Carlos Fuentes - The Years With Laura Diaz

“Oh, with all this pollution these lenses go coffee-colored right away,” said Magdalena as she put the lens in her Chanel bag.

“Is something wrong with Danton?” asked Laura, trying to anticipate her.

A smile fleetingly sketched itself on Magdalena’s face, followed by a strange giggle, almost an involuntary flourish. “There’s nothing wrong … with your son … I mean my husband … there’s never anything wrong with him, Señ ora, in the sense of anything serious. But you know that. He was born to win.”

Laura said nothing, but inquired with her eyes, What do you want? Come on, tell me.

“I’m afraid, Señ ora.”

“Just call me Laura, don’t be formal.”

Everything in her guest was approximation, doubt, unnecessary expense but perfectly planned to cover appearances, from her hairdo to her shoes. One would have to anticipate her, ask her fear about what, about her husband, about Laura herself, about memory, the memory of her rebellious son, her dead son, her grandson now emigrated, far away from the country where violence held sway over reason and, worse, over passion itself.

“Afraid of what?” asked Laura.

They sat down on the blue velvet sofa Laura had been dragging with her since Avenida Sonora, but Magdalena looked around the disordered room, with the piles of magazines, books, papers, newspaper articles, and the photos tacked to cork panels. Laura understood the woman was seeing for the first time the place her son had gone to die. She stared for a long time at the picture of Adam and Eve painted by Santiago the Younger.

“You must know, Señ ora.”

“Just call me Laura, for heaven’s sake.” Laura feigned exasperation.

“All right. You must understand that I’m not what I seem. I’m not what you think I am. I admire you.”

“It might have been better if you’d loved and admired your son a bit more,” said Laura with great tranquillity.

“That’s what you have to understand.”

“Understand?”

“You’re right to doubt me. It doesn’t matter. If I can’t share my truth with you, then there’s no one left I can share it with.”

Laura said nothing but looked at her daughter-in-law attentively and respectfully.

“Can you imagine how I felt when Santiago was killed?” asked Magda.

Laura felt a bolt of lightning crossing her face. “I saw you and Dan ton sitting in the presidential box at the Olympics, when your son’s body was not yet cold.”

Magdalena’s expression was one of supplication. “Imagine my pain, please, Laura, my shame, my fury, how I had to hold everything in, how the habit of serving my husband won out over my pain, my rage, how I ended up as I always do, submitting to my husband …” She looked into Laura’s eyes. “You must understand.”

“I’ve always tried to imagine what happened between you and Danton when Santiago died,” Laura said, trying to read her mind.

“That’s the bad part. Nothing happened. He went on with his life as if nothing had happened.”

“Your son was dead. You were alive.”

“I was dead long before my son died. For Danton, nothing changed. At least when Santiago rebelled, he lost his illusions. When our son died, well, it was as if he were saying he brought it on himself.”

Danton’s wife fluttered her hands as if she were tearing away a veil. “Laura, I’ve come to you because I have to unburden myself. I don’t have anyone else. I can’t bear it anymore. I need to open myself up to you. You’re all I have left. Only you can understand everything, the hurt I feel, all the disappointment and pain rotting inside me for so many years.”

“You’ve stood up pretty well.”

“Don’t think I don’t have my pride, no matter how submissive you think I am, believe me I never lost the pride I had in myself, I’m a woman, I’m a wife, I’m a mother, I feel pride in being those things, even though Danton hasn’t shared my bed in years, Laura, accept that for just this reason I am furious and I have some pride, despite my submission to the intimidations I’ve endured.”

She stopped for an instant.

“I’m not what I seem,” she went on. “I thought only you could understand me.”

“Why, daughter?” Laura caressed Magda’s hand.

“Because you’ve lived your life freely. That’s why you can understand me. It’s very simple.”

Laura was on the verge of saying to her, saying to you, what can I do for you now that the final curtain’s about to fall, just as it did with Orlando, why does everyone expect me to write the last scene in the play?

Instead, she lifted Magdalena’s chin and asked, “Do you think there ever was a single minute in your life when you took charge of yourself, alone and completely?”

“Not me,” Magdalena blurted out. “You did, Laura. We all know that.”

Laura Díaz smiled. “I’m not saying it about you, Magda. I’m saying it about myself. I’m begging you now to ask me a question. Ask me, Magdalena: were you always equal to your own demands?”

“No, not me,” stuttered Magdalena. “Obviously not.”

“No, you don’t understand me,” Laura replied. “Ask me that question. Please.”

Magdalena pronounced some confused words, you yourself, Laura Díaz, were always equal to your own demands …

“And those of others,” Laura went on.

“And those of others.” Magda’s eyes shone, as she began to take flight on her own.

“Did you ever feel temptation? Did you want to be seen only as a proper lady? Did it ever strike you that the two things could coexist — being a proper lady and, for that very reason, being a corrupt woman?” Laura went on.

She paused. “Your husband, my son, represents the triumph of fraud.” Laura wanted to be implacable. Magda’s face registered disgust. “He’s always believed that other people’s lives depend on him. I swear to you, I detest him and despise him. Excuse me.” Laura hugged Magda’s head against her bosom. “Did it ever occur to you that the sacrifice of your son redeems Danton from all his sins?”

Now Magdalena freed herself from Laura’s arm, disconcerted.

“You have to understand that, child. If you don’t, your son has died in vain.”

Santiago the son redeemed Danton the father. Magda raised her eyes and joined them to Laura’s in a look that mixed horror, weakness, and rejection, but the seventy-two-year-old woman — not the widow, not the mother, not the grandmother, just the woman named Laura Díaz — looked out her window and watched her daughter-in-law Magdalena Ayub walk down the street, hail a taxi, and look back to the window where Laura waved goodbye with infinite tenderness, begging her to understand what I’ve said, I’m not asking you to accept things but to be outraged, brave, to have the unexpected triumph over a man who expects everything from his submissive wife except the generosity of forgiveness.

Laura saw Magda’s smiling eyes as she entered the taxi. Perhaps the next time she would come in her own car, with her own chauffeur, without hiding herself from her husband.

SHE BOARDED THE INTEROCEANIC TRAIN that had taken her back to Veracruz so many times. Like so many things from the past, the luxurious train of yesteryear linking Mexico City to Xalapa and the port had shrunk and, obviously, aged. Worn-out seat covers, sunken seats, exposed springs, opaque windows, stained head rests, blocked sinks. Laura decided to take a private compartment in the Pullman, separated from the rest of the sleeping car, which during the day was an ordinary car and at night miraculously dropped down beds already made up with white pillows and freshly washed sheets covered by green blankets. Similarly, the regular seats turned into beds hidden, during sleeping hours, by thick canvas curtains with copper buttons.