Carlos Fuentes - Distant Relations

So no one among Branly’s friends is surprised by his sudden absence. He might be visiting the Countess at nearby Quercy, or be as far away as the Toltec ruins at Xochicalco. Neither will ever be dislodged from its site, and so, in keeping with a life based on civility and social niceties, my friend willingly goes to the mountains that will not come to him.

And such idiosyncratic habits serve a different end as well. They permit him, in keeping with his desire, to avoid any mention of occasional illness. Nothing irritates him more than the solicitous — sincere or feigned, though almost always hypocritical — attentions given the ailments that beset the elderly. He is no hypochondriac, and he detests the idea that anyone should see him reduced to querulousness or debility. When Branly finds himself in bed against his will, Florencio and José are well trained in informing callers that M. le Comte will be out of town for a few weeks, and if they want to communicate with him they may do so by writing in care of the prefecture of Dordogne, or perhaps by poste restante to the island of Mauritius. M. le Comte will undoubtedly be dropping by one of these days to pick up his mail.

Even those of us who suspect the subterfuge in all this are quite happy to attribute it to the combination of fantasy and reserve which in the Count are good and sufficient proof of his independence. In this way he cautions us to respect his privacy as he respects ours. It is only this afternoon, for instance, that I learn of the several days he spent in bed following the accident he suffered the evening he ran into one of the oak trees lining the avenue to the Clos des Renards. I acknowledge my appreciation of his confidence, though a barely perceptible gleam in his small eyes reveals that if he has told me, it is only because the incident is indispensable to the story, the result of an automobile accident — not uncommon in the life of one who travels so frequently — and not a common cold.

“I am convinced that there are events that occur only because we fear them. If they were not summoned by our fear, you see, they would remain forever latent. Surely it is our imagining them that activates the atoms of probability and awakens them, as it were, from a dream. The dream of our absolute indifference.”

What awakened him was the whistled melody of the madrigal of the clear fountain. He opened his eyes to the shattered windshield of the Citroën and imagined himself a prisoner in a crystal spiderweb before he verified the pain in his leg and his head, before he put his hand to his brow and felt his fingers sticky with blood, before he again felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.

He remembers that when he again awakened he was lying on a canopied bed. Automatically, his hand went to his aching head.

“Don’t worry, M. le Comte,” said the French Heredia, beside him. “You have been well looked after, I can swear to that. I found you as I returned from the hospital. Why did you do such a foolish thing? So many mishaps in a single evening. My son André and your young friend helped me bring you here. The doctor came, you were slightly delirious. He gave you a tetanus injection, just to be sure. Your wounds are only superficial, nothing is broken. Your bad leg is a bit worse for wear, and the doctor put a patch on your head. He wants you to stay in bed for a few days. It’s the shock more than anything, you know. And at your age you can’t be too careful.”

Branly waved away any concerns about his person and inquired about Etienne.

Heredia laughed disagreeably. “Noble to the end, eh? Your vassal is doing well, and is grateful for your concern. He spent the night in the hospital, and will be released today. He wanted to come by here, but I told him no, that you needed to rest. You’re not really up to par, so here I am to carry out your orders. You just say the word.”

As he tells me today, my friend was convinced that Heredia was again anticipating an unyielding silence, a reaction against the ever-increasing impertinence of the person in whose hands he was now virtually captive, and who intended to put to the test the limits of Branly’s innate courtesy, challenging him to maintain his civility from a sickbed, especially now that he was dependent on the services of the man with the pale eyes, straight nose, and white mane of hair, who was caring for him in this bedchamber redolent — like the entire residence, and not just the foyer as he had first thought — of leather. The canopy of his bed was leather, as well as the chairs of this shadowy chamber closed in by heavy velvet curtains that made it impossible to tell whether it was night or day.

Yet, he told himself, it would be immature to refuse this disagreeable man the perverse pleasure of serving his guest, simply because, in serving him, the Frenchman would find further proof of Branly’s feudalism, and a view of a world — which might actually be a relief for Heredia, as it was more Heredia’s desire than Branly’s — populated with serfs.

Unaided, my friend pulled himself to a sitting position against the leather-covered headboard of the castored bed, but he asked Heredia to arrange the pillows to make a more comfortable support for his arms. Then he asked if he might make a telephone call. He had begun to devise a policy of sorts for dealing with his unexpected and unsought host: he was beginning to realize that nothing would be more disconcerting than the continuing evidence of his courtesy, more than a counterpoint to the Frenchman’s crudeness, a cool civility Heredia would find difficult to distinguish from aloof politeness, as in a rosary of identically colored baroque pearls gradations in size may not be readily apparent to the naked eye.

Heredia hesitated a moment, staring at my friend with curiosity. He folded his arms across his dirty white quilted silk dressing gown and finally informed Branly that there were no extensions upstairs, the only telephone being on the first floor. He would help Branly down the stairs, if that’s what he wanted; however, he had noticed that the Count had been limping even before the accident. He didn’t want to be held responsible, in case Branly should decide to file a claim for the second accident. Lucky for him, wasn’t it, that the first had happened outside and that the boy was responsible.

Branly nodded, and asked Heredia to call Hugo, the boy’s father. But, as his host was about to leave the room, my friend said: “No, on second thought, don’t bother Señor Heredia; he might worry about his son, and there is no reason for that. Also, he is quite involved with his conference. If you don’t mind, speak with my servants. They are Spanish, so they will have no difficulty understanding you. Yes, that’s it, that way Señor Heredia will know where his son is, but will not worry about him. Could I trouble you, Heredia, to push my bed to the window? You can’t tell the hour in this gloom. And ask the boy to come up later and visit. I am not at all tired.”

Without a word, Heredia pushed the bed closer to the window. Branly smiled; he commented to his host that he was indeed a sturdy fellow. He took the cane Heredia had propped against the bed and pulled aside the curtain to allow the sun to shine in.

“Ah,” he exclaimed with delight, and with a sincere impulse to share with Heredia his fundamental pleasure in life, the morning, and the sunshine. But the owner of the Clos des Renards had brusquely left the room. So, instead, instinctively seeking the signs of life his spirit had clamored for throughout the night, Branly looked out the window. His eyes took in the rational garden. He shook his head as he saw the spectacular evidence of his automobile’s collision with the oak tree, and only when his quite contented invalid’s eyes wandered toward the woods did he see the two figures standing hand in hand in the chiaroscuro of the birch trees. They stood so quietly they were barely visible; anything stationary in a natural setting succumbs to the universal law of mimesis.