The Death of Artemio Cruz

by Carlos Fuentes

  To live is to betray your God. Every act in life, every act that affirms us as living beings, requires that the commandments of your God be broken.

  In a whorehouse that night, you will speak with Major, Gavilán, with all your old comrades, and you will not remember what they said that night, you will not remember if they say it, if you say it, with the cold voice that will not be the voice of the men, the cold voice of power and self-interest: We want the greatest good for the nation, as long as it's compatible with our personal well-being. Let's be intelligent: we can go far. Let's do what's necessary, not the impossible. Let's determine once and for all all the acts to power and cruelty that will be useful to us, in order not to have to repeat them. Let's scale the benefits so that the people enjoy every taste they get. We can make a revolution very quickly, but tomorrow they'll demand more and more and more, and then we'll have nothing to give if we've already done and given everything—except, perhaps, our personal sacrifice. Why die if we aren't going to see the fruits of our heroism? Let's always keep something in reserve. We are men, not martyrs; everything will be allowed us if we hold on to power. Lose power and they'll screw you. Just think how lucky we are: we're young but we're haloed, wearing the halo of the armed, triumphant Revolution. Why did we fight? to die of hunger? When it's necessary, force is just. You don't share power."

  And tomorrow? We'll be dead, Congressman Cruz. Let those who follow us make their own deals.

  Domine, non sum dignus. Domine, non sum dignus: yes, a man can speak painfully with god, a man who can forgive sin because he as committed sin, a priest who has the right to be priest because his human misery allows him to act out redemption in his own body before granting it to others. Domine, non sum dignus.

  You reject guilt. You will not be guilty of sins against a morality you did not create, which you found already made. You would have wanted

  wanted

  wanted

  wanted

  oh, how happy those days were with your teacher Sebastián,

  whom you will not want to remember anymore. You sat at his knee, learning those simple things with which you must begin in order to be a free man, not a slave of commandments written without your even being consulted. Oh, how happy those apprenticeship days were, learning the tasks which he taught you so you could earn a living: days at the forge with the hammers, when your teacher Sebastián would return tired but begin classes only for you, so that you could be something in life and make your own rules, you the rebel, you free, you unique and new. You will not want to remember him. He ordered you, you went to the Revolution: this memory does not leave me, it will not reach you.

  You will have no answer for the opposing, imposed codes,

  you innocent,

  you will want to be innocent,

  you did not choose on that night.

  (1927: November 23)

  His green eyes turned toward the window, and the other man asked him if he wanted anything; he blinked and kept his green eyes on the window. The other man, who had been very, very calm until then, tore his pistol out of his belt and slammed it on the table. He felt the shaking of glasses and bottles and reached out his hand, but before he could give a name to the physical sensation that brusque gesture caused in the pit of his stomach—the impact of the pistol on the table, and its effect on the blue glasses and white bottles—the other man was already smiling. An automobile roared down the street, to a chorus of jeers and curses, its headlights illuminating the other man's round head. The other man spun the cylinder in the revolver and showed him that it contained only two bullets; he spun it again, pulled back the hammer, and pointed the barrel directly at his temple. He tried to avert his eyes, but the small room gave him no place to fix his attention: naked walls painted indigo blue, ark tezontle-stone floor, tables, two chairs, two men. The other man waited until the green eyes stopped wavering around the room and returned to his hand, the revolver, his temple. The other man smiled, but he was sweating. So was he. In the silence he listened for the tick, tick, tick of the watch he'd put in the right-hand pocket of his vest. Perhaps it was making less noise than his heart, but it was all the same, because the detonation of the pistol was already in his ears, beforehand. At the same time, the silence was dominated over all sound, even the possible—not yet actual—sound of the revolver. The other man waited. He watched. The other man squeezed the trigger, and a dry, metallic click was lost in the silence, and, outside, the night went on, uniform and moonless. The other man stood there with the weapon aimed at his temple and began to smile, to laugh aloud: his fat body shook from within, like custard, from within, because outwardly it was motionless. Both remained frozen for some seconds. Again, he breathed the smell of incense that had followed him everywhere since morning; through that imaginary smoke, he made out the other man's face. The other man was still laughing inwardly as he put the pistol back on the table and slowly pushed the weapon toward him with short, yellowed fingers. The turbid mirth in the other man's face might reflect the tears he was holding back; he didn't try to find out. The memory, not yet a memory, of the other man with the gun to his head, the fear in that obese figure, the fear kept him from speaking. If he was found here in this room with the fat man dead, and if charges were pressed against him, it would be all over. He'd recognized his own pistol, which he kept in the dresser drawer; he realized that the fat man was pushing it toward him with his short fingers, its butt wrapped in a handkerchief which might perhaps have slipped out of the other man's hands if he had…But even if it didn't slip off, it was a clear case of suicide. Clear to whom? A police commander dies in an empty room, sitting opposite his enemy. Who was getting rid of whom? The other man loosened his belt and drank off his drink in one gulp. Sweat stained his armpits, ran down his neck. The other man's fingers, which looked as though thay'd been cropped, insistently pushed the pistol nearer. What would he say? That they had checked him out completely. He'd never squeal, would he? He asked just what it was they'd checked out about him, and the other man said he was fine, that he'd passed; if there was dying to do, he wouldn't falter, but he wasn't going to waste him time going over the same ground again and again, and that was how things stood. If this didn't convince him, well, he didn't know what would. It was proof—the other man told him—that he should come over to their side; or did he think anyone from his side would risk his life to show him how much they wanted him on their side? He lit a cigarette and offered the other man one; the other man lit his own; he brought his lighted match right to the coffee-colored face of the fat man, and the fat man blew it out. He felt surrounded. He balanced his cigarette precariously on the edge of his glass, without noticing that the ashes were falling into the tequila, setting to the bottom. He picked up the pistol. He pressed the muzzle to his temple and felt it had no temperature whatever, although he imagined it should feel cold as he recalled that he was thirty-eight years old, but that fact didn't matter to anyone, not to the fat man and much less to himself.

  That morning he had dressed standing in front of the full-length oval mirror in his bedroom, and the incense had reached his nose. He pretended not to smell anything. From the garden, there wafted an odor of chestnuts over the earth, which was dry and clean that month. He saw the strong man with his strong arms, flat stomach, no fat, solid muscles around a dark navel, where the fine hair from his pubis and his stomach ended. He ran his fingers over his cheeks, over his broken nose, and smelled the incense again. He chose a clean shirt from the dresser and did not realize that the revolver was no longer there, and finished dressing and opened the bedroom door. "I don't have time; really, I don't have time. I'm telling you I don't have time."

  The garden had been planted with decorative shrubs arranged in horseshoe and fleur-de-lis patterns, with rosebushes and hedges, and a green fringe surrounded the one-story house, built in Florentine style, with slender columns and stucco friezes above the portal. The exterior walls were pink, and as he passed through the rooms the uncertain morning light isol
ated the gilt profiles of the chandeliers, the marble statuary, the velvet curtains, the high-backed, brocaded armchairs, the display cabinets, and the gold fillets on the love seats. But he stopped by the side door at the rear of the salon, his hand on the bronze knocker; he did not want to open the door and walk down.

  "It belonged to people who went to live in France. We didn't pay anything for it, but restoring it cost a fortune. I said to my husband, I said let me do it all, leave it to me, I know how…"

  The fat man jumped up from his chair, light, filled with air, and brushed aside the hand that held the pistol: no one heard the shot, it was late and they were alone, yes, perhaps that's why no one heard it, and the bullet lodged in the blue wall while the commander laughed and said that was enough fooling around for now, dangerous fooling around especially. Why bother, when everything could be fixed so easily? So easily, he thought; it's about time for things to be fixed easily; will I ever live a quiet life?

  "Why don't you just leave me in peace? Why?"

  "But it's the easiest thing in the world, pal. It's up to you."

  "Where are we?"

  He hadn't come on his own; they'd brought him. And even though they were right in the middle of the city, the driver had got him dizzy: a turn to the left, then a right—the succeeding rectangles of Spanish city planning turned into a labyrinth of imperceptible divisions. It was all imperceptible, like the short, fragile hand of the other man, who snatched away the weapon, always laughing, and sat down again, heavy, fat, sweaty, his eyes flashing fire.

  "We're a pair of real motherfuckers, right? Know something? Always choose the biggest motherfuckers for your friends because, if you're on their side, no one's going to fuck you over. Let's have a drink."

  They toasted each other, and the fat man said that in this world there are two kinds of people, motherfuckers and assholes, and we have to decide which we're going to be. He went on to say that it would be a shame if he, the congressman, didn't know how to choose when the time came for choosing, because he and his friends were all straight shooters, all good guys, and they were giving everybody a chance to choose, except that not all of them were as smart as the congressman. They thought they were tough guys and started in shooting, when it was so simple to change places, just like that, and be on the right side. Don't tell me this is the first time you ever changed sides…Where have you been for the past fifteen years? The other man's voice, fat, like his flesh, whispering, and as terrifying as a snake, lulled him to sleep—that throat made up of contractile rings, lubricated by alcohol and cigars: "Like one?"

  The other man stared at him fixedly, and he went on running his fingers over his belt buckle without realizing it. When he did realize it, he moved his fingers away; the silver made him think of the coolness or the heat of the pistol, and he wanted to have his hands free.

  "Tomorrow they shoot the priests. I'm telling you as proof of our friendship, because I know for a fact you're not one of those faggots…"

  They pushed back their chairs. The other man went to the window and rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. He waved and then motioned to the man to get up. The other one stayed at the door while he walked down the fetid stairs, knocking over a garbage can, and everything reeked of rotten orange peels and wet newspapers. The man who had been standing by the door raised a finger to his white hat and showed him that Avenida 16 de Septiembre was over that way.

  "What do you think?"

  "That we should go over to the other side."

  "Not me."

  "Well, what do you think?"

  "I'm listening."

  "Can anyone else hear us?"

  "Saturno's a woman you can trust. Not a sound gets out of her house…"

  "If they don't, then I'll make them…"

  "We got where we are with the chief, and we'll go down with the chief."

  "He's done for. The new boss has him all boxed in."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "Put in an appearance with the new guy."

  "I'd sooner let' em cut off my ears. Are we men or what?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "There are lots of ways to do things."

  "Maybe, but I don't see any easy way out of this one."

  "Right. But you just can't keep saying no to everything."

  "I'm not saying no, I'm not saying anything."

  "Now it sounds like yes and no at the same time…"

  "What I say is that we go down like men, with one or the other…"

  "Wake up, General, sir, it's daybreak."

  "Well?"

  "Well…that's how I see it. Everybody's got his work cut out for him."

  "Well, who knows…"

  "I think I do."

  "So you really think our chief's not going anywhere?"

  "That's what I think, my opinion."

  "Why do you think so?"

  "I don't know. It's just how I feel."

  "And last but not least, what about you?"

  "I'm starting to think the same thing…"

  "Okay, but when the time comes, just forget we ever had this little talk."

  "Who's going to remember, when we didn't say anything?"

  "I'm just saying, just in case."

  "Just in case, that's what it's all about."

  "Shut up, Saturno. Bring us something to drink, go on."

  "Just in case, monsieur."

  "So we're not going to stick together on this one?"

  "Sure we'll stick together, but each guy's got to figure it out for himself."

  "The answer's always the same; it's just how you get to it that's different."

  "That's it."

  "General Jiménez, wouldn't you like something to eat?"

  "Everybody's got his story straight, right?"

  "Sure, but if somebody squeals…"

  "Where do you get that stuff, man? We're all pals here."

  "Yeah, sure, but then somebody starts thinking about his old gray-haired mama, and then he gets ideas."

  "Just in case, as Saturno says…"

  "Just in fucking case, Colonel Gavilán."

  "Just one guy starts thinking…"

  "One guy starts thinking for himself, and that's it."

  "Yeah, but a guy might want to save his skin, right?"

  "Skin, yeah, but his honor, too, Congressman, sir."

  "His honor, too. Right you are, General."

  "So…"

  "This little meeting never happened."

  "Never, never, never."

  "But do you think the chief's done for?"

  "Which chief, the old one or the new one?"

  "The old one, the old one."

  Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town: Saturno takes the needle off the record and claps her hands. "Girls, girls, line up over here…" while he got in the carriage and pulled back the curtains, laughing, and only saw the girls out of the corner of his eyes, dark, but powdered and creamed, with beauty marks drawn on their cheeks, their breasts, next to their lips, their velvet or patent-leather slippers, their short skirts, blue eyelids, and the hand of the bouncer, also powdered: "A little something for me, sir?"

  This business was going to turn out fine, he knew it, rubbing his belly with his right hand, stopping in the little garden in front of the whorehouse to breathe in the dew on the lawn, the coolness of the water in its spring of muddy velvet. By now, General Jiménez would have taken off his blue glasses and would be rubbing his dry eyelids, the dry skin flaking off from his conjunctivitis and making his beard snowy. He would be asking for someone to help get his boots off, someone take off his boots, please, because he was tired and because he was accustomed to having someone take off his boots, and everyone would laugh because the general would take advantage of the position the girl was in to lift up her skirt and show her small, round, dark ass covered with lilac silk. The others would rather see the rare spectacle of those eyes that were always hidden, open for once like big, insipid oysters—and all of them, the friends, the broth
ers, the pals, would stretch out their arms and have their jackets taken off by Saturno's young acolytes, who would be buzzing like bees around the ones in army uniforms, as if they had no idea what might be underneath the uniform, the buttons emblazoned with the eagle and serpent, the gold oak clusters. He'd seen them fuss like that, damp, just barely out of the cocoon, their mestizo arms waving powder puffs in the air, powdering the heads of the friends, brothers, pals leaning back on the beds with their legs spread, their shirts stained with cognac, their temples dripping and their hands dry, while the rhythm of the Charleston filtered through, while the girls undressed them slowly, kissing every part they uncovered, squealing when the men stretched out their fingers. He looked at his fingernails with their white tips; white fingertips were supposedly proof of telling lies, and the half-moon on his thumb, and a dog barked near him. He turned up the lapels of his jacket and walked toward his house, though he'd prefer to go to the other place and sleep in the arms of those powdered bodies and release the acid that had his nerves on edge, that forced him to stand there with eyes open, gazing needlessly at those rows of low gray houses surrounded by balconies decked out with porcelain and glass flowerpots, rows of dry, dusty palm trees on the avenue, needlessly smelling the leftover smell of chillied corn and vinegar dressing.