Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Lieutenant Cruz! Lieutenant Cruz!"

The perpetually smiling face of Loreto, the general's aide, disappeared behind the sweat and dust coating him, when he reined in his horse in a dry whinny. "Come quickly," he said, panting as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. "There's big news: we're moving out right away. Have you had breakfast? They're serving eggs over at headquarters."

"Eggs? I've already got mine," he joked, patting his crotch.

Regina's embrace was an embrace of dust. Only when Loreto's horse vanished and the dust settled did the whole woman, clinging to the shoulders of her young lover, reemerge.

"Wait for me here."

"What can it be?"

"There must be some federales wandering around somewhere. Nothing serious."

"I should stay here?"

"Yes, Don't move. I'll be back tonight or early tomorrow at the latest."

"Artemio…Think we'll ever return there?"

"Who knows. Who knows how long this'll go on. Don't think about it. You know I love you, right?"

"I love you, too. A lot. Forever."

Out in the stables and in the main patio of the headquarters, the troops had received their orders and were preparing their packs with ritual calm. The cannon rolled along in single file, pulled by white mules with shadows under their eyes; they were followed by ammunition carriages set on rails that ran from the patio to the train station. The cavalry attended to their mounts, removed feed bags, put on bridles, made sure saddles were cinched tightly, and patted the heads of the war horses, so docile and gentle to the men even though they were stained with dust and their stomachs were covered with ticks. Two hundred horses moved slowly past the barracks, spotted, dappled, dusty black. The infantry oiled its rifles and then filed past the smiling dwarf who distributed ammunition. The hats worn by soldiers from the north: gray felt, the brim turned up on one side. Neckerchiefs. Cartridge belts around their waists. Only a few wearing boots: wool trousers, yellow leather shoes or huaraches . Striped shirts, collarless. Here and there-on the streets, in the patios, at the station-Yaqui Indian hats hung with leafy twigs: members of the band carrying their music stands in their hands, their metal instruments on their backs. The last swallows of hot water. Pots filled to the brim with beans. Plates of huevos rancheros . Shouts come from the station: a flatcar of Mayan Indians was pulling in, to an accompaniment of high-pitched drumming and a flutter of colored bows and primitive arrows.

He made his way through the throng: inside, standing in front of the map hastily nailed to a wall, the general was explaining: "The federales are mounting a counterattack at our backs, in territory the Revolution has already liberated. What they want is to cut us off from the rear. At dawn, a scout up in the mountains spotted a thick cloud of smoke rising over the towns occupied by Colonel Jiménez. He reported it, and I remembered that the colonel had collected a big pile of boards and railway ties in each town, which he would burn if he was attacked, to warn us. That's how things stand. We have to split up. Half will go back to the other side of the mountain to help Jiménez. The other half will go out to finish off the groups we defeated yesterday and to make sure that another big offensive doesn't come from the south. We'll only leave a company here. But it doesn't seem likely they'll get this far. Major Gavilán…Lieutenant Aparicio…Lieutenant Cruz: you head north again."

Jiménez's fires were petering out when, around midday, Artemio Cruz passed the outpost at the mountain pass. From up there he could see the train overflowing with people: it ran without blowing its whistle, carrying mortars and cannon, ammunition boxes and machine guns. The cavalry detachment made its way down the steep slopes with difficulty, and the cannon began to fire on the towns supposedly retaken by the federales.

"Let's speed up," he said. "They'll keep firing for about two hours, and then we'll go in to scout."

He never knew why, the moment his horse's hooves reached flat ground, he lowered his head and lost all notion of the finite mission he'd been ordered to carry out. The men with him seemed to vanish, along with the positive feeling of an objective to be reached, and in their place came a tenderness, an inner lament for something lost, a longing to return to Regina's arms and forget it all. It was as if the flaming sphere of the sun had overwhelmed the nearby presence of the cavalry and the distant noise of the bombardment: in place of that real world there was another, a dream world where only he and his love had the right to live, where only they had a reason to save it.

"Do you remember that rock that stuck out of the sea like a boat of stone?"

"He gazed at her again, yearning to kiss her, afraid he would wake her, certain that by gazing at her he was making her his. Only one man possesses-he thought-all the secret images of Regina; that man possesses her, and he will never give her up. Contemplating her, he contemplated himself. His hands dropped the reins: all he is, all his love, is embedded in the flesh of this woman who contains both of them. I wish I could go back…tell her how much I love her…tell her the depth of my feelings…so that Regina would know…

The horse whinnied and bucked; the rider fell on the hard ground, on the rocks and briars. The grenades of the federales rained down on the cavalry, and as he got up in the smoke, all he could see was his horse's chest on fire, the shield that had stopped the flames. Around the fallen body of his own mount, more than fifty horses were rearing senselessly: there was no light above; the sky and moved down one step, and it was a sky of gunpowder no higher than the men. He ran toward one of the low trees: the bursts of smoke hid more than bare branches. Ninety feet away, a forest began; it was low but thick. A chaotic shouting reached his ears. He dove to catch the reins of a riderless horse but threw only one leg over its back. He hid his body behind the horse and whipped it on. The horse galloped and he, head down and eyes blinded by his own tangled hair, desperately held on to the saddle and bridle. The brilliance of the morning finally vanished; the shadow allowed him to open his eyes, part from the animal's flesh, and roll until he hit a tree trunk.

Again he felt as he'd felt before. The confused sounds of war were all around him, but between those near and the far rumble that reached his ears, there was an unbridgeable gap: here the slight trembling of the branches, the slithering of the lizards could be heard quite distinctly. Alone, leaning against the tree trunk, he again felt a sweet, serene life languidly flowing through his veins: a well-being of the body that dispelled any rebellious attempt at thought. His men? His heart beat evenly, without a throb. Would they be looking for him? His arms and legs felt happy, clean, tried. What would they do without him to give them orders? His eyes searched through the roof of leaves for the hidden flight of some bird. Would they lose all sense of discipline? Would they, too, run and hide in this providential forest? But he couldn't go back over the mountain on foot. He would have to wait here. And what if he was taken prisoner? He couldn't go on thinking: a moan parted the leaves near the lieutenant's face, and a man collapsed in his arms. His arms rejected him for an instant and then held on to that body from which hung a red, limp rag of torn flesh.

The wounded man rested his head on his comrade's shoulder. "They're…really…pouring it…on…"

He felt the ravaged arm on his back, staining it, dripping angry blood. He tried to push back the face, which was twisted with pain: high cheekbones, open mouth, eyes closed, tangled mustache and beard, short, like his own. If the man had green eyes, he could be his double…