“Don’t worry, Tácito. I have an archive all ready for the moment I leave office. I need it for my memoirs. I’ll be selective, I promise. But I can’t sacrifice a single document from my administration. You understand. A president of Mexico doesn’t govern for just six years. He governs for posterity. Everything must be saved, the good and the bad. Who knows, my good Tácito, time might prove you were right about those necessary legal oversights. What will matter more in the end, the fact that we cheated a group of small shareholders or that we saved the great companies that are the driving force behind an export economy like ours?”
He smiled mischievously.
“And besides, the archivist has orders to put the originals through the shredder. I’ll keep certified copies.”
There was a blatant threat in his beady fly’s eyes. Oh yes, my Pepa, that man is just like a fly, his eyes can look in every direction simultaneously. He has very long antennae on his head. He has two pairs of wings, one for flying and the other for keeping his balance. He always lands on trash dumps. He’s an old fly, gray with a yellow belly. That’s what gives him away. Be wary of him. He can stick to walls and crawl across ceilings. He uses maggots as bait, and everyone knows maggots feed on dead flesh. You despise me. I don’t despise you, and that’s why I’m warning you now: Don’t rest on your laurels with Arruza. Don’t be taken in by the pure brute force of the general. And keep your eye on César León. He always has an ace up his sleeve.
I told Valdivia all this and now I’m telling you, especially now that you’re in bed with a wolf. Let Arruza the wolf fear León the fly. Whoever thinks the ex-president is willing to retire is sorely mistaken. He’ll keep on being a nuisance until the day he dies.
But I want to get back to my Aged Parent. The world was his downfall, my Pepa, just as it was mine, but it was worse for him because he never aspired to the Eagle’s Throne; all he wanted was to keep on operating from the shadows. Yes, and since he was less ambitious, it hurt more to lose. It was like an affront to his moral code of discretion, you see. Thanks to his modesty, a vast horizon stretched before him, as long as his career as a trusted political adviser—like Talleyrand, Fouché, and Father Joseph Le Clerc de Tremblay, the original éminence grise at the side of Richelieu. Look how quickly my memory comes back—I’m the passionate student of history again. Oh, but that only shows how much I’ve changed, Josefa. I’m someone else—do you see? I feel purified by this moment of emotion. My father’s greatest gift, his greatest strength, was that of being invisible. It earned him the trust of powerful men. But it made him expendable when he finally knew everything but was still nobody.
I went into the little house in the Desierto de los Leones.
The girl that looks after the AP was wearing the traditional outfit of the china poblana.
“What’s your name?” I asked her, because although I pay her salary I’d never seen her.
“Gloria Marín, at your service.”
I smiled.
“Oh, just like the actress.”
“No, sir. I am the actress Gloria Marín.”
And it was true, she looked exactly like one of those disturbingly beautiful belles of the Mexican cinema. Gloria Marín: jet-black hair, eyes wistful and suspicious but sensual behind the inevitable defensive-ness of the world-weary Mexican woman. Her profile was perfect, her face oval, light brown. And those lips, always on the verge of a bitter smile. In appearance, submissive. In reality, a rebel.
“Where is my father?”
“Where he always is. Watching television. Day and night.”
She wrapped her shawl gracefully over her breasts. I didn’t bother telling her that the television antennae had been dead since January.
“Oh. Day and night?”
“Yes. He sleeps there, he eats there, he says he can’t miss a moment’s television. He says those people might come and kill him at any moment, and he has to be ready to defend himself.”
“Who wants to kill him?”
“Bad people.”
“What are their names?”
“Oh . . . Sute Cúpira. The other one’s Cholo Parima. I dream about them, sir. He says they’re Venezuelans and they live in a jungle called Canaima.”
I stared at her, more and more bewildered by the minute.
“All right. Your name’s Gloria Marín. And the man you work for, what’s his name?”
“Jorge Negrete.”
“No. His name’s Enrico Canali. Where did you get the name Jorge Negrete from, bitch? Negrete was a movie star, a matinee idol, the kind of heartbreaker that women like you used to dream about. He died nearly a century ago.”
Gloria Marín started crying.
“Oh, sir. Don’t tell him that. Don’t kill him. He’s Jorge Negrete. He really believes that. Don’t take that away from him. I swear it will kill him.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Call me whatever you want. At your service.”
I sighed as I used to sigh when I was a young man. Then I walked into the tiny living room, which opened onto a neglected patio where grass grew between the cracks in the tiles, and a solitary pirú tree made its penance. And there, in an easy chair facing the television sat my AP, my Aged Parent, his eyes fixed on the screen. He was talking to himself, in a reverie.
“Now I go into the bar and I give everyone a dirty look. ‘Machine gun’s here!’ I shout, my hair in my face, and the whole place goes quiet, they’re scared, and I grab the prettiest girl by the waist—I’m sorry, Gloria, not you, you weren’t in this movie—and I sing ‘Oh, Jalisco, don’t back out . . .’ ”
He felt my presence, and his cold, freckled hand that felt like marble settled on top of mine and guided it up to his shoulder, as if thanking me for being there without knowing who I was. He changed the picture with the remote control. You see, he was only watching a homemade montage of scenes from a bunch of different old movies. Suddenly, there was Jorge Negrete dancing away on a Veracruz stage to the melody of the Niño Aparecido son with the stunning Gloria Marín dressed like an aristocratic lady from the nineteenth century in a mantilla and ankle-length silk skirts, and Negrete dressed up like a chinaco. The two of them gaze at each other with a defiant passion until the villain, an apothecary named Vitriolo, mad with jealousy, stabs Gloria with a knife. . . . My AP fast-forwarded the tape, his hand trembling in anticipation of the excitement of watching Jorge give Gloria a long, slow kiss in the film A Letter of Love.
My father paused the film as the two characters kissed, and sat there in rapture, savoring the moment.
Then, after a long while, he turned to me.
“Thank you for coming to see me. I’ve been waiting for my squire.” He looked at me with a blank stare.
“Who are you, young man? Mantequilla or El Chicote?”
“Chicote, Father.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry. Chicote. I’m Chicote, your loyal companion.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Come on, have a tequila and lime over here in the corner, it’s on me, we’ll drink until we fall over, and we’ll dream of all the women who let us down, you and me, soul mates. . . .”
Negrete sang on the screen, my father sang from his chair, and I sang too, holding on to my father’s hand, as we watched scenes from the movie Me he de comer esa tuna.
L’águila siendo animal
se retrató en el dinero.
Para subir al nopal
pidió permiso primero.2
Out on the patio, not paying us any attention, Gloria Marín watered her flowers and sang her own song: “I am a little virgin, I water the flowers. . . .”
She directed her gaze, coy and coquettish, at me.
I looked back at her.
You can say what you’re thinking, Josefina: “Of course you’d end up fucking her. . . .”
How sorry I am that your husband, honorable to a fault, had to tell you about my financial recovery plan, calling me a scumbag and a criminal. Let’s see how you and he navig
ate these turbulent political waters. I offered him a transatlantic liner. He’s willing to put up with a canoe. It’s in God’s hands now.
No matter what you read, no matter what they tell you, remember this: I’ll always be a politician, and politics is a business with many twists and turns. In politics, you assume your responsibilities and you get what you put into the job. That’s the way it has to be, that is the simple truth.
Yours,
T.
58
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO EX-PRESIDENT CÉSAR LEÓN
Distinguished president and esteemed friend: I know that nobody knows the rules of national politics as well as you. Every president leaves behind a rosary of more or less famous sayings that become part of our political folklore.
“In politics, you have to swallow frogs without flinching.”
“A politician who is poor is a poor politician.”
“He who doesn’t deceive, doesn’t achieve.”
“Onward and upward.”
“We are all the solution.”
“If things are going well for the president, things are going well for Mexico.”
I remember only two of yours.
“In order to preserve customs, we must break laws.”
“Becoming president is like reaching Treasure Island. Even if they expel you from the island, you’ll never stop yearning for it. You want to return, even though everyone—including yourself—tells you no.”
Very well, Mr. President, the moment has arrived. It’s time to abandon Treasure Island. I understand your feelings. You would like to be an agent of reconciliation at a difficult time for the republic.
You’ve stated publicly, “The struggle for power destroys the one thing that gives power any meaning, which is to create wealth for the country within a framework of peace and legality.”
I couldn’t agree with you more. And I understand your dismay, Mr. President. You’re anticipating the struggle ahead. You fear that it will degenerate into riots, civil war, balkanization, dog-eat-dog, and all that. And you see yourself as an agent of unity, experience, authority, and continuity.
Mr. President: I see how you act and I think that the politician who goes around thinking he’s more than he is will never know who he is.
This confusion, this lack of self-awareness, might be interesting material for psychoanalysis but it’s fatal for the person in question and, above all, the political health of the country.
I know what’s going through your mind—some matadors will die and some will shield themselves behind the barriers, but the fierce bull will never abandon his favorite spot in the arena.
Yes, I want to eliminate them all until he and I are the only two left.
So now the question is: Who is “he”? And who am “I”?
Yes, Mr. President, power effects its own fiction, according to the distinguished Chilean philosopher Martín Hopenhayn, in a reference to Kafka. And fifty years ago, Moya Palencia, interior secretary as I am now, said that in Mexico Kafka would be considered a chronicler of local customs.
I find it amusing that Mexicans call “customs” what the rest of the world, the serious world, calls realpolitik—which is nothing less than the politics of my friend Machiavelli: “Since all men are wicked and do not keep faith with you, you also do not have to keep it with them.” The Prince’s skill lies in his ability to use this evil reality in his own interest, while seeming to be acting in the interests of the people.
The crack in Machiavelli’s system, Mr. President, is the belief that the Prince’s enemies have been blinded by his glow and scared off by his power. The powerful man believes that wrongs can be righted by showering gifts.
“He’s deceiving himself,” my namesake would say.
The Prince would be better off decapitating all his enemies immediately and in one fell swoop. Doing it little by little, he would run the risk of leaving someone out.
“For injuries must be done all together . . . and benefits should be done little by little, so that they may be tasted better.”
That was your mistake, President León. In your eagerness to consolidate the power you achieved through elections (questionable elections, let’s face it), you lavished the benefits, adulation, perks, lucrative deals, in one fell swoop. You wanted to gain allies who could give you legitimacy, without realizing that no matter what you give to a blood-hound, it will always want more.
And that more is power itself.
So you, Mr. President, have no cards left because you’ve dealt them all. In the process of seducing so many potential enemies you lost your chance to chop off their heads. The result? You’re loved by neither your friends, to whom you gave everything, nor your enemies, to whom you gave a little. And you know it.
“A few minutes ago, he was my friend. Half an hour was enough to make him my enemy.”
Be honest. Don’t lie. How many times have you said these words to yourself?
Believe me. I’m your friend, and I fully understand your complaint:
“Yesterday they were all cheering me! Today they’re all silent. If only they’d insult me at least! Yesterday I was indispensable. Today I’m a nuisance. If only they’d kick me out at least!”
I feel exactly the same way. And that is exactly what I am doing now, Mr. President.
My aide, Jesús Ricardo Magón, will be delivering this letter to you personally. He will then accompany you to the door of your house. From there, a military escort befitting your status and rank will escort you to the international airport, where a very comfortable seat awaits you in the first-class cabin of a Qantas Airways plane, which will take you directly to the beautiful land of the kangaroo, Australia. Once there, don’t forget to take note, please, of the marsupials who carry their young in pouches, so as to ensure the healthy growth and development of their offspring, and in turn of their descendants.
Extending you the assurance of my distinguished consideration and
wishing you a good journey,
Nicolás Valdivia
59
GENERAL MONDRAGÓN VON BERTRAB TO NICOLÁS VALDIVIA
Mr. Secretary, esteemed friend, in keeping with the principles of the republic and in compliance with Article 89, section VI of the constitution, I would like to inform you that in the early hours of the morning of today I saw to the death of General don Cícero Arruza, found guilty of sedition and of attempting to overthrow the legitimate government of this country by the ad hoc military tribunal that I assembled to address this urgent situation, in the knowledge that my actions would be fully supported and sanctioned by you, in the absence of an acting president following the terrible loss of President Lorenzo Terán.
You know as well as I do that there are times when it is incumbent upon the armed forces to act with speed, as long as these actions are in the interest of protecting our republican institutions.
General Cícero Arruza’s criminal intent is patent in the numerous letters he has sent me since the onset of the crisis in January, written with a recklessness that I can only attribute to drunken spirits. Reader that I am of both Clausewitz and Machiavelli, I cannot help but invert the German’s terms here and remark that politics is a continuation of war by other means. And as to the Florentine thinker, I would say that it is better to take preventive measures during times of peace than allow ourselves to be surprised during times of war. The threat posed by General Arruza’s coup attempt has been thoroughly eliminated.
I regret to inform you that General Arruza was discovered in bed, in the throes of an adulterous affair with Josefina Almazán, wife of our honorable treasury secretary, Andino Almazán. The general attempted to reach for a gun from beneath his pillow, and this, as you might imagine, provoked a response from the men sent to apprehend him. Unfortunately, the gunshots did not spare Mrs. Almazán, whose body has since been delivered to her husband, whose resignation, if I am not mistaken, should already be in your possession.
Mr. Secretary, I trust that you will understand and suppo
rt my decision to remove General Arruza’s wounded body from the bed and to transport him in his last hours to the military headquarters of Military Zone XXVIII in Mérida. There, his body was placed standing up against a wall so that he could be put to his death in a manner worthy of his unquestionable military merits. I would like to say that he was afraid. He was not. Not because he was brave. Bravery was not possible for him at that moment: He no longer had a gun to speak his truth.
His last words from the bed were, “Nobody makes a fool of me.”
Later, as he took his last gulps of air, his body against the wall, he managed to say, “What’s the matter with you? Fire! Or don’t you have the balls?”
With respect, and in recognition of my obligation to render a faithful account of the aforementioned events, I remain, as always, under your command today and in any and all future circumstances that I may consider favorable for you and for our nation.
General Mondragón von Bertrab, DEM
P.S. The Yucatán is full of rock pools and underwater caves. Arruza has gone to a watery grave.
60
CONGRESSMAN ONÉSIMO CANABAL TO NICOLÁS VALDIVIA
To the president: With great satisfaction I hereby fulfill my constitutional obligation and inform you that, in strict adherence to Article 84 of the Political Constitution of the United Mexican States and in the absence of the plenary of the Honorable Congress of the Union that I am proud to preside over, I have convened the permanent commission of the same in the interest of pursuing the proceedings with respect to the appointment of the acting president who shall conclude the presidential term of don Lorenzo Terán, following his unfortunate death last week.