Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Come on, don't be afraid."

She raised her arms to put on her white blouse and reached out to pick up her rebozo . He led her out. She lowed softly like a lassoed calf. And he raised his face toward the sky, covered tonight with all its lights.

"Do you see that great big star shining over there? Looks like you could touch it, right? But even you know that you'll never touch it. We've got to stay no to the things we can't touch with our hands. Come on; you're going to live with me in the big house."

The girl came into the orchard with her eyes lowered.

Washed by the thunderstorm, the trees glowed in the darkness. The fermented earth filled with heavy odors, and he breathed deeply.

Upstairs in the bedroom, she left the door ajar and got into bed. She lit the night-light. She turned her face to the wall, crossed her arms so her hands were on her shoulders, and tucked up her legs. An instant later, she stretched out her legs and felt for her slippers. She got up and walked the length of the room, raising and lowering her head. Without realizing it, she lulled the child sleeping in his crib. She caressed her stomach. She went back to bed and waited to her the man's footsteps in the hall.

I let them do what they want, I can't think or desire anymore; I'm getting used to this pain; nothing can last forever without becoming normal. The pain I feel below my ribs, around my navel, in my intestines, is now my pain, a pain that gnaws: the taste of vomit in my mouth is my taste; the swelling of my stomach is my baby, I compare it to giving birth; it makes me laugh. I try to touch it. I run my hand from my navel to my pubis. New. Round. Doughy. But the cold sweat gives way. That colorless face that I manage to see in the asymmetrical mirrors on Teresa's handbag, which passes next to my bed, she never puts down her bag, as if there were thieves in the room. I suffer that collapse. I just don't know. The doctor's gone. He said he was going to get other doctors. He doesn't want to be responsible for me. I just don't know. But I see them. They've walked in. The mahogany door opens and closes, and their footsteps make no noise on the thick carpet. They've closed the windows. With a hiss, they've pulled back the gray curtains. They've entered. Ah, there is a window. There is a world outside. There is this strong plateau wind that shakes the thin black trees. We've got to breathe…

"Open the window…"

"No, no. You might catch cold and make things worse."

"Open…"

" Domine, non sum dignus …"

"Fuck God…"

"You curse Him because you believe in Him…"

Very clever. That was very clever. It calms me down. I don't think about those things anymore. Yes, why would I insult Him if He didn't exist? That does me some good. I'm going to admit all this because if I rebel I concede that those things exist. That's what I'll do. I don't know what I was thinking of. Sorry. The priest understands me. Sorry. I'm not going to let them have their way by rebelling. That's better. I should wear an expression of boredom. That's most appropriate. How much importance all this gets. An event that for the person most concerned, namely me, signifies the end of importance. Yes. That's the way to do it. That's it. When I realize that all of it will cease to have any importance, the others try to make it into the most important thing: pain itself, the salvation of someone's soul. I make this hollow sound through my nose and let them go about their business and I cross my arms over my stomach. Oh, get out, let me listen. Now we'll see if they understand me. Now we'll just see if they don't understand an arm bent like this…

"…they allege that those same cars can be made here in Mexico. But we're not going to allow it, right? Twenty million pesos is a million and a half dollars…"

"Plus our commissions…"

"The ice isn't going to do that cold of yours any good."

"Just hay fever. Well, I'll be…"

"I'm not finished. Besides, they say that the fees charged by the mining companies for freight from the center of Mexico to the frontier are extremely low, that it costs more to ship vegetables than the minerals from our companies…"

"Nasty, nasty…"

"Of course. You understand that if the fees go up, working the mines won't be cost-efficient…"

"Less profit, sure, lessprofitsure, lesslessless…"

"Padilla, what's wrong? Padilla. What is that racket? Padilla."

"The tape ran out. Just a second. I'll just turn it over and play the other side."

"He's not listening, Mr. Padilla."

Padilla must be smiling his smile. Padilla knows me. I'm listening, all right. I sure am. Ah, that noise fills my brain with electricity. The noise of my own voice, my reversible voice, yes, there it goes, it screeches again and runs backward, squeaking like a squirrel, but it's my voice, and my name, which has only eleven letters and can be written a thousand ways: Amuc Reoztrir Zurtec Marzi Itzau Erimor, but there's a key to that code, a model: Artemio Cruz, ah, my name, I hear my screeching name, it stops, now it runs the other way:

"Mr. Corkery, would you be so kind as to communicate this information to all interested parties in the United States. They should stir up the newspapers against the Communist railroad workers in Mexico."

"Sure, if you say they're Commies. I feel it's my duty to uphold by any means our…"

"Sure, sure. It's wonderful that our ideas and our interests are the same, isn't that right? And one other thing: have a talk with your ambassador, so that he will put some pressure on the Mexican government, which is just taking power and is still a little green."

"Oh, we never intervene."

"I'm sorry, I was too brusque. Suggest he study the matter calmly and then offer his objective opinion, given his natural concern for the interests of U.S. citizens here in Mexico. He should explain that we must maintain a climate favorable to investment, and that with this agitating…"

"Okay, okay."

Oh, what a bombardment of signs, words stimulants for my tired ears. Oh, what exhaustion, oh, what language without language. Oh, but I said it, it's my life, I have to listen to it. Oh, they won't understand my gesture, I can barely move my fingers: I want them to turn it off now, I'm bored, what difference can it make, what a nuisance, what a nuisance…I have something to tell them:

"You dominated him and stole him away from me."

"That morning I waited for him with pleasure. We crossed the river on horseback."

"I blame you. You. You're to blame."

Teresa drops the newspaper. Catalina, coming closer to the bed, tells her, as if I can't hear her: "He looks very bad."

"Did he say where it is?" asks Teresa in a lower voice.

Catalina shakes her head. "The lawyers don't have it. It must be handwritten. But he would be capable of dying intestate, anything to make our lives difficult."

I listen to them with my eyes closed, and I dissimulate, dissimulate.

"The priest couldn't get anything out of him?"

Catalina must have shaken her head. I sense that she's on her knees near the head of the bed and that she says in a low, broken voice, "How do you feel?…Don't you want to talk a little?…Artemio…There's a very serious matter…Artemio…We don't know if you've made out your will. We'd like to know where…"

The pain is passing. They don't see the cold sweat pouring down my forehead or my tense immobility. I hear their voices, but it's only now that I can once again make out their silhouettes. Everything's coming back into normal focus, and I can see both of them perfectly, their faces and gestures, and I want the pain to come back to my stomach. I tell myself, I tell myself lucidly that I don't love them, that I never loved them.

"…We'd just like to know where…"