The Death of Artemio Cruz

by Carlos Fuentes

  "…of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen…"

  He's still there, on his knees, with his washed face. I try to turn my back to him. The pain in my side keeps me from moving. Ooooh. He must be finished by now. I'll be absolved. I want to sleep. Here comes the pain. Here it comes. Oooooh. And the women. No, not these. Those who love. What? Yes. No. I don't know. I've forgotten that face. By God, I've forgotten that face. It was mine, how could I ever forget it?

  "Padilla…Padilla…Get the story editor and the society-page editor over here."

  Your voice, Padilla, the hollow sound of your voice on the intercom…"

  "Yes, Don Artemio. Don Artemio, we've got an urgent problem here. The Indians are demonstrating. They want to be paid for their forests that were cut down."

  "What? How much is it?"

  "Half a million."

  "Is that all? Tell the commissioner of the ejido to get them in line. That's What I pay him for. What next…"

  "Mena's here, in the waiting room. What should I tell him?"

  "To come in."

  Ah, Padilla, I can't open my eyes to see you, but I can see your thoughts, Padilla, behind my mask of pain. The dying man is named Artemio Cruz, just Artemio Cruz; only this man is dying, right? no one else. It's like a bit of good luck that wipes out the other deaths. This time, only Artemio Cruz is dying. And that death can take place instead of another, perhaps your own, Padilla…Ah. No. I still have things to do. Don't count your chickens yet…

  "I told you he was faking."

  "Let him rest."

  "I'm telling you he's faking!"

  I see them, from far off. Their fingers quickly get the false bottom open, sliding it out with an air of great expectation. But there's nothing there. I'm waving my arm, pointing toward the oak wall, the long closet that takes up one side of the bedroom. The women run to it, open all the doors, slide all the hangers with their blue suits, with stripes, two-button jackets, made of Irish linen, without remembering that they aren't my suits, that my clothes are in my house, they push aside all the hangers while I point, with the hands I can barely move: perhaps the document is hidden in one of the inside pockets of a suit. Teresa's and Catalina's sense of urgency increases: now they're tearing through things in a fury, throwing empty jackets on the rug, until finally they've looked through all of them and they turn to stare at me. I can't keep a straight face. I'm held up by the pillows, and I breath with difficulty, but my eyes don't miss a single detail. I sense their speed and their covetousness.

  I gesture for them to come closer. "Now I remember…In a shoe…I remember perfectly…"

  Seeing the two of them down on all fours on the mound of jackets and trousers, digging through shoes, showing me their fat thighs, shaking their asses, panting obscenely—only then does the bitter sweetness cloud my eyes. I bring my hand to my heart and close my eyes.

  "Regina…"

  The grunts of indignation and effort made by the two women fade in the darkness. I move my lips to whisper the name. There isn't much time left for remembering the other, the one she loved…Regina…

  "Padilla…Padilla. I want to eat something light…I don't feel right in the stomach. Come with me while they're getting this stuff ready…"

  "What? You choose, build, make, preserve, continue: nothing else…I…"

  "Right. See you soon. Say hello to everyone for me."

  "Well put, sir. It'll be easy to smash them."

  "No, Padilla, it isn't so easy. Pass me that platter…the one with the little sandwiches on it…I've seen these people on the march. When they decide something, it's hard to hold them back."

  How did the song go? Exiled, I went down south, exiled, by the government, and the next year I came back north; oh, those terrible nights I spent without you, without you; not a friend, not a relative to worry about me; only the love, only the love of that woman made me come back…

  "That's why we have to do something right now, when the bad feelings toward us are just starting, we've got to nip it in the bud. They don't have any organization, and they're putting everything they've got on the line. Come on, come on, have some of these little sandwiches, there's enough for two…"

  "Useless agitation…"

  I've got my brace of pistols, they both have ivory butts, and I can shoot it out with the railroad and its scabs. I'm a railroad working girl. My Juan's my pride and joy, I'm in love, you know, with the boy, I'm a railroad working girl. If you see me wearing boots, and you think I'm a soldier girl, well, I'm just a railroad girl, working on the central line.

  "It wouldn't be if they were right. But they aren't. But you were a Marxist back when you were a kid, so you must understand these things better. You should be afraid of what's going on. For me, it's a little late…"

  "Campanela's waiting outside."

  What did they say? Did you want to? Hemorrhage? Hernia? Occlusion? Perforation? A volvulus? Involvement of the colon?

  Oh, Padilla, I should push the button to make you come in. Padilla, I can't see you because I've got my eyes closed, I have my eyes closed because I no longer believe in that tiny imperfect patch, my retina. What if I open my eyes and my retina no longer perceives anything, no longer communicates anything to my brain? What do I do then?

  "Open the window."

  "I blame you. The same as my brother."

  "Right."

  You probably don't know or understand why Catalina, sitting next to you, wants to share that memory with you, that memory she wants to superimpose on all other memories: you here on earth, Lorenzo in the other world? What is it she want to remember? You with Gonzalo in this prison? Lorenzo without you on that mountain? You probably don't know or understand if you are he, if he might be you, if you lived that day without him, with him, he in your place, you in his place. You will remember. Yes, that last day you and he were together there—he did not live it all in your place or you in his, you were together. He asked you if you were going all the way to the sea together; you were going on horseback; he will ask you where you were going to eat and he told you—he will tell you—papa, he will smile, will raise the arm holding the shotgun and will go out of the ford with his torso naked, holding the shotgun and the knapsacks high over his head. She will not be there. Catalina will not remember that. For that reason you will try to remember it, in order to forget what she wants you to remember. She will live locked away and will tremble when he returns to Mexico City for a few days, just to say goodbye. She believes him. He won't do it. He will board a ship in Veracruz, he will go. He would go. She will have to remember that bedroom where the humors of sleep struggle to remain even though the air of springtime wafts in through the open balcony. She will have to remember sleeping in separate beds, different rooms, the marks left in the mattress, the persistent silhouette of those who slept in those beds. She will not be able to remember the mare's croup, similar to two black jewels washed by the slimy river. You will. As you cross the river, you and he will make out a ghost on the other shore, a ghost of earth raised over the misty fermentation of the morning. That struggle between the dark jungle and the burning sun will take shape as a double reflection of all things, as a ghost of the humidity embracing the reverberating sunlight. It will smell of banana. It will be Cocuya. Catalina will never know what Cocuya was, is or will be. She will sit on the edge of her bed to wait, with a mirror in one hand and a brush in the other, vaguely depressed, with the taste of bile in her mouth, deciding to stay that way, sitting, not looking at anything, unwilling to do anything, telling herself that this is how scenes always leave her: empty. No: only you and he will feel the hooves of the horse on the porous dirt on the bank. As they leave the water, they will feel the coolness mixed with the broiling of the jungle and they will look back: that slow river that sweetly swirls the algae on the other shore. And beyond, at the end of the path lined with flowering plants, the repainted Cocuya mansion resting on a shady esplanade. Catalina will repeat, "My God, I don't deserve this." She will pick up the mirror and
ask herself if that is what Lorenzo will see when he returns, if he comes back: that growing deformity in the chin and neck. Will he notice the disguised wrinkles that begin to run along her eyelids and cheeks? She will see another gray hair in the mirror and pull it out. And you, with Lorenzo at your side, will enter the jungle. You will see your son's naked shoulder in front of you, in the alternating shadows of the mangrove and the fractured rays of the sun that filter through the thick roof of branches. The knotty roots of the trees will break the crust of the earth and will poke out, wild and twisted, all along the path cleared by machete. A path that in a short time will once again be clogged with lianas. Lorenzo will trot along, sitting bolt upright, not turning his head, snapping his riding crop at the mare's flanks to keep off the horseflies. Catalina will repeat to herself that she will have no faith in him, that she will have no faith in him unless she sees him as he was before, as he was as a child, and she will lie back with a moan, her arms spread, tears in her eyes, and will let her silk slippers fall from her feet and she will think about her son, so like his father, so thin, so dark. The dry branches will snap under the hooves, and the white plain will open with its plumes of undulating sugarcane. Lorenzo will spur his horse. He will turn his face back, and his lips will part in a smile that will reach your eyes accompanied by a shout of joy and the raised arm: a strong arm, olive skin, a white smile, like yours when you were young. You will remember your youth through him and through these places, and you will not want to tell Lorenzo how much this land means to you, because doing so might mean extorting his affection. You will remember in order to remember within memory. Catalina, on the bed, will remember the boy kneeling at her side, his head resting on his mother's lap, as she called him the joy of her life, because before he was born she suffered a great deal, and not being able to tell him all, because she had sacred obligations, and the boy looking at her without understanding: why, why, why? You will bring Lorenzo to live here so that he can learn to love this land on his own, without any need on your part to explain the motives behind your tender labor in reconstructing the burned walls of the hacienda and reopening the flatlands to agriculture. No because, without because, because. The two of you will go out into the sun. You will pick up the wide-brimmed hat and put it on your head. The wind from your gallop through the quiet, shimmering air will fill your mouth, eyes, and head. Lorenzo will take the lead, raising a white cloud along the road opened between the fields, and behind him, galloping, you will feel sure that both of you are feeling the same thing. The race opens your veins, makes your blood flow, sharpens your vision so that you see this wide, vigorous land, so different from the highland plateaus, from the deserts you will get to know, this land parceled out in huge red, green, and black squares dotted with tall palm trees, turbid and deep, redolent of excrement and fruit skin, this land that sends its meanings to your son's aroused, exalted senses and to your own, you and your son, galloping swiftly, saving your nerves, the body's forgotten muscles, from torpor. Your spurs will dig into the bay until he bleeds: you know that Lorenzo wants to race. His questioning face will cut through Catalina's voice. She will stop, will wonder how far he can go, will tell herself that it's only a matter of time, of repeating the reasons little by little, yes, until he understands them completely. She sitting in the armchair, he at her feet with his arms folded over his knees. The earth will echo beneath the hooves. you lower your head, as if you want to bring it closer to the horse's ear and spur him on with words, but there is that weight, that weight of the Yaqui who must be slung face down over the horse's croup, the Yaqui who will reach out his

  arm to hang on to your belt. The pain will put you to sleep. Your arm and leg will dangle inert, and the Yaqui still be hanging on to your waist, moaning, his face flushed. Then you will come upon the tombstone-shaped crags and you will march along protected by the shadows, in the mountain canyon, reconnoitering hidden rock valleys, deep gorges above abandoned irrigation ditches, roads of thorns and scrub. Who will remember with you? Lorenzo without you on that mountain? Gonzalo with you in this prison?

  (1915: October 22)

  He wrapped himself in the blue serape because the freezing night wind hissed—as if someone were shaking a sheaf of straw—and negated the vertical heat of the day. They'd spent the night out in the open with no food. Just over a mile from them, the basalt crowns of the mountains shot up, their roots buried in the hard desert. For three days now, the scouting party had been on patrol, never asking where they were going, in which direction, guided only by the captain's instincts. He thought he knew all the tricks and all the routes left to Francisco Villa's tattered retreating columns. Thirty-six miles behind them stood the main body of their troops, only waiting for a galloping messenger from this detachment so they could throw themselves on the remnants of Villa's forces and keep them from joining the fresh troops in Chihuahua. But where were those remnants? The captain thought he knew: in some mountain pass, following the worst road. On the fourth day—today—the detachment was to have plunged into the sierra while the bulk of Carranza's forces would advance toward this place, which he and his men would leave at dawn. Yesterday they ran out of cornmeal. And the sergeant who rode out with the canteens last night, to find the stream coursing through the rocks, which disappeared as soon as it reached the desert, had not found it. Yes, he could see its bed of reddish-veined stone, clean and wrinkled, but it was dry. Two years before, they'd passed through this same place during the rainy season, and now, at dawn, only one round start twinkled over the soldier's burning heads. They'd made camp without starting any fires; an enemy scout might see them from the mountain. In any case, it was unnecessary. There was no food to cook, and in the immensity of the desert plains an isolated fire couldn't keep anyone warm. Wrapped in the serape, he ran his hand over his thin face, over the wiry beard that had started to cover his chin. Dust encrusted the corners of his lips, his eyebrows, and the bridge of his nose. There were eighteen men in the detachment, only a few yards from the captain. Whether he sleeps or keeps watch, he is always alone, always separated from his men by a few yards of bare ground. Nearby, the horses shook their manes in the wind, their black silhouettes standing out against the yellow skin of the desert. He wanted to go up into the mountains: the spring that gave rise to the brief, solitary flow of the cool creek was up there. His body felt tense. Hunger and thirst sank his eyes and opened them wider, green eyes with a cold, even stare.

  The mask of his face, stained with dust, remained fixed and awake. He was waiting for the first line of dawn to show itself: the fourth day, according to orders. Almost no one slept, they were watching him from a distance as he sat with his knees tucked up, wrapped in the serape, unmoving. Those who tried to close their eyes had to fight their thirst, hunger, and fatigue. Those who weren't looking at the captain looked toward the line of horses, all with their forelocks parted. Their bridles were tied to the thick mesquite protruding out of the earth like a lost finger. The tired horses stared at the ground. The sun should be appearing from behind the mountain about now. It was time.

  They were all waiting for the moment when the captain stood up, tossed aside the blue serape, and revealed himself: his chest covered with cartridge belts, the shining buckle on his officer's tunic, his pigskin puttees. Without a word, the detachment got to its feet and went over to the horses. The captain was right: a fan-shaped glow flared up from behind the lowest peaks, casting an arch of light to which unseen birds added a chorus. They kept their distance but they were the real owners of the vast silence of this abandoned land. He signaled to the Yaqui Indian Tobias and said to him, in his own language, "You stay to the back. As soon as we catch sight of the enemy, race back to headquarters."

  The Yaqui nodded, putting on his narrow-brimmed hat, which had a round crown and a single red feather stuck in the band. The captain leaped onto his horse, and the line of men began a light trot toward the entrance to the sierra: a canyon with ocher-faced defiles.

  There were three bluffs o
verhanging three passes through the mountain. The detachment headed for the second, the narrowest, along which the horses would have to pass in single file, with the steep cliff wall on one side and the ravine on the other. The path led to the spring; the canteens broadcast their emptiness as they bounced off the men's hips. The clatter of the rocks glancing off the horses' shoes repeated a deep, empty sound which, like the single dry beat of a drum, vanished without an echo down the canyon. Seen from above, the short column of horsemen seemed to be groping its way forward. Only he kept his eyes on the top of the canyon wall, squinting against the sun, letting his horse find the path. At the head of the detachment, he felt neither fear nor pride. He'd left his fear behind, not in his first battles, but in the long series of skirmishes which had made danger normal for him and turned safety into something disturbing. The absolute silence of the canyon secretly alarmed him, and he tightened the reins and flexed the muscles of his right arm and hand so he could swiftly pull out his pistol. He thought he was devoid of arrogance—earlier, because of his fear, and now out of habit. He had no sense of pride when the first bullets whistled past his ear and life like a miracle went on each time another shot missed its mark. He felt only astonishment at the blind wisdom of his body as it avoided danger by standing or crouching, his face hidden behind a tree trunk—astonishment and scorn, when he thought about the tenacity with which his body, faster even than his will, safeguarded itself. He felt no pride when, later, he didn't even hear that pertinacious, all-too-familiar whistle. He lived a dry but controlled dread in those minutes when unforeseen tranquillity surrounded him. He jutted out his jaw in a gesture of doubt.