Carlos Fuentes - The Eagle's Throne

Bear in mind, Mr. President, that you should possess the imperial gift of inflexibility. Let other people be the good guys. You don’t have the right to be a good guy. The people of this country will get down on their knees in respectful tribute to power, but they will not accept bonhomie and much less artlessness in a presidential figure. We respect the emperor, we respect Montezuma, we respect the Spanish viceroy, and we respect the dignified dictator honored by the rest of the world, like Porfirio Díaz was. And also, of course, we respect the rightful, legitimate man, defender of the nation and distinguished citizen of the Americas, don Benito Juárez. Can you think of anyone more solemn than he? Have you ever heard a single joke about Juárez? Didn’t he go down in history as Juárez the Impassive? Didn’t Juárez come up with that saying: “For one’s friends, justice and grace. For one’s enemies, the law”?

By this I don’t mean to imply that solemnity is synonymous with imperial arrogance — it’s synonymous with republican sobriety, but illuminated with the glowing halo of monarchy. Yes, let’s always be a hereditary republic, a monarchy with a six-year cycle, and in the interest of that tradition we must make sure we maintain the dignity of the presidential throne and restrict access to it as much as possible. For this reason, I venture to offer you a bit of advice regarding certain members of the cabinet who like to brag about their “access” to your office and who are perhaps a bit too chummy with you. Mr. President, don’t engage with inferiors. Always show them their place. Don’t listen to their biased advice — because there’s no such thing as unbiased advice when the person being advised is the president of the nation.

Mr. President, I work for you. I’m no different from the majority of our compatriots. Every good Mexican works for you. Because if things go well for the president, things go well for Mexico. Allow me to tell you, then, that at this particular political hour here in this country, there are eight small parties. And then there is you.

The gloppy guacamole that results from this abundance of small parties can only be eaten with the spoon of a strong president who knows how to take advantage of it. Put this idea to the test, Mr. President, now that the elections are looming. Mexicans don’t know how to govern themselves. History has proven this. Just watch them welcome the message of your renewed authority with gratitude and relief. I tell you this in the spirit of democracy. There’s no such thing as a soft-core dictatorship that doesn’t eventually degenerate into hard-core tyranny. You’re better off the other way around: starting hard and degenerating into something softer.

Please forgive my bluntness. I’m a guard dog, I know. I accept my role with humility. You, on the other hand, may act according to the free will your position grants you. But what would you think of a cabinet chief — a position I’m honored to have been conferred — who didn’t speak to you honestly? On a more humorous note, let me tell you that I’m not like the secretary who was asked the following question by the general, president, and head of state Plutarco Elías Calles: “What time is it?” To which the secretary responded, “Whatever time you say it is, Mr. President.”

I am a man who is accustomed to doing things he dislikes.

Use me as you wish.

My fair lady, there is someone I believe I’ve mentioned before: Penélope, the secretary who works in Tácito de la Canal’s office. Her full name is Penélope Casas and she’s a female freighter. She moves through the office like a transatlantic ship on the high seas, supervising the administrative tasks and cheering the girls on (for the lack of cheer in that office is as deadly as Tácito’s bad breath), acting sometimes as their confidante and counselor, and at other times as a shoulder for them to cry on. You see, Penélope has a heart as big as her bosom, and her bosom is covered by a shawl the size of a flag. Her dark-skinned face is dotted with pockmarks, the vestiges of childhood smallpox, which she halfheartedly conceals with a layer of matte powder. Her lips are heavily painted, as if to distract the eye, and presided over by two dense eyebrows joined in the middle like the celebrated eyebrows of Frida Kahlo. And as for her hair, María del Rosario, I think our lofty Aztec goddess must get up at four in the morning to create those rib-boned braids, those tottering towers that crown her head, and that torrent of bangs that hides her narrow, low forehead.

I’m telling you all this only to emphasize the very powerful figure cut by our bureaucratic goddess Coatlicue, so that you can imagine how shocked I was to find her yesterday absolutely motionless, wracked with sobs, the tears soaking the tissue under her forlorn face.

“Doña Penélope, what’s the matter?”

She couldn’t stop crying. She raised her fist, which was clutching some papers, and only after a moment or two was she able to say, “Totally worthless, Mr. Valdivia, like the Argentinian patacón, toilet paper, that’s what those shares are worth — nothing at all! Less than a pack of Kleenex!”

She passed me the handful of papers. They were shares of Mexicana de Energía, the utility company that declared bankruptcy yesterday and put thousands of small-time shareholders in the poorhouse — all the humble shareholders who put their faith in the privatization of the national energy company during the presidency of César León, who followed the example of Fidel Castro when he allowed foreign companies to invest in energy, a smoke screen that effectively shushed the noisy Mexican nationalists.

As it happens, MEXEN declared bankruptcy yesterday, putting shareholders like Penélope out on the street. MEXEN’s investors, of course, had already earned themselves millions by keeping their mouths shut about the imminent bankruptcy and selling their own shares when they were still worth something.

I’m telling you things you already know, my dear lady, so that I can get to the part you don’t know.

Let me take it step by step.

When MEXEN was structured as a private company during the days of César León, the directors put a number of shares up for sale— in the usual fashion, the kind of shares Penélope bought. But at the same time, in order to lure some very robust companies (insurers, banks, industry) to invest in MEXEN, the board gave these companies the assurance of confidential information that would allow them — at the very least — to double their initial investment in a matter of months. To this end, MEXEN was created as a double company. One was the public company open to small-time shareholders. The other was the secret company reserved for the investors with the deepest pockets.

Small shareholders like Penélope did not have access to the more privileged company. In fact, they didn’t even know it existed.

How did I learn all this? Through our archivist don Cástulo Magón.

Borne by the sea of Penélope’s tears, I said to Cástulo, “Get me the MEXEN file.”

The old man replied, “Which one?”

I was taken aback by his response.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Well, there are three. There are the official files, the confidential files, and the ‘shredded wheat.’ ”

“The ‘shredded wheat’?”

“Yes. The files they told me to destroy. Shredded, you know.”

“And why didn’t you do it?”

“Oh, sir, I respect these documents.”

Impassive, I let him go on.

“Did you know that don Benito Juárez, fleeing the French occupation forces, went from the capital to the northern border with three stagecoaches packed solid with the official papers of the republic?”