Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

On his feet again, he went to the cell door: thick slabs of rough-cut pine, and a small opening at eye level. On the other side, the plume of smoke from the cigar the corporal was lighting floated up. He closed his hands on the rusty bars and observed his guardian's flat profile. Tufts of black hair sprouted out of his canvas cap and only stopped at his square, beardless cheekbones. The prisoner caught his eye, and the corporal answered by rapidly moving his head and free hand to express a silent "What do you want?" His other hand clutched his carbine in the usual style of those engaged in this kind of work.

"Got your order about tomorrow yet?"

The corporal looked at him with long, yellow eyes. He didn't answer.

"I'm not from these parts. What about you? What kind of place is it?"

"What place?"

"Where they're going to shoot us. What can you see from there?"

He stopped and waved, so the corporal would bring the lamp over.

"What can you see?"

Only then did he remember that he'd always looked ahead, beginning with the night when he'd crossed the mountain and escaped from the old ruined house in Veracruz. From that day on, he'd never looked back. From that day on, he'd willed to know he was alone, with no strength other than his own…And now…He couldn't resist asking that question-what's it like, what can you see from there-which perhaps was his way of disguising the anxiety of memory, the slope toward an image of leafy ferns and slow rivers, tubular flowers over a shack, a starched skirt and soft hair that smelled of quince…

"They'll just take you to the patio out behind here," the corporal was saying, "and what you can see-what did you think it'd be?-is a damn high wall, all pockmarked with bullet holes. We shoot so many people…"

"But the mountains. Can't you see the mountains?"

"You know, I swear I don't remember."

"Seen a lot of executions, eh?"

"You said it."

"Maybe the guy who does the shooting can see what's going on better than the guys being shot."

"You mean you've never been in a firing squad?"

(Yes, I've been in firing squads, but without thinking about what the other guy might feel, or that someday it might be my turn. That's why I have no right to ask you anything, right? Like me, you've only killed, without noticing. That's why no one knows what the other guy might feel and no one can tell about it. If the other guy could come back, if he could tell all about hearing shots and feeling them hit his chest and face. If he could tell the truth about all that, it might be that we wouldn't dare to kill anyone ever again; or it might be that dying wouldn't matter to anyone ever again…It might be terrible…but it might be just as natural as being born…What do you and I know?)

"Listen, Captain, you won't be needing your insignia anymore. Give it to me."

The corporal stuck his hand through the bars, and he turned his back on him. The soldier laughed a stifled screech.

Now the Yaqui was whispering in his language. He dragged his feet over to the hard headrest to touch the Indian's fevered brow with his hand and to hear his words. They ran along in a gentle singsong.

"What's he saying?"

"He's telling things. How the government took away the land where his people had always lived, to give it to some gringos. How they fought for their land; how the federal troops came, cut off the men's hands, and chased them into the hills. How they took the Yaqui chiefs up to a bluff, loaded them down with weights, and threw them into the sea."

The Yaqui spoke with his eyes shut. "Those of us who were left were dragged into a long line and from there, from Sinaloa, they made us walk all the way to the other end, to Yucatán."

"How they had to march to Yucatán and the women and the old people and the kids in the tribe were dying. Those who made it to the hemp plantations were sold as slaves, and husbands were separated from wives. How they made the women sleep with the Chinese workers, so they'd forget their language and give birth to more workers…"

"I came back, I came back. As soon as I heard the war had started, I came back with my brothers to fight against the evil."

The Yaqui laughed softly, and Artemio Cruz felt the need to urinate. He stood up, opened the fly of his khaki trousers, found a corner, and listened to the splashing on the dirt. He frowned, thinking of the usual end for brave men, who die with a wet spot on their uniform trousers. Bernal, who had his arms crossed, seemed to be looking through the high bars for a moonbeam on this cold, dark night. Sometimes a persistent hammering from the town reached them; the dogs howled. A few lost, meaningless conversations managed to penetrate the walls. He slapped the dust off his tunic and went to the young lawyer.

"Got any cigarettes?"

"Yes…I think so…They're somewhere."

"Offer one to the Yaqui."

"I already did. But he doesn't like mine."

"Does he have any of his own?"

"It seems he ran out."

"Maybe the soldiers have cards."

"No. I couldn't concentrate. I think I wouldn't be able to…"

"Sleepy?"

"No."

"You're right. There's no need to sleep."

"Think you'll be sorry?"

"What?"

"Sorry, I mean, for ever having slept…"

"That's a good one."

"Right. So it's better to remember. They say it's good to remember."

"There's not much life behind."

"Why not? That's the Yaqui's advantage. Maybe that's why he doesn't like to talk."

"Right. No, I don't get you."

"I mean, the Yaqui has a lot to remember."

"Maybe in his language they don't remember the same way we do."

"That march, from Sinaloa. What he told us just now."

"Yes."

"…"

"Regina…"

"What…"

"Nothing. I was just saying names."

"How old are you?"

"I'm just turning twenty-six. What about you?"

"Twenty-nine. I don't have much to remember either. Even though life got pretty hectic all of a sudden."

"When do people start remembering, for instance, their childhood?"

"That's true; it's hard."

"Know something? Just now, while we were talking…"

"Yes?"

"Well, I said a few names to myself. Know something? They don't mean anything to me anymore, nothing."

"Sun's coming up."

"Don't take any notice."

"The sweat's pouring down my back."

"Pass me a cigarette. What happened?"

"Sorry. Here. Maybe you don't feel anything."

"That's what they say."

"Who says that, Cruz?"

"The ones who do the killing."

"Does it matter much to you?"

"Well…"

"Why don't you think about…"

"What? That everything's going to be the same even if they kill us?"

"No. Don't think ahead; think back. I think about all those who've already died in the Revolution."

"Right. I remember Bule, Aparicio, Gómez, Captain Tiburcio Amarillas…just a few."

"I'll bet you can't even remember twenty. And not only them. What are the names of all those who died? Not only in this Revolution but in all the wars, and even those who died peacefully, in their beds. Who remembers them?"

"Look. Give me a match."

"Sorry."

"The moon's up now."

"Want to see it? If you stand on my shoulders, you might catch a glimpse…"

"No. It's not worth the trouble."

"It's good they took my watch."

"Yes."

"I mean, otherwise I'd be counting the minutes."

"Of course, I understand."

"The night seemed more…well, longer…"

"This stinking pisshole."

"Look at the Yaqui. Fast asleep. It's good no one showed he was afraid."

"Now, another day stuck in here."

"Who knows. They're liable to walk in any time."

"Not these guys. They like their little game. It's too traditional to be shot at dawn. They're going to play with us."