Carlos Fuentes - Hydra Head

“Oh, yes,” said the Director General, softly. “You’ve been invaluable to us, and you can still be so, n’est-ce pas? It’s your vocation, what can we do! A case of love at second sight, pas vrai? ” He laughed, a laugh interrupted at the peak of its merriment.

He stared somberly at Ayub through his purplish pince-nez. “You may leave us now, Simon.”

“But…”

“Go … Your … ‘buddies’ are waiting for you. Tell them to share their sandwiches with you.”

“But…”

“But nothing. Go…”

Felix felt as if his eyes had been torn from their sockets, and he tried to hold them in place with hands that had become nursemaids to his ruined sight. He could almost believe the hands weren’t his. He was distracted by Ayub’s swift, receding footsteps and the clanging of the opening and closing of the metal door.

He kept his hands over his eyes. Why try to see if there was nothing to see? Only the photophobic Director General could see in that darkness, but Felix was grateful. In that one moment, they were alike.

“Poor devil,” the hollow voice commented. “His parents and his sister died last week in a miserable Lebanese village. That’s the fate of hostages. The Phalangists and their Israeli allies had killed ten Palestinian hostages in the south of Lebanon. So it became the turn of a similar number of Maronite hostages held by the Fedayeen.”

The skull-like face loomed close, as if to ascertain the gravity of Felix’s beating. “Such a shame,” he went on. “I’ve lost my hold over Ayub. He doesn’t know that yet. But in this all-too-small world someone will soon tell him. It would be better, n’est-ce pas? if that disagreeable pair took care of him once and for all. Exit Simon Ayub. And such a shame for you, too, Licenciado Velázquez. Ayub steadfastly believed that you are the man named Felix Maldonado. No one else believes it.”

The Director General stood for a long moment with his arms crossed, awaiting a comment from Felix. Finally, he shook his white porcupine head. “Dear me! It is definitely true. Every time we meet, you are unable to utter a word. I recall our poor departed friend Maldonado one afternoon in my office, the strutting cock. So talkative, yes? Just the opposite of you, the very essence of taciturnity. Dear me. But you mustn’t worry. I am a patient man. Here, take my handkerchief. Wipe the blood from your mouth. We’ll simply entertain each other for a few moments until your speech returns. When it does, try to avoid the obvious, n’est-ce pas? Our people have been following you ever since, with all the flourish of a Dumas hero, you fled the clinic on Tonalá. I regret that you resorted to such melodrama. A fire! I expected a bit more finesse. But what could we do? We were at the mercy of your caprice. What was important, n’est-ce pas? was that you escaped believing you were truly escaping, never suspecting we fervently desired your success.”

“Why?” said Felix, through blood and saliva.

“Hallelujah! In the beginning was the Word!” the Director General exclaimed with delight. “‘Why?’ Memorable first words from Licenciado Diego Velázquez, the new Chief of the Department of Cost Analysis of the Ministry of Economic Development.” The Director General licked his knife-thin lips as he pronounced the name and the accompanying titles.

“‘Why?’ asks the brand-new official. Because someone was spoiling our plans and we didn’t know who. Because someone unexpectedly transferred Felix Maldonado from Petróleos Mexicanos to Economic Development. Because, it turns out, this modest official, who cannot afford to have children until his salary and position are advanced, allows himself the luxury of a permanent room in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. Because all this awakens my legitimate doubts, and because, following a summary investigation, the information contained in the late Maldonado’s files in the Hilton turns out to be false, placed there purposely to make us suspect everything but learn nothing. But, as in any war, two can play at the war of nerves. Our opponents lose their agent Felix Maldonado, but as we are not niggardly, we counter with the gift of Diego Velázquez, who baptizes himself to save us the headache, n’est-ce pas? and who one fine night escapes from a clinic because we want him to escape.”

“Why?”

“Your curiosity is becoming monotonous, Licenciado. Because we needed an innocent carrier pigeon to lead us to a hidden nest. From that nest, a not-at-all-innocent vulture whom we both know intends to swoop down and thwart our plans. Ah, you smile roguishly, Licenciado. You say to yourself that your friend the Shakespearean buzzard has won the game and has the ring in his hands. It is for good reason you call him Timon of Athens. What is it the immortal Bard says in scene i, Act I of his drama about power and money — rather, about the power of money?”

The Director General, his arms still crossed, threw back his head, as if his reverie could illuminate the darkness behind his pince-nez. “See how all conditions, how all minds tender down their services to Lord Timon: his large fortune dues and properties to his love and tendance all sorts of hearts. Do I quote badly, Licenciado? Sorry. My training was not Anglo-Saxon like yours and your patron’s, but French, and as a result, I prefer the Alexandrine to blank verse.”

“You’ve confused your birds,” said Felix, spitting and licking his lips, testing his tongue against his teeth and lips. “Shakespeare compares Timon to the flight of the eagle, bold and forth on.”

“Do not be overly eloquent.” The Director General laughed. “I merely wish to indicate that if Timon is powerful and pays well, we are more powerful and pay better. I admit freely, yes, that your patron has the ring. But its loss is secondary. This little drama, you see, has two acts. First act: Felix Maldonado inadvertently foils our mission. Second act: Diego Velázquez, equally inadvertently, leads us to the den of an espionage ring that, in spite of all our efforts, we have been unable to locate or connect with any official branch of the Mexican government. With the result that all sins, yours and mine, will be pardoned in the end, because, thanks to you, we obtained something better than the ring: the thread that leads us to Timon of Athens.”

“You have good telephone taps, but nothing more,” said Felix, his face resigned and impassive. “Anyone can record a telephone conversation and play with proper names.”

“Do you want proof of my good faith, friend Velázquez?”

“Goddammit, stop calling me that!”

“Ah, that’s a proper name I don’t dare play with. It is too serious a matter. You will see that, my friend. But let me repeat. Ask for proof of my good faith, and I shall gladly give it to you.”

“Who is buried in my name?”

“Felix Maldonado.”

“How did he die?”

“I’ve already told you that, in the clinic. Why insist on replaying the first act? Consider the second. It is considerably more interesting, I assure you. Be more daring, my friend.”

“Why did he die?”

“I also told you that. He tried to assassinate the President.”

“Not a word came out about it in the newspapers.”

“Our press is the most easily controlled in the world.”

“Don’t be a fool. Too many people were there.”

“Be careful what you say. Your mouth is ugly enough. We can make it even less pretty, n’est-ce pas?”

“What really happened that morning in the Palace?”

“Nothing. Just as the President approached, Felix Maldonado fell into a faint. Everyone found it funny except the President.”

“What was your plan?”

“The one I outlined to Maldonado in my office, mmh? To borrow his name. Only his name. We need a crime, and a crime needs a man’s name. You, with your stupid swooning, were the obstacle. So there was no crime, even though there was a criminal.”