Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

I cannot desire; I let them do whatever they wish. I try to touch it. I run my finger over it, from my navel to my pubis. Round. Puffy. I don't know. The doctor's gone. Said he was going to bring in some other doctors. He doesn't want to be responsible for what happens to me. I don't know. But I see them. They've come in. The mahogany door opens, closes, and their footsteps go unheard on the thick rug. They've closed the windows. They've closed the gray curtains with a hiss. They've come in.

"Go over to him, child…so he can recognize you…Tell him your name…"

She smells good. She smells pretty. Oh yes, now I can make out the blush on her cheeks, her shining eyes, her young, graceful body, which approaches my bed in short steps.

"I…I'm Gloria…"

I try to whisper her name. I know they don't listen to what I say. For that at least I have to be thankful to Teresa: for having brought her daughter's young body close to me. If only I could make out her face more clearly. If only I could see the expression of disgust on her face. She must be aware of this stench of dead scales, vomit, and blood; she must see this sunken chest, this gray, matted beard, these waxy ears, this fluid I can't keep from pouring out of my nose, this dry saliva on my lips and chin, these unfocused eyes that will have to try to take another look, these…

They take her away from me.

"Poor thing…She was upset…"

"What?"

"Nothing, Papa, just rest."

Someone said she was going out with Padilla's son. How he must kiss her, what words he must say to her, ah, yes, what a blush. They come and go. They touch my shoulder, they nod, they whisper words of encouragement, yes, they don't know that I'm listening in spite of everything: I hear even the remotest conversations, the talk that takes place in the corners of the room, but I don't hear what they say nearby, the words spoken into my ear.

"How does he look to you, Mr. Padilla?"

"He looks bad, very bad."

"He's leaving behind a veritable empire."

"Yes."

"So many years he's spent running his businesses!"

"It'll be hard to find someone to take his place."

"I'll tell you what: the only person fit to fill his shoes is you…"

"Yes, I've been so close to him…"

"And who would take your place, in that eventuality?"

"Oh, there are so many qualified people."

"So you think there will be quite a few promotions?"

"Certainly. A whole new redistribution of responsibilities."

"Ah, Padilla, come closer. Did you bring the tape recorder?"

"You'll take responsibility?"

"Where Artemio…Here it is…"

"Yes, sir."

"Be ready. The government is going to intervene in a big way, so you have to be ready to take charge of the union."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me warn you in advance that quite a number of old foxes are getting ready. I've already hinted to the authorities that you're the man we know we can count on. Wouldn't you like a little something to eat?"

"No, thanks, I already ate. Much earlier."

"All right, then, get cracking. Go shake some hands, over in the Ministry of Labor and the Confederation of Mexican Workers-you know what I mean…"

"I'll get right on it, boss. You can count on me."

"See you soon, Campanela. Keep a low profile. Be careful. On your toes. Let's go, Padilla…"

There. It's finished. Ah. That was everything. But was it? Who knows. I don't remember. I haven't listened to the voices in that recorder for a long time. I've been playing dumb for a while now. Who's touching me? Who is that so close to me? How useless, Catalina. I tell myself: How useless, what a useless caress. I ask myself: What are you going to say to me? Do you think you've finally found the words you never had the courage to say? Ah, so you did love me? Why didn't we ever say it? I loved you. I don't remember anymore. Your caress makes me see you and I don't know, I don't understand why, sitting next to me, you share this memory with me at the end, and this time, without a reproach in your eyes. Pride. Pride saved us. Pride killed us.

"…for a miserable salary, while he shames us with that woman, while he rubs our noses in his money, he gives us what he gives us as if we were beggars…"

They didn't understand. I did nothing for them. I didn't even take them into account. I did it for myself. I'm not interested in these stories. I don't want to remember Teresa and Gerardo. They mean nothing to me.

"Why didn't you demand that he give you your rightful place, Gerardo? You're as responsible as he is…"

I have no interest in them.

"Calm down, Teresita, how about trying to understand my point of view? You don't hear me complaining."

"Personality, that's all you needed, but not even that…"

"Let him rest."

"Don't start siding with him now! He made no one suffer as much as he made you…"

I survived. Regina. What was your name? No. You, Regina. But what was your name, soldier without a name? Gonzalo. Gonzalo Bernal. A Yaqui. A poor little Yaqui. I survived. You died.

"He made me suffer, too. How can I forget it. He didn't even come to the wedding. My wedding, his daughter's wedding…"

They never got the point. I didn't need them. I created myself by myself. Soldier. Yaqui. Regina. Gonzalo.

"He destroyed even the things he loved, Mama, and you know it."

"Just stop talking, for God's sake, just stop…"

The will? Don't worry: it exists, an officially stamped, notarized document. I don't leave anyone out: why should I leave anyone out, hate anyone? Wouldn't you have secretly thanked me for hating you? Wouldn't it give you pleasure to know that even at the end I thought about you, even if it was to play a trick on you? No, I remember all of you with the indifference of a cold bureaucratic formality, my dear Catalina, my charming daughter, granddaughter, son-in-law: I'm doling out a strange fortune to you, a wealth which you will all ascribe-in public-to my efforts, my tenacity, my sense of responsibility, my personal qualities. Please do so. And remain calm. Forget that I earned that wealth by risking my skin without knowing it in a struggle I didn't try to understand because it wouldn't have helped me to define, to understand, because only those who didn't expect anything from their sacrifices could know and understand it. That's what sacrifice is-am I correct?: to give everything in exchange for nothing. If it isn't, then what should we call giving everything in exchange for nothing? But they didn't offer everything to me. She offered me everything. I didn't take it. I didn't know how to take it. What could her name be?

"Okay. The picture's clear enough. Say, the old boy at the Embassy wants to make a speech comparing this Cuban mess with the old-time Mexican Revolution. Why don't you lay the groundwork with an editorial…"

"Yes, yes. We'll do it. How about twenty thousand pesos?"

"Seems fair enough. Any ideas?"

"Sure. Tell him to show the sharp differences between an anarchic, bloody movement that destroys private property and human rights and an orderly, peaceful, legal revolution like Mexico's, a revolution led by a middle class that found its inspiration in Jefferson. After all, people have bad memories. Tell him to praise Mexico."

"Fine. So long, Mr. Cruz, it's always…"

Oh, what a bombardment of signs, words, and stimuli for my tired ears. Oh, how tired I am. They will probably not understand my gestures, because I can barely move my fingers: turn it off, it's boring me, what does it have to do with me now? What a bother, what a bother…

"In the name of the Father, of the Son…"

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

"Why did you take him away from me?"

I'll bequeath to them all the vain useless deaths, the lifeless names of Regina, the Yaqui…Tobias, now I remember, his name was Tobias…Gonzalo Bernal, a soldier without a name. And the woman? The other one.