The Eagle's Throne

by Carlos Fuentes

  In what direction, my dear friend, do the waves in the lagoon go now?

  19

  NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN

  You have every right to reproach me for being so slow, my dear lady. Allow me to quote that well-known Italian adage, since Italy is the source of all wisdom but also of all political malice: Chi va piano va lontano. I only hope that one day you’ll grant me the distinction enjoyed by another Italian (one who is less anonymous than the author of this proverb, to be sure), and that you’ll recognize me, my dear lady, for what I am: a young boy who was graced with good fortune but who nevertheless lives according to the words of his namesake Machiavelli, who always warned against excessive reliance on Fortune, who, after all, is (and who does this bring to mind?) fickle, inconstant—shameless.

  In any case, do you think it insignificant that I was able to undermine the arrogance of Tácito de la Canal and turn the adorable Dorita, so long subjugated by her boss and her mother, into a real woman?

  I’ve continued to employ this tactic, my dear María del Rosario. Yesterday was February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers (who knows why), and so I organized a party in the office. I chose to hold it in the Emiliano Zapata room—because Mexico is a country that murders its heroes and then erects statues to honor them. It seemed the appropriate place for the staff of the presidential mansion. You know—all those people nobody ever sees precisely because nobody is ever supposed to see them. I’ve already mentioned the secretaries, so hard up these days without telephones, computers, and fax machines, forced to haul out the old Remingtons that were gathering dust in the archives.

  The archives! Who’s ever seen those old people (why doesn’t anyone young work there? Have you ever noticed?) who look after the presidential records with the sort of devotion that deserves a medal? They’re the invisible among the invisible, living in paper caves, custodians of all that must be hidden and forgotten. The archivists.

  I invited the gardeners, doormen, drivers, cooks, waitresses, cleaning ladies, and laundresses to the party. I put the faithful Penélope in charge—never has a woman been so aptly named—of all the necessary arrangements: hanging the lanterns, decorating everything with hearts, hanging up streamers, ordering the buffet, everything.

  You can’t imagine what a delightful time everyone had—that is, until the illustrious Tácito de la Canal made his triumphant entrance and a funereal silence descended on the party. The chief of staff was pleased by this. He had dressed up for the event, which in his case meant taking off his tie and undoing the top three buttons of his shirt, not to look casual, but because he wanted to show off his chest! Bald as a melon, he wanted us all to see that thicket, the evidence of his strapping masculinity. I must say it was extraordinary: Tarzan himself could have easily swung from one nipple to the other. Very well. But you can’t begin to imagine what he had hanging from his neck, all tangled up in the hair. A cameo. And can you guess who was smiling out from it?

  None other than you, my dear lady María del Rosario Galván. Wasn’t it the Virgin of Guadalupe, you ask? No, my dear lady, it was you, an icon between Tácito de la Canal’s hairy nipples. What happened next, you might ask? Well, Tácito boasted to one and all that he was something more than the intimate friend of the president’s intimate friend, and that you, my distinguished lady, enjoyed the privilege of Mr. de la Canal’s hirsute favors.

  Make of it what you will. I’m simply here to provide information, carrying out the brief dictated by my fair damsel (reporting straight from the heart of darkness that beats just beneath Tácito’s hairy carapace), reporting on the audacity of the voyeur who spied on your most distinguished and delectable state of undress, madam, and who has now turned out to be the exhibitor of a love that—I hope!—is unrequited.

  He left without a word, apart from congratulating me for my “jocular” initiative, and unwittingly unleashed a wave of unrestricted joy, a reaction to his highly depressing presence. Some people just have that effect. I called for drinks to be served and very soon the revelry began to get dangerously out of hand, as if the crowd were about to storm the Bastille. I worked the room, stopping to chat, livening things up, lightening the atmosphere, until I found myself standing before what one might call the “Senate of the Archivists.”

  How far back did the oldest of them go? Back to the days of López Mateos. And the youngest? Since López Portillo? Did they like their work? Certainly, they had to be highly organized to file documents by topic, date, and name. Did they read all the things they filed away? Blank stares. No. Never. They received the documents, rubber-stamped them with the office seal and the date, made a note of the topic in the upper right-hand corner, and placed them in the appropriate file. Were there any that got marked “Confidential,” “Secret,” “Personal,” or something like that? Of course. Did any of them remember a specific topic filed under such a classification? No, no, all they did was file the documents.

  Their eyes revealed one of two things: Either they were bored, or they didn’t understand. And anyway, the sheer volume of paper that they received every day was so overwhelming that they could barely keep up with it. And that was that.

  Could I visit these archives?

  I didn’t venture actually to ask the question, dear friend, because I sensed a fraternal spirit among these archivists, a guild of sorts based on old paper, dark basements, long hours of monotony and tedium, short and poorly paid vacations, half-remembered families, and pale faces.

  I picked one of them out from the rest. The one who said he’d been there since López Portillo. The one who hadn’t taken off that old officeworker’s uniform, not even for a party: greenish eyeshade tightly hugging a wrinkled cranium and protecting a gaze that was neither curious nor suspicious. Plastic collar attached to the shirt by a white plastic button. Unbuttoned vest, and arm garters to hide the disparity between the length of the sleeve and the length of the arm, or perhaps to prevent the cuffs from fraying.

  “My family is from Jalisco,” I lied, though my comment didn’t elicit the least bit of a reaction.

  “We’re related to the Gálvez y Gallo family,” I added.

  His face lit up.

  “The chief of staff I most admire!” he said with joy.

  “The very one.”

  “What a gentleman! Married to a real lady. Would you believe, Mr. Valdivia, that they never forgot a single one of our birthdays? They always had a gift, a smile for you . . . oh, what a difference!”

  “You mean between them and Tácito de la Canal?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” The old man raised a hand to his mouth. “I . . . I didn’t . . .”

  I hugged him warmly.

  “Don’t give it a second thought, Mr. . . .”

  “Cástulo Magón, at your service. I’ve been working in the archives since 1982. Different times, Mr. Valdivia!”

  “I know, I know. To remember is to live. I’m very interested in our archives, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really, don Cástulo.”

  “Well, at your service. Whenever you please, come downstairs. It would be a pleasure. But I should warn you—there’s a lot of paper, a lot of history. Even we lose our way in that maze.”

  What I didn’t tell him was this: I know what I am looking for. Don’t you worry.

  20

  XAVIER “SENECA” ZARAGOZA TO PRESIDENT LORENZO TERÁN

  Time passes, Mr. President, and in your third year in office, you still don’t deign to ask me, “What shall I do, Seneca?” This makes me think, of all things, of The Thousand and One Nights, Mr. President, and I’d like to remind you of the case of King Harun al-Rashid, who as the sun went down left his palace dressed in beggar’s clothes in order to mingle with the people and hear what they really said about him, as opposed to the polite version he heard from his courtiers. Let me tell you, Mr. President, that Mexico is shaped by the dynamics of fate. You have far too much faith in civil society, in g
iving the people their freedom. My advice, which I have pondered quite carefully, is this: Set some limits. If you let our people move around with no guidance at all, freedom will degenerate into chaos, and that freedom won’t be driven by the power of will but by the forces of fate.

  This is a country that has buried far too much dissatisfaction over the years, over long centuries of poverty, injustice, and unfulfilled dreams.

  If the proper political channels aren’t built, if all we have is unrestricted liberty, the subterranean waters will bubble up to the surface and turn into rushing rapids that will demolish everything in their path. I know that you have faith in two things. First, that the people will value the liberties you grant them. And second, that public force in Mexico is exercised by a professional army on the one hand (von Bertrab) and a vicious police force on the other (Arruza). They’ll control the small local bosses who, instead of disappearing, have in fact proliferated under the democratic system. That’s not enough, Mr. President. Something’s missing. Do you know what it is? You are missing. People need to see you. Like so many of your predecessors, you’re turning into the great man all alone in the palace, the ghost that sits on the Eagle’s Throne. React, I beg you. There’s still time. Don’t let people think you’re a plaything at the mercy of uncontrollable forces. Stop looking out at the horizon like a mystic when you appear in public on Independence Day, at the New Year, on Cinco de Mayo. Look people in the eye, let them see you, but make sure it’s you they see, Mr. President, and not your lackeys. Let your voice fill the plazas and find its way into every corner of this country. Politics can only live and breathe in the places where the president’s voice is heard. Have you tested the limits of your voice? Have you measured the boundaries between action and passivity? A president must exist for his citizens. If he doesn’t, they will withdraw the veneration he expects from them. The man who is praised as God one day can be scorned as the devil the next.

  Go out to the streets, Mr. President. Throw out some ideas before they’re thrown at you. Because if you don’t have any ideas of your own, you’ll never be anything but the mouthpiece of everyone else. Be careful, Mr. President. I see only drones, leeches, and sycophants in your office. Do you really have any use for them, or is it perhaps the other way around? You’re now entering the second half of your term, and you can safely look back and congratulate yourself for the fact that we’re now a freer, more democratic country than before. How marvelous. But now you must look forward and proceed with caution because soon we’ll be facing our ides of March: the drama of the presidential succession that we face every six years. Unlike other presidents, you won’t name your successor. “The anointed one” no longer exists. But there will always be favorites and presidential darlings in every administration. And the president’s support will count for a lot. Within the parties. Within the administration. Even within yourself. Not to mention public opinion.

  But be very careful, Mr. President. Having dared to point out that the public perceives you as passive, I encourage you to develop a clear, serene, visible public presence. I must warn you, however, against an overly aggressive leadership, the kind that smothers rather than supports democratic freedoms. Heidegger succumbed to the Nazi belief system in Germany by declaring that land and blood were more important than freedom of expression. He gave academic respectability to the unholy marriage of death and violence; to the kind of leader who channels our energies and forces us to accept—and I quote the philosopher from memory—“the voluptuous passivity of total obedience.” How do we know that the Mexican people, tired of a democracy that has become confused with passivity, won’t opt for an authoritarian leadership that at least gives them the illusion of security and a sense of purpose?

  That is the other extreme. Don’t fall prey to it. Examine and assess your public presence. But, and I return to the other extreme, don’t let them say about Lorenzo Terán what Georges Bernanos said about France after its defeat by Adolf Hitler: “Our nation has been raped by vagabonds while it slept.”

  Oh, my dear, esteemed friend, you honor me with your trust, but please, no matter what you do, always remember that the presidency of the republic is a goldfish bowl. Whatever you decide to do, just do it well. Because if you fail, you won’t just be the worst democratic leader this country has had. You’ll be the last.

  21

  EX-PRESIDENT CÉSAR LEÓN TO TÁCITO DE LA CANAL

  What a messy little predicament, my old and distinguished friend! “A Mexican politician never puts anything in writing.” That was the dogma before. Well, look at us now, you idiot, just look where our notorious, sovereign arrogance—or is it arrogant sovereignty?—has gotten us. Let’s not mince words, shall we? I think we both know each other too well for that. Call me Augustus and I’ll call you Caligula, even though Caligula was the emperor who decided his horse would succeed him, and in your case the horse will be you if in fact you get where you want to go.

  Let me laugh, you Caligulan shit, you revolting traitor. It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m the one person who can put you on the Eagle’s Throne, but I’ll humiliate you every step of the way, because you won’t just owe me a favor—you’ll owe me your life. Remember what I said to you one day, when you were working for me, you ass-licking bastard? Don’t start obsessing about conspiracies, because even if there aren’t any, you’ll end up creating one.

  Believe me, I’ve thought of you many, many times during these years in exile, Caligula. Your Caesar Augustus has never forgotten you—so much so, in fact, that I’m now taking the risk of writing to you. So we have no telephones, no faxes, no e-mail, no computers, no Internet, no satellites? Well, I can tell you something we do have. We have the unexpected. The unknown. The subtle. General Mondragón von Bertrab and General Cícero Arruza, so diametrically opposed in every sense, have actually managed to agree on a method for keeping tabs on all of us. Don’t ask me how they invented it or how they pulled it off. They say that Mondragón has been keeping a million-dollar brain trust on the government payroll—just picture it, moron, the best brains from MIT, Silicon Valley, and the CNRS in Paris.

  Well then, can you guess what they’ve come up with to replace everything that’s been lost?

  A pin, my slobbering sycophant, a tiny little pin that records our voices and transmits them directly to the intelligence command center at Mondragón’s office. Sly devil that he is, von Bertrab conveniently filters out what he doesn’t want Arruza to hear. The fact is that all our conversations are being recorded by a pin-sized microphone that’s been implanted somewhere on our bodies, though nobody knows where. Not in our clothes, because I know that when I go into the bathroom the sound of the shower doesn’t drown out the sound of my singing.

  I hope they don’t think the boleros I sing as I soap my body are coded political messages: “Stop asking me questions, let me imagine. . . .” Or, “Veracruz, little corner where the waves build their nest . . .”

  Every bolero can be interpreted politically. But that’s beside the point. The fact is that none of us knows where, when, and on which of our body parts (or worse, inside which body part)—an eyebrow, a knee, an ear, a molar, or perhaps up our ass—Mondragón von Bertrab, aided by meticulous German science, has implanted those almost invisible pins that transmit our conversations.

  This means we’re reduced to writing letters now. We have no other choice. What can we hope for? That once the recipients read them, they destroy them. What would be the most cunning thing to do, then? To write the opposite of what we think and do. But then again, no matter how simpleminded you might be, Caligula, even you can appreciate the fact that false instructions can also be read and taken literally. Our brilliant and very Teutonic defense secretary has rigged things so that we have no other choice but to write letters and tell the truth.

  At the very least we can disguise our names just as Xavier Zaragoza, known to all as “Seneca,” has always done. Very well, whether the shoe fits or not, I shall be Augustus and you, Caligula. But
let me warn you, you rotten scumbag, don’t ever think of yourself as Caesar, because you’re nothing but a horse. My point is this: You rose to power with me, in my shadow, and then you stabbed me in the back and gave that terrible order, “Don’t even give him the satisfaction of insulting him. Just don’t ever speak his name again.”

  “Silence in the night, the muscle sleeps,” as the old tango goes. But ambition never rests, does it, moron? Do you know what a mole is? It’s a word with multiple definitions in English. A mole is a hairy blemish. It is an insect-eating mammal with tiny eyes and ears and paws like shovels for digging its subterranean home. It’s a breakwater for fending off the forces of the sea’s tide. It’s an anchor in a safe port. It’s a bloody mass of tissue in the uterus. And finally, it’s also a term that’s used to describe the kind of spy who infiltrates an enemy organization and pretends to be a faithful and patient worker for a very long time until, inevitably, at the behest of his real employer he betrays the people who unwittingly hired him. (Oh, and of course it’s also a delicious Mexican dish, mole, and a term used to describe the act of beating an adversary to a bloody pulp: Sacarle el mole.)

  Very well, then. I appoint you my spy, my mole in you-know-where. Damn it if I’m not generous to you, you cockroach. If I win, you win with me. If I lose, you win with my enemies. I can’t think of anyone who’s ever been offered a better political deal, not since Rudolf Hess was condemned to life imprisonment instead of death by hanging. Be grateful. Did you know that a man grows a completely new set of skin every seven years? We’re snakes, and we know it. Of course when it comes to Mexican politics, we shed our skin every six years.

  Think about it, Caligula, shed your skin before they skin you. If skinning and flaying turn you on, just think about that Aztec deity, Xipe Totec, sitting in our Museum of Anthropology. Every six years a man needs to change loyalties, wives (in your case, lovers), and convictions. Prepare yourself, my loyal friend. Prepare yourself. And keep on hoping: Tonight I’ll sleep in the bed of the vanquished.