Carlos Fuentes - The Eagle's Throne

Keep me informed, my dear and respected friend.

I’m back because you asked me. I’m back in Veracruz, in the port’s main plaza under the arches. I’m back in the Café de la Parroquia to meet the Old Man again.

The famous déjà vu. The parrot perched on the Old Man’s shoulder. This time the Old Man is not wearing his bow tie. Today he’s wearing a guayabera. It seems appropriate given the sticky, humid, suffocating heat beneath an umbrella of black clouds heralding a storm that refuses to break and clear the melancholy tropical air. The Old Man’s still there, with his coffee in front of him and his dominoes in an asymmetrical ivory pattern on the table.

I think he’s taking his afternoon siesta. I’m wrong. The minute I stop in front of him, he opens an eye. One single dark-ringed eye. The other one stays shut. The parrot shouts, or chirps, or does whatever it is parrots do: “NO RE-ELECTION! EVERY VOTE COUNTS!”

The Old Man opens the other eye and gives me a dark look. He doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t want to hide it. He wants me to know that he knows. He wants me to know that he knows I’m no longer the novice that came to visit him in January. He wants me to know that he knows I’m the former undersecretary now in charge of the office of the interior because Bernal Herrera has resigned as interior secretary to become a pre-candidate for the presidency. He wants me to know that he knows that I’m now the head of domestic affairs in our country.

Nevertheless, I feel like I’m meeting someone who behaves as if nothing at all has happened in Mexico since 1950. He acts and speaks as if we lived in the past. As if the bonfires of the Revolution were still burning. As if Pancho Villa were still on his horse. As if all the country’s generals didn’t drive around in Cadillacs. As if the Mexican Revolution (as was acknowledged half a century ago) hadn’t ended in the suburban Lomas de Chapultepec.

And nevertheless (oh, the endless number of cependants I hang from your lovely ears, my wise lady), I can’t fail to notice that the Old Man is aware of my political youth — interior secretary at thirty-five — and that he wants to warn me, with his Veracruz wisdom plucked from Lampedusa’s The Leopard, that plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, that I shouldn’t harbor dreams of radical change, miraculous transformation, etc. That there’s a permanent substratum, a bedrock, not only of Mexican politics but of politics tout court.

Tiens, for some reason (our secret French-speaking alliance? An evocation of the shared world of our studies? A form of code, now that French is out of use?) I use French expressions that couldn’t be farther from the world of the Old Man Under the Arches.

“So is this what Mexico’s much-vaunted democratic transition has come to?” he asks me without moving a muscle of his famous mummy face.

“What do you mean, Mr. President?”

“Ah,” he says, his smile falling apart like a mask made of sand. “I forgot that you studied with the Frogs. Monsiour le Presidan!”

He pauses to sip his coffee.

“You know, sometimes, in an effort to keep up my education (since they say education never ends), I play dominoes here in the plaza with a group of Mexican intellectuals who were educated in Germany. Chema Pérez Gay, for example, meets me here, and I say to him, ‘Talk to me in German, even if I don’t understand a damn thing you say. I like that guttural noise. It has an authoritarian ring to it. And anyway it makes me feel philosophical.’ Well, the last time Pérez Gay was here, he said, ‘When the Weimar Constitution opened the door to democracy in Germany for the very first time in 1919, after centuries of authoritarian rule, the Germans stopped wide-eyed at the threshold, like peasants invited into a castle. . ’ ”

There was no mimicry in the old man’s words. He maintained his somber, penetrating gaze, the circles deep and dark beneath his eyes.

“Well, let me just say that the same thing has happened in Mexico. We’ve stood here wide-eyed, not knowing what to make of democracy. From the Aztecs to the PRI, we’ve never played that game here.”

“Did they do things better before — I mean, in your day?”

“People were given some measure of security. There were rules, and everybody knew them. Everything was predictable. The public was spared the anguish of making their own uncertain decisions. I invented the institution of ‘the sealed envelope.’ All it took was a sealed envelope with signed instructions from me. Whenever a governor, a congressman, a local president received the sealed envelope he did exactly as I said.”

He stopped, looking like a pirate about to attack a galleon from the Indies filled with Spanish gold.

“ ‘Propose the candidacy of X.’ The rest was easy. The candidate I’d selected, the candidate in the sealed envelope, garnered general and widespread support. Woe to the strongman who dared dissent. Woe to the rebellious governor. Woe to the congressman with the independent spirit.”

He licked his crooked teeth.

“They would be eliminated from politics forever. And if any of them dared protest my decision, I’d just remind him, ‘You’ve had your pleasure. Now crawl back to the hole you came from. I’m telling you for the sake of your health.’ ”

Is it possible that someone could deliver such terrible threats so agreeably? Clearly, steely resolve and serenity went together. Lesson learned, María del Rosario.

The Old Man pressed down on his dentures.

“Envelopes sealed, ballot boxes stuffed in advance, carousel voting, and other methods for sending voters from polling site to polling site, raccoons running all the electoral fraud — we performed whatever alchemy was necessary to win an election in advance with double, even triple votes. And in the end there were more votes for the PRI than there were registered voters, what with all the citizens we dragged out of the cemeteries, all the voting booths we stole, and all the dissenting votes that were destroyed — if and when it was called for, of course. And all this, Mr. Valdivia, was presided over by his sovereign majesty the president who, from the Eagle’s Throne, declared to his designated successor, ‘You will be president.’ ”

The parrot said, “I swear to uphold the laws. .” and then fell silent as if expecting the Old Man to gaze at him with affection, the green, yellow, red, and blue bird perched atop his shoulder, the shoulder of a political pirate.

“. . the laws of the republic,” the Old Man solemnly intoned.

“The written laws?”

“The unwritten ones, Mr. Valdivia. Think of how easy it was. The unwritten rules of authoritarianism were clear. Just look at the current uncertainty and the chaos it has caused. How could I not feel nostalgic for the calm old days of our benevolent PRI dictatorship?”

Before I could even respond he interrupted himself, raising a stiff finger in the air to keep me quiet.

“In reality, our vices were virtues. But let’s just say that I’ve resigned myself to change. I always knew that the system would come to an end one day. Still, the question remains: What will we replace it with?”

“Everything was better in the past,” I said with melancholy.

“Yes, despite some pretty stupid politicians.”

“Who were the wise ones, then?”

“Not who, my friend, but how.”

“How, then?”

“Everyone kills fleas in their own way, Valdivia. Excessive ambition either fails, or else it comes at a very high price. Some men have made it to the presidency feeling that Mexico owed it to them and then relinquished their positions feeling that Mexico didn’t deserve them, and that’s why they feel they deserve to return to power one day.”