Carlos Fuentes - Burnt Water

And now she repeated, nibbling a sandwich: “Aren’t I right? If a ménage à trois gives us life and happiness and makes for better personal relations among the three of us than the relationship between the two of us, then isn’t that moral?”

I nodded as I ate, listening to the sputtering of the meat cooking on the raised grill. Several friends were watching that their cuts were done just the way they like them, and then came to sit with us, and Elena began to laugh again and be her usual self. Unfortunately, I was inspired to scan the faces of our friends in turn, imagining each of them installed in my house, giving Elena the portion of affection, stimulus, passion, or intelligence that I, exhausted beyond my limits, was incapable of granting her. As I observed the nearest face, avidly disposed to listen to her (and at times I grow weary of hearing her), another amiably offering to fill in the lacunae in her reasoning (I prefer that her conversation not be logical or consistent), yet another, more inclined to formulate precise and, according to him, revealing questions (and I never use words — rather, gestures or telepathy to set Elena in motion), I took some consolation from telling myself that, after all was said and done, what little they could give her would be given beyond a certain boundary of my life with her, like dessert or a cordial, an appendage. That one, the one who combed his hair like Ringo Starr, asked her precisely and revealingly why she continued to be faithful to me, and Elena replied that today infidelity is mandatory, just as Communion every Friday used to be, and turned away from him. The nearer one, the one in a turtleneck shirt, interpreted Elena’s reply, adding that, doubtlessly, my wife meant that fidelity was becoming the attitude of the rebel. And the one here by me, the one in the perfect Edwardian frock coat, merely invited Elena with an intensely oblique glance to continue speaking: he would be the perfect audience. Elena raised her arms and asked the waiter for an espresso.

We walked beneath the ash trees through the cobbled streets of Coyoacán, holding hands, experiencing the contrast of the day’s heat still clinging to our clothing and the moist coolness of the night that, following the afternoon shower, brought a glow to our eyes and color to our cheeks. Silently, our heads bowed, holding hands, we like to walk through the ancient streets that have been since the beginning a point of encounter, a common meeting ground of our inclination to assimilate what is around us. I think we have never spoken of this, Elena and I. Nor do we need to. What I do know is that it pleases us to collect old things, as if we were rescuing them from painful oblivion, or as if by touching them we gave them new life, or as if in seeking the right place, light, and ambience in our home we were in reality defending ourselves against a similar future oblivion. We still have the lion’s-maw handle we found in a hacienda in Los Altos that we caress every time we open the door to our home, knowing that every caress consumes it; illuminated by a yellow light in the garden, we have the stone cross representing the four converging rivers of hearts torn out, perhaps, by the same hands that later worked the stone; and we have the black horses from some long-ago dismantled carrousel, like figureheads from the prows of brigantines that would lie forever on the ocean floor unless their wooden skeletons came to rest on some distant shore of solemn cockatoos and dying turtles.

While I look for some Cannonball records, Elena takes off her sweater and lights the fire. I serve two glasses of absinthe and lie down on the rug to wait for her. She lies with her head cradled on my legs, smoking, while we both listen to the slow sax of Brother Lateef, whom we met in the Gold Bug in New York, looking like a Congolese witch doctor dressed by Disraeli, his eyes sleepy and swollen like two African boas, a segregated-Svengali beard, his purplish lips joined to the saxophone that silences the black so that he may speak with an eloquence foreign to his surely hoarse everyday stammer: the slow notes are a kind of mournful affirmation that will never say all they want to say, since from beginning to end they are only a seeking, an approximation, muted by a strange shyness; they give joy and direction to the contact of our bodies, which begins to follow the feeling of Lateef’s instrument; pure announcement, pure prelude, limited entirely to the pleasures of foreplay, which, because of the sax, become the act itself.

* * *

“What American Negroes are doing is turning the tables on the whites,” Elena says as we take our appointed places at her parents’ enormous Chippendale dining table. “The love, the music, the vitality of the Negroes is forcing the whites to justify themselves. See how the whites are now physically persecuting the blacks, because they have finally realized that, psychologically, the blacks are persecuting them. ”

“Well, I’m just thankful that there’re no Negroes here,” says Elena’s father, helping himself to the potato-leek soup offered him in a steaming porcelain tureen by the Indian servant who during the daytime waters the gardens at the big Lomas house.

“But what does that have to do with it, Papa? That’s like saying the Eskimos are thankful for not being Mexicans. Everyone is what he is, and that’s that. What’s interesting is watching what happens when we come across somebody who makes us doubt ourselves. Somebody, nonetheless, whom we know we need. Somebody we need because they reject us.”

“Come along now, eat. These conversations get more idiotic every Sunday. The only thing I know is that you didn’t marry a Negro, did you? Higinio, bring the enchiladas.”

Don José observes Elena, his wife, and me with an air of triumph. Doña Elena, in an effort to revive the languishing conversation, relates all the past week’s activities. I look around at the brocaded rosewood furniture, the Chinese vases, the billowy curtains and vicuna rugs in the rectilinear house through whose towering windows one sees the eucalyptus trees shivering in the barranca. Don José smiles as Higinio serves the enchiladas topped with rich cream, and his little green eyes fill with an almost patriotic satisfaction, the same satisfaction I have seen when the President waves the flag on the fifteenth of September. But not the same that makes them tender when he sits down in front of his private jukebox to smoke a cigar and listen to boleros — they are much more moist then. My eyes stop at the sight of Doña Elena’s pale hand playing with the soft center of her roll as she wearily enumerates all the cares that have kept her busy since we last saw each other. I listen abstractedly to that cascade of comings and goings, canasta games, visits to the poor children’s ward, novenas, charity balls, searches for new curtains, quarrels with the servants, long telephone conversations with her friends, the expected visits to priests, babies, dressmakers, doctors, watch repairmen, pastry cooks, cabinetmakers, and engravers. I am hypnotized by the long, pale, caressing fingers rolling the soft bread into little balls.

“I told them never to come to ask me for money again, because I don’t make the decisions about anything. That I would gladly send them to your father’s office and his secretary would take care of it…”

… the languid movements of the slim wrist and the bracelet with the gold and copper medallions of the Christ of the Cubilete, the Holy Year in Rome, and President Kennedy’s visit, that clink against each other as Doña Elena plays with the bread …

“… enough that one gives them moral support, don’t you agree? I looked for you Thursday to come to the new film at the Diana with us. I even sent the chauffeur on ahead to stand in line, you know what the lines are like on opening day…”