The Death of Artemio Cruz

by Carlos Fuentes

  I don't know, I don't understand why, sitting next to me, you're sharing this memory with me at the end, and this time with no reproach in your eyes. Ah, if you only understood. If we only understood. Perhaps there's another membrane behind our open eyes and it's only now that we're breaking through it, to see. The body can send out, the same way it can receive from the eyes and caresses of others. You touch me. You touch my hand, and I feel your hand without feeling my own. It touches me. Catalina pats my hand. It must be love. I wonder. I don't understand. Could it be love? We were so used to each other. If I offered her love, she would respond with reproaches; if she offered me love, I would respond with pride: perhaps they were two halves of a single feeling, perhaps. She touches me. She wants to remember all that with me, only that, and to understand it.

  "Why?"

  "We crossed the river on horseback…"

  "I survived. Regina. What was your name? No. You, Regina. What was your name, soldier without a name? I survived. you died. I survived."

  "Go over to him, so he can see who you are. Tell him your name…"

  But I listen to Teresa's sobs, and I feel Catalina's hand on my shoulder, and the rapid, squeaky footsteps of the man who pokes my stomach and sticks his finger in my anus, inserts a hot thermometer reeking of alcohol into my mouth, and the other voices break off and the man who's just arrived says something in the distance, in the depth of a tunnel:

  "There's no way to know. It might be a strangulated hernia. It might be peritonitis, it might be a nephritic colon. If that's what it turns out to be, we'll have to inject him with two centigrams of morphine. But that might be dangerous. I think we should get another opinion."

  Oh pain that overcomes itself, oh pain, prolonging yourself, until you don't matter, until you become normalcy: oh pain, I couldn't stand being without you, I've grown accustomed to you, oh pain, oh…

  "Say something, Don Artemio. Speak to us, please. Speak."

  "…I don't remember her, I just don't remember her anymore, of course, how could I forget her…"

  "Look: his pulse ceases completely when he speaks."

  "Give him something, Doctor, don't let him suffer…"

  "Another doctor will have to see him. It's dangerous."

  "…how could I forget him…"

  "Just rest now, please. Don't talk anymore. That's right. When did he last urinate?"

  "This morning…No, two hours ago, without knowing it."

  "Did someone save it?"

  "No…no."

  "Put the catheter back on. Save it. We have to run tests on it."

  "I wasn't there, so how could I remember to do it?"

  Again that cold gadget. Again my lifeless penis inside that metal mouth. I'll learn to live with all this. An attack; an old man my age can have an attack anytime; an attack is nothing out of the ordinary; it'll pass; it has to pass; but there is so little time, why don't they let me remember? Yes, when my body was young; once it was young; it was young…Oh, my body is dying of pain, but my brain is full of light: they are separating, I know they are separating: because now I remember that face.

  "An act of contrition."

  I have a son, I made him: because now I remember that face: where should I take him, where, so he doesn't get away, where, for God's sake, where, please, where?

  From the depth of your memory you will cry out; you will lower your head as if to place it next to the horse's ear and spur him on with words. You will feel—and your son will probably feel as well—that fierce, steaming breath, that sweat, those tense nerves, those eyes glassy from strain. Your voices will be lost in the thunder of the hooves, and he will shout: "You've never been able to beat the mare, Papa!" "And who taught you to ride, eh?" "I'm telling you, you'll never be able to beat the mare!" "Let's just see!" "You should tell me all about it, Lorenzo, just as you have until now, just like that…just as you have until now…You shouldn't be ashamed to tell your mother; no, no, never be embarrassed with me; I'm your best friend, maybe your only friend…" She will repeat it that morning, lying in bed, that spring morning, and she will repeat all the conversations she'd prepared since her son was a child, draining you out of his life, taking care of him all day long, refusing to hire a nanny, packing your daughter, as soon as she turned six, off to Catholic boarding school, so that all her time would be for Lorenzo, so that Lorenzo would grow accustomed to that comfortable life devoid of options. The speed will bring tears to your eyes; you will squeeze your legs over your horse's flanks, you will throw yourself violently against its mane, but the black mare will keep three lengths ahead. You will straighten up, tired; you will slow down. Seeing the mare and the young rider pulling away will seem more beautiful to you, the sound of the hooves lost in the chorus of macaws, in the bleating that flows down the hillsides. You will have to squint so as not to lose sight of Lorenzo's mare, which will now leave the path to trot toward the woods, returning to the riverbank. No: without difficult options, without the alarming need to choose, Catalina will say to herself, thinking that in the beginning you helped her with your indifference, unintentionally, because you belonged to another world, the world of work and force she came to know when you took Don Gamaliel's lands away from him, allowing the boy at the beginning to join the other world of bedrooms in semidarkness: a natural slope, a climate of almost nonexistent exclusions and inclusions created by her between her sacred muttering and her silent dissimulation. Lorenzo's mare will detour off the path to trot once more toward the woods, returning to the riverbank. The boy's raised arm will point east, where the sun came up, toward a lagoon separated from the bay by a sandbar in the river. You will close your eyes when you again feel the hot steam rising toward your face along with the cool shadow that falls on your head. You will let your horse follow the road on its own, rocking you on the moist saddle. Behind your closed eyelids, the shape of the sun and the form of the shadow will scatter in invisible depths, and the blue phantom of the young, strong figure will stand out. You must have awakened that morning, as you did every day, with expectant joy. "I've always turned the other cheek," Catalina will repeat, the child at her side. "Always, I have always accepted everything. If it weren't for you"—and you will love those astonished, questioning eyes that allow themselves to be led. "One day, I'll tell you everything…" You will not be mistaken in bringing Lorenzo to Cocuya from the time he is twelve; you will repeat it: not mistaken. For him alone will you have bought this land, rebuilt the hacienda, left him on it, the child-master, responsible for the harvests, open to the life of horses and hunting, swimming and fishing. You will see him from a distance, on horseback, and you will say to yourself that he is the image of your own youth, slim and strong, dark, his green eyes sunken into high cheekbones. You will breathe in the muddy rot of the riverbank. "One day, I'll tell you everything…Your father; your father, Lorenzo…Lorenzo: do you really love Our Lord? Do you believe all the things I've taught you? Do you know that the Church is the body of God on earth and that priests are the ministers of the Lord…? Do you believe…?" Lorenzo will place his hand on your shoulder. Each will see the other reflected in his eyes, you will smile. You will grab Lorenzo around the neck; the boy will pretend to punch you in the stomach; you will mess his hair, laughing; you will embrace in a mock but rough, hard-fought, panting struggle until you both collapse on the grass, laughing, out of breath, laughing…"My God, why am I asking you this? I have no right, really, I have no right…I don't know about holy men…about real martyrs…Do you think it could be approved?…I don't know why I'm asking you…" The horses will go home, as tired as you two, and now you will walk, leading them by their bridles, along the sand bridge that leads to the sea, the open sea, Lorenzo, Artemio, to the open sea where Lorenzo will run, agile, toward the waves breaking, around his waist, toward the green sea of the tropics which will soak his trousers, the sea guarded by the low flight of sea gulls, the sea that only pokes its tired tongue onto the beach, the sea that you will impulsively take in the palm of your hand and
raise to your lips: the sea that tastes like bitter beer, smells like melon, custard apple, guava, quince, strawberry. The fishermen will drag their heavy nets toward the sand, you two will join them, shuck oysters with them, eat crabs and lobsters with them, and Catalina, alone, will try to close her eyes and sleep, will await the return of the boy she hasn't seen now for two years, since he turned fifteen, and Lorenzo, as he cracks the pink shell of the lobsters and thanks the fishermen for the slice of lemon they pass him, will ask you if you ever think about what's on the other side of the sea, because he thinks all lands resemble each other and that only the sea is different. You will tell him there are islands. Lorenzo will say that in the sea so many things happen that we would have to be bigger, more complete, in order to live in the sea. Lying back in the sand, listening to the fisherman's out-of-tune guitar, you would like to explain to him that years ago, forty or so, something shattered here so that something else could begin, or something, even newer, would never begin. Under the misty sun of dawn, under the blazing, molten sun of dawn, under the blazing, molten sun of midday, on the black paths and alongside this sea, this one, now tranquil, dense, and green, there existed for you a ghost, not real but true, that could…It wasn't that—the very truth of those lost possibilities—which upset you so much, what brought you back to Cocuya hand in hand with Lorenzo, but something—you will say it with your eyes closed, with the taste of shellfish in your mouth, with the Caribbean music of Veracruz, the son, in your ears, lost in the immensity of this afternoon—more difficult to express, to think by yourself; and even though you would like to tell your son, you will not dare to. He has to understand on his own. You hear him understand, as he settles on his haunches, facing the open sea, his ten fingers spread out, under the overcast, suddenly dark sky: "A ship leaves in ten days. I've already booked passage." The sky and Lorenzo's hand, which turns to receive the first drops of rain, as if he were begging for them: "Wouldn't you have done the same thing, Papa? You didn't stay home. Do I believe in a cause? I don't know. You brought me here, you taught me all these things. It's as if I had relieved your life, don't you understand?" "Yes." "Now there is this battle line. I think it's the only one left. I'm going."…Oh, that pain, that jab, oh, how you'd like to get up, run, forget the pain by walking it off, working, shouting, giving orders. And they won't let you, they will take you by the arms, they will force you to stay still, they will force you, physically, to keep on remembering, and you will not want to, you do want to, oh, you don't. You will only have dreamed your days: you don't want to know about one day that is more yours than any other day because it will be the only one on which someone will live for you, the only one you can remember in the name of someone; a short day, terror, a day of white poplars, Artemio, your day too, your life too…oh…

  (1939: February 3)

  He stood on the flat roof, a rifle in his hands. He was remembering how the two of them went out to the lake to hunt. But the rifle in his hands was rusty, no good for hunting. From the flat roof, the façade of the bishop's palace was clearly visible. All that remained was the façade, a shell without floors or roof. The bombs had destroyed all the rest. Half buried in the rubble, a few old pieces of furniture were also visible. Up the street, a man wearing a butterfly collar and two women dressed in black walked toward them. They were squinting, carrying bundless in their hands, and they took astonished steps as they passed the façade. All he had to do was see them to know they were enemies.

  "You there, on the other side of the street!"

  He shouted to them from that place on the roof. The man raised his face and the sun on his glasses blinded him. He waved his arm to signal them to cross the street to avoid the dangerous façade, which seemed about to collapse. They crossed, and in the distance the salvos of Fascist artillery resounded—they were hollow when they fell into the depths between mountains and high-pitched when they whistled through the air. Later he sat down on a sandbag. Miguel was next to him. Under no circumstance would he abandon the machine gun. From the roof they saw the town's deserted streets. There were shell holes in the streets, broken telephone poles, and tangled wires—the interminable echo of the salvos and the pam-pam-pam of sporadic small-arms fire, the dry, cold roof tiles: only the façade of the ancient bishop's palace was standing on that street.

  "Only one belt left for the machine gun," he informed Miguel, and Miguel responded, "Let's wait until this afternoon. After that…"

  They leaned back against the wall and it cigarettes. Miguel wrapped his scarf around his face until it hid his blond beard. The mountains in the distance were covered with snow; the snow had gone down the slopes even though the sun shone brightly. In the morning light, the peaks stood out, seeming to advance toward them. Later, in the afternoon, they would retreat; the trails and pines would disappear. At day's end, there would be only a distance purple mass.

  But, that midday, Miguel looked at the sun, squinted, and said, "If it weren't for the artillery and he sniping, you'd say we were at peace. These winter days are beautiful. Look how far down the mountain the snow has come."

  He looked at deep white creases that ran from Miguel's eyelids to his bearded cheeks, like snow drifting down his face. He would never forget those eyes, because in them he'd learned to see joy, courage, rage, and serenity. There had been times when they'd won and then been thrown back again. Sometimes they'd just lost. But the attitude they should all have was already in the creases in Miguel's face before they won or lost. He learned a lot from Miguel's face. The only thing he'd never seen Miguel do was weep.

  He crushed his cigarette on the floor and it sent out a shower of sparks. He asked Miguel why they were losing, and Miguel pointed to the mountains on the frontier and said, "Because our machine guns didn't come from over there."

  Then Miguel put out his cigarette, too, and began to murmur a song:

  The four generals, the big four generals,

  The big four generals, oh Mama,

  Who've attacked us old and young…

  And he answered, still leaning back on the sandbags:

  By Christmas Eve, oh Mama, They'll surely have been hanged…

  They sang to kill time. There were many hours like this one in which they stood guard and nothing happened. So they sang. They never had to say, "Let's sing." And no one ever felt embarrassed to sing in front of the others. Exactly as they laughed for no reason, wrestled, or sang along with the fishermen on the beach near Cocuya. Except that now they sang to bolster their courage, even if the words of the song were a bad joke, because the four generals not only hadn't been hanged but had them surrounded in this town with the mountain frontier in their faces. They had no place to go.

  The sun began to fade early, at about four in the afternoon, and he hugged his old rifle with its yellow butt and put on his cap. Like Miguel, he wrapped himself up in his scarf. For the past few days he'd been wanting to suggest something to him. Even though his boots were worn, they were still holding up; all Miguel had was an old pair of sandals he'd wrapped with rags and bound up with string. He wanted to say they could take turns with the boots: he one day, Miguel the next. But he didn't have the nerve. The wrinkles in that face said he shouldn't. Now they blew on their fingers, because they knew only too well what it meant to spend a night on an open roof. Then, from the far end of the street came a soldier, one of ours, a Republican running toward us as if he'd popped out of one of the shell holes. He waved his arms and finally fell, face down. Behind him came more Republican soldiers, boots slapping the pockmarked streets. The artillery salvo, which had seemed so far off, suddenly was closer, and from the street below, one of the soldiers shouted: "Weapons, please, give us some guns!"

  "Don't stop!" shouted the man leading the soldiers. "Don't make yourself an easy target!"

  They passed by at a run, below them, and Miguel and Lorenzo aimed the machine gun at the last of their own soldiers, thinking the enemy would be right on their heels.

  "They should be here any time now," he sa
id to Miguel.

  "All right, Mexican, do a good job now," said Miguel, holding up the last cartridge belt.

  But another machine gun fired first. Two or three blocks away, another hidden machine-gun nest, a Fascist one, had waited for the men to fall back, and now it was raking the street, killing the soldiers. But not their leader, who hit the dirt, shouting: "Get down! You'll never learn!"