Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

She could only avenge that death-Don Gamaliel kissed her forehead and opened her bedroom door-by embracing this man, by embracing him but denying him the tenderness he would seek in her. By killing him in life, distilling bitterness until he was poisoned. She looked into the mirror, vainly searching for the new features this change should have imprinted on her face. That would be the way for her and her father to avenge Gonzalo's having abandoned them, avenge his idiotic idealism: by giving away this twenty-year-old-girl-why did thinking about herself, about her youth, bring her to tears?-to the man who was with Gonzalo during those final hours, hours of which she could have no memory, rejecting self-pity, pouring it out for her dead brother, without a sob of fury, without a tightening of her jaw: if no one explained the truth to her, she would cling to what she thought was the truth. She took off her black stockings. As her fingertips touched her legs, she closed her eyes; she must deny the memory of the rough, strong foot that sought out her own during dinner, flooding her bosom with a strange, uncontrollable feeling. Her body might not be God's creation-she knelt, pressing her laced fingers against her brows-but the creation of other bodies, but her spirit was. She would not allow that body to take a delightful, spontaneous path, to desire caresses, while her spirit demanded she take another. She pulled back the sheet and slipped into bed with her eyes closed. She stretched out her hand to put out the lamp. She put the pillow over her face. She mustn't think about that. No, no, no, mustn't think about it. There was nothing more to say. To say the other name, to tell her father about it. No. No. Humiliating her father was unnecessary. Next month, as soon as possible: and if that man enjoyed Catalina Bernal's fortune, her property, her body…what difference did it make…Ramón…No, not that name, never again. She slept.

"You said it yourself, Don Gamaliel," said the guest when he returned the next day. "It's impossible to stop the course of events. Let's turn over those plots to the peasants; after all, they're only good for dry farming, so no one's going to get much out of them. Let's give out those plots so they can be used only for small-scale farming. You'll see that, to thank us, they'll leave their women to work that dust and come back to take care of our good land. Think about it: you could turn out to be a hero of the agrarian-reform program, and it won't cost you a thing."

Amused, the old man observed him, smiling behind his thick beard. "Have you spoken to her?"

"I have…"

She could not contain herself. Her chin trembled when he lifted his hand to raise her closed-eyed face. He was touching that smooth, creamy, rosy skin for the first time. The two of them were surrounded by the penetrating smell of the plants in the patio, herbs suffocated by moisture, the odor of rotten earth. He loved her. As he touched her, he realized he loved her. He had to make her understand that his love was real, even if circumstances said the opposite. He could love her as he had loved once before, the first time: he knew he still possessed that time-proven tenderness. He touched the girl's hot cheeks again. Her rigidity, when she felt that strange hand on her skin, could not hold back the tightly squeezed tears that emerged from her eyelids. "You won't complain, because you will have nothing to complain about," whispered the man as he brought his face close to her lips-which avoided the contact. "I know how to love you…"

"We should thank you…for having thought of us," she answered in her lowest voice.

He opened his hand to caress Catalina's hair. "You understand, don't you? You are going to live by my side. You'll have to forget many things…I promise to respect what is yours…You must promise me that never again…"

She raised her eyes, narrowing them with a hatred she had never felt before. Her mouth was dry. Who was this monster? Who was this man who knew everything, who took everything, who destroyed everything?

"Don't say it…" said the girl as she eluded his embrace.

"I've already had a talk with him. He's a weakling. He didn't really love you. He was frightened from the start."

With her hand the girl cleansed the places he'd touched on her face. "Of course, he's not strong like you…He's not an animal, like you…"

She wanted to scream when he took her by the arm, smiled, and made a fist. "Your little Ramón is leaving Puebla. You'll never see him again…"

He released her. She walked toward the brightly colored cages in the patio: that trill of the birds. One by one, as he looked on, motionless, she opened the painted doors. A robin peeked out and then flew away. The mockingbird hesitated, accustomed to his water and seed. She took him up on her pinkie, kissed his wing, and sent him off. She closed her eyes when the last bird had gone, and allowed the man to take her arm, to lead her to the library, where Don Gamaliel was waiting patiently.

I feel hands that take me under my arms and raise me to make me more comfortable on the smooth cushions, and fresh linen that is like a balm for my body, which is both hot and cold. I feel all this, but when I open my eyes I see before me that newspaper hiding the face of the reader. I think that Vida Mexicana is there, will always be there every day, will come out every day, and there will be no human power to stop it. Teresa-who is reading the newspaper-drops it in alarm.

"Is something wrong? Do you feel sick?"

I have to calm her with my hand, and she picks up the newspaper. No. I feel content, perpetrator of a gigantic joke. Perhaps. Perhaps the master stroke would be to leave behind a special will the newspaper would publish, a testament in which I would tell the truth about my honest enterprise in the area of freedom of the press…No. I've excited myself and brought back the shooting pain in my stomach. I try to reach out to Teresa, to ask for help, but my daughter is immersed in the newspaper again. Earlier, I had seen the day extinguished beyond the windows and had heard the merciful noise of curtains. Now, in the half light of the bedroom with its high ceilings and oak closets, I can't make out the people standing farthest away. The room is very large, but she's there. She must be sitting stiffly, with her lace handkerchief in her hands, her face devoid of make up. Perhaps she doesn't hear me when I whisper: "That morning I waited for him happily. We crossed the river on horseback."

The only one listening to me is this stranger I've never seen before, with his smoothly shaven cheeks and black eyebrows. He's asking me to say an act of contrition; I'm thinking about the carpenter and the Virgin, and he's offering me the keys to heaven.

"Well, what would you say…in a situation like this…?"

I've caught him by surprise. And Teresa has to ruin everything by shouting: "Leave him alone, Father, leave him alone! Don't you see that there's nothing we can do! He wants to go to hell and die just as he's lived, cold, mocking everything…"

The priest holds her back with one arm as he brings his lips close to my ear, almost kissing me: "They don't have to hear us."

And I manage to grunt: "Okay, then, be a man and get these bitches out of here."

He stands up amid the indignant voices of the women and takes them by the arm, and Padilla comes closer. But they don't want that.

"No, counselor, we can't allow that."

"It's customary…for years, ma'am."

"Will you take responsibility?"

"Don Artemio…I've brought you everything we recorded this morning…"

I nod. I try to smile. The same as every day. A man you can count on, this Padilla.

"The outlet is next to the bureau."

"Thanks."

Yes, of course, that's my voice, the voice I had yesterday-yesterday? I can't tell the difference anymore-and I ask Pons, my managing editor-ah, the tape is screeching; adjust it, Padilla, I listened to my voice in reverse: it screeches like a cockatoo's. There I am: