The Crystal Frontier

by Carlos Fuentes

  Now it was her turn to laugh.

  “You see, people used to watch Willie Mays play, and the next day they read the paper to make sure he’d played. Now you can see the information and the game at the same time. You don’t have to verify anything. That’s worrisome.”

  “You mentioned Mexico,” she said, questioningly, after a moment in which she lowered her eyes, doubtful. “Are you Mexican?”

  Dionisio nodded affirmatively.

  “I love and don’t love your country,” said the woman with the gray eyes and the clouds crowning her honey hair. “I adopted a Mexican girl. The Mexican doctors who gave her to me didn’t tell me she had a serious heart problem. When I brought her here, I took her in for a routine checkup and was told that if she wasn’t operated on immediately she wouldn’t last another two weeks. Why didn’t they tell me that in Mexico?”

  “Probably so you wouldn’t change your mind and would go ahead with the adoption.”

  “But she could have died, she could have … Oh, Mexican cruelty, the abuse, the indifference toward the poor—what they suffer. Your country is a horror.”

  “I’ll bet the girl’s pretty.”

  “Very pretty. I really love her. She’s going to live,” she said, her eyes transfigured, just before she disappeared. “She’s going to live…”

  Dionisio could only stare at the melted sherbet he’d had no time to eat; the charro genie, impatient to carry out his orders and disappear, had fired his pistol again, and a cute woman appeared with curly hair and a flat nose, nervous, jolly eyes, dimples, and capped teeth. She gave him a big smile, as if she were welcoming him onto a plane, school, or hotel. It was impossible to know what it meant—appearances are deceiving. Her features were so nondescript she could have been anything, even a bordello madam. She wore jogging clothes, a light-blue jacket and sweatpants. She never stopped talking, as if Dionisio’s presence were irrelevant to her compulsive discourse, which had neither beginning nor end and seemed directed to an ideal audience of infinitely patient or infinitely detached listeners.

  The salad appeared, accompanied by the waiter’s scornful gesture and his muttered censure: “Salad is eaten at the beginning.”

  “Think I should get a tattoo? There are two things I’ve never had. A tattoo and a lover. Think I’m too old for that?”

  “No. You look as if you could be between thirty and—”

  “When you’re a kid, that’s when having tattoos is good. But now? Imagine me with a tattoo on my ankle. How am I going to show up at my own daughter’s wedding with a tattoo on my ankle? Even worse, how am I going to go—someday—to my granddaughter’s wedding with a tattoo on my ankle? Maybe it would be better if I had a tattoo on my boob—that way only my lover would see it in secret. Now that I’m about to get a divorce, I was lucky enough to meet this in-cred-ible man. Where do you think his territory is?”

  “I don’t know. Do you mean his house or his office?”

  “No, silly. I mean how much territory he covers professionally. Guess! I’d better tell you: the whole world. He buys nonpatented replacement parts. Know what those are? All the parts for machinery, for household appliances, TVs, where no rights have to be paid. What do you think of that? He’s a genius! Even so, I suspect he may be a homosexual. I don’t know if he’d know how to bring up my kids. I toilet trained them very early. I don’t understand why friends of mine toilet trained their kids so late or never bothered…”

  Dionisio quickly ate the salad to get rid of the soon-to-be-divorced lady, and with his last bite, she vanished. Did I cannibalize her or did she cannibalize me? wondered the food critic, overcome by a growing sense of anguish he could not identify. Was all this a gag? It was a fog.

  And it was not cleared away by the arrival of dessert, a lemon meringue pie whose female counterpart Baco was afraid to see, especially because at the beginning of this adventure he’d watched the fat women pass by, desiring them platonically. He was right to be afraid. Seated opposite him, he saw when the noise of the charro’s shot had faded, was a monstrous woman who weighed 650 if she weighed a pound. Her pink sweatshirt announced her cause: FLM, the Fat Liberation Movement. She couldn’t cross her Michelin man arms over her immense tits, which moved on their own inside her sweatshirt and fell like a flesh Niagara Falls over the barrel of her stomach, the only obstacle blocking one from contemplation of her spongy legs, bare from the thighs down, indifferent to the indecency of her wrinkled shorts. Her moist hands, loathsome, rested on Dionisio’s. The critic trembled. He tried to pull his hands free. Impossible. The fat woman was there to catechize him, and resigned to his fate, he prepared himself to be good and catechized.

  “Do you know how many million obese people we have in the USA?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Don’t even guess, my boy. Forty million of what others pejoratively call fat people. But I’m telling you, no one can be discriminated against for their physical defects. I walk the streets telling myself, I am beautiful and intelligent. I say it in a low voice, then I shout it, I am beautiful and intelligent! Don’t force me to be perverse! That gets their attention. Then I make our demands. Obese is beautiful. Weight-loss programs should be declared illegal. Movies and airlines should install special seats for people like me. We’ve had enough of buying two tickets just so we can travel in comfort.”

  She raised her voice, hysterical.

  “And nobody make fun of me! I’m beautiful and intelligent. Don’t make me be perverse. I was cook on a ship registered in San Diego. We were coming from Hawaii. It was a freighter. One day I was walking on deck eating ice cream and a sailor got up, pulled it out of my hand, and threw it overboard. ‘Don’t get any fatter,’ he said, laughing his head off. ‘Your fat disgusts all of us. You’re ridiculous.’ That night, down in the kitchen, I put a laxative in the soup. Then I walked through the passageways shouting over the moans of the crew, ‘I’m beautiful and intelligent. Don’t mess with me. Don’t make me be perverse.’ I lost my job. I hope you’ll want me. Is it true? Here I am … listen … what’s wrong with you?”

  Dionisio liberated his hands and swallowed the pie so the fat woman would disappear. But she understood his contempt and managed to shout: “You were tricked, you jerk! My name is Ruby, and I’m involved with a Chilean novelist named José Donoso. I will only be his!”

  Dionisio stood up in horror, left an outrageous hundred-dollar bill on the table, and ran from the American Grill. Once again he felt that terrible anguish, felt it turn into a feeling of something lost, of something he had to do, though he didn’t know what.

  He stopped running when he came to the window of an American Express office. A dummy representing a typical Mexican, in a wide sombrero, huaraches, and the clothes of a peon, was leaning against a cactus, taking his siesta. The cliché infuriated Dionisio. He stormed into the travel agency and started to shake the dummy. But the dummy was made not of wood but of flesh and blood, and exclaimed, “Damn it to hell, they don’t even let you sleep around here.”

  The employees were shouting, too, telling him to leave their “pee-on” alone, let him do his job, we’re promoting Mexico. But Dionisio pushed him out the door, took him by the shoulders, shook him, and asked him who he was, what he was doing there. And the Mexican model (or model Mexican) respectfully removed his sombrero.

  “There would be no way for you to know it, but I’ve been lost here for ten years.”

  “What are you saying? Ten what? What?”

  “Ten years, boss. I came over one day and got lost in the shopping mall and never got out. And then they hired me here to take siestas in windows, and if there’s no work, I can sneak in and sleep on cushions or beach chairs. There’s more than enough food—they just leave it, they throw it away. If you only saw—”

  “Come, come with me,” said Dionisio, taking the peon by the sleeve, electrified by the word food, awake, alert to his own emotions, to the memory of the woman with gray eyes, the woman who adopted the Mex
ican girl, the woman who read Faulkner—that’s the one he should have chosen. Providence had arranged things. None of the other women mattered, only that one, that sensitive little gringa, who was strong, intelligent. She was his, had to be his. He was fifty-one and she was forty—they’d make a fine couple. What was this perverse game all about? The charro genie, his kitschy alter ego, that bastard, that picturesque asshole, that skirt chaser, that total opposite of his Symbolist, Baudelairean, French alter ego, was also his double, his brother, but the little guy was Mexican and was always pulling a fast one, teasing him, offering him the moon but handing him shit, devaluing his life, his love, his desire. The genie didn’t tell him that when he ate a steak or a shrimp cocktail or a lemon meringue pie he was also eating the woman who was the incarnation of each dish, and here he was, delirious, going mad, dragging a poor hungry man through a California mall until they reached the restaurant called the American Grill and he was illuminated, convinced now it was all true. He’d eaten everything but the lemon sherbet: she was alive, she had not been devoured by his other Aztec ego, his pocket-sized Huitzilopochtli, his national Minimoctezuma.

  “Sorry,” said the waiter who’d taken care of him, “we throw away the leftovers. Your melted sherbet went down the drain a while ago.”

  Saying it evidently gave him pleasure, and he licked his down-covered lips. Ready to weep with sadness, Dionisio screamed. He was still dragging the peon along by the hand, and lost in the labyrinth of consumerism, the Mexican became alarmed and said, I’ve never gotten beyond this place, this is where I get lost, I’ve been captive here for ten years! But Dionisio paid no attention and pushed him into the rented Mustang. The peon suffered the tortures of the damned as they raced through the tangled nets of highways, the vertebrae of a cement beast, sleeping but alert. They arrived at the storage center north of the city.

  Here Dionisio stopped.

  “Come along. I need you to help me.”

  “Where we going, boss? Don’t take me away from here! Don’t you realize what it costs us to enter Gringoland? I don’t want to go back to Guerrero!”

  “Try to understand. I have no prejudices.”

  “It’s that I like all this—the shopping center where I live, the television, the abundance, the tall buildings…”

  “I know.”

  “What, boss? What do you know?”

  “None of this we’re seeing here would exist if the gringos hadn’t stolen all this land from us. In Mexican hands, this would be a huge wasteland.”

  “In Mexican hands—”

  “A big desert, this would be a big desert, from California to Texas. I’m telling you this so you won’t think I’m unfair.”

  “Okay, chief.”

  Almost no one saw them. They abandoned the Mustang in the Colorado desert, south of Death Valley. The peon lost for ten years in the mall had not lost his ancestral talent for carrying things on his back. He was the descendant of bearers—bearers of stones, corn, sugar cane, minerals, flowers, chairs, birds … Now Dionisio loaded him up with a pyramid of electrical appliances, machines to make you thin, limited-edition CDs of Hoagy Carmichael, Cathy Lee Crosby exercise videos, plates commemorating the death of Elvis, and cans, dozens of cans, the entire world in cans, metal gastronomy. Dionisio, meanwhile, gathered in his arms the catalogs, subscriptions, newspapers, specialized magazines, and coupons; and the two of them, Baco and his squire, the Don Quixote of fine cuisine and the Mexican Rip Van Winkle who slept away the Lost Decade in a shopping mall, made their way south, toward the border, toward Mexico, scattering along the U.S. desert, along earth that once belonged to Mexico, the vacuum cleaners and washing machines, the hamburgers and Dr. Peppers, the insipid beers and watery coffees, the greasy pizzas and frozen hot dogs, the magazines and coupons, the CDs and the confetti made of electronic mail. Heading toward Mexico with nothing gringo, exclaimed Dionisio, tossing all the accumulated objects into the air, onto the earth, into the burning sun, until the Mustang exploded in the distance, leaving a cloud as bloody as a mushroom of flesh. Everything, get rid of everything, Dionisio said to his companion. Get rid of your clothing, just as I’m doing, scatter everything in the desert—we’re going back to Mexico, we’re not bringing a single gringo thing with us, not a single one, my brother, my double. We’re returning to the fatherland naked. You can already see the border. Open your eyes wide—do you see, do you feel, do you smell, can you taste?

  From the border came the unmistakable scent of Mexican food, an unstoppable smell.

  “It’s the Puebla-style marrow tarts!” exclaimed Dionisio “Baco” Rangel jubilantly. “Five hundred grams of marrow! Two chiles! Smell it! Cilantro! It smells of cilantro! Let’s get to Mexico, to the frontier, let’s go, brother. Let’s arrive there as naked as the day we were born, return naked from the land that has everything to the land that has nothing!”

  The recipe for Puebla-style marrow tarts consists of 500 grams of marrow, a cup of water, two chiles, 600 grams of dough, 3 teaspoons of flour, and oil to cook it all in.

  4

  THE LINE OF OBLIVION

  For Jorge Castañeda

  I’m sitting. Outside. I can’t move. I can’t speak. But I can hear. Only I don’t hear anything. Maybe because it’s night. The world is asleep. Only I am awake. I can see. I see the night. I watch the darkness. I try to understand why I’m here. Who brought me here? I feel as if I’m waking from a long artificial sleep. I’m trying to figure out where I am. I would really like to know who I am. I can’t ask, because I can’t speak. I’m paralyzed. I’m mute. I’m sitting in a wheelchair. I feel it rock a bit. I touch the rubber wheels with the tips of my fingers. Every so often it moves forward a little. Every so often it seems to go backward. What I fear most is its turning over. To the right. To the left. I’m starting to get my bearings again. I’m dizzy. To the left. I laugh a little. To the left. That’s my downfall. That’s my ruin. Going to the left. I’ve been accused of that. Who? Everyone. It makes me laugh, I don’t know why. I have no reason to laugh. I think my situation is horrible. All fucked up. I don’t remember who I am. I should make an effort to remember my face. I just realized something absurd: I’ve never seen my own face. I should invent a name for myself. My face. My neck. But that turns out to be harder than remembering, so I’ll pin my hopes on memory. Memory, not imagination. Is remembering easier than imagining? I think it is for me. But I was saying, I’m afraid of tipping over. Rolling doesn’t scare me much. Going backward, though, that does frighten me. I can’t see where I’m going. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head. If I’m going forward, at least I have the illusion that I’m controlling something. Even if I roll into the abyss. I’ll see it as I fall. I’ll see the void. Now I realize I can’t fall into the abyss. I’m already there. That’s a relief. Also a horror. But if I can fall no farther, does that mean I’m somewhere flat? My eyes are the most mobile part of me. I try to look straight ahead, then from side to side. First to the right. Then to the left. I see only darkness. I look up, straining my poor stiff old neck. Am I in a safe place? I don’t see any stars. The stars have gone away. In their place a grimy sheen covers the sky. It’s darker than darkness. Is there light anywhere? I look down at my feet. A blanket covers my knees. What a nice detail. Who, in spite of everything, felt compassion for me? My scuffed shoes stick out from beneath the fringe of the blanket. Then I see what I should see. I see a line at my feet. A luminous stripe, painted a phosphorescent color. A line. A boundary. A painted stripe. It shines in the night. It’s the only thing shining. What is it? What does it separate? What does it divide? I have nothing but this line to orient me. And yet I don’t know what it means. Nothing says anything to me tonight. I can neither move nor speak. But the world has become like me. Mute and immobile. At least I can look. Am I looked at? Nothing identifies me. When the sun rises, maybe I can figure out where I am. With luck, I’ll figure out who I am. I think of something: if someone found me abandoned in this blind, open place where there is
only a painted line shining on the ground, how would that person identify me? I look at as much of myself as I can. It’s easiest to see my lap. Just tip my head down. I see the blanket on my knees. It’s gray. It’s got a hole. Right over my right knee. I try to move my hands to cover it up, hide it. My hands are rigid on the rubber wheels. If I try hard to stretch out my crippled fingers I can figure out that the wheels are wheels. Now, I know I said the line on the ground is artificial. How do I know that? Maybe it’s natural, like a gorge, a ravine. But maybe I’m an artificial being, an imaginary presence. I scream out to my memory to return and save me from destructive imagination. Where the fringe on the blanket ends I can see my shoes. I’ve already said they’re old, scuffed, banged up. Like a miner’s boots. I cling to that association. Am I imagining or remembering? Miner. Excavations. Tunnels. Gold? Silver? No. Mud. Only mud. Mud. I don’t know why, but when I say “mud” I want to cry. Something terrible stirs in my stomach when I say “mud,” when I think “mud.” I don’t know why. I don’t know anything. I love my old shoes. They’re hard but they’re comfortable. They have hooks and eyes. They’re like boots. A little higher than my ankles. To give me confidence. Even if I can’t walk. My shoes keep me steady. Without them, I’d fall over. I’d fall on my face, go to pieces. I’d flop to one side. Left? Right? That’s the worst thing that could happen to me. I’m already in the abyss. To fall to one side is what I fear most. Who’d help me up? I’d be on the ground in a real mess. My nose would smell the line. Or the line would devour my nose. My shoes rest firmly on the footrests of the chair. The chair rests on the ground. Not too firmly. I can’t possibly move. But the chair could roll and tip over. I’d fall to the ground. I’ve already said that. But now I’ll add something new. I’d cling to the ground. Is that my fate? The fluorescent line mocks me. It keeps the ground from being ground. The ground has no boundaries. The line says there are. The line says the earth has been split. The line makes the earth into something else. What? I’m so alone. I’m so cold. I feel so abandoned. Yes, I’d like to fall to the ground. Descend to the ground. Fall into its deepness. Into its real darkness. Into its sleep. Into its lullaby. Into its origin. Into its end. To start over. To finish for good. All at once. To fall into my mother—that’s it. To fall into the memory of what I was before being. When I was loved. When I was desired. I know I was desired. I need to believe it. I know I’m in the world because I was loved by the world. By my mother. By my father. By my family. By those who were going to be my friends. By the children I was going to have. I say this and stop, horrified. I have spoken forbidden things. I sneak off, I hide in my thoughts. I can’t bear what I’ve just said. My children. I can’t accept it. The idea horrifies me. Disgusts me. I look at the line on the ground again and regain my cold comfort. I can’t reunite with the earth, because the line stops me. The line tells me that the earth is divided. The line is something different from the earth. The earth stopped being earth. It turned into the world. The world is what loved me and brought me from the earth where I slept, one with the earth and with myself. I was taken from the earth and placed in the world. The world called to me. The world wanted me. But now it rejects me. Abandons me. Forgets me. Flings me back to the earth. But even the earth doesn’t want me. Instead of opening up a protective abyss, it sets me on a line. At least an abyss would embrace me. I’d enter the true total darkness that has neither beginning nor end. Now I look at the earth and an indecent line splits it. The line possesses its own light. A painted, obscene light. Totally indifferent to my presence. I am a man. Aren’t I worth more than a line? Why is the line laughing at me? Why is it sticking its tongue out at me? I think I woke from a nightmare and will fall back into it. The meanest objects, the most vile things will live longer than I. I will pass. But the line will remain. It’s a trap to keep the earth from being earth and from receiving me. It’s a trap for the world to hold onto me without loving me. Why does the world not love me? Why does the earth still not accept me? If I knew those two things, I’d know everything. But I know nothing. Perhaps I should be patient. I should wait for sunrise. Then two things will surely happen. Someone will approach me and recognize me. Hello there, X, he’ll say. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you spent the night here? Alone, out in the open? Don’t you have a home? And your children? Where are they? Why aren’t they taking care of you? That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what I’m saying. And I howl. Like an animal. I scream as if I were imprisoned in a fragile crystal glass and my screaming could shatter it. The sky is my glass. I howl like the wolves to frighten away a single word. Children. I prefer to go quickly to my second possibility. The sun will rise and I’ll recognize where I am. That will soothe me. That, perhaps, will give me the strength to take charge, to take the wheels in my hands and head off in a precise, known direction. Where? I haven’t the slightest idea. Who’s waiting for me? Who will protect me? These questions make me think the opposite. Who hates me? Who abandoned me here in the middle of the night? I lower the volume on my howl. No one. No one recognizes me. No one waits for me. No one abandoned me. It was the world. The world forsook me. I stop howling. Does no one love me? The questions are pure possibilities. Which means that I’m not dying yet. I’m imagining possibilities. Does death cancel all possibilities? I imagine I recognize and am recognized. I want to know where I am. I want to know who I am. I want to know who put me here. Who abandoned me at the line, in the night. If I keep asking about all this, it means I’m not dead. I’m not dead, because I’m not renouncing possibility. But no sooner do I think that than I start thinking there are many ways of being dead. Perhaps I’ve imagined only some of them, and this is just one. I’m sitting mute and paralyzed in a wheelchair in the middle of the night and in an unknown place. But I don’t believe I’m dead. Could that be an illusion? Do we go on thinking as long as we’re alive? Could that be the real death? I don’t believe so. If I were really dead, I’d know that it was death. That consoles me. Since I don’t know what death is, I must still be alive. And if I’m alive, it’s because I imagine death in many ways. At the same time, I must be very close to it because I sense my possibilities running out. First I tell myself I’m passing on. I don’t dare name my death. It frightens me. I’m just passing through, I say pleasantly, so no one gets scared. Many people appear before me to say yes, yes you’re just passing through, that’s all. And one day you’ll have passed through. You’ll be dead. They smile in the darkness when they say that. The people. It relieves them. If I don’t die, because I’m only passing through, they won’t die either. They’ll have passed away. I find the idea repugnant. I reject it. I search for something to deny it. Something to deny its horrible hypocrisy. Let no one say of me, “X passed on.” I prefer the voice inside me that says, “X already died.” I’ve already died. I like that better. I hope they say that about me when I’m really dead, when I truly die. It’s as if I was waiting for death and finally the day came. Ya se murió. But it’s also as if death had been waiting for me forever, with open arms. He’s already dead. That’s why he was born. That’s why we made him, loved him, nurtured him, taught him to walk. So he would die. Not simply so he could pass on just like that. No. We nurtured him so he’d die. I hope that’s clear. I’ve just had a great idea, as if thinking these two things—he just passed on, he’s already died—were the same as thinking everything. One voice comes from one side of the line and says to me, “You’re passing away.” Another comes from the other side and says to me, “You’ve already died.” The first voice, the one from the side that isn’t mine, behind me, speaks in English. “He passed away,” it says. The other, facing me, on my side, says, in Spanish, “Ya se murió.” He bought the farm. He kicked the bucket. He’s gone west. He’s pushing up daisies. “He’s already died.” Who? No one says that to me. No one gives me back my name. Painfully I tilt my head back. I’ve already said that. My neck is stiff. It’s very old. As they say, a chicken neck doesn’t cook at the first boil. Suddenly, as if my ideas called them
forth, the stars shine in the night. Then I do something totally unexpected, mysterious. I manage to lift an arm. I cover my eyes with my hand. I drop it to my knees. I have no idea why I do that. And no idea how I manage to do it. But when I open my eyes and look at the sky, I locate the polestar. I feel a great sense of relief. To see it, to identify it—for an instant I am back in the world. The polestar. Its presence and its name come to me. Clear, sharp. There they are, the star and the pole. They don’t move. Eternally they announce the beginning of the world. Above and behind me is north. But instead of announcing the beginning the way I wanted, the voice of the star says to me, “You are going to pass away.” I will pass away. I am dust and to dust will I return. I am the master of dust. Mr. Dust. I am mud and to mud will I return. I will be the master of mud. Mr. What…? This time I don’t scream. I clutch the wheels. I scratch them, furious and bewildered. I’m on the verge of knowing. I don’t want to know. A horrible intuition tells me I do know. I’m going to suffer. I stop looking at the North Star. Instead I look at the darkness in the south. Downward. Toward my feet. “You’re going to die now,” the half-light says to me. It speaks in Spanish. And I answer. I manage to speak. I say something. A prayer learned long ago. In Spanish. Blessed be the light. And the Holy Cross. And the Lord of Truth. And the Holy Trinity. That comforts me enormously. But it also makes me want to urinate. I suddenly remember that, when I was little, every time I prayed I felt like going to the bathroom. The way some people pee when they hear the sound of water, I have to attend to my bladder when I pray. No sooner said than done. The Holy Trinity. Wee-wee starts to flow. I’m ashamed of myself. It’s going to stain my trousers. I look down at my lap, expecting a moist stain around my open fly. But nothing’s wrong, even though I’m sure I just urinated. Again I move my right hand with difficulty. I stick it in my fly. I don’t find my underpants or the opening that would allow me to touch my obscenely gray pubic hair, my wrinkled dick, my balls that have grown to elephant size. None of that. I find a diaper. No mistaking it. Satiny and waterproof, thick and cushioned. Someone’s put a diaper on me. I feel relief and shame. Relief because I know I can pee and shit as I please without worrying. Shame for the same reason: I’m being treated like a baby. Someone thinks I’m a helpless baby. Someone’s put a diaper on me and abandoned me in a wheelchair next to a line painted on the ground. If I poop, who’s going to smell my shit? Will someone come help me? That would be humiliating. I prefer to go on thinking I’ve been abandoned and no one will come for me. No one will change my diaper. I’ve been abandoned. The diaper forces me to repeat that. I am the abandoned child, the foundling. The orphan. Whose orphan? I’m tempted to move the wheels of my invalid’s chair. I’ve already explained why I don’t. I’m afraid of rolling. Falling. On my face. Toward the south. On my back. Toward the north. Not to the right. Better to the left. But that word disturbs me, I’ve already said so. I try to avoid it. Just as I avoid the idea of mud, the notion of having children, the need to speak English. But the little word overwhelms me. Left. If I let it in, I’ll let in all the others. Name. Mud. Children. Death. Language. I repeat it and I see myself, miraculously, in the precise spot where I am. Only now standing up. Now on foot. Now young. And accompanied. I’m on the line. I’m facing an armed group. Police. They wear short-sleeve khaki shirts. T-shirts underneath. Even so, the sweat from their chests and armpits stains their shirts. Americans. They stand on one side of the line. Behind me is an unarmed group. Wearing overalls. Shoes like mine. Straw hats. They have tired faces. Faces that show they’ve traveled a long way in arid places. They have dust on their eyelashes, ringing their mouths, in their moustaches. They look as if they’ve been buried alive. And brought back to life. Just saying that brings a name to mind with the same force as the polestar. Lazarus. I speak in his name. I argue. I defend. Shots ring out. The men of dust fall. Then people I should know and love surround me. They surround me to protect me from the bullets. They protect me but they rebuke me. Agitator. Who asked you? Don’t butt in. You’re placing us in danger. It’s not right. Go home. Accept things as they are. You’re endangering all of us. Your wife. Your children. Especially your brother. My brother? Why my brother? Why am I here if not to defend my brother? Look at him. He’s almost stopped breathing. He’s covered with dust. He’s just come out of the grave. His name’s Lazarus. That’s my brother. I defend him here, at the line. Lazarus. They laugh at me. You look like a fighting cock on your line. A well-pecked cock, more dead than alive. Your brother is the real cock. It’s his line, not yours. Don’t endanger him. Between us we’re going to wear you down until you give up. We’re going to show you that your display of bravery is useless. We’re going to move you off the line, you little rooster. We’re going to wear you down, you old bird. No matter what you do, the world won’t change. Those you call your brothers will keep coming. When their arms are wanted, they’ll cross the line and no one will bother them. Everyone will look the other way. But when they’re no longer needed, they’ll be rejected. They’ll be beaten up. They’ll be killed in the streets in broad daylight. They’ll be kicked out. The world won’t change. You won’t make it change. You’re a drop of water in an ocean of self-interest that rolls on in huge waves, with or without you. It’s your brother who moves the world. He’s the owner of the whole line, from sea to sea. He creates wealth. He draws water from stones. He makes the desert bloom. He makes bread from sand. He can change the world. Not you, you poor devil. Not you, you old fool with your diaper and your wheelchair, sitting on the very line where you were a brave young man long ago. A man of the left. A brave young man of the left. A brave young man of the left with bright eyes. You aren’t your brother. You have no name. You scream. You howl again. You see. You hear. You scream. You do it because you discover that it gives you strength, lets you move your crippled arms a little. Who are you? The nocturnal chorus attacks and insults me, and I wish I knew who I was so I could answer them: I am not No One, I am Someone. I click my teeth for joy. Now I know. The label in my jacket. It says there who I am. That’s where my name is. My wife always wrote my name on the label in my jackets. You go to those meetings, she’d say, and you take off your jacket and talk in your shirtsleeves. Afterward, no one knows whose jacket is whose. And you come home in shirtsleeves. You get a chill. But in fact you haven’t got the money to buy another jacket. Let me write your name on the label on the inside pocket, next to your heart. My name. My heart. Her. I remember her. First I remembered my real brothers. I quickly forgot my phony brother. But I remembered them in fragments, in a half-light. I should remember her whole, as she was, loving and loyal. She was a beautiful woman, strong and good, like a rock, but she smelled like a bakery. She smelled of bread. She tasted like lettuce. She was strong and blessed and fresh. She protected me. She held me in her arms. She gave me courage. She would write my name on the jacket label next to my heart. “So you don’t lose it, next to your heart.” Now I raise my painful hand to that place, my empty hand, the good hand of my body split in half. I find nothing. There’s no patch. No name. No heart. No label. They ripped it out, I scream to myself. They ripped out my name. They stripped me of my heart. They abandoned me without a name in the middle of the night at the line. I hate them. I must hate them. But I prefer to love her. She, too, is absent, like me. But if that’s true, why don’t we find each other? If we’re both absent, we should meet. I hunger for her, for her company, her sex, her voice, her youth, and her old age. Why aren’t you with me, Camelia? I stop. I look at the stars. I look at the night. I’m shocked. The world returns to me. The earth throbs and it summons me. I spoke the name of the woman I love. That was enough for the world to return to life. I spoke the first name in my solitude, a woman’s name, a name I adore. I say and think all that and in my head the doors of a memory of water open. It’s a response to the dryness that surrounds me. I smell dry earth. A stony place. Mesquite. Cactus. Thorns. Thirst. I smell an absence of rain, a distant storm. The only thing that rains is Camelia’s name
. Camelia. It rains on my head. It’s a flower, a drop, gold. I caress that name with my eyes. I let it roll through my closed eyelids. I capture it between my lips. I savor it. I swallow it. Camelia. Her name. I bless it. And I curse it. Why weren’t the others like her? Why were the others ungrateful, greedy, cruel? I detest Camelia’s name because it opens the door to the names I don’t want to remember. I feel shame when I think that. I can’t reject Camelia’s name. It’s like murdering her and killing myself. Then I realize that the woman’s name demands a sacrifice of me. It pulls me out of myself. Until the moment when I said the name Camelia, I’d been talking only of myself. I don’t know my own name and don’t need it. If I talk to myself I don’t need a name. My name is for others. I talk to myself and don’t need to name myself. Other people are other people. I am not “Julio,” “Héctor,” “Jorge,” or “Carlos.” My dialogue with myself is internal, integral, unbroken. The thinnest scalpel could not separate the two voices of the “I” that is the “I” speaking with myself. The others are the others. The rest. Superfluous. But I say “Camelia,” and Camelia answers me. Now I’m not talking to myself. Now you’re talking to me. And if you’re talking to me, I have to talk to the others. I must name the rest. Now I have to name everything so as to be able to name her. She says, Name all of them so you can name me. I do name her: Camelia. I remember her: my wife. I have to remember them: my children. My resistance is enormous. It’s monstrous. I don’t want to give them their names. We’d rather be alone, Camelia and I. Why did we have them? Why did we have them baptized, confirmed; why did we praise them, kiss them, make sacrifices to bring them up? So that one day they’d say to me, Why weren’t you like your brother, our uncle? Why did you have to be poor and wretched? Why did you wear yourself out fighting for lost causes? How can you expect us to respect you? Why did you have to be poor and wretched? Pochos, I called them, denaturalized Mexicans, worst of the worst. Don’t be one of the enemies. They laughed at me. It’s worse on the other side: Mexico’s the enemy. On the Mexican side, there’s more injustice, more corruption, more lies, more poverty. Be thankful we’re gringos. That’s what my son said to me. He’s harder and more bitter. My daughter tried to be gentler. No matter how you look at it, Papa, from this side of the border or the other, there’s injustice and you aren’t going to fix it. And you can’t make us copy you. Hard-headed old man. Old sucker. They’re right in the gringo schools here when they say there’s a sucker born every minute. We didn’t put a gun to your head so you’d have us and bring us up. We don’t owe you anything. You’re a drag. If you were at least politically correct. You embarrass us. A Communist. A Mexican. An agitator. You gave us nothing. It’s your obligation. Fathers are only good for giving. Instead you took things away from us. You forced us to justify ourselves, to deny you, to affirm everything you aren’t so we could be ourselves. Be someone. Be from the other side. Don’t get upset. Don’t get that expression on your face. If you grow up on the border, you have to choose: this side or the other. We chose the North. We’re not suckers like you. We adapted. Would you rather we wore ourselves out like you? You ruined our mother’s life. But you’re not going to ruin ours. Angry old man. Nasty old man. Have you forgotten your own violence? Your monstrous fury, your colossal rage? How you were gradually extinguished, disarmed in the mere presence of youth. If they’re young, you forgive them everything. If they’re young, you worship them. If they’re young, they’re always right. I feel surrounded by a world—North and South, both sides—that venerates the young. Before my eyes pass advertisements, images, offers, temptations, window displays, magazines, television—all promoting young people, seducing young people, prolonging youth, disdaining old age, discarding old people, to the point that age seems a crime, a sickness, a misery that cancels you out as a human being. I quickly raise a barrier against this avalanche of dazzling, blinding multicolored lights that split, spread out, scatter. I close my eyes. I duplicate the night. I people it with ghosts. Groping, I return to the earth. It is like my blind gaze. It is black. This time the dark part of the world we call earth receives me. It’s full of another kind of light. There is an old man in the light. Barefoot. Wearing peasant clothes. But with a vest. On the vest a watch chain glitters. I approach him. I kneel. I kiss his hand. He strokes my head. He speaks. I listen attentively, with respect. He tells the oldest stories. He tells how everything began. He says there were two gods who created the world. One spoke, the other didn’t. The one who didn’t speak created all the mute things in the world. The one who spoke created men. We do not resemble the silent god. We cannot understand him. He is everything we aren’t, says the old man, who strokes my head and is my father. We venerate him and know what he is only because he isn’t what you and I are. God is only what we are not. I mean that, thanks to him, we only know what he is not. But the second god risks being like us. He gives us the power of speech. He gives us names. He dares to speak and listen. We can answer him. We don’t venerate him as much, but we love him more. Name and speak, son—you, too, should speak and name things. Venerate the creator god, but speak with the redeemer god. Don’t lock yourself inside yourself. Perfection is not solitude. Imperfection is community but also possible perfection. The old man who was my father gave me a bit of bitter peyote to chew and asked me to speak, name, take risks. Be like the god who gave us speech. Not like the god who left us mute. Mute as I am this instant, father, I try to respond. But my father is already gone, smiling, saying good-bye with one hand raised. He’s gone far away. He’s from a time that has nothing to do with mine. A time with no ambition to be different. A time of braziers and the comal for making tortillas. Time of smoke, of sudden dawns and watchful nights. Time of masks, doubles, spirits. Time of the Nahuatl language. Time when lives were one with the prickly pear and mesquite. How different from my own time of learning to read and write, of taking medicine, receiving the land, replacing huizache with pavement, looking at ourselves in shopwindows, buying newspapers, knowing who is president, immersing ourselves in the articles of the constitution. And how different from the time of my children, of refrigerators and television, days without nature, nights lit up, food untouched by human hands, envy of other people’s property, desire to believe in something but failure to find anything, desire to know all but knowledge only of nothing, conviction we know it all, and alarm at what a bare, ignorant foot can know. They’re right to be different. But I loved my father, I respected him and despite everything tried to find his redeeming, speaking, garrulous god. But now I find I’m like the mute god. As abandoned and solitary as he, with no name, no father. I kiss your hands again and again. I don’t ever want to stop. I want to love. I want to venerate. I don’t want to speak. I don’t want to remember. And I understand that I’ve been left here—abandoned, anonymous—as a challenge to remember who I am. But if I don’t know, how will anyone else know? My father asked me to do two things: remember and name. How will I speak if I can’t? I was left mute. The attack left me speechless and paralyzed. I can barely move one hand, one arm. There we are: I don’t speak, but I do remember. I try desperately to compensate for lack of speech with memory. Doesn’t my father know what happened to me? How can he ask me to speak, name, communicate? The old idiot, can’t he see that I’m a ruin, older than he was when he died? I bite my tongue. I’m a respectful man. I believe in respect for the elderly. Not like my children. Or is it a law of life to despise old people secretly like this? The old fogey, you heard them say. The mummy. Ready for the junk heap. Methuselah. Useless fossil, a burden, he’s not leaving us a thing, he makes us earn a living at hard labor, and on top of that we’ve got to go on supporting him. Who has the time or patience to bathe him, dress him, undress him, put him to bed, wake him up, sit him down in front of the TV all day so just by chance he’s amused and learns something, so he looks at something else instead of staring at us as if we were the TV set—or something alive and nearby but unbearable? Why wasn’t he like his brother, our uncle? Twenty years younger, his b
rother understood everything our father couldn’t fathom or scorned. You don’t share poverty. First, you have to create wealth. But wealth trickles down little by little in droplets. That’s a fact. Be patient. But equality is a dream. There’ll always be dumb people and smart people. There’ll always be the strong and the weak. Who eats whom? Wealth honestly come by doesn’t have to be distributed among the lazy. Those who are poor because they want to be. There is no ruling class. There are superior individuals. Now I secretly laugh at my children. When they went to my younger brother for help, he told them the same thing they tell me and everyone else. I made my money the hard way. There’s no reason I should support a family of lazy fools. Chips off the old block. You’re the children my brother deserved. You want to live on charity. For your own good, I tell you to stand on your own two feet. Don’t expect anything from me. From sea to shining sea. From the Pacific to the Gulf. From Tijuana to Matamoros. A dead part of my brain returns the way my old father wanted to return, laden with names. All along the frontier I hear the name of my powerful brother. But his real name is Contracts. His name is Contraband. His name is Stock Market. Highways. Assembly plants. Whorehouses. Bars. Newspapers. Television. Drug Money. And an unfair fight with a poor brother. A struggle between brothers for the destiny of our brothers. Brothers Anonymous. What’s my name? What’s my brother’s name? I can’t answer as long as I don’t know the name of each and every one of my anonymous brothers. Why do they cross the border? We have different rationales in each instance, he and I. He: Because of Mexico’s impoverishing statist policies. I: Because the gringo market lures these people. He: We have to create jobs in Mexico. I: We have to pay better wages in Mexico. He: The gringos have the right to defend their borders. I: You can’t talk about free markets and then close the border to workers who respond to demand. He: They’re criminals. I: They’re workers. He: They come to a foreign country, they should show some respect for it. I: They’re returning to their own land; we were here first. They aren’t criminals. They’re workers. Listen, Pancho, I want you to work for me. Come over here, I need you. Listen, Pancho, I don’t need you anymore. Get out. I’ve just turned you in to Immigration. I never signed a contract with you. When I need you I make a contract with you, Pancho; when I don’t I turn you in, Pancho. I beat you up. I hunt you down like a rabbit. I cover you with paint so everyone will know you’re illegal. My boys are going to set packs of white cannibals out to kill you, you undocumented Mexican Salvadoran Guatemalan. No, I scream, no, you can’t do that and talk about justice. That’s what I fought for all my life. Against my brother. For my brothers. And against us, my children exclaimed. Against our well-being, our assimilation into progress, into opportunity, into the North. Against our own uncle, who could not protect us. You wouldn’t allow it. You condemned yourself and you condemned us. What do we have to thank you for? Our poor mother was a saint. She put up with everything you did. We have no reason to. You gave us nothing but bitterness. We’ll pay you back in kind. Cripple. Paralytic. Whom will you live with? Whom are you going to pester and drive to despair now? Who’s going to get you up, put you to bed, clean you, dress you, undress you, feed you spoonful by spoonful, take you out in your wheelchair, sit you in the sun so you don’t shrivel up? Who’s going to wipe the snot off your nose, brush your teeth, smell your gases, cut your nails, wipe your ass, clean the wax out of your ears, shave you, comb your hair, put deodorant on you, fasten your bib when you eat, make sure the drool doesn’t drip down your chin, who? Who’s got the time, will, and money to help you? Me, your son who has to cross the border every day at dawn to work at Woolworth’s? Me, your daughter who got a job as a forelady in an assembly plant on this side? Your grandson who doesn’t even remember you, who makes burritos in a Mexican restaurant on the gringo side? Your granddaughter who also works in the assembly plant? Do you think they don’t see your brother in the newspapers, saying, doing, traveling, with rich men, beautiful babes? Our children, your grandchildren, who barely made it through high school on the American side and only want to enjoy the music, clothes, cars, universal envy you left them out of ineptitude, out of generosity toward everyone but your own? Those sentences echo in my head. They resound like loose stones in a swift and swirling river. I wish the river would grow calm as it enters the sea. Instead, it smashes against the sandbar of its own waste. It accumulates sediment, garbage, mud. Mud you are and to mud you will return. Mud. Muddy. My muddy brother Leonardo. Leonardo Muddy. My name. My own. I don’t have it. It was torn from me. I can’t be admitted to a hospital. Or even a home. My name is on the blacklists. Here and there. I’ve been stripped of my rights. Agitator. Communist. Entry denied. Not even charity for this disturber of the peace. Let his own people take care of him. My labels were ripped out. A diaper was pinned on me. I was seated in this chair. I was abandoned at the line. The line of oblivion. The place where I don’t know my name. The place where I am but am not. The vague intermediate zone between my life and my death. We’re sorry, we can’t let him in here. Or here. You understand. Charges were brought against him. He’s not trustworthy. He’s a marked man. He’s got the worst political history. He’s not loyal. Here or there. He’s a red. Let the people take care of him. Or the Russians. Don’t let him compromise our workers. Here or there. Confederation of Mexican Workers. American Federation of Labor. Freedom, yes. Communism, no. Democracy, well, let’s see. They would have killed me. And it would have been a good thing. Cowards. They’ve abandoned me to chance. To the elements. To anonymity. I heard them: If we leave him without a name, he’ll be taken in, someone will feel sorry for him. His very name is cursed. And he spatters it on the rest of us. He’s our yellow star. The cross of our calvary. We’re doing him a favor. If nobody knows who he is, they’ll feel compassion for him. They’ll take him in. They’ll give him the care we neither can nor want to give him. Let someone else deal with him. Hypocrites. Sons of bitches. No, not that. They’re Camelia’s children. She was a saint. But you can be the child of a saint and still be a bastard. The children of wretchedness, that’s who they are. What can be going through their heads that they’d do this to an old man, their father? What’s wrong with the world? What has broken? Nothing, I tell myself. Everything’s the same. Ingratitude and rage aren’t something new. There are many kinds of abandonment. There are many orphans. Young and old. Children and even the dead. I wish I could ask Camelia if she remembers. What did we do to our children that they should treat me this way? There must be something I’ve forgotten. Something not even they recall. Something so much a part of our blood that neither they nor I know what it is. A fear perhaps. Perhaps neither the hospital nor the home nor the union would slam the door in my face. Perhaps it’s just my children’s idea of fun. They find excuses. They want to do what they’ve done. It gives them satisfaction. It makes them laugh, they get even, they feel the itch of the worst of all evils. Gratuitous evil—because it has no price, it makes a little circus of pleasure in the gut. I’m one more orphan. The orphan of evil. The orphan of my own children, who may well merely be lovers of comfort rather than perverse. Indifferent but not exactly cruel. I can no longer do anything. Even speak. Even move. I can barely see. But the sun’s coming up. The night was more generous than the day. It allowed itself to be watched. The dawn blinds me. I think about orphans. Young and old. Children and even the dead. I hear them. Their sounds reach me. The noise of feet. Some bare. Others strong, stamping the heels of their boots. Others scrape their toenails. Others are silenced by rubber soles. Others mingle with the earth. The sound of a huarache. A sound without huaraches. Chihuahua, how many Apaches, how many Indians, without huaraches. Never take a step without huaraches, my father would say. I hear the footsteps and I’m afraid. I’m going to pray again, even if I pee. Blessed be the soul and the Lord who gives it to us. Blessed be the day and the Lord who gives it to us. Sunrise. The run rises with silhouettes I watch from my chair. Posts and cables. Barbed-wire fences. Pavements. Dung heaps. Tin roofs. Cardboard houses perch
ed on the hillsides. Television antennas scratching the ravines. Garbagemen. Infinite numbers of garbagemen. Plantations of garbage. Dogs. Don’t let them come near me. And the sound of feet. Swift. Crossing the border. Abandoning the earth. Seeking the world. Earth and world, always. We have no other home. And I sit here immobile, abandoned at the line of oblivion. Which country do I belong to? Which memory? Which blood? I hear the footsteps around me. Finally I imagine everyone looking at me and, as they look, inventing me. I can no longer do anything. I depend on them, the ones who run from one border to the next. The ones I defended all my life. Successfully. Unsuccessfully. Both. They must look at me now to create me with their stares. If they stop staring, I’ll become invisible. I have nothing left but them. But they, too, tell me that I do not look at them, because I don’t name them. But I already told them. I can’t know the names of the millions of women and men. They respond as they pass, fleeting, swift: Say the name of the last one. Call the last woman lovingly. That will be the name of everyone—a single man, a single woman, they are all men and all women. The day is reborn. Will it bring my own name among its promises? I’ve been talking to myself all night. Is this the perfect state of truth, of comprehension? The solitary man who speaks only to himself? The night comforted me by making me think so. By day I plead for someone to come say something to me. Anything. Help me. Insult me, as long as he named me. Mud name. Mud soul. Muddy. Camelia, my wife. Leonardo, my brother. I’ve forgotten the names of my children and grandchildren. I don’t know the name of the last man who names all men. I don’t know the name of the last woman who loves in the name of all women. Still, I do know that in this final name of the final man and in this final tenderness of the final woman lies the secret of all things. It isn’t the final name. It isn’t the final man. It isn’t the last woman and her warmth. It’s only the last being who crosses the frontier after the one who went before him but before the one who follows. The sun comes up and I look at the movement on the frontier. Everyone crosses the line where I am stopped. They run, some in fear, others in joy. But they don’t begin or end. Their bodies follow or precede. Their words as well. Confused. Unintelligible. Is that what they want to tell me? That there is no beginning, no end? Is that what they’re saying in not looking at me or speaking to me or paying any attention to me: Don’t worry? Nothing begins, nothing ends. Is that what they’re telling me? We recognize you in not acknowledging you, not noticing you, not addressing you? Do you feel exceptional, seated there, paralyzed and mute, with no labels to identify you, with a diaper and an open fly? You’re our equal. We’ll make you part of us. Another one like us. Our interminable origin. Our interminable destiny. Are these the words of freedom? And what freedom is that? Will they thank me for it? Will they recognize that I helped them achieve it? What freedom is that? Is it the freedom to fight for freedom? Even if it’s never attained? Even if it fails? Is that the lesson of these men and women who are running, taking advantage of the first light to cross the line of oblivion? What do they forget? What do they remember? What new mixture of oblivion and remembrance awaits them on the other side? I am between earth and world. To which did I belong more when I was alive? To which do I belong more now that I am dead? My life. My struggle. My conviction. My wife. My children. My brother. My brothers and sisters who cross the line even if they’re killed or humiliated. Give a name to the person who wanted to give them a name. Give a word to the person who spoke in their defense. Don’t abandon me as well. Don’t avoid me. I’m still inevitable. Despite everything. In that I resemble death. I am inevitable. In that I’m also like life. I’m possible only because I’m going to die. It would be impossible if I were mortal. My death will be the guarantee of my life, its horizon, its possibility. Death is already my country. What country? What memory? What blood? The dark earth and the world that dawns commingle in my soul to formulate these questions, mix them, solder them to my most intimate being. To what I am, to what my parents were or what my children will be. The feet run, crossing the line. There is no reason to fear their sound. What do they take, what do they bring? I don’t know. What’s important is that they take and bring. That they mix. Change. That the world doesn’t stop moving. An old man, immobile, mute, tells them so. But he’s not blind. Let them mix. Let them change. That’s what I fought for. The right to change. The glory of knowing we’re alive, intelligent, energetic, givers and receivers, human containers of languages, bloods, memories, songs, forgotten things, things avoidable and not, of fatal angers, of hopes reborn, of injustices to be corrected, work to be compensated, dignity to be respected, of dark earth here and there, that world created by us and by no one else—here or there? I don’t want to hate. But I do want to fight. Even if I’m immobile, in a mute chair, without any identification. I want to be. My God, I want to Be. Who will I be? Like a stream their names enter my gaze, my eyes, my tongue, crossing all the borders of the world, breaking the crystal that separates them. They come from the sun and the moon, from the night and the day. With difficulty I raise my face to look at the face of the sun. What falls on my forehead is a drop. And then another. Harder and harder. A downpour. A harsh rain, here where it never rains. The feet hurry. The voices grow louder. The day I expected to be bright becomes cloudy. The men and women run, cover their heads with newspapers, shawls, sweaters, jackets. The rain drums on the tin roofs. The rain swells the mountains of garbage. The rain pours down the ravines, washing them clean, runs along the canyons, rinsing them, pulling along whatever it finds—a tire, a porch, a pot, a cellophane wrapper, an old sock, a rush of mudslide, a cardboard house, a television antenna. The world seems dragged along by the water, flooded, companionless, divorced from the earth … I think we’re going to drown. I think it’s the second deluge. The incessant rain washes away the line where I’m stopped. The swift feet leave tracks on the pavement as if it were sand. They approach. I hear the howling of the sirens. I hear the loud voices, shocked, beneath the rain. The swift wet footsteps. The hands that search me. The lights of the ambulances. Questioning, uncertain, spinning, wandering, groping, seeking … An old man, they say. An immobile old man. An old man who doesn’t speak. An old man with an open fly. An old man with a urine-soaked diaper. An old man with very old, very wet clothes. An old man with sturdy shoes, the kind that leave a mark on the pavement as if it were a beach. An old man with clothing whose labels have been torn off. An old man without a wallet. An old man with no identification: no passport, no credit cards, no voter registration card, no social security card, no calendar for the new year, no green card to cross frontiers. An old man with no plastic. An old man with a stiff neck. An old man with clear eyes open to the heavens, eyes washed by the rain. An old man with his ears open, his earlobes dripping rain. An abandoned old man. Who could have done this? Doesn’t he have children, relatives? Something’s funny here. Where do we take him? He’s going to get pneumonia. Put him in the ambulance quickly. He’s old. Let’s see if we can find out who he is. Who the miserable bastards can be. An old man. A nice old man. An old man who’s fighting against death. An old man by the name of Emiliano Barroso. What a pity I’ll never be able to say it. How wonderful that I finally remembered it. It’s me.