Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

His footsteps echoed emptily on the tezontle floor. Slightly cramped in their black patent-leather slippers, his feet dragged along with that staggering heaviness he could no longer avoid. Tall, rocking on indecisive heels, his barrel chest thrust forward, and his nervous hands with their thick veins dangling at his sides, he slowly made his way along the whitewashed corridors, treading on the thick wool carpeting. He caught sight of himself in the lustrous mirrors and in the crystalware displayed in the colonial breakfronts, as he ran his fingers over the metal plates and door handles, the paneled coffers with iron keyholes, the aromatic benches of ayacahuite wood, the opulent marquetry. A servant opened the door of the grand ballroom for him. The old man stopped for the last time in front of a mirror and straightened his bow tie. With the palm of his hand, he smoothed the few curly gray hairs that remained on his high forehead. He squeezed his cheeks to push his false teeth into place, and walked into the room with its shiny floor, a vast expanse decorated with colonial pictures-St. Sebastian, St. Lucy, St. Jerome, and St. Michael. Its glowing cedar floor, from which the rugs had been removed to allow dancing, opened onto the lawns and brick terraces.

At the far end of the room, the photographers were waiting for him, gathered around the green-damask armchair, under the fifty-candle chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The clock on the mantel struck seven; a fire was blazing because it had been so cold the past few days. Two leather hassocks flanked the fireplace. He greeted the photographers with a nod and sat down in the armchair, arranging his stiff shirtfront and his piqué cuffs. Another servant led in the two gray mastiffs with their red dewlaps and melancholy eyes and placed their rough leashes in the master's hands. The bronze studs on the dogs' collars glittered with reflected light. He raised his head, squeezing his dentures back into place. The flashbulbs gave a tone of fresh plaster to his large gray head. As they asked him to strike new poses, he insisted on straightening his hair and running his fingers along the two heavy bags that hung off the sides of his nose and gradually disappeared into his neck. His high cheekbones still had the old hardness, though even they were crisscrossed by a network of wrinkles that began at his eyelids, which seemed to sag more and more every day, as if to protect his eyes, which expressed a combination of amusement and bitterness, their greenish irises hidden in the folds of loose skin.

One of the mastiffs barked and tried to get loose. At the exact moment he was pulled out of his chair by the powerful dog, a flashbulb went off, and his expression of rigid astonishment was captured in the photograph. The other photographers stared severely at the man who had taken the photo. The guilty party pulled the black plate out of his camera and without a word handed it to another photographer.

When the photographers were gone, he reached out his trembling hand and took a filtered cigarette out of the silver box on the rustic table. He had difficulty getting the lighter to work and, nodding all the time, slowly reviewed the hagiography of the old oil paintings, all varnished, all stained by large empty spaces of direct light which effaced the principal details of the pictures but which, by the same token, contributed an opaque relief to the corners with yellow tones and reddish shadows. He ran his fingers over the damask and inhaled the filtered smoke. The servant approached soundlessly and asked if there was anything he wanted. He nodded and asked for a martini, very dry. The servant opened two carved-cedar doors, revealing the built-in, mirrored bar filled with colored labels and bottled liquids, emerald-green opal, red, crystal-clear-Chartreuse, peppermint, aquavit, vermouth, Calvados, Armagnac, vodka, Pernod, Courvoisier, Long John-and the rows of crystal glasses, some thick and squat, others thin and tinkling. He signaled to the servant to go to the cellar and bring up the three wines for dinner. He stretched his legs and thought of the pains he had taken in the construction and comforts of this, his real home. Catalina could live in the mansion in Las Lomas, devoid of personality, identical to the residences of all other millionaires. He preferred these old walls with their two centuries of quarried stone and red tezontle , which in a mysterious way brought him closer to events of the past, to an image of the country he did not want to lose completely. Yes, he fully realized that it was nothing but a simulacrum, a wave of the magic wand. Yet the woods, the stone, the wrought iron, the moldings, the refectory tables, the cabinetwork, the cross-pieces in the doors, the panels, the fabric on the chairs-all of it-returned to him, with just a slight hint of nostalgia, the scenes, the very air, the tactile sensations of his youth.

Lilia whined; but Lilia would never understand. What could a ceiling of antique beams say to such a girl? What could a barred window opaque with rust say to her? What could the sumptuous feel of the chasuble over the fireplace, covered with gold scales and embroidered with silk thread, say to her? What could the aroma of the ayacahuite chests say to her? The washed shine of the kitchen with its Puebla tiles, the archbishop's chairs in the dining room…? The mere possession of these things was as rich, as sensual, as sumptuous as that of money and the obvious signs of plenitude. Oh yes, what total pleasure, what absolutely personal pleasure…Only once a year did his guests participate in all this, in his celebrated New Year's Eve party, the feast of St. Sylvester…A day of multiplied pleasures, because his guests had to accept this as his real home and think of the solitary Catalina, who, at about this time, would be having dinner in the house in Las Lomas accompanied by Teresa and Gerardo…He, on the other hand, would introduce Lilia and open the doors to a blue dining room, with blue china, blue linen, blue walls…where the wines flow and the platters are brought in piled high with rare meats, rosy fish, savory shellfish, secret herbs, specially made sweets…

Why did this moment of rest have to be interrupted? The indolent clumping of Lilia's feet on the floor. Her unpainted nails on the door to the hall. Her face slathered with cold cream. She wanted to know if her pink dress was all right for this evening. She didn't want to be out of place again, as she was last year, and arouse his scornful rage. Oh-ho, already having a little drink, eh? Why didn't he ask her if she wanted one? His distrust was starting to annoy her, with the liquor locked away and that bossy butler who wouldn't let her into the wine cellar. Was she bored? As if he didn't know it. She wished she were old, ugly, so that he'd kick her out once and for all and let her live as she pleased. She can leave whenever she wants? And live on what? Without luxury, without the mansion? Lots of money here, lots of luxury, but no happiness, no fun, not even the right to have a little drink. Of course she loves him. She's told him a thousand times. Women put up with anything; it all depends on how much tenderness they get in return. A woman can get used to a young man or an old one. Of course she's nice to him; what a thing to ask…It'll be eight years they've been living together, and he's never made a scene, never chewed her out…He just made her…But another little fling would do her the world of good!…What? Could anyone think she was that dumb?…All right, all right, he never knew how to take a joke. Sure, but he realizes how things are…No one lasts forever…Crow's feet around his eyes…Their bodies…Except that he was also used to having her around, wasn't that right? At his age, it's hard to start over. No matter how many millions…It's work, and you can waste a lot of time hunting down a woman…The bitches…know so many tricks, they like to take things slow…prolong the first stages…say no, have doubts, the waiting, the temptation, oh, all that stuff!…And make fools of the old men…Of course she's more comfortable…And she doesn't complain, no, not a chance. He's even flattered that people come to pay their respects every New Year's Eve…And she loves him, yes, she swears, she's too used to him…But how bored she gets!…Let's see, what's the big deal about having a few close friends-women? What's the big deal about going out once in a while to have fun, to…have to drink somewhere, once a week…?