“Ensenada, at your service.”
“Last name or first?”
“All that and more. I was born there, Señor,” my small guide said pertly in the corridors of entrepreneurial power.
“Ensenada de Ensenada from Ensenada de …” I said with feigned astonishment.
She didn’t like that. She opened a door and left me there, in the hands of the next woman, without even saying goodbye. I gave my name to woman number two, an affable matron with extensive concerns. She stood, opened a cedar door, and invited me into an aquarium.
I’ve spoken accurately. The lights of the office where I found myself swam, without betraying their origin, when they met the light that came in, filtered by aquamarine glass, and when both lights embraced—the invisible one inside and the filtered one outside—they created an atmosphere of subdued power. I don’t know if the expression is stronger and less fortunate than the reality. What I mean is that the illumination in this office was a creation that took advantage of both natural and artificial light to create a visual space and could not be merely decorative, or even a symbol of an unemphatic function or power.
It did not take me long to understand that the space that received me had not been invented for me or anyone except the woman who got up from the easy chair located next to a revolving desk and who spent almost as many hours here as a fish in an aquarium. The office was hers, not mine. I felt like an intruder. She stood. I had a vague paideia of Hispano-Mexican courtesy: Women have no reason to stand when a man comes in.
The fact is that Asunta Jordán—which is how she introduced herself—was not an ordinary, run-of-the-mill woman but what the lights and their symbology had led me to realize. Not a woman with power or of power, though she was a powerful woman.
I knew beforehand that I was stepping onto the lands of the great Max Monroy, an octogenarian, strong, extremely rich, and the son of my ghostly friend Antigua Concepción who lay buried in a mysterious grave. But if at any moment I harbored the fantasy that my relationship with the mother assured me of immediate access to the son, Asunta Jordán now appeared, blocking the way, asking me courteously to have a seat and immediately and in vain initiating an instructive monologue, as if I, deep in this platonic cave where the lights of the real city were vague wavering shadows on the office ceiling, were paying attention to anything other than this woman of medium height, tending to tall, possessor of a vigorous, punctual, professional body all of which I was disposed to guess at, beginning with her black, fairly high-heeled shoes, with a low-cut vamp where I could detect the beginning (the origin, the birth) of her breasts, before ascending her crossed legs that she relaxed when (I believe) she saw me looking at them with their flesh-colored stockings that led to the skirt (which she instinctively pulled down, moving the hand with a watch, a throbbing, silent pulse, to her thighs) and jacket of the tailored dark blue pinstripe suit over a wine-colored blouse. She wore pearls around her neck, a single diamond in each ear, and then there was her head with the chin raised, as if that gesture announced the tranquil challenge of parted lips, darkened eyes, alert nose, forehead without questions or answers, and short, streaked, carefully casual hair.
I examined the reality and the mystery of this woman, realizing immediately that the reality was a mystery and she guarded it jealously, as if anyone looking at her could believe the reality was merely that: reality. Looking at Asunta Jordán for the first time, I summarized my earlier experience with female matters by telling myself that when people talk—and they talk a great deal—about the “mystery” of a woman, in fact they are transferring to the female sex a series of vices in order to emphasize the virtues of the male or, just the opposite, attributing to the woman virtues that tacitly indicate our masculine vices. Who, for example, keeps a secret better: they or us? Who is more stoic in the pristine sense (Filopáter dixit) of “living in harmony with nature,” which lends itself to all interpretations because it supports all the vices and virtues that are in accord with nature? And is there anything that nature excludes from its kingdom, from mystic heights to moral depths, from saintliness to sex?
I admit that in the presence of Asunta Jordán all this came to mind not in a premeditated way but instantaneously, dissolving my dual questioning into a single unitary affirmation: Asunta Jordán’s façade was one of duty, which accounted for her attire, her voice, her position—despite her office of aquatic tides, more appropriate to a siren than an executive secretary. Wasn’t it all something more than a concession to the senses, wasn’t it an invitation more than a whim?
I stopped at her gaze hidden (like that of the guards) by dark glasses, which she suddenly removed, revealing eyes that would have been beautiful if they hadn’t been so hard, inquisitive, imperious and that were—beautiful—in spite of everything I’ve said.
“You’re not listening to me, Señor.”
“No,” I replied, “I was looking at you.”
“Discipline yourself.”
“I believe that looking at you carefully is the primary discipline in this place.”
I don’t know if she smiled or became angry. Her mouth allowed for any number of readings. Her deep black eyes betrayed the artificiality of her sun-streaked hair and solicited—I thought then—more intimate investigations.
LET NO ONE tell you I speak incessantly or don’t listen to advice. Let that person search for balance. Bring a little harmony to the country. Give Mexico a triumphal air. And above all, not spend all his time, Mr. President, in demonizing his predecessor or doing favors for those who supported him.
Jericó told me that the President of the Republic, Don Valentín Pedro Carrera, received him in the formal office at Los Pinos with these concepts and asked him to have a seat in a chair conspicuously lower than the chief executive’s as the president caressed with his long fingers the busts of the heroes—Hidalgo, Juárez, Madero—that adorned his vast, bare desk. In addition to heroes, there were a good number of telephones and behind Jericó’s seat three television sets with the sound off but transmitting constant images.
He told Jericó he was always looking for new blood, for new ideas. Licenciado Sanginés had recommended Jericó as an intelligent, very cultured boy, educated abroad and with no political experience.
“Just as well,” laughed the president. “Correct me in time, Jericó,” he said with the heartiness of informal address immediately authorized by the difference in their ages: Valentín Pedro Carrera was close to fifty but said jokingly that “after forty-one you can’t walk, you have to run.
“So you’re very cultured, right? Well, take good care of me because I’m not. Don’t hold back, correct me in time, don’t let me talk about the Brazilian female novelist Doña Sara Mago or the Arabic female philosopher Rabina Tagora.”
He guffawed again, as if wanting to ease tensions and put Jericó at his ease and receptive to what Mr. President Carrera intended to tell him.
“My philosophy, young man, is that there should be a rotation of individuals here, not classes. And it’s necessary to rotate individuals because otherwise the classes become agitated seeing the same faces. Those at the bottom become agitated because the permanence of those at the top reminds them of the absence of those at the bottom. Those at the top become agitated because they’re afraid a gerontocracy will perpetuate itself and the young will never get beyond subsecretary, or high-ranking official, or out-and-out mediocrity.”
He narrowed his eyes until he looked like a Chinese-Aryan, since his Spanish features were crossbred with swarthy skin and both of them with an Asian gaze.
“I called you after talking to my old adviser Sanginés so you can give me a hand with a project I have in mind.”
He smoothed his reddish, graying mustache.
“I’ll explain my philosophy. The Mexican plateau is not only a geographical fact. It is a historical one. It is a flat height, or a high flatland, which allows us to look at the stature of time.”
Jericó half-closed his eyes in order no
t to yawn. He expected a complete oratorical exercise. That did not happen.
“But to get to the point, Jero … May I call you that?”
What was “Jero” going to say except simply to nod his consent. He says he didn’t feel intimidated and didn’t stoop to “Whatever you like, Mr. President.”
That individual proceeded to explain that man does not live by bread alone but also by festivals and illusions.
“You have to invent heroes and bequeath them,” said Carrera as he caressed the innocent heads of the bronzed leading men of the nation. “You have to invent ‘the year’ of something that distracts people.”
“No doubt,” said Jericó, boldly. “People need distraction.”
“There you go,” the president continued. “Look.” He caressed the three heads, one after the other. “For me Independence, Reform, and Revolution passed me in the night. I am a child of Democracy, I was elected and am accountable only to my electors. But I repeat, democracy does not live by ballot boxes alone, and here and in China memorable dates have to be created that give pride to the people, memory to amnesiacs, and a future to the dissatisfied.”
He didn’t say “I have finished speaking,” but let’s pretend he did. Jericó says he sent the chief executive a quietly interrogative look.
“Commemorative dates are born of unimportant dates,” my friend ventured and realized, taking his measure, that the president did not like anyone to see him disconcerted.
“In other words,” Carrera continued, “a president has to be a hedonometer.”
Jericó feigned an idiotic face. Presidential vanity was restored.
“The pleasure, happiness, joy of the people must be measured. You’re so cultured”—the tail end of irony appeared—“do you think a science of happiness exists? How much happiness does the average Mexican need? A lot, not much, none at all? Listen carefully. The voice of experience is talking to you, you can count on it!”
Though his gaze revealed the most perverse brutality.
“This country has always lived in miserable poverty. Always, a mass of the fucked and we, a minority of fuckers, are over them. And believe me, Jero, if we want it all to continue, we have to make the fucked believe that even though they’re fucked they’re happier than you and me.”
His face became serene.
“In other words, my good Jero: I don’t want Mexicans to be rich. I want them to be happy. Just look at the Gringos. Look at what prosperity has done for them! They work constantly, eat badly, you can bet they fuck in a hurry, a straight suburban quickie, they don’t have vacations, they don’t have social welfare, they retire at fifty and die beside a lawn mower. A lot of work, a lot of money, and not much satisfaction … Some happiness! In Mexico, at least, there’s always been a certain, what shall I call it? pastoral well-being, you’re happy with your tortilla here, your tequilas there …”
Once again the ogre.
“That’s over, young man. Too much information, too many appetites, too much envy. Max Monroy with his handheld devices has brought information to the most remote corners. Once you could govern almost in secret, people believed in the annual report on September first, they believed that the more statistics there were, the happier they would be, but damn it all to hell, Jero! No more. People are informed and they don’t conform and it’s my job to fill in the gaps at the patriotic festival, the commemorative parade, the ceremonies that replace the imagination and appease their spirits, their thirst and hunger.”
He gave Jericó a small, friendly slap.
“I need young blood. New people, with ideas, with education. Like you. Sanginés endorses you. That’s more than enough for me. The good lic has never failed me, and if I’m here I owe it in great measure to Don Antonio Sanginés. Well, well,” he said with a sigh. “This country is divided into cream, watery milk, yogurt, and the infamous dulce de leche. You choose.”
He looked at Jericó as one looks at a man condemned to death who has just been pardoned.
“Think positively, my young collaborator. Think about the efficacy of the parade and the festival. A ceremony is the cloak of dignity everyone can place around their shoulders, hiding their rags. Bring me ideas. Let’s celebrate sports and athletes, songs and singers, brands of beer, and national sweets, let’s even celebrate ex-governors. Invent reputations, boy. Create museums and more museums. Parades and more parades. Lots of music, lots of trombones. Lots of ‘Marcha Zacatecas.’ And don’t underestimate the political transcendence of what the assignment means. Ask yourself: Do people know their own interests? Max Monroy wants them to. I think they’re not unaware of them, they just replace them with commemorations. In the long run, Monroy wants to transform luxury into necessity. He wants people to take for granted that they deserve what they once had to pay for. If he succeeds, Jero, power is over, undone by critical exigency. If wealth is transformed into necessity, power becomes unnecessary because people are satisfied only with what others don’t have and power is satisfied only with what others already have. Otherwise tell me, what the hell are we promising?”
He stood and extended a robust hand. His rings hurt Jericó. The president stared at him. Like a tiger with its prey.
“Don’t even imagine that I’m talking more than I should.”
“No, Mr. President.”
“If you repeat it, nobody will believe you but I’ll make you pay.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Don’t even think you can begin your political career by beating me.”
“If you think that, fire me.”
The president gave a loud laugh, reverting to the familiar tú.
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you a pension. And something else.”
“Tell me, Señor.”
“Don’t make a fool of me.”
The telephone rang. The president walked over to answer it. He listened. Between silences he said:
“I won’t forget what you’re saying … Be sure to call my secretary … I hope we see each other again … Let’s see when …”
“I don’t know,” Jericó said to me, “why each of those anodyne phrases sounded like a threat.”
Especially when the president said goodbye to Jericó, asking him to be discreet, not to make a false move, and not to make himself noticeable.
“Be discreet, don’t make any false moves, don’t make yourself noticeable.”
And Jericó simply thought, What did we agree to?
I’M A LOYAL man, Miguel Aparecido told me on the day I returned to the San Juan de Aragón prison, impelled by circumstances.
“I’m here because I want to be,” he added, and I agreed because I already knew that.
His expression did not change. If he repeated this psalm, it was because he considered it necessary. Perhaps it was only a preamble.
“I’m here to serve a sentence imposed on me by life, not the law.”
I made it clear I was listening attentively.
“I’m still here because of loyalty, I want you to understand this, Josué my friend. I’m still here by my own wish. Because if I were to leave here, I’d kill the person I should love the most.”
“Should?” I dared to say.
He said no one obliged him to be here except himself. He said if he left here he would commit an unforgivable act. He spoke as if the penitentiary were his salvation. I believed him. Miguel Aparecido was a sincere man. A caged tiger with sleeves perpetually rolled up, stubbornly kneading his forearms covered with almost blond hair, as if they were the weapons of a solitary warrior afraid to be victorious in battle.
“I tell you this, Josué, so you can understand my dilemma. I’m here because I want to be. I like prison because prison protects me from myself. I like prison because here I have a world I understand and that understands me.”
He gave me a capo’s smile but didn’t frighten me (if that was his intention) because I wasn’t a prisoner or subject to any mafia. Because I, ladies and gentlemen, was free—or thought I w
as.
He only laughed. “Ask any prisoner. Talk to Negro España or Pérfida Albión. Consult with Siboney Peralta. You haven’t done that, old friend? They’re like a tomb. Don’t go to any trouble. But if you talk to them on my behalf, they’ll tell you the same thing I’m telling you. In the prison of San Juan de Aragón there’s an interior empire and I’m its head. Nothing happens here, boy, that I don’t know about, nothing I don’t want or can’t control. You should know: Even occasional riots are the work of my will alone.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. It sounded like sandpaper. He was lying to me.
He said he could smell the air and when it became very heavy, a huge fight was needed to clear the atmosphere. When they’re needed, he said, there are serious riots here, a chaos of broken chairs smashing against the walls, dining room tables in smithereens, scratches on metal doors, injured police, some even dead. Violations, abuses, sexual pleasures disguised as punishments, understand? Here we bite locks open.
Why was he lying to me?
“And then the smoke clears. A few ashes remain. But we are at peace again. Peace is necessary in a prison. Many innocents pass through here.” He looked at me with a kind of religious passion that disturbed me. “They have to be respected. You’ve seen the children in the pool. Do you think they should have a life sentence? Well, I’ll tell you that if this prison were like almost all the rest, I mean, concentration camps where jailers are the worst criminals, where police traffic in drugs and sex and are guiltier than the worst criminal, then I’d commit suicide, kid, because if there were chaos here it would be because I was powerless to establish the necessary order. Necessary, Josué, just that, no more and no less; the order that’s indispensable so the San Juan de Aragón prison isn’t heaven or hell, no, but just, and it’s a lot, a fucking purgatory.”
He was out of breath, which surprised me. In my opinion, Miguel Aparecido was a man of steel. Perhaps because in reality I didn’t know who he was. Was he lying to me?
He took me by the shoulders and looked at me as a tiger must look at its dying prey.
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