Carlos Fuentes - The Eagle's Throne

That’s where the mystery is.

President Lorenzo Terán has died. It’s like losing a good father, Bernal. All my life I’ve lived with the repugnant image of my own father, who was tyrannical and corrupt. Sometimes he appears in my nightmares. I wake up, shouting at him, “Go away! Disappear! You’re worse dead than you were alive!”

When Franco died, Juan Goytisolo, anti-Franco always (he’s now eighty-nine and lives somewhere in the medina in Marrakech), couldn’t help giving a requiem for the stepfather who subjugated the Spanish for forty years.

Lorenzo Terán, on the other hand, was a good patriarch. Perhaps too good. I call him “father,” but really he was our son. Your son and mine, Bernal. We made him. We persuaded him to give up his business in Coahuila and become president in the midst of our multiparty catastrophe, from which not one political group has emerged unscathed, as if they were eight spoiled, measles-ridden children locked up in a room together.

Lorenzo Terán, on the other hand, was clean, unfettered, industrious. And as if that weren’t enough, Bernal, he was ours. Nevertheless, you and I made a decision. We were not going to manipulate him. We’d be loyal and we’d respect his position and his autonomy. We’d serve him. We’d advise him. But we wouldn’t treat him like a puppet. Were we wrong? Should we have pressured him more? Should we have been more than mere counselors and loyal servants? Did the president realize that he had you to thank for all those shows of power: the strikes, the students, the peasants? You were the one who acted. You always handed the president faits accomplis. Because Lorenzo Terán, so contentious on the campaign trail, decided to be a saint in office. He climbed up to the top of a column so that he could serve God and he chose to let society govern itself.

You and I had to act on his behalf. That was our way of being loyal to him. We didn’t manipulate him. We respected his autonomy. But we filled the gaps for him. Since he never called us to task, we did whatever we could. You could do a lot from the interior office but not everything. I think there was a utopian lost somewhere in Lorenzo Terán’s heart. The only person he listened to — unfortunately, for us — was Seneca, and that elicited a vicious response from the gringos. It was to be expected.

My own role was limited because I am a woman. For all that we’ve progressed, an unwritten law still holds sway in this country: A man can be forgiven all his vices. Not a woman.

I can see you smiling, Bernal. You’re a good man. You’re generous. Only once did you reproach me for being indiscreet, when I got into that argument with Tácito de la Canal. You were right. My hormones did get the better of me. Once again, I ask you to forgive me. Not only did I break our political pact. Discretion, discretion, discretion. The bad thing about power is that it gives one a sense of impunity. The more you get used to it, the more indiscreet you become.

I swear never to make that mistake again. That’s why I’m putting everything down in writing, so that we have a record this time of what you proposed to me yesterday at President Terán’s funeral, as we knelt side by side in the Metropolitan Cathedral.

You’re thinking of your future, as am I. The president’s death doesn’t only move the political calendar ahead. It changes it. How quickly things change in politics! There are more cracks, winding paths, waterfalls, gulfs, narrow passes, hidden islands, bottlenecks, and gorges than in the whole length of the Amazon! When I said to Nicolás Valdivia, “You will be president of Mexico,” I was only stringing him along. I thought it would be one thing or the other. Either he would take it as an erotic dare, a sexual promise I kept putting off, a woman’s fancy: “Come to my arms, my sweet young thing. . Be the president of my bed. Didn’t you understand what I meant? My bed’s the real Mexican presidency, silly. . ”

Or he’d be spurred on by ambition. He was under no illusions. I was working for you. But politics is “what a man does so that he can hide what he is and what he doesn’t know.” And Nicolás Valdivia was clever, daring, and beautiful enough to understand this proposal. All or nothing.

It turned out to be all. He’s going to be acting president. Don’t look at me like that, my love. I have to be able to keep a secret or two. No woman can be denied that right. Have you ever noticed how easily we get secrets out of men? From the old “If you don’t tell me, I’ll get angry” to the “Keep your secrets, I’m leaving.” Bernal, you knew about my relationship with Lorenzo Terán. He was the one who protected our poor doomed son. I wanted to thank him. We had only a few weeks of love when I went to the United States. We met in Houston. He showed me the X-rays. Bernal, I always knew the president was going to die. I didn’t know when or how, but we had to be prepared. I did it for you, my love. If the president lived through the 2024 election, Valdivia would watch our backs in Los Pinos. But if he died in office, who more malleable than Valdivia, our creation, to be acting president while we prepared for your election? That was my plan. Yes, politics is “what a man does so that he can hide what he is and what he doesn’t know.” And with Valdivia it was a win-win situation. From the office of the president to being undersecretary of the interior to being in charge today. Forgive me if I made mistakes. Let’s share our success. Congress will have to name an acting president. We have our man. Valdivia. We groomed him for this. He’ll call for elections in July of 2024 and you will once again be the people’s candidate. Who elects the president of Mexico? Seventy percent of the population claim no party affiliation. Who can possibly challenge you? Tácito has been eliminated. Andino isn’t man enough for the job. Nobody in that “cabinet of champions,” as they called it at the beginning of the century, has got what it takes.

There are temptations: the military. There’s the mystery of Ulúa and the Old Man Under the Arches who won’t reveal it, even if he’s tortured. He’ll take that secret to his grave. Torture could kill an old man like him, and anyway, it would be a reprehensible act of cruelty. Then there’s the question of the unfortunate Miss de la Garza, who still writes love letters to the dead presidential candidate Tomás Moctezuma Moro.

In short, Bernal, you need to find yourself a rival. López Portillo was the last president who ran uncontested, and remember how that turned out. His vanity and arrogance were all-consuming.

Who will be your opponent in the 2024 elections, Bernal?

That’s what should concern us, not your mad serenades of love. You’re fifty-two, Bernal, and I’m forty-nine, let’s face it.

As the funeral prayers were being said in the cathedral, you whispered to me, “María del Rosario, we’ve put off our marriage for a quarter of a century. We know why. But now. . think of how important it is for a presidential candidate to be married.”

“President Terán was a bachelor. . ”

“But he lived like a monk, everyone knew that. He was irreproachable. But two in a row, María del Rosario, two in a row, come on— they’re going to think I’m a queer.”

I hid my laughter behind my black veil.

“Find another woman, then, Bernal.”

“Marucha, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.”

Forgive me. I didn’t mean to break the rosary I had in my hand. The beads scattered noisily all over the place.

“Let’s talk about this later.”

“No. Now.”

“In the communion line, then. We’ll have to whisper.”

What did I say to you, Bernal, as we waited in the long, slow line for communion? What did I tell you? Let’s put it on record: