Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the authors copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

Contents

TO C. WRIGHT MILLS

True voice of the United States of America

Friend and companion in Latin Americas struggle

La prmditation de la mort est prmditation de la libert.

MONTAIGNE , Essays

Oh, men who come forth into the earth

through a cradle of ice

and who enter through a grave,

behold how you act

CALDERN , The Grand Theater of the World

Moi seul, je sais ce que jaurais pu faire Pour les autres, je ne suis tout au plus quun peut-tre.

STENDHAL , The Red and the Black

of me and of Him and of the three of us

Always three!

GOROSTIZA , Death Everlasting

Life is worth nothing. Nothing: thats what life is worth.

Mexican popular song

I wake up The touch of that cold object against my penis wakes me up. I didnt know I could urinate without being aware of it. I keep my eyes shut. I cant even make out the nearest voices. If I opened my eyes, would I be able to hear them? But my eyelids are so heavy: two pieces of lead, coins on my tongue, hammers in my ears, a a something like tarnished silver in my breath. It all tastes metallic. Or mineral. I urinate without knowing Im doing it. I remember with a shock that Ive been unconsciousmaybe I ate and drank without knowing it. Because it was just getting light when I reached out my hand and accidentally knocked the telephone on the floor. Then I just lay there, face down on the bed, with my arms hanging, the veins in my wrist tingling. Now Im waking up, but I dont want to open my eyes. Even so, I see something shining near my face. Something that turns into a flood of black lights and blue circles behind my closed lids. I tighten my face muscles, I open my right eye, and I see it reflected in the squares of glass sewn onto a womans handbag. Thats what I am. Thats what I am. That old man whose features are fragmented by the uneven squares of glass. I am that eye. I am that eye. I am that eye furrowed by accumulated rage, an old, forgotten, but always renewed rage. I am that puffy green eye set between those eyelids. Eyelids. Eyelids. Oily eyelids. I am that nose. That nose. That nose. Broken. With wide nostrils. I am those cheekbones. Cheekbones. Where my white beard starts. Starts. Grimace. Grimace. Grimace. I am that grimace that has nothing to do with old age or pain. Grimace. My teeth discolored by tobacco. Tobacco. Tobacco. My bre-bre-breathing fogs the squares of glass, and someone removes the handbag from the night table.

Look, Doctor, hes just faking

Mr. Cruz

Even now in the hour of his death he has to trick us!

I dont want to talk. My mouth is stuffed with old pennies, with that taste. But I open my eyes a little more, and between my eyelashes I can make out the two women, the doctor who smells of aseptic things: his sweaty hands, stinking of alcohol, are now tapping my chest under my shirt. I try to push that hand away.

Easy now, Mr. Cruz, easy

No. I am not going to open my mouth, or that wrinkled line with no lips reflected in the glass. Ill keep my arms stretched out on top of the sheets. The covers reach my stomach. My stomach ah And my legs stay spread, with that cold gadget between my thighs. And my chest stays asleep, with the same dull tingling that I feel that I felt when I would sit in one position for a long time in the movies. Bad circulation, thats all it is. Nothing more. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Nothing more serious than that. I have to think about my body. Thinking about your body wears you out. Your own body. Your body, whole. It wears you out. Better not to think. There it is. I do think about this flight of nerves and scales, of cells and scattered globules. My body, on which the doctor taps his fingers. Fear. Im afraid of thinking about my own body. And my face? Teresa removed the handbag that reflected it. Im trying to remember it in the reflection. It was a face broken by asymmetrical pieces of glass, with one eye very close to an ear and far away from the other eye, with the grimace spread out on three encircling mirrors. Sweat is pouring down my forehead. I close my eyes again, and I ask, ask that my face and body be given back to me. I ask, but I feel that hand caressing me, and I would like to get away from its touch, but I dont have the strength.

Feeling better?

I dont see her. I dont see Catalina. I see farther off. Teresa is sitting in the armchair. She has an open newspaper in her hands. My newspaper. Its Teresa, but she has her face hidden behind the open pages.

Open the window.

No, no. You might catch cold and make everything worse.

Forget it, Mama. Cant you see hes fooling around?

Ah. I smell that incense. Ah. The murmuring at the door. Here he comes with that smell of incense, with his black cassock, and with the hyssop out in front, a farewell so harsh its really a threat. Ha, they fell into the trap.

Isnt Padilla here?

Yes, he is. Hes outside.

Have him sent in.

But

First Padilla.

Ah, Padilla, come closer. Did you bring the tape recorder? If you knew what was good for you, youd have brought it here the way you brought it to my house in Coyoacn every night. Today, more than ever, you should be trying to trick me into thinking that everythings the same as its always been. Dont disturb the rituals, Padilla. Thats right, come closer. They dont want you to.

Go over to him, so he can see who you are. Tell him your name.

I am Im Gloria

If I could only see her face better. If I could only see her grimace better. She must notice this smell of dead scales; she must be looking at this sunken chest, this gray, messy beard, this fluid running out of my nose, these

They take her away from me.

The doctor checks my pulse.

Ill have to talk this over with the other doctors on the case.

Catalina brushes my hand with hers. What a useless caress. I cant see her very well, but I try to fix my eyes on hers. I catch her. I hold her frozen hand.

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

Whats that? Dont try to talk. Dont wear yourself out. I dont understand what youre saying.

Id like to go back there, Catalina. How useless.

Yes: the priest kneels next to me. He whispers his words. Padilla plugs in the recorder. I hear my voice, my words. Ay, a shout. Ay, I shout. Ay, I survived. There are two doctors standing in the doorway. I survived. Regina, it hurts, it hurts, Regina, I realize that it hurts. Regina. Soldier. Hug me; it hurts. Someone has stuck a long, cold dagger into my stomach; there is someone, there is someone else who has stuck a blade into my guts: I smell that incense and Im tired. I let them do as they please. I let them lift me up heavily as I groan. I dont owe my life to you. I cant, I cant, I didnt choose, the pain bends my waist, I touch my frozen feet, I dont want those blue toenails, my new blue toenails, aaaah ayyyy, I survived. What did I do yesterday? If I think about what I did yesterday, Ill stop thinking about whats happening to me now. Thats a good idea. Very good. Think yesterday. You arent so crazy; you arent in so much pain; you were able to think that. Yesterday yesterday yesterday. Yesterday Artemio Cruz flew from Hermosillo to Mexico City. Yes. Yesterday Artemio Cruz Before he got sick, yesterday Artemio Cruz No, he didnt get sick. Yesterday Artemio Cruz was in his office and he felt very sick. Not yesterday. This morning. Artemio Cruz. Not sick, no. Not Artemio Cruz, no. Another man. In a mirror hanging across from the sick mans bed. The other man. Artemio Cruz. His twin. Artemio Cruz is sick. The other one. Artemio Cruz is sick. He isnt living. He certainly is living. Artemio Cruz lived. He lived for some years Years he didnt miss, years he didnt. He lived for a few days. His twin. Artemio Cruz. His double. Yesterday Artemio Cruz, the one who only lived a few days before dying, yesterday Artemio Cruz Thats me and its another man Yesterday