Carlos Fuentes: The Death of Artemio Cruz

"Who owes money to this Don Gamaliel, then?"

"Well…It would be easier to tell you who doesn't, I think."

"Is he friendly with anyone around here? Is there someone he's close to?"

"Sure. Father Páez, right around the corner."

"But didn't he buy all the Church land?"

"Sure…but the Father grants eternal salvation to Don Gamaliel and Don Gamaliel grants salvation on earth to the Father."

The sun blinded them as they stepped into the street.

"Blood will tell, they say. And that gal's sure got good blood."

"Who is that woman?"

"Can't you guess, Colonel? That's our hero's little girl."

Staring at the toes of her shoes, she walked along the old streets laid out like a chessboard. When he could no longer hear the echo of her heels on the paving stones and his steps had raised a could of dry, gray dust, he looked toward the walls of the ancient fortress-temple and the almond-shaped stones in its battlements. He crossed the wide esplanade and entered the silent nave. Once again, the footsteps echoed. He walked toward the altar.

The priest was rotund, his skin lifeless; only his coal-black eyes, set deep in his inflamed cheekbones, glowed with life. As soon as he saw the unknown man walking the length of the nave-and he spied on him, hidden behind a large screen, in ancient times a choir for the nuns, who later fled Mexico City, during the liberal Republic-the priest recognized in his movements the unconsciously martial air of a man accustomed to being on guard, accustomed to command and to attack. It was not just the ever so slight deformity of the horseman's lower legs; it was a certain nervous strength in his fist that came from daily contact with pistol and bridle. Even though the man was merely walking with his fist clenched, this was enough for Páez to recognize in him a disturbing power. Up in the nuns' secret place, he concluded that such a man was not there for devotional purposes. He lifted the hem of his cassock and slowly walked down the spiral staircase that led to the abandoned convent. Hem held high, shoulders raised until they almost reached his ears, body black and face white and bloodless, eyes penetrating, he descended with careful steps. The stairs urgently needed repair; his predecessor had stumbled in 1910, with fatal consequences. But Remigio Páez, looking like a puffed-up bat, could pierce all the dark corners of the black, humid, frightening cube. The darkness and the danger aroused all his senses and made him reflect: a military man in his church, dressed in civilian clothes, with no company or escort? Such a sight was too strange to pass unnoticed. He had, of course, foreseen it. The battles, the violence, the sacrilege, all of it would pass (he thought about the order, given barely two years before, that did away with all the chasubles and all the sacred vessels), and the Church, everlasting, built to endure eternally, would come to an understanding with the powers of the earthly city. A military man in civilian clothes…with no escort…

Down he came, one hand on the swollen wall, through which a dark line seeped. The priest recalled that the rainy season would soon begin. He had already taken it upon himself, with all his powers, to point it out from the pulpit and in each confession that he heard: it is a sin, a grave sin against the Holy Spirit, to refuse to receive the gifts of heaven; no one can plot against the intentions of Providence, and Providence has ordered things as they are, and thus people should accept all things; everyone should go out and work the fields, bring in the crops, deliver the fruits of the earth to their legitimate owner, a Christian owner who pays for the obligations of his privilege by punctually delivering his tithes to Holy Mother Church. God punishes rebellion, and Lucifer is overwhelmed by the Archangels Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Galaliel…Gamaliel.

"And justice, Father?"

"Final justice will be meted out above, my son. Do not seek it in this vale of tears."

Words, murmured the priest when he rested at last on the solid floor, shaking the dust off his cassock; words, miserable strings of syllables that fire the blood and the illusions of those who should be content to pass quickly through this short life and enjoy, in exchange for their mortal trials, eternal life. He crossed the cloister and walked toward a vaulted corridor. Justice! For whom? For how long? Life could be so agreeable for everyone if everyone understood the finality of their destiny and did not go about digging into things, stirring things up, desiring more…

"Yes, I believe so; yes, I believe so…" repeated the priest in a low voice, and he opened the carved door of the sacristy.

"Admirable work, isn't it?" he said as he approached the tall man standing before the altar. "The monks showed prints and engravings to the native artisans and they turned their own style into Christian forms…They say there is an idol, because it no longer demands blood, as the pagan gods did…"

"Are you Páez?"

"Remigio Páez," he said with a twisted smile. "And you, General, Colonel, Major…?"

"Just plain Artemio Cruz."

"Ah."

When the lieutenant colonel and the priest said goodbye at the portals of the church, Páez folded his hands over his stomach and watched his visitor walk away. The clear blue morning sharpened and seemed to draw closer the lines of the two volcanoes: the couple consisting of the sleeping woman and her solitary guardian. He squinted: he couldn't stand that bright light. He gave thanks as he observed the black clouds that would soon moisten the valley and extinguish the sun, as they did every afternoon with a punctual gray storm.

He turned his back on the valley and returned to the shade of the convent. He rubbed his hands. The haughtiness and the insults of this upstart did not matter to him. If that was the only way to save the situation and permit Don Gamaliel to spend the last years of his life safe from all danger, it would not be Remigio Páez, Minister of the Lord, who would upset things with a display of indignation and a crusader's zeal. On the contrary: now he patted himself on the back, thinking about the wisdom of humility. If what this man wanted was to humiliate him, Father Páez would listen to him today and tomorrow with his eyes lowered, at times nodding yes, as if painfully accepting the blame this powerful fool cast on the Church. He took his black hat off its hook, set it carelessly on his head of chestnut hair, and headed for the house of Don Gamaliel Bernal.

"Of course he can do it!" affirmed the old man that afternoon, after talking with the priest. "But I wonder what trick he'll use to get in here. He told Father Páez he'd come to see me today. No…I'm not sure I understand, Catalina."

She raised her face. She rested a hand on her crocheting, where she was carefully working a floral design. Three years before, they had received the message: Gonzalo was dead. From that day on, father and daughter had grown closer, until they'd transformed that slow passing of the afternoons, as they sat on the wicker patio furniture, into something more than a consolation: into a custom which, according to the old man, would last until he died. What did it matter that yesterday's power and wealth were crumbling; perhaps that was the tribute that had to be paid to time and old age. Don Gamaliel fortified himself in a passive struggle. He would not go out to take control of the peasants, but he would never accept an illegal invasion. He would not demand that his debtors pay back both interest and principal, but they would never get another penny from him.

He was hoping that one day they would come back to him on their knees, when need forced them to abandon their pride. But he would remain steadfast in his own. And now…here comes this stranger who promises to give loans to all the peasants at a rate much lower than that demanded by Don Gamaliel. Moreover, he has the effrontery to suggest that the old estate owner hand over all his privileges-and for nothing more than a promise to pay back the fourth part of whatever money can be recouped. Take it or leave it.