Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

The sun was level with his eyes.

The lovers came out of the water-confused, he couldn't tell how long the prolonged coitus had taken. They could almost be seen from the beach, but they'd been covered by the sheets of the silvery afternoon sea-and that playful display with which they'd entered the water had now become two heads joined in silence, she a splendid dark girl with lowered eyes, young…young. The couple stretched out near him again, covering their heads with a towel. They also covered themselves with night, the slow night of the tropics. The black man who rented the chairs began to gather them up. He got up and walked to the hotel.

He decided to take a quick swim in the pool before going up. He walked into the dressing room near the pool and, sitting on a bench, once again took off his sandals. The lockers hid him. Behind him he heard wet footsteps on the rubber mat; breathless voices laughed; they dried their bodies. He took off his polo shirt. From the other side of the lockers there arose the penetrating smells of sweat, cigar smoke, and cologne. A smoke ring wafted toward the ceiling.

"Beauty and the Beast didn't show up today."

"No, they didn't."

"What a piece she is…"

"What a waste. That old bird can't cut the mustard."

"He's liable to get a stroke."

"Right. Get a move on."

They went out. He put on his sandals and walked out, putting on his shirt.

He walked up the stairs to his room. There was nothing there to surprise him. There was the bed, in disarray after her siesta, but there was no Lilia. He stood in the middle of the room. The fan was spinning like a vulture on a string. Outside, on the terrace, another night of crickets and fireflies. Another night. He closed the window so the scent wouldn't escape. His senses took in the aroma of recently sprinkled perfume, sweat, wet towels, makeup. Those were not the real names. The pillow, which still showed where her head had been, was a garden, fruit, moist earth, the sea. He moved slowly toward the drawer where she…He picked up her silk bra and brought it to his cheek. His whiskers scraped it. He had to be prepared. He had to shower, shave again for tonight. He dropped the bra and walked toward the bath with a different gait, happy once again.

He turned on the light and then the hot water. He tossed his shirt on the toilet seat. He opened the medicine chest. He saw the things that belonged to both of them: toothpaste tubes, mentholated shaving cream, tortoiseshell combs, cold cream, aspirin, antacid pills, tampons, cologne, blue razor blades, brilliantine, rouge, antispasmodic pills, yellow mouthwash, prophylactics, milk of magnesia, bandages, iodine, shampoo, tweezers, nail clippers, a lip pencil, eye drops, eucalyptus nasal spray, cough syrup, deodorant. He picked up his razor. The blade was clogged with thick chestnut hairs. He paused with the razor in his hand. He brought it to his lips and involuntarily closed his eyes. When he opened them, that old man with bloodshot eyes, gray cheeks, withered lips-who was no longer the other, the reflection he'd learned so well-shot him a grimace from the mirror.

I see them. They've come in. The mahogany door opens and closes and their footsteps on the thick carpet are inaudible. They've closed the windows. They've drawn the curtains with a hiss. I'd like to ask them to open them, to open the windows. There's a world outside. There's strong wind blowing from the mesa, it shakes the thin black trees. I've got to breathe…They've come in.

"Go on over to him, child, let him get to know you. Tell him your name."

She smells good. She has a pretty smell. Ah, yes, I can still make out blushing cheeks, shining eyes, her entire young body, graceful, which comes closer to my bed, taking short steps.

"I'm…I'm Gloria."

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

"See how he ended up? See? Just like my brother. That's how he ended up."

"Feel relieved? Do it."

" Ego te absolvo ."

The fresh, sweet rustle of banknotes and new bonds when the hand of a man like me picks them up. The smooth acceleration of a luxury car, custom-built, air-conditioned, with a bar, telephone, soft cushions, and footrests-well priest, well? Up there too, right? That heaven represents power over men, innumerable men with hidden faces, forgotten names: last names from the thousand work lists of the mines, factories, newspapers. That anonymous face which sings me traditional songs on my saint's day, which hides its eyes under its helmet when I visit construction sites, which draws my caricature for the opposition newspapers: well, well? That does exist, that really is mine. That really is what being God is, right? To be feared and hated and whatever, that's really being God, right? Tell me how I save all that and I'll let you go through with your ceremonies, I'll beat myself on the chest, I'll walk on my knees to a sanctuary, I'll drink vinegar and wear a crown of thorns. Tell me how I save all that because the spirit…

"…of the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen…"

He's still there, on his knees, with his washed face. I try to turn my back to him. The pain in my side keeps me from moving. Ooooh. He must be finished by now. I'll be absolved. I want to sleep. Here comes the pain. Here it comes. Oooooh. And the women. No, not these. Those who love. What? Yes. No. I don't know. I've forgotten that face. By God, I've forgotten that face. It was mine, how could I ever forget it?

"Padilla…Padilla…Get the story editor and the society-page editor over here."

Your voice, Padilla, the hollow sound of your voice on the intercom…"

"Yes, Don Artemio. Don Artemio, we've got an urgent problem here. The Indians are demonstrating. They want to be paid for their forests that were cut down."

"What? How much is it?"

"Half a million."

"Is that all? Tell the commissioner of the ejido to get them in line. That's What I pay him for. What next…"

"Mena's here, in the waiting room. What should I tell him?"

"To come in."

Ah, Padilla, I can't open my eyes to see you, but I can see your thoughts, Padilla, behind my mask of pain. The dying man is named Artemio Cruz, just Artemio Cruz; only this man is dying, right? no one else. It's like a bit of good luck that wipes out the other deaths. This time, only Artemio Cruz is dying. And that death can take place instead of another, perhaps your own, Padilla…Ah. No. I still have things to do. Don't count your chickens yet…

"I told you he was faking."

"Let him rest."

"I'm telling you he's faking!"

I see them, from far off. Their fingers quickly get the false bottom open, sliding it out with an air of great expectation. But there's nothing there. I'm waving my arm, pointing toward the oak wall, the long closet that takes up one side of the bedroom. The women run to it, open all the doors, slide all the hangers with their blue suits, with stripes, two-button jackets, made of Irish linen, without remembering that they aren't my suits, that my clothes are in my house, they push aside all the hangers while I point, with the hands I can barely move: perhaps the document is hidden in one of the inside pockets of a suit. Teresa's and Catalina's sense of urgency increases: now they're tearing through things in a fury, throwing empty jackets on the rug, until finally they've looked through all of them and they turn to stare at me. I can't keep a straight face. I'm held up by the pillows, and I breath with difficulty, but my eyes don't miss a single detail. I sense their speed and their covetousness.

I gesture for them to come closer. "Now I remember…In a shoe…I remember perfectly…"

Seeing the two of them down on all fours on the mound of jackets and trousers, digging through shoes, showing me their fat thighs, shaking their asses, panting obscenely-only then does the bitter sweetness cloud my eyes. I bring my hand to my heart and close my eyes.