Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Why don't you just leave me in peace? Why?"

"But it's the easiest thing in the world, pal. It's up to you."

"Where are we?"

He hadn't come on his own; they'd brought him. And even though they were right in the middle of the city, the driver had got him dizzy: a turn to the left, then a right-the succeeding rectangles of Spanish city planning turned into a labyrinth of imperceptible divisions. It was all imperceptible, like the short, fragile hand of the other man, who snatched away the weapon, always laughing, and sat down again, heavy, fat, sweaty, his eyes flashing fire.

"We're a pair of real motherfuckers, right? Know something? Always choose the biggest motherfuckers for your friends because, if you're on their side, no one's going to fuck you over. Let's have a drink."

They toasted each other, and the fat man said that in this world there are two kinds of people, motherfuckers and assholes, and we have to decide which we're going to be. He went on to say that it would be a shame if he, the congressman, didn't know how to choose when the time came for choosing, because he and his friends were all straight shooters, all good guys, and they were giving everybody a chance to choose, except that not all of them were as smart as the congressman. They thought they were tough guys and started in shooting, when it was so simple to change places, just like that, and be on the right side. Don't tell me this is the first time you ever changed sides…Where have you been for the past fifteen years? The other man's voice, fat, like his flesh, whispering, and as terrifying as a snake, lulled him to sleep-that throat made up of contractile rings, lubricated by alcohol and cigars: "Like one?"

The other man stared at him fixedly, and he went on running his fingers over his belt buckle without realizing it. When he did realize it, he moved his fingers away; the silver made him think of the coolness or the heat of the pistol, and he wanted to have his hands free.

"Tomorrow they shoot the priests. I'm telling you as proof of our friendship, because I know for a fact you're not one of those faggots…"

They pushed back their chairs. The other man went to the window and rapped his knuckles hard on the glass. He waved and then motioned to the man to get up. The other one stayed at the door while he walked down the fetid stairs, knocking over a garbage can, and everything reeked of rotten orange peels and wet newspapers. The man who had been standing by the door raised a finger to his white hat and showed him that Avenida 16 de Septiembre was over that way.

"What do you think?"

"That we should go over to the other side."

"Not me."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I'm listening."

"Can anyone else hear us?"

"Saturno's a woman you can trust. Not a sound gets out of her house…"

"If they don't, then I'll make them…"

"We got where we are with the chief, and we'll go down with the chief."

"He's done for. The new boss has him all boxed in."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Put in an appearance with the new guy."

"I'd sooner let' em cut off my ears. Are we men or what?"

"What do you mean?"

"There are lots of ways to do things."

"Maybe, but I don't see any easy way out of this one."

"Right. But you just can't keep saying no to everything."

"I'm not saying no, I'm not saying anything."

"Now it sounds like yes and no at the same time…"

"What I say is that we go down like men, with one or the other…"

"Wake up, General, sir, it's daybreak."

"Well?"

"Well…that's how I see it. Everybody's got his work cut out for him."

"Well, who knows…"

"I think I do."

"So you really think our chief's not going anywhere?"

"That's what I think, my opinion."

"Why do you think so?"

"I don't know. It's just how I feel."

"And last but not least, what about you?"

"I'm starting to think the same thing…"

"Okay, but when the time comes, just forget we ever had this little talk."

"Who's going to remember, when we didn't say anything?"

"I'm just saying, just in case."

"Just in case, that's what it's all about."

"Shut up, Saturno. Bring us something to drink, go on."

"Just in case, monsieur."

"So we're not going to stick together on this one?"

"Sure we'll stick together, but each guy's got to figure it out for himself."

"The answer's always the same; it's just how you get to it that's different."

"That's it."

"General Jiménez, wouldn't you like something to eat?"

"Everybody's got his story straight, right?"

"Sure, but if somebody squeals…"

"Where do you get that stuff, man? We're all pals here."

"Yeah, sure, but then somebody starts thinking about his old gray-haired mama, and then he gets ideas."

"Just in case, as Saturno says…"

"Just in fucking case, Colonel Gavilán."

"Just one guy starts thinking…"

"One guy starts thinking for himself, and that's it."

"Yeah, but a guy might want to save his skin, right?"

"Skin, yeah, but his honor, too, Congressman, sir."

"His honor, too. Right you are, General."

"So…"

"This little meeting never happened."

"Never, never, never."

"But do you think the chief's done for?"

"Which chief, the old one or the new one?"

"The old one, the old one."

Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town : Saturno takes the needle off the record and claps her hands. "Girls, girls, line up over here…" while he got in the carriage and pulled back the curtains, laughing, and only saw the girls out of the corner of his eyes, dark, but powdered and creamed, with beauty marks drawn on their cheeks, their breasts, next to their lips, their velvet or patent-leather slippers, their short skirts, blue eyelids, and the hand of the bouncer, also powdered: "A little something for me, sir?"

This business was going to turn out fine, he knew it, rubbing his belly with his right hand, stopping in the little garden in front of the whorehouse to breathe in the dew on the lawn, the coolness of the water in its spring of muddy velvet. By now, General Jiménez would have taken off his blue glasses and would be rubbing his dry eyelids, the dry skin flaking off from his conjunctivitis and making his beard snowy. He would be asking for someone to help get his boots off, someone take off his boots, please, because he was tired and because he was accustomed to having someone take off his boots, and everyone would laugh because the general would take advantage of the position the girl was in to lift up her skirt and show her small, round, dark ass covered with lilac silk. The others would rather see the rare spectacle of those eyes that were always hidden, open for once like big, insipid oysters-and all of them, the friends, the brothers, the pals, would stretch out their arms and have their jackets taken off by Saturno's young acolytes, who would be buzzing like bees around the ones in army uniforms, as if they had no idea what might be underneath the uniform, the buttons emblazoned with the eagle and serpent, the gold oak clusters. He'd seen them fuss like that, damp, just barely out of the cocoon, their mestizo arms waving powder puffs in the air, powdering the heads of the friends, brothers, pals leaning back on the beds with their legs spread, their shirts stained with cognac, their temples dripping and their hands dry, while the rhythm of the Charleston filtered through, while the girls undressed them slowly, kissing every part they uncovered, squealing when the men stretched out their fingers. He looked at his fingernails with their white tips; white fingertips were supposedly proof of telling lies, and the half-moon on his thumb, and a dog barked near him. He turned up the lapels of his jacket and walked toward his house, though he'd prefer to go to the other place and sleep in the arms of those powdered bodies and release the acid that had his nerves on edge, that forced him to stand there with eyes open, gazing needlessly at those rows of low gray houses surrounded by balconies decked out with porcelain and glass flowerpots, rows of dry, dusty palm trees on the avenue, needlessly smelling the leftover smell of chillied corn and vinegar dressing.