Carlos Fuentes - The Eagle's Throne

“Apparently, Mr. President, you don’t seem to realize that your days are over. . ”

“And everything that happened then. . never happened? Let’s see, how can that be possible?”

“Quite simply, the laws you once abided by have nothing to do with the laws we live by today. . The problems have changed, the solutions have changed and, I must reiterate, times themselves have changed.”

“Ah, but you and I, despite our different problems and times, will always, ultimately, commit evil acts if committing evil acts is necessary, won’t we?”

He then raised his leonine head and looked at me with arrogance and scorn.

“Don’t touch the Moro case, Mr. Secretary. As long as you don’t touch it we’ll get along famously.”

“Oh, shut up!” I said, losing my patience. “I know what really happened in the Moro case, but I’m not interested in doing the police’s work.”

“Well, let’s see. The police might do their job so thoroughly that you’ll be the one who ends up in prison.”

At that, I jumped up and snapped, “You’re nothing but a lost dream.”

“No.” He smiled as he walked to the door before turning to face me one last time. “Quite the opposite. I’m a living nightmare.”

I slammed my fist into my forehead after César León closed the door behind him. I should never have lost control in the presence of that viper.

In what direction, my dear friend, do the waves in the lagoon go now?

You have every right to reproach me for being so slow, my dear lady. Allow me to quote that well-known Italian adage, since Italy is the source of all wisdom but also of all political malice: Chi va piano va lontano. I only hope that one day you’ll grant me the distinction enjoyed by another Italian (one who is less anonymous than the author of this proverb, to be sure), and that you’ll recognize me, my dear lady, for what I am: a young boy who was graced with good fortune but who nevertheless lives according to the words of his namesake Machiavelli, who always warned against excessive reliance on Fortune, who, after all, is (and who does this bring to mind?) fickle, inconstant — shameless.

In any case, do you think it insignificant that I was able to undermine the arrogance of Tácito de la Canal and turn the adorable Dorita, so long subjugated by her boss and her mother, into a real woman?

I’ve continued to employ this tactic, my dear María del Rosario. Yesterday was February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers (who knows why), and so I organized a party in the office. I chose to hold it in the Emiliano Zapata room — because Mexico is a country that murders its heroes and then erects statues to honor them. It seemed the appropriate place for the staff of the presidential mansion. You know — all those people nobody ever sees precisely because nobody is ever supposed to see them. I’ve already mentioned the secretaries, so hard up these days without telephones, computers, and fax machines, forced to haul out the old Remingtons that were gathering dust in the archives.

The archives! Who’s ever seen those old people (why doesn’t anyone young work there? Have you ever noticed?) who look after the presidential records with the sort of devotion that deserves a medal? They’re the invisible among the invisible, living in paper caves, custodians of all that must be hidden and forgotten. The archivists.

I invited the gardeners, doormen, drivers, cooks, waitresses, cleaning ladies, and laundresses to the party. I put the faithful Penélope in charge — never has a woman been so aptly named — of all the necessary arrangements: hanging the lanterns, decorating everything with hearts, hanging up streamers, ordering the buffet, everything.

You can’t imagine what a delightful time everyone had — that is, until the illustrious Tácito de la Canal made his triumphant entrance and a funereal silence descended on the party. The chief of staff was pleased by this. He had dressed up for the event, which in his case meant taking off his tie and undoing the top three buttons of his shirt, not to look casual, but because he wanted to show off his chest! Bald as a melon, he wanted us all to see that thicket, the evidence of his strapping masculinity. I must say it was extraordinary: Tarzan himself could have easily swung from one nipple to the other. Very well. But you can’t begin to imagine what he had hanging from his neck, all tangled up in the hair. A cameo. And can you guess who was smiling out from it?

None other than you, my dear lady María del Rosario Galván. Wasn’t it the Virgin of Guadalupe, you ask? No, my dear lady, it was you, an icon between Tácito de la Canal’s hairy nipples. What happened next, you might ask? Well, Tácito boasted to one and all that he was something more than the intimate friend of the president’s intimate friend, and that you, my distinguished lady, enjoyed the privilege of Mr. de la Canal’s hirsute favors.

Make of it what you will. I’m simply here to provide information, carrying out the brief dictated by my fair damsel (reporting straight from the heart of darkness that beats just beneath Tácito’s hairy carapace), reporting on the audacity of the voyeur who spied on your most distinguished and delectable state of undress, madam, and who has now turned out to be the exhibitor of a love that — I hope! — is unrequited.

He left without a word, apart from congratulating me for my “jocular” initiative, and unwittingly unleashed a wave of unrestricted joy, a reaction to his highly depressing presence. Some people just have that effect. I called for drinks to be served and very soon the revelry began to get dangerously out of hand, as if the crowd were about to storm the Bastille. I worked the room, stopping to chat, livening things up, lightening the atmosphere, until I found myself standing before what one might call the “Senate of the Archivists.”

How far back did the oldest of them go? Back to the days of López Mateos. And the youngest? Since López Portillo? Did they like their work? Certainly, they had to be highly organized to file documents by topic, date, and name. Did they read all the things they filed away? Blank stares. No. Never. They received the documents, rubber-stamped them with the office seal and the date, made a note of the topic in the upper right-hand corner, and placed them in the appropriate file. Were there any that got marked “Confidential,” “Secret,” “Personal,” or something like that? Of course. Did any of them remember a specific topic filed under such a classification? No, no, all they did was file the documents.

Their eyes revealed one of two things: Either they were bored, or they didn’t understand. And anyway, the sheer volume of paper that they received every day was so overwhelming that they could barely keep up with it. And that was that.

Could I visit these archives?

I didn’t venture actually to ask the question, dear friend, because I sensed a fraternal spirit among these archivists, a guild of sorts based on old paper, dark basements, long hours of monotony and tedium, short and poorly paid vacations, half-remembered families, and pale faces.

I picked one of them out from the rest. The one who said he’d been there since López Portillo. The one who hadn’t taken off that old officeworker’s uniform, not even for a party: greenish eyeshade tightly hugging a wrinkled cranium and protecting a gaze that was neither curious nor suspicious. Plastic collar attached to the shirt by a white plastic button. Unbuttoned vest, and arm garters to hide the disparity between the length of the sleeve and the length of the arm, or perhaps to prevent the cuffs from fraying.

“My family is from Jalisco,” I lied, though my comment didn’t elicit the least bit of a reaction.