Carlos Fuentes - Adam in Eden

• “If you have a sense of humor, stop by the apartment for rent in Vallejo. You’ll die laughing.”

• “Don’t be fooled. The property for sale in Eje South is located right off the municipal garbage dump. That’s why it stinks!”

• “Are you a masochist? Then the house for sale at Virrey de la Cerda is perfect for you.”

• “The apartment for rent at the Calzada San Joaquín has closets full of cockroach caca. Careful!”

• “Nostalgic for the days when people lived in caves? Then hurry over to the house in the hellishly misnamed Heaven’s Corner before Trimalchio finds another caveman to rent it to first.”

• “If you want to know what you’re getting yourself into, pay a clandestine visit to the foyer of the building on the corner of Zarco and Valerio Trujano. Let us know how far you trust the creepy husband-and-wife porters.”

• “If you want to know what it feels like to be spied on by your neighbors, spend the longest day of your life in the bedroom of the apartment for rent at Popocatéptl Plaza.”

• “Like a nice dungeon? Then don’t pass up the opportunity to rent the dank basement being passed off as a luxury apartment in Pushkin Gardens.”

A forty-something-year-old woman showed up at our editorial office claiming to be the mother of the Boy-God who preaches on the corner of Insurgentes and Quintana Roo. When our reporter asked her whether she was the Virgin Mary, she answered emphatically that yes, she was. An examination performed by one of our in-house nurses disproved that latter claim.

Don Adam Góngora, chief of national security, released a much-discussed statement, announcing his deep nostalgia for the long period of rule by the Party of Revolutionary Institutions (PRI), when the unions belonged to the government, the right to strike was mythic, the workers were subject to the bossman, and the boss-man was pro-government. Mister Góngora stressed that he was speaking out of nostalgia for simpler times and that he realized the in Vallejo. You’ll die laughing.”

The Sunday Boy-God has complained in no uncertain terms against the usurper who calls himself Jenaro González and asks that from now on the identity of his many imitators be challenged by demanding they show a particular birthmark that the Holy-Boy alone possesses. The Boy abstained from revealing information about this mark for fear that his imitators would tattoo themselves with counterfeits. Could it be on his little bottom? Just asking.

A well-known astrophysicist from the National Autonomous University of México, who asked to remain anonymous, considers that the comet many citizens saw last night isn’t a comet at all, but a simple shift in the position of our sky in relation to the fixed stars. The scholar explained that this phenomenon is called “parallax,” and that the word describes, for instance, the apparent shift of a planet’s position as observed from two different points of view.

A prelate who asked to remain anonymous swiftly responded to the above statement, reminding us that in 1531 Halley’s comet appeared in the sky on the same day that The Virgin of Guadalupe appeared to Juan Diego. Therefore we must not rule out religious truth, concluded the prelate, when faced with scientific superstition. Asked about the religious significance of yesterday’s comet, the man of the Church said that to know this, we would need to know what we still don’t know, but which will one day be revealed. The community of the faithful received this statement with applause.

Because of the profusion of Chinese tourists in Mexico, our waiters must learn Mandarin instead of — as in the old days — English. The Asian traveler also demands private dining rooms, which forces our restaurateurs to subdivide their spacious premises, once the pride of the food industry, with partitions, screens, and new walls. “The customer gets what the customer wants,” explained the manager of the famous Bellinghausen restaurant in the famous Zona Rosa neighborhood.

Many professionals have abandoned their occupations, creating a dangerous shortage of doctors, lawyers, engineers, and architects. Asked about it, the interested parties responded, as if they had all agreed beforehand, “We are now freelancers.” An inquisitive and suspicious journalist asked them if that meant they were freeloaders . Outraged, the group spokesman (for they have grouped together and selected a spokesman) replied: “All we want is to be our own bosses.” (The mystery remains unsolved.)

M.A.M. (The Moral Alliance of Mexico) leaders held a press conference to announce their new national campaign to combat homosexuality. “This country doesn’t need beggars or faggots,” announced the M.A.M. president. “Let’s purify the nation,” he added, conceding that identifiable homosexuals, depending on the gravity of their misconduct, could be robbed, kidnapped, or killed. A furious father complained that his gay son decided to call himself “Angela” instead of “Angel” and proceeded to change his birth certificate, school diplomas, and passport, creating infinite confusion in dealing with the red tape of national bureaucracy. “What if all the pansies go change their names and need new identity documents?” asked the outraged father. The president of M.A.M. concluded with the statement: “We must all remember that Mexico is a religious, conservative, violent, and very macho country. .” The furious crusader for chastity had nothing else to add, save, “Castrate them all.”

I observe Góngora’s movements. I don’t let on that I know about his apparent affair with my poor wife, nor do I publicly declare myself opposed to his violent and arbitrary security measures.

I observe him and bide my time.

I know he’ll seek me out: he seeks me out.

I don’t know what he wants: he wants something. His attitude is a little smug. And more than a little threatening.

With courtesy and an undaunted face, I meet him in my office.

It’s harder to look neutral, however, when Góngora approaches me with the treacherous intention of hugging me. As the reader knows (and if the reader doesn’t, he or she is about to learn that), in Mexico a male hug is an essential rite of friendship, and Góngora doesn’t want to miss out on that. But my deepest instincts warn me to reject him, not so much because I don’t want to touch this guy — after all, politeness forces me to accept his hug — but because I suspect that Adam Góngora suffers from an advanced case of halitosis. A stench of malodorous indigestion precedes him, as if this poor devil who talks out of his ass also shits through his mouth. I find him suspicious. He approaches with the smells of street-fair corn, thick and nauseating shots of pulque, a foul burp, a dirty rag on his tongue, and a rotting animal on his gums.

But how am I going to avoid him?

I can’t. I give in to politeness. My suspicions are confirmed. Adam Góngora stinks . He seems to flaunt his smell of intestinal corruption. His presence fills me with horror and doubt. How can my wife Priscila, who may be a fool but is at least a clean fool, stand such a stench? And the doubt. Is Góngora aware of his stench, and does he cultivate it as another aspect of his power? Come on, let’s see if you’re man enough to get close to me without holding your nose. And by the way, your health and life depend on it, you miserable excuse for a worm.

We embrace then, and I take all the precautions that the reader might imagine.

Anything to get to the point.

“What brings you here today?”

“Look, Gorozpe, my work in security entails responsibilities that are sometimes unpleasant, although necessary. I’m not trying to trick you. .”