The Death of Artemio Cruz

by Carlos Fuentes

  "Where will you live?"

  "I'll slip into each town before you take it. And I'll wait for you there."

  "You'll leave everything behind?"

  "I'll bring some clothes. You'll give me money to buy fruit and food, and I'll wait for you. When you get into town, I'll already be there. All I need is something to wear."

  That skirt hanging over the chair in the rented room. When she's awake, he likes to touch her and also touch her things: her combs, her little black shoes, her small earrings left on the table. In those moments, he wishes he could give her something more than these days of separation and difficult reunions. An unforeseen command, having to track the enemy, a defeat that forced them to retreat north, had already separated them for weeks on other occasions. But she, like a sea gull, seemed able to read the ebb and flow of the revolutionary tide through the thousand shifts in the fighting and the fortunes of war: if she didn't turn up in the town they'd agreed on, she'd appear, sooner or later, in another. She would go from town to town, asking for his battalion, listening to the answers of the women and the old men left there.

  "It's been about two weeks since they passed through here."

  "They say there's not a one of them still alive."

  "Who knows. They might come back. They forgot a few cannons when they left."

  "Watch out for the federales, they shoot anyone who helps the rebels."

  And they'd end up finding each other again, just as they did now. She would have the room ready with fruit and food, her skirt tossed over a chair. She would wait for him like that, ready, as if she did not want to waste a minute on unnecessary things. But nothing is unnecessary. Seeing her walk, make the bed, loosen her hair, then take off the rest of her clothes, kissing her whole body as she stood there, he kneels, outlines her body with his lips, enjoys the taste of her skin and her fine hair, the moisture of her seashell: gathering in his mouth the tremors of the standing girl who will finally take the man's head in her hands to make him rest, to keep his lips in one place. And, still standing, she will let herself go, squeezing his head with a broken sigh until he feels she is finished and he carries her in his arms to the bed.

  "Artemio, will I ever see you again?"

  "Never ask that question. Pretend that we've only just met."

  She never asked again. She was ashamed of having done it, even once, of having thought that her love could come to an end or be measured by the time used to measure other things. She had no reason to remember where or why she had met this young man, twenty-four years old. It was unnecessary to burden herself with anything more than love and their meetings during the few days of rest, when the troops, having taken one plaza, stopped to heal their wounds, secure their position in the territory wrested from the dictatorship, locate supplies, and plan the next offensive. That was how the two of them decided it, without ever saying anything. They never thought about the danger of war or the time they were apart. If one of them did not show up at the next meeting place, they would go their separate ways without a word: he south, to the capital; she north, to the coasts of Sinaloa, where she had met him and where she let herself be loved.

  "Regina…Regina…"

  "Do you remember that rock that stuck out of the sea like a boat of stone? It must still be there."

  "That's where I met you. Did you go there often?"

  "Every afternoon. A little pool forms between the rocks and you can see yourself in the clear water. I'd go there to look at myself, and one day your face appeared next to mine. At night the stars were reflected in the sea. During the day, you could see the sun burning in it."

  "I didn't know what to do that afternoon. We'd been fighting, and suddenly everything stopped: the federales gave up, but I was used to living like a soldier. Then I began to remember other things and I found you sitting on that rock. Your legs were wet."

  "I wanted it, too. You just appeared next to me, part of me, reflected in the water. Didn't you realize I wanted it, too?"

  The dawn was slow in coming, but through a gray veil the two bodies were revealed, joined by the hand, in sleep. He woke up first and watched her. It seemed like the finest thread in the spiderweb of the centuries: it looked like a twin of death: sleep. Her legs drawn up, her free arm over the man's chest, her mouth moist. They liked making love at dawn: for them it was a celebration of the new day. The dusky light barely showed Regina's profile. Within the hour, they would be hearing the sounds of the town. Now there is only the breathing of the dark young woman who sleeps in total serenity, the living part of the world at rest. Only one thing would have the right to interrupt the felicity of that serene body at rest, outlined on the sheet, wrapped up in itself with the smoothness of a moon in mourning. Does he have the right? The young man's imagination leapt past the lovemaking: he contemplated her as she slept as if resting from the loving which would waken her in a few seconds. When is happiness greater? He caressed her breast. Imagine the renewed union; the union itself; the weary joy of memory and then total desire again, augmented by love, by a new act of love: bliss. He kissed Regina's ear and saw her first smile: he brought his face close to hers so he would not miss her first gesture of happiness. He felt her hand playing with him again. Desire flowered within, scattered with heavy drops: Regina's smooth legs again sought Artemio's waist: her full hand knew all: the erection escaped her fingers and woke up at their touch: her thighs parted, trembling, full, and the erect flesh found the open flesh and entered, caressed, surrounded by the eager pulse, crowned by new eggs, squeezed in that universe of soft, amorous skin: the two of them reduced to the meeting of the world, the seed of reason, to the two voices that name things in silence, that within baptize all things: within, when he thinks about everything but this, he thinks, counts things, does not think about everything, all so that this does not end: he tries to fill his head with seas and sand and wind, with houses and animals, fish and crops, all so that this will not end: within, when he raises his face, his eyes closed, and stretches his neck with all the strength of his swollen veins, when Regina loses herself and lets herself be conquered and answers with thick breath, furrowing her brow, her smiling lips saying yes, yes, she likes it, yes, don't stop, go on, yes, it shouldn't end, yes, until she realizes that it all happened at once, one unable to contemplate the other because both were one and uttering the same words:

  "How happy I am."

  "How happy I am."

  "I love you, Regina."

  "I love you, my husband."

  "Do I make you happy?"

  "Don't ever end; how long it lasts; you fill all of me."

  While, out on the street, a pail of water splashed over the dust and wild ducks passed by, quacking over the river, and a whistle announced what no one would be able to stop: boots dragging along, the noise of spurs, hooves echoing again, and the smells of oil and lard seeping through doors and houses. He stretched out his hand and felt for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. She went over to the window and opened it. She stayed there, breathing deep, with her arms open, standing on tiptoe. The circle of gray mountains came closer to the eyes of the lovers as the sun rose. The aroma of the town bakery wafted up and, from farther off, the savor of myrtles tangled with weeds in the rotten ravines. All he saw was her naked body, her open arms that now wanted to take the day by the shoulders and drag it back to bed.

  "Want breakfast?"

  "It's too early. Let me finish my cigarette first."

  Regina's head rested on his shoulder. His long, sinewy hand stroked her hip. Both smiled.

  "When I was a little girl, life was beautiful. There were lots of beautiful times. Vacations, holidays, summer days, games. I don't know why, but when I started growing, I began to long for things. When I was a little girl, I didn't. That's why I started to go to that beach. I said it was better to long. I didn't know why I had changed so much that summer, or that I'd stopped being a little girl."

  "You still are, you know."

  "With you? After all the things we'v
e done?"

  He laughed and kissed her, and she bent her knee, pretending to be a bird with folded wings nestled against his chest. She clung to the man's neck, mixing her laughter with feigned tears.

  "What about you?"

  "I don't remember anymore. I found you and I love you very much."

  "Tell me. Why did I know, the moment I saw you, that nothing else would matter anymore? You know, I told myself at that precise instant that I'd have to make a decision. That if you just went away, I'd be wasting my whole life. Did you feel anything like that?"

  "Yes, I did. Didn't you think, though, that I was just another soldier looking for some fun?"

  "No, no. I didn't even see your uniform. All I saw were your eyes reflected in the water and then I couldn't see my own reflection anymore without yours next to it."

  "Honey, sweetheart, go see if we have any coffee."

  When they parted that morning like all the mornings of their seven young months of love, she asked if the troops would be pulling out soon. He said he didn't know what the general had in mind. They might have to go after some pockets of defeated federales still in the area, but at any rate, they'd be keeping their headquarters in town. There was plenty of water and cattle. It was a good place to stay awhile. They were tired after fighting their way south from Sonora and had earned a rest. At eleven they were to report to their commanders at the plaza.

  In every town they passed through, the general would investigate working conditions, reduce the workday to eight hours by public decree, and distribute land to the peasants. If there was a hacienda in the area, he would have the company store burned to the ground. If there were loan sharks—and there were always loan sharks, unless they'd fled with the federales—he would rescind all loans. The bad part was that the bulk of the population was under arms and almost all were peasants, so there was no one to enforce the general's decrees. Thus, it was better for them instantly to appropriate the wealth of the rich who remained in each town, and hope the Revolution would triumph, so the land reforms and the eight-hour day would be legalized.

  Right now the important thing was to get to Mexico City and depose that drunk Huerta, Don Panchito Madero's assassin. Round and round we go! he murmured as he tucked his khaki shirt into his white trousers. Round and round we go! From Veracruz, where he came from, to Mexico City, and from there north to Sonora, when his teacher Sebastián had asked him to do what the older generation could no longer do: go north, take up arms, and liberate the country. Hadn't even slept with a woman yet, word of honor. But how could he let Sebastián down, the man who had taught him the three things he knew: reading, writing, and hating priests.

  He stopped talking when Regina set the coffee down on the table.

  "It's boiling hot!"

  It was early. They went out on the street with their arms around each other's waists. She wearing her starched skirt, he in his felt hat and white uniform jacket. The cluster of houses where they were living was near a ravine; the morning glories hung over the void, and a rabbit torn apart by the teeth of a coyote was rotting in the underbrush. Deep down, below, a stream ran its course. Regina peered down to find it, as if hoping to find again the reflected image of her fiction. Their hands joined; the road to the town clung to the edge of the canyon, and down from the mountains came the echoes of thrushes calling to each other. No: the noise of light hooves, lost in clouds of dust.

  "Lieutenant Cruz! Lieutenant Cruz!"

  The perpetually smiling face of Loreto, the general's aide, disappeared behind the sweat and dust coating him, when he reined in his horse in a dry whinny. "Come quickly," he said, panting as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. "There's big news: we're moving out right away. Have you had breakfast? They're serving eggs over at headquarters."

  "Eggs? I've already got mine," he joked, patting his crotch.

  Regina's embrace was an embrace of dust. Only when Loreto's horse vanished and the dust settled did the whole woman, clinging to the shoulders of her young lover, reemerge.

  "Wait for me here."

  "What can it be?"

  "There must be some federales wandering around somewhere. Nothing serious."

  "I should stay here?"

  "Yes, Don't move. I'll be back tonight or early tomorrow at the latest."

  "Artemio…Think we'll ever return there?"

  "Who knows. Who knows how long this'll go on. Don't think about it. You know I love you, right?"

  "I love you, too. A lot. Forever."

  Out in the stables and in the main patio of the headquarters, the troops had received their orders and were preparing their packs with ritual calm. The cannon rolled along in single file, pulled by white mules with shadows under their eyes; they were followed by ammunition carriages set on rails that ran from the patio to the train station. The cavalry attended to their mounts, removed feed bags, put on bridles, made sure saddles were cinched tightly, and patted the heads of the war horses, so docile and gentle to the men even though they were stained with dust and their stomachs were covered with ticks. Two hundred horses moved slowly past the barracks, spotted, dappled, dusty black. The infantry oiled its rifles and then filed past the smiling dwarf who distributed ammunition. The hats worn by soldiers from the north: gray felt, the brim turned up on one side. Neckerchiefs. Cartridge belts around their waists. Only a few wearing boots: wool trousers, yellow leather shoes or huaraches. Striped shirts, collarless. Here and there—on the streets, in the patios, at the station—Yaqui Indian hats hung with leafy twigs: members of the band carrying their music stands in their hands, their metal instruments on their backs. The last swallows of hot water. Pots filled to the brim with beans. Plates of huevos rancheros. Shouts come from the station: a flatcar of Mayan Indians was pulling in, to an accompaniment of high-pitched drumming and a flutter of colored bows and primitive arrows.

  He made his way through the throng: inside, standing in front of the map hastily nailed to a wall, the general was explaining: "The federales are mounting a counterattack at our backs, in territory the Revolution has already liberated. What they want is to cut us off from the rear. At dawn, a scout up in the mountains spotted a thick cloud of smoke rising over the towns occupied by Colonel Jiménez. He reported it, and I remembered that the colonel had collected a big pile of boards and railway ties in each town, which he would burn if he was attacked, to warn us. That's how things stand. We have to split up. Half will go back to the other side of the mountain to help Jiménez. The other half will go out to finish off the groups we defeated yesterday and to make sure that another big offensive doesn't come from the south. We'll only leave a company here. But it doesn't seem likely they'll get this far. Major Gavilán…Lieutenant Aparicio…Lieutenant Cruz: you head north again."

  Jiménez's fires were petering out when, around midday, Artemio Cruz passed the outpost at the mountain pass. From up there he could see the train overflowing with people: it ran without blowing its whistle, carrying mortars and cannon, ammunition boxes and machine guns. The cavalry detachment made its way down the steep slopes with difficulty, and the cannon began to fire on the towns supposedly retaken by the federales.

  "Let's speed up," he said. "They'll keep firing for about two hours, and then we'll go in to scout."

  He never knew why, the moment his horse's hooves reached flat ground, he lowered his head and lost all notion of the finite mission he'd been ordered to carry out. The men with him seemed to vanish, along with the positive feeling of an objective to be reached, and in their place came a tenderness, an inner lament for something lost, a longing to return to Regina's arms and forget it all. It was as if the flaming sphere of the sun had overwhelmed the nearby presence of the cavalry and the distant noise of the bombardment: in place of that real world there was another, a dream world where only he and his love had the right to live, where only they had a reason to save it.

  "Do you remember that rock that stuck out of the sea like a boat of stone?"

  "He gazed at her again, yearnin
g to kiss her, afraid he would wake her, certain that by gazing at her he was making her his. Only one man possesses—he thought—all the secret images of Regina; that man possesses her, and he will never give her up. Contemplating her, he contemplated himself. His hands dropped the reins: all he is, all his love, is embedded in the flesh of this woman who contains both of them. I wish I could go back…tell her how much I love her…tell her the depth of my feelings…so that Regina would know…

  The horse whinnied and bucked; the rider fell on the hard ground, on the rocks and briars. The grenades of the federales rained down on the cavalry, and as he got up in the smoke, all he could see was his horse's chest on fire, the shield that had stopped the flames. Around the fallen body of his own mount, more than fifty horses were rearing senselessly: there was no light above; the sky and moved down one step, and it was a sky of gunpowder no higher than the men. He ran toward one of the low trees: the bursts of smoke hid more than bare branches. Ninety feet away, a forest began; it was low but thick. A chaotic shouting reached his ears. He dove to catch the reins of a riderless horse but threw only one leg over its back. He hid his body behind the horse and whipped it on. The horse galloped and he, head down and eyes blinded by his own tangled hair, desperately held on to the saddle and bridle. The brilliance of the morning finally vanished; the shadow allowed him to open his eyes, part from the animal's flesh, and roll until he hit a tree trunk.