Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Get a good night's sleep?"

She nodded, smiled without parting her lips, and patted the man's dark hand, which stood out against the white tablecloth.

"Do you think the Mexico City papers are here yet?" she asked as she cut her slice of papaya into tiny pieces. "Why don't you find out?"

"Right away. But hurry, because we're expected on the yacht at twelve."

"Where will we eat?"

"At the club."

He walked over to the desk. Yes, it was going to be another day like yesterday, with difficult conversations consisting of pointless questions and answers. But the nights, when there were no more words, were a different matter entirely. Why should he ask for more? The wordless contact between them did not require true love, not even the semblance of personal interest. He wanted a girl for his vacation. He got her. On Monday it would all be over, and he'd never see her again. Who could ask for more? He bought the papers and went to his room to put on his flannel slacks.

In the car, Lilia immersed herself in the papers and commented on some movie reviews. She crossed her tan legs and dangled one shoe. He lit his third cigarette of the morning, neglected to tell her that he was the editor of the paper she was reading, and let his mind wander as he read the billboards on the new buildings and observed the strange transition from the fifteen-story hotel and the hamburger joint to the bald mountain that spilled, red-bellied, onto the highway, its guts torn open by a steam shovel.

When Lilia leapt gracefully onto the deck and he tried to keep his balance as he cautiously stepped aboard, the other man was already there. It was he who lent them a hand so they could get off the swaying pier.

"Xavier Adame."

Almost naked, wearing the briefest bathing suit, his face dark, suntan oil glistening around his blue eyes and his bushy, playful brows. He offered his hand with a movement that recalled that of an innocent wolf: audacious, candid, secret.

"Don Rodrigo wondered if you wouldn't mind sharing the boat with me."

He nodded and looked for a spot in the shaded cabin.

Adame was saying to Lilia: "…the old boy offered me the use of the boat a week ago and then forgot…"

Lilia smiled and spread out a towel on the sun-drenched stern.

"Wouldn't you like something?" the man asked Lilia when the steward appeared with the liquor cart and some snacks.

From her towel, Lilia signaled no with a finger. He pulled the cart over and nibbled on some almonds while the steward made him a gin and tonic. Xavier Adame had disappeared on the canvas roof of the cabin.

The cabin cruiser sailed slowly out of the bay. He put on his cap with the transparent visor and leaned back to sip his drink.

Opposite him, the sun was melting over Lilia. She undid the strap on her bathing suit and exposed her back. Her whole body was a gesture of pure joy. She raised her arms and tied up her brilliant, coppery hair, which had been hanging loose. Her fine sweat ran down her neck, lubricating the soft, round flesh of her arms and the smooth, wide-apart shoulders. He stared at her from deep inside the cabin. She would fall asleep in the same position she'd been in that morning. Resting on one shoulder, with her knee bent. He saw she'd shaved her armpits. The motor started, and the waves spread in two swift crests, raising a salty, even mist which fell on Lilia. The seawater moistened her bathing suit, making it cling to her hips and sink into her backside. Sea gulls flew close to the speeding boat, screeching, as he slowly sucked on his straw. Instead of exciting him, her young body inspired him with restraint, with a kind of malevolent austerity. Sitting on a canvas chair inside the cabin, he played a waiting game with his desires, hoarding them for the silent, solitary night, when their bodies would vanish in the darkness and not be the subject of comparisons. In the night, he would use his experienced hands on her, hands that loved slowness and surprise. He lowered his eyes and looked at those dark hands with their prominent greenish veins, hands that substituted for the vigor and impatience of youth.

They were in the open sea. From the uninhabited coast with its ragged scrub and stone battlements, there rose a burning glare. They yacht turned into the rolling sea and a wave smashed, soaking Lilia's body: she shouted with glee and lifted her breasts, tipped with pink buttons that seemed to hold her hard bosom in place. She lay down again. The steward reappeared with a fragrant platter of peeled plums, peaches, and oranges. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a painful smile, imposed on him by a thought: that sensual body, that slim waist, those full thighs, had hidden within them a cell, tiny as yet: the cancer of time. Ephemeral wonder, how would it be different, after the passage of time, from this body that now possessed her? A corpse in the sun dripping oils and sweat, sweating away its quick youth, lost in the blink on an eye, withered capillaries, thighs that would soften from successive births and from mere anguished time on earth with its elemental, always repeated routines, devoid of originality. He opened his eyes. He stared at her.

Xavier slid down from the roof. He saw the hairy legs, then the knot of his hidden sex, finally his burning chest. Yes: he did walk like a wolf as he bent down to enter the open cabin, taking two peaches off the platter, which had been left on a tray of ice. Xavier smiled at him and went out with the fruit in his hand. He squatted in front of Lilia, with his legs spread in front of the girl's face; he touched her shoulder. Lilia smiled and took one of the peaches Xavier was offering, saying words he could not hear, words drowned out by the motor, the wind, the swift waves. Now those two mouths were chewing at the same time, and the juice was dripping down their chins. If at least…Yes. The young man brought his legs together and shifted his weight so they hung over the port side. He raised his smiling eyes, squinting into the white midday sky. Lilia watched him and moved her lips. Xavier tried to say something, moving his arm, pointing toward the coast. Lilia tried to look in that direction, covering her breasts as she did so. Xavier came back to her side, and both laughed as he knotted her strap. She sat up with her wet breasts clearly outlined, and shielded her eyes with her hand so she could see what he was pointing to in the distant line that was a small beach fallen like a yellow conch shell on the edge of a thick forest. Xavier stood and shouted an order to the captain. The yacht turned again and headed toward the beach. Lilia then joined him on the port side and offered Xavier a cigarette. They talked.

He saw the two bodies seated side by side, equally dark and equally smooth, making a single uninterrupted line from their heads to the feet they'd stretched to the water. Immobile but tense with confident expectation; united in their newness, in their barely disguised eagerness to try each other, to reveal themselves. He sipped through his straw and put on his sunglasses, which, along with his visored cap, virtually camouflaged his face.

They talked. They finished sucking their peach pits and might have said: "It tastes good," or it might have been: "I like it…"-something no one had ever said before, said by bodies, by presences making their debut in life.

They might have said: "How is it we've never me before? I'm always at the club…"

"No, I'm not…Come on, let's toss our pits at the same time. One, two…"

He watched them toss their pits, laughing a laugh that did not reach him; he saw the power of their arms.

"I beat you!" said Xavier as the pits soundlessly hit the water far from the yacht. She laughed. They settled back again.

"Do you like water skiing?"

"I don't know how."

"Come on, then. I'll give you a free lesson…"