a saloon: They swing open, they close, they slam shut. . . . But there is one thing I know: We have to find Nicolás Valdivia’s weak spot. The wound that makes him bleed. His most shameful, shamefaced secret. That’s our only hope of defeat. If we want to prevent Nicolás Valdivia from staying in power, we’re going to have to put our heads together.
And in the final analysis, remember—a little bad luck is the best antidote for the bitterness that has yet to come. And the greatest bitterness is that of those who wield absolute power. Nothing satisfies them, they always want more, and that’s where they lose. We identify Nicolás Valdivia’s weakness and we’ll have the key to his downfall.
69
MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN TO BERNAL HERRERA
I’ve walked a long way this morning, Bernal, in search of a high, open spot from which to look out onto our Valley of Mexico and renew my hope. The seedy, garish city that horrified (and prematurely killed) the great poet Ramón López Velarde. It is the “Valley of Mexico, opaque mouth, lava of spittle, crumbling throne of rage” that Octavio Paz whipped with a fury that saved him. Or perhaps it is the exact, balanced image of José Emilio Pacheco, the poet of intelligent serenity whose eighty-second birthday we’ve recently celebrated, when he allows himself to be carried along by the facts, and sing in a wounded voice of the “Twilight of Mexico, in the mournful mountains to the west . . .”
Allí el ocaso
es tan desolador que se diría:
la noche así engendrada será eterna.9
Mexico of eternal seasons, “immortal spring” . . .
The rainy season has begun, washing away the eternal night, the opaque mouth, the seedy, garish look. . . . Settling the dust. Clearing the air. It’s true that on rainy afternoons, between shower and downpour, even from our disastrous highway, the Anillo Periférico, you can make out the sharp, clear outline of the mountains.
I decided to climb up to Chapultepec Castle so that I could look out over the city and the valley from a height that seemed more human, intermediate, where I could see the mountains whose names I know— Ajusco, Popocatépetl, Iztaccíhuatl—in the intimate light that I want to rediscover, Bernal, at the end of this episode in our lives.
Do you realize that we’ve lived through this story in confinement, as if we’ve been acting on the stage of a prison? A story completely divested of nature. Pacheco was right: “Are stones the only things that dream? . . . Is the world nothing but these immutable stones?” That’s what I’m doing here now, trying to remember the natural world that slipped away from us, lost in a wood of words, buried in a swamp of speeches, cut down by a knife of ambition. . . .
Before I went outside I looked at myself in the mirror without makeup, without illusions. I have managed to keep my figure, but my face has begun to betray me. I now realize that I was a natural beauty when I was young. Today, the beauty I have left is an act of pure will. It’s a secret between me and my mirror. I say to the mirror, “The world knows of me. But the world no longer tastes of me.”
Why do we waste our youth and beauty? I see how I handed over my youth and my sex to men who turned to dust or statues. I touched my body this morning. Nothing wounds the body quite like desire. And I haven’t been able to satisfy mine—I admit that to you, since you are the one, true man of my life. Nothing has ever satisfied me, Bernal. Why? Because I have presided over too many altars where God was absent. My altars are the kind that cause hearts to age prematurely. Fame and power. But I am a woman. I refuse to surrender to the evidence of time. I convince myself that my sexual appeal is unaffected by age. That I don’t have to be young to be desirable.
I look back on the people, the places, the situations since the crisis began in January, and I find that there’s no sense of taste in my mouth. I wish I could summon sweetness, or bile—or even vomit. But my tongue and palate taste of nothing at all.
I consult my other senses. What do I hear? A cacophony of empty words. What do I smell? The excrement that ambition leaves in its wake. What do I touch? My own skin, every day less elastic, more vulnerable, grown thin. What do I touch with? Ten fingernails like knives that lash out at me. Not only do they fail to caress me. Not only do they scratch me. They sink into me and ask, what will become of my skin, how much longer will it last, what wasted pleasure awaits it? Nothingness.
I have my eyes. This afternoon, I shall become pure vision. Everything else betrays me, turns me into someone I don’t know. I retain nothing but my gaze and I discover, with shock, Bernal, that my eyes are filled with love. I don’t need a mirror to prove it. I look out from Chapultepec and I feel love, for the city and for the Valley of Mexico.
A loving gaze. That is my gift to my city and to my time. I have nothing else to give Mexico but my loving gaze on this luminous May afternoon after the rain, when the bougainvillea are the patient ornaments of urban beauty, and for one glorious instant
the city is crowned by the lavender color of the jacaranda trees. The valley has such powerful light at this time of day, Bernal, that it transports me out of myself and then abandons me on the great terrace of the Alcázar with its black-and-white marble surface, and then transports me as if on a magic carpet around the city, high above the clusters of multicolored balloons sold on the avenues, and allows me to caress the heads of little children in parks, to walk in the muddy waters of the reservoir in Chapultepec Forest, and to continue walking, now in the hyacinth waters of Xochimilco, as if my bare feet were trying hard to become clean, Bernal, in the lost canals of what was once the Venice of the Americas, a city that embraced water and life, a city that slowly grew dry until it died of thirst and suffocation.
But not this afternoon, Bernal—this afternoon on which I’ve chosen to be reborn is a miracle, for it is a liquid afternoon, it has rained and all the avenues have become canals, all the limestone deserts have become lakes, all the sewer pipes have become cascading waterfalls. . . .
With my newborn eyes, I survey the city that your namesake Bernal Díaz del Castillo surveyed in 1519, resurrected through the force of desire, and I leave behind all the political melodrama you and I have lived through, and I resuscitate the old city, fanning out into boulevards made of gold and silver, rooftops of feathers and walls of precious stones, cloaks made from the skins of jaguars, pumas, otter, and deer. I walk past the Indian pharmacopoeia of remedies made of snakeskin, shark teeth, funeral candles, and the seeds known as “deer’s eyes.” I walk into the plazas painted with cochineal and I breathe in the aroma of liquidambar and fresh tobacco, coriander and peanut and honey. I stop in front of the stalls selling jicama, cherimoya, mamey, and prickly pears. I rest upon seats made of wooden boards and beneath tiled canopies, listening all the while to the concert of hens, turkeys, ducklings. . . .
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