Carlos Fuentes - Hydra Head

“And a hired agent of the state of Israel.” The diminutive Ayub pretended to wipe tears from his eyes.

“Is there no ashtray?” asked the Director General, stubbing out his cigarette on Simon Ayub’s lapel.

“My best Cardin!” screamed Ayub.

“I don’t know why I put up with such an inept and insolent assistant.” The Director General’s laugh echoed hollowly.

“You know why,” shrieked Ayub. “Because you have me by the balls!”

“Obviously,” the Director General continued, unperturbed, “I must have a warm spot in my heart for you. Imbecile. It’s my own fault. Why did it ever occur to me to send a cockroach like you to dissuade our friend from attending the ceremony? But I prefer dissuasion to violence.”

Felix could see Simon Ayub as he came dangerously close to the Director General, the delicate fist, manicured nails, the rings with the topaz scimitars, raised threateningly. “I’m getting fed up to here,” he cried hysterically. “Yesterday this small-time Romeo called me an overdressed runt and now you call me an imbecile. The day will come when I can’t take any more. One day I’m going to explode…”

“Calm yourself, Simon. Sit down and be quiet. You know you’ll do nothing of the kind. You just said why very graphically.”

“One day…”

“One day you’ll wake up and find yourself an orphan, no?” said the Director General affably, and again turned his attention to Felix. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, Licenciado. Exactly as I informed you during our very pleasant interview, you are not responsible for the attempted assassination of our President. But your name is. And your name, Licenciado, no longer exists.”

“Say his name, say it to him.” Ayub whined like a whipped dog.

The Director General sighed with relief. “At last. Felix Maldonado.”

He laughed, a laugh that broke off at its crest.

“Let me savor the syllables, like a good cognac, better still, a Margaux. Fe-lix Mal-do-na-do. Aaaaaah. Only a name, n’est-ce pas? The man behind the name no longer exists. Quickly, Simon, remember the nurse’s instructions. Don’t try to sit up, my friend. You see, if you make those sudden movements, you will pull the needle from your arm. Please look to see if it’s all right, Simon.”

Gloating, Ayub approached Felix’s recumbent body, and Felix, concentrating all his strength, struck blindly at him. Ayub bore the brunt of the blow in his chest, fell to the floor, rose coughing, and lunged toward Felix, who gritted his teeth at the pain of the loosened needle. The Director General stretched out a foot and tripped Ayub, who fell against the metal bed.

He clambered to his feet, groping for the Liberty print handkerchief drooping from his breast pocket. “I don’t know which of you I despise more,” he said, dabbing at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

“It is of absolutely no importance,” said the Director General, “but if it is any comfort to you, that was more painful for our friend than it was for you. En fin. Let him replace the needle, Licenciado. We don’t want you dying of starvation.”

The Lebanese approached Felix’s bed with glee. In Ayub’s hand, the needle resembled one of the scimitars adorning his topaz rings.

“Furthermore,” the Director General continued, “your Calvary is far from over. You must build your strength to prepare for what still awaits you. As we were saying, n’est-ce pas? your presence at the ceremony complicated our plans, but in the end it worked out well. Felix Maldonado, the presumed assassin, attempted to escape night before last from Military Camp Number One, where, given the nature of his crime, he had been incarcerated for greater security. As is the custom in these cases, he was shot while attempting to escape, mmh?”

The Director General removed his purplish eyeglasses and examined his prisoner through half-closed lids.

“Three well-placed bullets in the back, and the private and official life of Felix Maldonado was ended. The burial took place yesterday at ten o’clock in the morning, with the discretion demanded by the occasion. One must not overinflame public opinion, n’est-ce pas? Several theories have been advanced concerning the frustrated attempt to assassinate our President. You know how those things are. The myth that a Mexican President never dies in his bed is international in scope. Actually, Obregón was the last President assassinated in this country, and that was in 1928. On the other hand, in a more civilized country like the United States, mmh? Presidents drop like flies, and their families and followers as well. Myths. Myths.”

Ayub had reinserted the needle in Felix’s vein and the liquid flowed again.

“Hold his arm, Simon. Our patient is very high-strung. What must he be thinking about all this? What a shame he can’t tell us. I’ll try to calm his fears by telling him that the family and friends of Licenciado Felix Maldonado, in small number, attended the burial in the Jardín Cemetery. The wife of the defunct, his widow, Ruth Maldonado, in the place of honor. Very dignified in her grief, n’est-ce pas? And one or two interesting women, the married Mary Benjamin, for one, and the unmarried Sara Klein, recently arrived from Israel, mmh? I believe she also attended the rendezvous with dust. And my own secretary, Mauricio Rossetti, along with Angelica, his wife. They’d forgiven Maldonado’s unfortunate vulgarity at their home. Hebrew rites were observed, naturally.”

The Director General laced thin fingers across the front of his jacket and allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile, without the accustomed laugh. “There will always be doubts, my friend. Did Felix Maldonado mean to avenge himself on Professor Bernstein because he had outstripped him in winning the favors of Sara Klein? Or was it all part of an attempt on the life of the President? We shall suppose, mmh? just suppose, that the government as well as public opinion favors the second hypothesis. I’m telling you all this, Licenciado, so that you can understand just what was at stake. On one side of the scale, place an internal political crisis of international dimensions and on the other, your wretched life as a second-rate bureaucrat and a third-rate Don Juan. You, a converted Jew, unstable, as proved by your recent actions, are a madman who throws his professor’s eyeglasses into the fire, creates scandalous scenes in a fit of jealousy, and without provocation insults everyone in sight. You might easily take your revenge on Bernstein. On the other hand, it’s equally plausible that you were using your irrational behavior to cover a cold and calculated assassination attempt. But even then, n’est-ce pas? doubts persist. No one will ever be absolutely sure whether at the last moment your desire for revenge overrode political purpose, or whether in fact a kind of mild schizophrenia overcame Felix Maldonado and he tried to kill both Bernstein and the President. Mysteries that will never be cleared up, since the possibilities are varied. The fact is, regardless, that Maldonado’s dead and buried.”

The Director General smiled, and studied his fingernails. “ Tiens! That was practically a poem. Perhaps we should write a ballad, mmh? The Song of Long-Gone Felix?”

His smile vanished. Unexpectedly, he stood up and peremptorily ordered Ayub to summon the nurse and to stay with her while she removed the patient’s bandages.

“Everything would have worked out as I wished it, beautifully executed, if you hadn’t interfered. What a shame,” said the Director General. “Goodbye forever, Licenciado.”

FOR SOME FIFTEEN MINUTES Felix Maldonado knew he was alone in the room with the short Lebanese. What was worse, to lie here impotent, immobilized by his bandages, with no one to look after his needs, or to be attended by a humiliated and vengeful dwarf? One thing he knew, any cruelty of Simon Ayub’s was preferable to what the Director General had forced him to endure.