Eduardo Galeano - The Memory of Fire Trilogy - Genesis, Faces and Masks, and Century of the Wind

“Nothing new, at your service.”

“How did you pass the night?”

“At your service.”

“How happy I am! And how are you, señora?”

“At your disposition. And you?”

“Many thanks. And your husband?”

“At your service, nothing new.”

“Do please sit down.”

“After you, señorita.”

“No, señora, you first, please.”

“Oh well, to oblige you, without ceremony. I am an enemy of formalities and etiquette.”

(57)

A Day of Street Cries in Mexico City

“Coal, sir?”

“Lard! Lard for a penny and a half!”

“Salt beef! Good salt beef!”

“Any old grease?”

“BUTTO-O-ONS! SHIRT BUTTO-O-ONS!”

“Crab apples for hot peppers! Fresh crab apples!”

“Bananas, oranges, pomegranates!”

“LITTLE MIRRO-O-ORS!”

“Fat little buns hot from the oven!”

“Who wants Puebla mats, five-yard mats?”

“Honey cakes! Cheese and honey!”

“Candies! Coconut candies! Merr-i-i-ingues!”

“Last little lottery ticket, only one left for a halfpenny!”

“TORTIIIILLAS!”

“Who wants nuts?”

“CURD TORTILLAS!”

“Ducks, my love! Hot ducks!”

“Tamales, little tamales!”

Hot roasted chestnu-u-uts?”

(57)

Mexican High Society: The Doctor Says Goodbye

By the bedside:

“Señora, I am at your service!”

“Many thanks, señor.”

At the foot of the bed:

“Consider me, señora, your most humble servant!”

“Good morning, señor.”

Pausing by the table:

“Señora, I kiss your feet!”

“Señor, I kiss your hand!”

Nearing the door:

“Señora, my poor house, and what it contains, and I myself, although useless, and all that I have, are yours!”

“Many thanks, doctor!”

Turns his back to open the door, but turns again after opening it.

“Adieu, señora, your servant!”

“Adieu, señor.”

Finally leaves, but half opens the door and sticks his head in:

“Good morning, señora!”

(57)

A Nun Begins Convent Life

Thou hast chosen the good road

now no one can remove thee

chosen one

At sixteen she says goodbye to the world. She has passed in a carriage through streets she will never see again. Relatives and friends who will never see her again attend the ceremony in the Santa Teresa convent.

no one no one nothing

can remove thee

She will eat with the other brides of Christ, from a clay bowl, with a skull for a table centerpiece. She will do penance for sins she did not commit, mysterious sins that others enjoy and that she will redeem by tormenting her flesh with a belt of barbs and a crown of thorns. She will sleep forever alone, on a bed of mortification. She will wear cloth that sands her skin.

far from the battles of great Babylon

corruptions temptations dangers

far

She is covered with flowers and pearls and diamonds. They strip her of every adornment, they undress her.

never

To the sound of the organ, the bishop exhorts and blesses. The pastoral ring, an enormous amethyst, makes the sign of the cross over the kneeling girl’s head. The nuns chant:

Ancilla Christi sum …

They dress her in black. The nuns, kneeling, press their faces against the floor, black wings unfurled around the circle of candles.

A curtain is drawn, like the lid on a coffin.

(57)

Though Time Forget You, This Land Will Not

In Guatemala City, ladies and monks prepare Rafael Carrera, boss from the mountains, for a long dictatorship. They try on him the three-cornered hat, the dress coat and the ceremonial sword. They teach him to walk in patent leather boots, to write his name, and to tell time on a gold watch. Carrera, a hog breeder, will continue plying his trade by other means.

In San José, Costa Rica, Francisco Morazán prepares to die. He screws up his courage. For Morazán, lover of life, a man with so much life, it is hard to tear himself away. He spends the night with his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cell, saying goodbye. The world has been great. The general puts off his farewell. He would have liked to govern more and fight less. He has spent many years making war, machete in hand, for the great Central American motherland, while she persisted in tearing herself to bits.

Before the military trumpet, comes the song of the trumpet bird. The song comes from high in the heavens and from deep in his childhood, as before, as always, at the end of the darkness. This time it announces the final dawn.

Morazán faces the firing squad. He uncovers his head and himself gives the order to load and aim. He corrects the aim, gives the order to fire.

The volley returns him to the earth.

(220)

The Warrior Cocks

The Church, landlord and moneylender, possesses half of Mexico. The other half belongs to a handful of gentlemen and to Indians penned up in their communities. The proprietor of the presidency is General López de Santa Anna, who watches over public peace and the good health of his fighting cocks.

Santa Anna governs with a cock in his arms. Thus, he receives bishops and ambassadors, and to tend to a wounded cock he abandons cabinet meetings. He founds more cockfight arenas than hospitals and issues more cockfight rules than decrees on education. Cockfighting men form his personal court, along with cardsharps and widows of colonels who never were.

He is very fond of a piebald cock that pretends to be a female and flirts with the enemy, then after making a fool of him slashes him to death; but of them all he prefers the fierce Pedrito. He brought Pedrito from Veracruz with some soil too, so Pedrito could wallow in it without nostalgia. Santa Anna personally fixes the blade on the spur. He exchanges bets with muleteers and vagabonds, and chews feathers from the rival to give it bad luck. When he has no coins left, he throws medals into the cockpit.

“I’ll give eight to five!”

“Eight to four if you like!”

A lightning flash pierces the whirl of feathers and Pedrito’s spur tears out the eyes or opens the throat of any champion. Santa Anna dances on one leg and the killer raises his crest, beats his wings and sings.

(227 and 309)

Santa Anna

frowns, stares off into space. He is thinking about some cock fallen in combat or about his own leg, which he lost, a venerated token of military glory.

Six years ago, during a small war against the king of France, a gun salvo tore off the leg. From his bed of pain, the mutilated president dictated to his secretaries a laconic fifteen-page message of farewell to the fatherland; but he came back to life and power, as was his habit.

An enormous cortege accompanied the leg from Veracruz to the capital. The leg arrived under a canopy, escorted by Santa Anna, who waved his white-plumed hat out of the carriage window; and behind, in full regalia, came bishops and ministers and ambassadors and an army of hussars, dragoons, and cuirassiers. The leg passed beneath a thousand rows of banners, and at its passing received prayers for the dead and speeches, odes, hymns, gun salutes, and the tolling of bells. On arriving at the cemetery, the president pronounced before the pantheon a final homage to that piece of himself death had taken by way of an advance.