Carlos Fuentes - The Eagle's Throne

The salt on tables piled high with well-seasoned dishes — how many times was my counsel heeded? Why did I fool myself into thinking that my advice counted for anything? Didn’t I realize that the political weight of an intellectual could only be felt outside the power base, though even in the opposition an intellectual can scarcely exert much more than relative pressure? Within the power base his influence is not even relative. It is nil.

In other words, at one extreme you shit, at the other you eat shit. It’s as bleak as that.

As I look back on these three years I’ve spent in the antechambers of power, all I see is misery and all I feel is disgust. Yes, I’ve seen the president suffer. There were times I said to him, “Don’t think so much. That’s what I’m here for.”

But whenever I did that, someone else had already saved him from his suffering. Tácito, in the interest of evil. Herrera, in the interest of goodness. And I was always left with, “You’re right, Seneca. There was another path. Perhaps I’ll take it next time.”

And then he’d smile at me.

“You bastard, stop keeping me awake at night, will you?”

It was the inner circle of sycophants, demagogues, and schemers that was keeping him awake.

María del Rosario, this is your friend Xavier “Seneca” Zaragoza, the man the president listens — listened — to with enthusiasm but without conviction.

These imbeciles think success will make them happy. They don’t know what’s coming to them. I was isolated and discredited. It was only thanks to the president’s goodness that I kept my position. I was the gadfly. I was the one who said the things that had to be said, no matter how unpleasant.

“Nothing will ever convince me that wisdom lies in statistics, Andino.”

“When I look at you, General Arruza, I am filled with revulsion.”

“People can sleep in the same bed and dream very different dreams, Mr. Herrera.”

“Crown yourself with laurels, President León, lest a thunderbolt strike you dead.”

“Your cowardice is like a stench that you leave behind everywhere you go, Tácito.”

And you, María del Rosario, tell me this: “Seneca, don’t drink poison to quench your thirst. It’s not worth it.”

Isn’t it, my dear friend? Do you think I want to die because I’m disillusioned with the world? Do you think that the only thing left for me, an idealist without convictions, is death? Do you think I’m betraying the Stoic belief in keeping the soul’s passions at bay? Tell me, isn’t it possible that death is yet another of the soul’s passions? And since it’s our inevitable end, why not accelerate it?

No. I’ve put my convictions to the test and I know that the price of intelligence is disenchantment. Nothing can match our use of reason. I’ve been too close to the sun for too long, and since I’m nothing but a statue made of snow, I melt when the sun burns out. Oh, if you only knew the things I’ve felt since the death of my wonderful friend Lorenzo Terán. I’m like a cat: I can’t make sense of my reflection in the mirror. I try to remember my name, and I have such a hard time. I shouldn’t remember it, for I’ve lost it forever, I know. And I feel that nothing is worth the effort, nothing satisfies me. Everything has gone sour. Is that proof of moral greatness? Can a dog feel boredom? Only the idiot has no doubts. Only the idiot doesn’t suffer.

When the president died, I peered into the mirror of my soul and it trembled. My emotions were in flux. My spirit was wavering between life and death.

It was the immense unfulfillment of my love, a hollow between life and death. My love for you, María del Rosario. It was my desire to possess you, never expressed, forever silenced, a prisoner of my dreams. And I’m sure you never guessed.

In the end, it was the absolute certainty that my interior life was the only reality. The untouchable fortress of my inner self. My freedom to decide whether that should remain in the world or be left behind. It meant — it means, María del Rosario — that rational thought will never take root in Mexico. Time after time we’ve done it, and we’ll go on doing it, killing the hen that lays the golden eggs — after stealing the eggs. It means that, though he said it in 1800, Humboldt was right: “Mexico is a beggar sitting on top of a mountain of gold.”

In a detective novel, we don’t know who the criminal is until the end. But in Mexico, everyone knows who the criminal is in advance. And the victim is always the country itself. Oh, my dear friend, ignore the demagogues who promise salvation, our Mahatma Propagandis. But be careful of the comedians who are the repressors, our Robespierrots.

Listen to the desperate.

Listen to the rumors in Mexico City, where everyone knows what goes unsaid. Write it all down. Nobody will believe you.

Keep your mouth shut. They’ll find out.

Yes, my more than valued friend. If I were a politician I’d betray them all. Just as well I’m only an intellectual and know that the politicians will betray me.

Yes, my beautiful and enlightened lady, nothing has any value outside the inner life, the silent self. Don’t talk to anyone about it. They won’t understand.

I go in the knowledge that our life is in our dreams. Nothing is more real than our Utopia. There’s no other reality, you see. Only a suicidal man would dare say this. They’re not my final words. I’m not asking for them to be inscribed on my tombstone.

HERE LIES XAVIER ZARAGOZA

KNOWN TO ALL AS SENECA

1982–2020

IN MEXICO, ALL THOUGHT IS

CONTRABAND

I’ll tell you in secret that there’s no mystery after death. The dead man doesn’t know we’re alive. What it amounts to is that before birth and after death we experience our own untouchable worlds.

My farewell sentence, María del Rosario, is much simpler.

“I am leaving before the sky above Mexico City disappears forever.”

And I reproach myself for leaving with rage, without serenity. .

I go with rage because I allowed myself to be seduced by politics. I discovered that the art of politics is the lowest form of art.

I go with rage because I was unable to convince the president that the head of state can’t matter more than the people, or the times.

I go with rage because I was unable to stop the six-year cycle of political madness that appropriates all of Mexican history and reinvents it every six years. What madness.

I go with rage because it’s my fault that the president listened to me when I gave him good advice. It’s my fault, not his.

I go with rage because my reason and logic were unable to defeat the propaganda, which is the food of fanatics.

I go with rage because I never learned how to grow magueys.

I go with rage because where once I was provocative I’m now an irritation.

I go with rage because I preached morality from the top of a mountain made of sand.

I go with rage because I was never able to say to you, I love you.

I go with rage because I envy only the dead.

Darling, it’s very hard to trust anyone else. Who knows what the consequences will be of the information you gave to María del Rosario? She used to be my regular correspondent. . but I’m not sure about her now. Too many crossed wires. Too many interweaving stories. Should I just keep my mouth shut? That would be the safest thing, but I’m terrified of taking the secret with me to my grave. I trust you enough to tell you that. My feelings for you have deepened since I first saw you on the roof and we started working together. At last I’ve found a kindred spirit, someone who reads the same books and who thinks as I do. I feel you very close to me and I want to keep you there.