Carlos Fuentes: Christopher Unborn

TOMORROW MAY BE TOO LATE

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

THAT’S THE TIME FOR DICKIE DUNKIN

THE MOMENT IS AT HAND

THESE NINE MONTHS WILL NEVER COME BACK AGAIN

So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get procreating! Your pleasure is your duty and your duty is your freedom! In Mexico we are all free and anyone who does not want to be free should be punished! You can count on your judges, after all: have we ever let you down?

And she, at least on the track given over to her consciousness, no longer puts up any resistance, no longer says: What if it’s a girl? What shall we name the girl, huh? She only said it’s beautiful making love like this at noon on the beach my love, ever since you said don’t take care of yourself anymore, Angeles, I want to give you a child right next to the sea, I started getting hot, for the first time in a year I shaved my armpits and also the hair that peeks through the slots in my chair asada in this Acapulcoesque incandescence, the sun, not the sun, no my love, but your cherry jubilee in my hungry mouth, your scherezada from Tampique with its chilis and little beans which I’m digging up with my long finger, your cunt, your raccunto, your ass chérie, your cherry ass, Chère Sade, flagellated by my furious whip here on the beach of Kafkapulco, but a private beach my love, sometimes private property does have its virtues, right Prudhon? Pardon?

Shhh, my love, let me imagine your chers rassés, your ché arrasado, let me live, Chère Sade, in the feverish calendar of your opec-and-one nights, let me swim in the colors you sweat, your chromohydrosis, I yearn for your yen, if only for only thirty seconds over Tokyo, I pokey-you now your ass which is all the asses that bore you my love, the waves carry grass to your ass, my Arabian mare, my divine Angeles, I drink the wine of your nalglass, I hear the toll of your knelglass, I bury my nose in your knolgrass, Oh your Mexican ass my Angeles mía, the color of sweet quince, the smell of rotten mango and fresh red snapper, your historical ass, Angeles, febrile and Phoenician, dancing the Roman rumba, Spanish and spunning, Turkissable, Castilian and Moorish, tinged with Aztec, nahuátl nalgas, Cordobuzzable buttocks, Arab pillow of the almohades, ass on horseback and ass on camelback, second face-double cheeks — what is your name? What shall we name the baby? What says the Plutonic part of your Platonic book? Have you run out of words, darling?

My father dared to look at her. She had an illuminated halo over her head, which is to say (she was saying) more illuminated than ever when she said what she had to feel or felt what she had to say or listened to what she had to hear, but her halo dimmed, saddened, when the idiots, the jerks, the dimwits, the flatfeet wore it down: my mother, her halo very brilliant on this brilliant afternoon, was complaining about it, with her elbows jammed into the sand, exiling her questions:

“And what if it’s a girl, contest or not?”

“And what if it’s twins?”

My father stares at my mother’s elbows and desires them almost more than her snatch: nubile, sensual, exciting elbows, buried in the sand. The dry smell of the palm-leaf roof: a dry coolness. Coconut and mango and scallops with Tabasco sauce. The sea is the Pacific. The farther out you look, the more the water seems to burn. Thalassa. Thalassa.

And my father once more sucks her nipples as if they were Sucrets, with the very rhythm of respiration: Air, Hera, Air, Eros, Air, Heroes, Angeles, Scheherazade, Certified Pubic Accounter, First Novelist, drown yourself in the waters of time, wet your syllables my love, ass of my angelic amour (my mother is loved, in case you missed it, by my father on the beach and I am about to be created) in Acapulco. I am happy at noon and I want to have a son in a country of happy children and sad men before the time for happiness ceases to exist, and even if Mexico exists so things turn out badly for us, in front of the ocean origin of the gods.

“Isabella,” if it’s a girl we’ll name her Isabella, whimpered my mother, hanging on to the mainmast of my father’s caravel, suddenly shifted into her unconscious track, it may be a girl. My queen. What shall we name the girl? Well! Does it have to be a boy? Well! We’ll call her Isabella, Isabella the Catholic, Isabella the Chaotic.

My Queen: give me America, give a little America to your little Angel. Let me come near your Guahananí, Angeles, caress your Gulf of Mexico, tickle the delta of your Mississippi, excite your Cuba, get engulfed in your Gulf of Darien.

Give me America, Angel: come on, my Martín Fierro, here is your pampa mía, give me your Veragua, come close with your Maracaibo, take my Honduras, snuggle up with your Tabasco, kiss my Key West, Vene, Vene, Venezuela, anchor in my Puerto, Rico, just leave your Grand Cayman right there, let me feel in the Hispaniola, ay Santiago, ay Jardines la Reyna ayayay! Nombre de Dios:

May God Give You Your Name, my son, Name him, name him, he’s coming, he’s out! The only one among millions, silvery and quick, the gay bandolero, the swashbuckler, the matador, escaping from the myriad company of the chromosomatic legions. Name him, he’s out, nothing can stop him now, with all his genes on his back, bearing, oh my God, bearing all that we are.

“Hey! Genes are to blame for everything, is what Uncle Fernando Benítez said.”

“Certainly: Hegels are to blame for everything, is what Uncle Homero Fagoaga answers.”

“That’s a fact,” confirmed Uncle Fernando:

Angel, Angeles, bearing all that we are from our very origins, everything is inscribed in him, ay, my dearest DNA, he’s going to find your egg, Angeles, your sperm, Angel, bearing, my God, name of God, nombre de Dios, Hispaniola, my Queen, by God, bearing, Christ, Christ, Christ …

CHRISTOPHER

Now they’ve found one another, he’s swashed and buckled his way through the forest of blood and sweat and throbbing mucosities an’ impatience (and impatience, son, Uncle Homero corrects, with Don Andrés Bello’s grammar book in hand). Now I’ve come out pained and paining, separated forever from the only company I’ve ever known: my packages of cells, my belovèd generations armed with precursory cells, patiently stored in my father’s pouch, regenerating themselves constantly but hopelessly, my true grandfathers and great-grandfathers, my transitory though authentic parents, my internal genealogy, adiós! Ay dios! Out I come, running, crying, borne by the hot blood and inflamed nerves of my new father, leaving behind what up until now I knew and loved, amé, ahimé, oh me, oh my … I lounged God knows how long in my father’s pruny cave, and now my father is tearing me out of my internal genealogy, far from my secret family tree of inside fathers and grandfathers and great-greats and great-great-greats I belonged to up until this moment when this man decided to do what he is doing: throw me off balance, tear me up by the roots, nip me in the bud and ejaculate me, expel me from the peninsula, me ejaculated, she fornicated, dismissed, beginning my voyage in the middle of my true life. No one knows me, they’re having a ball out there and they don’t know that

HERE I COME!

accompanied by the invincible haha armada of my one billion brothers and sisters, little Christophers an’ Isabellas (and Isabellas, shouts Uncle Homero, furious) crackling like whips, in close formation, rolling out of my father’s barrel of fun, then abandoned all to the accidents of the black tunnel, fighting upstream in my mama’s Delaware, her salty mine and truffle war, the swift, lubricious infantries inside my mommy’s Thermópelos, Vulvar boatmen, little heads and long tails. We are legion, said Lucy, whipping and snapping, jumping hurdles, over the walls of the inhospitable mucous cavity that will end up being the walls of my homeland, the steaming baths of acid secretions that dry up our salty juices, Salaam Salamis, lost in the deserts of the wrong cylic exits, Luther’s Turnpike, no exit on this expressway, the Labyrinth of Solitude, ay! I see them die like flies because they’re out of gas, because they have two heads and twelve toes, because la cucaracha cannot walk without grass, they die by millions on the roadside, all around me, my soul brothers and sisters, Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians, Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians, the Andrews Sisters, and the Hermanitos Brothers, les misérables who did not make it to the goal victorious. Victor who? Go! The millions of sperm fallen into Niagara, oh watery Waterloo of my decimated fraternity, thermopiled, forever separated from our young precursory grandfathers and from all the memories the sexy couple on the beach know nothing of: battles and songs, names and tastes, goodbye forever, you never escaped from the prison pouch of he who is about to become my Lord and Father, and the rest of you have perished in the battle against the juices and the blood and the perverse tunnels of her about to name herself Mamma Mia, we are being beaten up in the dark alleys of the cervical mucosity, no left turn through the unblocked cervix, a river of glass drowns me, I’m slipping and sliding spermatically, only a few of us remain now, whipping and snapping, exhausted, nature is not kind, nature is implacable, nature doesn’t weep for us, my poor agonizing brothers and I, I?