Carlos Fuentes - The Crystal Frontier

why does this man leave all his luxury, shake off his indolence, and go off to the unknown territories of the río grande, río bravo?

was he so stuffed with old silver that he wanted new gold?

did he want to owe nothing to his father?

did he want to begin like him, poor and defiant?

or did he want to show that there is no greater wealth than that which we cannot attain?

look at Juan de Oñate plant his black boot on the brown bank of the río rande, río bravo:

he’s fat, bald, moustachioed, a turtle with an iron shell and Dutch lace frills at his neck and wrists, a robust potbelly and weak feet and between the two the indispensable sac of his scrotum so he can pee whenever he pleases amid the conquests and battles, his indispensable silver helmet, topped off with a crest, proclaims:

he comes to the rio grande with a hundred and thirty soldiers and five hundred settlers, women, children, servants:

he founds El Paso del Norte and claims Spanish dominion over all things, from the leaves on the trees to the rocks and sand in the river: nothing stops him, the founding of El Paso is merely the springboard for his grand imperial dream,

fat, bald, moustachioed, fortified by steel and softened by lace, Juan de Oñate is a private contractor, a businessman who believed Cabeza de Vaca’s lies and paid no heed to the expeditions of Pray Marcos de Niza or to the death of the ill-fated, stubborn black Estebanico, who disappeared in a quest for his own lie, the cities of gold: Onate came not to find gold but to invent it, to create wealth, to discover what’s left to discover of the new world, the mines yet to find, the empires yet to be founded, the passage to Asia, the ports in both oceans: to realize his dream he embarks on a campaign of death, he reaches Acama, the center of the Indian world (center of creation, navel of the universe), and there he destroys the city, kills half a thousand men, three hundred women and children, and takes the rest captive: the boys between twelve and twenty will be servants: the twenty-five-year-old men will have a foot chopped off in public:

this is a matter of founding, in truth, a new world, of creating, in truth, a new order, where Juan de Oñate rules as he pleases, capriciously, not owing anyone anything, intent on losing everything as long as he’s infinitely free to impose his will, to be his own king and perhaps his own creator: here there was nothing before Oñate arrived, here there was no history, no culture: he founded them

but here there was distance, enormous distance, and distance, after all was said and done, defeated him

Polonsky told Mario that tonight more illegals than ever would try to cross the river, taking advantage of the squabble about the bridge, but Mario knew very well that as long as a poor country lived next to the richest country in the world, what they, the Border Patrol, were doing was squeezing a balloon: what you squeezed here only swelled out over there. There was no solution, and even though Mario was amused by his job at first, almost as if it were a kids’ game like hide-and-seek, exasperation was starting to get the better of him because the violence was increasing and because Polonsky was implacable in his hatred of Mexicans. If you wanted to stay on his good side, it wasn’t enough to act professionally; you had to show real hate and that was hard for Mario Islas, the son of Mexicans, after all, even though he was born on this side of the Rio Grande. But that fact aroused the suspicion of his superior, Polonsky. One night Mario caught him in the tavern saying that Mexicans were all cowards, and he was on the verge of punching him. Polonsky noticed. It’s likely he had deliberately provoked him, which is why he then took the chance to say, “Let me be frank, Mario, you Mexicans who serve in the Border Patrol have to show your loyalty more convincingly than we real Americans do—”

“I was born here, Dan. I’m as American as you. And don’t tell me the Polonskys came over on the Mayflower.”

“You’d better watch your mouth, boy.”

“I’m an officer. Don’t call me boy. I respect you. You respect me.”

“I mean, we’re white, Europeans, savvy?”

“Spain isn’t in Europe? I’m of Spanish descent, you’re of Polish descent, we’re Europeans …”

“You speak Spanish. The blacks speak English. That doesn’t make them English or you Spanish.”

“Dan, this conversation doesn’t make any sense.” Mario smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Let’s just do our job well.”

“Not hard for me. For you it is.”

“You see everything like a racist. I’m not going to change you, Polonsky. Let’s just do our job well. Forget that I’m as American as you.”

During the long nights on the Rio Grande, Rio Bravo, Mario Islas told himself that maybe Dan Polonsky was right to have his doubts about him. These poor people only came looking for work. They weren’t taking work away from anyone. Was it the Mexicans’ fault the defense plants were closed and there was more unemployment? They should have continued the war against the evil empire, as Reagan called it.

These doubts passed very quickly through Mario’s alert mind. The nights were long and dangerous and sometimes he wished the whole Rio Grande, Rio Bravo really were divided by an iron curtain, a deep, deep ditch, or at least a simple fence that would keep the illegals from passing. Instead, the night was filling with something he knew only too well, the trills and whistles of nonexistent birds, the sounds the coyotes, the men who guided illegals across, used to communicate with one another. Though they gave themselves away, sometimes it was all a trick and the coyotes used their whistles the way a hunter uses a decoy duck; the real crossing was taking place elsewhere, far from there, with no whistles at all.

Not this time. A boy with the speed of a deer came out of the river, soaked, dashed along the shore, and ran right into Mario — into Mario’s chest, his green uniform, his insignia, his braid, all his agency paraphernalia — hugging him, the two of them hugging, stuck together because of the moisture of the illegal’s body, because of the sweat of the agent’s. Who knows why they stayed there hugging like that, panting, the illegal because of his race to avoid the patrol, Mario because of his race to cut him off… Who knows why each rested his head on the other’s shoulder, not only because they were exhausted but because of something less comprehensible …

They pull apart to look at each other.

“Are you Mario?” said the illegal.

The agent said he was.

“I’m Eloíno. Eloíno, your godson. Don’t you remember? Sure, you remember!”

“Eloíno isn’t a name you can forget,” Mario managed to say.

“The son of your pals. I know you from your photos. They told me that if I was lucky I’d find you here.”

“If you were lucky?”

“You’re not going to send me back, are you, Godfather?” Eloino gave him an immense white smile like an ear of corn shining in the night between his wet lips.

“What do you think, you little bastard?” said Mario, furious.

“I’ll be back, Mario. Even if you catch me a thousand times, I’ll be back another thousand times. And one more for luck. And don’t call me a bastard, bastard.” He laughed again and again hugged Mario, the way only two Mexicans know how to hug each other, because the border guard couldn’t resist the current of tenderness, affiliation, machismo, confidence, and even trust that there was in a good hug between men in Mexico, especially if they were related …