Carlos Fuentes: The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Joan Crawford," said the daughter. "Joan Crawford."

"No, no. That's not how you say it. Not like that. Cro-for, Cro-for; that's how they say it."

"Crau-for."

"No, no. Cro, cro, cro. The a and the w come out like an o. I think that's how you say it."

"I didn't like the movie very much."

"No, it isn't very good. But she looks wonderful."

"I was really bored."

"But you made such a fuss about going…"

"Everybody said it was so good, but it wasn't."

"A way to kill time."

"Cro-ford."

"Yes, I think that's how they say it, Cro-for. I think the d is silent."

"Cro-for."

"That's it. Unless I'm mistaken."

The young lady poured syrup over the waffles and cut them into pieces when she was sure every bit would be soaked in syrup. She smiled at her mother each time she filled her mouth with that toasted, syrupy stuff. Her mother did not look at her. One hand played with another, the thumb rubbing the fingertips, seeming to want to pry off the fingernails. She looked at the two hands near her, not wanting to look at the faces: how insistently one hand again took hold of the other and how slowly it explored the other, not missing a single pore. No, they had no rings on their fingers; they must just be going out or something like that. She tried to avert her gaze and concentrate on the puddle of syrup on her daughter's plate, but without wanting to, she went back to the hands of the couple at the next table, successfully avoiding their faces but not their caressing hands. The daughter let her tongue play over her gums, removing bits of waffle and walnut, and then she wiped her lips, staining the napkin red. But before putting on fresh lipstick, she explored for more crumbs and asked her mother for a taste of pound cake. She said she didn't want coffee, it made her so nervous, even if she loved coffee, but not now, she was quite nervous as it was. The lady patted her hand and told her they ought to be going, they had lots to do. She paid the bill, left a tip, and the two women got up.

The American explained how they inject boiling water into the deposits, how the water dissolves them, and the sulphur is brought to the surface by compressed air. He explained the system again, and the other American said they were very pleased with their findings and sliced the air several times with his hand, shaking it quite close to his leathery red face and repeating in Spanish: "Domes good; pyrites bad. Domes good; pyrites bad. Domes good…" He drummed his fingers on the glass top of the table and nodded, accustomed to the fact that whenever they spoke to him in Spanish they thought he didn't understand, not because they spoke Spanish badly but because he didn't understand anything well. "Pyrites bad." He removed his elbows from the table as the engineer rolled out the map of the zone. The other man explained that the zone was so rich they could go on mining it at full capacity until well into the twenty-first century; at full capacity, until they exhausted the deposits; at full capacity. He repeated that seven times and then withdrew the fist he'd let fall at the beginning of his sermon right on the green area dotted with triangles that marked the geologist's discoveries. The American winked and said that the cedar and mahogany forests were also enormous and all the profits from that would go-one hundred percent-to the Mexican partner; they, the American partners; would not meddle in his business, although they did advise him to reforest continuously; they had seen forests destroyed everywhere: didn't people realize that those trees were worth money? But that was his affair, because with or without the forests the sulphur domes were there. He smiled and stood up. He stuck his thumbs between his belt and his trousers and seesawed his unlit cigar between his lips until one of the Americans got up with a lighted match in his hands. The American brought the match to the cigar, and he made the man hold it there until the cigar tip was glowing brightly. He demanded a payment of $2 million, and they asked him why. After all, they were happy to bring him in as a full partner for only three hundred thousand, but no one was going to make a penny until the investment started to produce. The geologist cleaned his glasses with a small piece of chamois he kept in his shirt pocket, while the other began to walk from the table to the window and from the window to the table, until he repeated that those were his conditions. The $2 million was not an advance or credit or anything like that: that was how much they owed him for getting the concession for them; without the payment, it might be impossible to get the concession; over time they would earn back what they would be giving him now; but without him, without the front man, as he said in English, apologizing for his frankness, they would never get the concession to work those deposits. He pushed a button to call his secretary and the secretary rapidly read a sheet of figures and the Americans said okay several times, okay, okay, okay, and he smiled and offered them whiskey and told them that they could exploit those sulphur deposits until well into the next century but that they weren't going to exploit him for one minute during this one, and they all toasted and the two Americans smiled as they muttered-just once-son of a bitch under their breath.

The two ladies strolled arm in arm. They walked slowly with their heads down and stopped in front of every store window to say how pretty, how expensive, there's a better one up the street, look at that one, how nice, until they got tired and walked into a café, where they picked out a good table, away from the entrance, where the lottery-ticket venders peered in and the dry, thick dust swirled, and far from the lavatories, and they ordered two Canada Dry orangeades. The mother powdered her face and stared at her amber eyes in the compact mirror, contemplating the progress of the bags that had begun to appear under them, and quickly snapped the cover shut. The two of them observed the bubbling of the soda water mixed with food coloring and waited for the gas to escape before drinking it in little sips. The girl secretly slipped her foot out of her shoe and rubbed her sore toes, and the lady, seated before her orange drink, recalled the separate rooms of the house, separate but contiguous, and the noises that managed to pass through the closed door each morning and each night: someone clearing his throat, shoes falling on the floor, the sound of keys landing on the mantel, the hinges on the closet door that needed oiling, at times even the rhythm of someone's breathing while asleep. A chill ran down her spine. She had gone to the closed door that very morning, walking on tiptoe, and had felt a chill run down her spine. It surprised her to think that all those insignificant, normal sounds were also secret sounds. She had gone back to bed, wrapped herself in the covers, and fixed her eyes on the ceiling, where a fan of round, fleeting lights was spreading: the sparkles created by the shadow of the chestnut tree. She had drunk what remained of her now cold tea and slept until the maid awakened her and reminded her that they had a day full of chores ahead of them. And only now, with that cold glass in her hand, did she remember those first hours of the day.

He leaned back in his desk chair until the screws creaked and asked his secretary: "Is there a single bank that would take such a risk? Is there a single Mexican who believes in me?" He picked up his yellow pencil and pointed it into his secretary's face: let him make a note of it; let him, Padilla, be a witness: no one would take a chance and he was not going to let that wealth rot in the jungle down south; if the gringos were the only ones willing to finance the explorations, what was he supposed to do? The secretary reminded him what time it was, and he sighed and said enough for today. He invited his secretary to lunch. They could eat together. Did he know any new places? The secretary said he did, a new place that specialized in appetizers, very pleasant, very good quesadillas -cheese, flor, huitlacoche ; it was right around the corner. They could go together. He felt tired; he didn't want to go back to the office that afternoon. In point of fact, they ought to be celebrating. Why not? Besides, they had never eaten together. They went out together in silence and walked toward Avenida Cinco de Mayo.