“I’ve had to provide him with pumice stone to clean the belly the dealer smeared with ketchup when he thought he was Aztec. He didn’t seem to like my question about his relation to Tlaloc, and when he becomes angry his teeth, repulsive enough in themselves, glitter and grow pointed. The first days he slept in the cellar; since yesterday, in my bed.”
* * *
“The dry season has begun. Last night, from the living room where I’m sleeping now, I heard the same hoarse moans I’d heard in the beginning, followed by a terrible racket. I went upstairs and peered into the bedroom: the Chac-Mool was breaking the lamps and furniture; he sprang toward the door with outstretched bleeding hands, and I was barely able to slam the door and run to hide in the bathroom. Later he came downstairs, panting and begging for water. He leaves the faucets running all day; there’s not a dry spot in the house. I have to sleep wrapped in blankets, and I’ve asked him please to let the living room dry out.”*
* * *
“The Chac-Mool flooded the living room today. Exasperated, I told him I was going to return him to La Lagunilla. His laughter — so frighteningly different from the laugh of any man or animal — was as terrible as the blow from that heavily braceleted arm. I have to admit it: I am his prisoner. My original plan was quite different. I was going to play with the Chac-Mool the way you play with a toy; this may have been an extension of the security of childhood. But — who said it? — the fruit of childhood is consumed by the years, and I hadn’t seen that. He’s taken my clothes, and when the green moss begins to sprout, he covers himself in my bathrobes. The Chac-Mool is accustomed to obedience, always; I, who have never had cause to command, can only submit. Until it rains — what happened to his magic power? — he will be choleric and irritable.”
* * *
“Today I discovered that the Chac-Mool leaves the house at night. Always, as it grows dark, he sings a shrill and ancient tune, older than song itself. Then everything is quiet. I knocked several times at the door, and when he didn’t answer I dared enter. The bedroom, which I hadn’t seen since the day the statue tried to attack me, is a ruin; the odor of incense and blood that permeates the entire house is particularly concentrated here. And I discovered bones behind the door, dog and rat and cat bones. This is what the Chac-Mool steals in the night for nourishment. This explains the hideous barking every morning.”
* * *
“February, dry. Chac-Mool watches every move I make; he made me telephone a restaurant and ask them to deliver chicken and rice every day. But what I took from the office is about to run out. So the inevitable happened: on the first they cut off the water and lights for nonpayment. But Chac has discovered a public fountain two blocks from the house; I make ten or twelve trips a day for water while he watches me from the roof. He says that if I try to run away he will strike me dead in my tracks; he is also the God of Lightning. What he doesn’t realize is that I know about his nighttime forays. Since we don’t have any electricity, I have to go to bed about eight. I should be used to the Chac-Mool by now, but just a moment ago, when I ran into him on the stairway, I touched his icy arms, the scales of his renewed skin, and I wanted to scream.
“If it doesn’t rain soon, the Chac-Mool will return to stone. I’ve noticed his recent difficulty in moving; sometimes he lies for hours, paralyzed, and almost seems an idol again. But this repose merely gives him new strength to abuse me, to claw at me as if he could extract liquid from my flesh. We don’t have the amiable intervals any more, when he used to tell me old tales; instead, I seem to notice a heightened resentment. There have been other indications that set me thinking: my wine cellar is diminishing; he likes to stroke the silk of my bathrobes; he wants me to bring a servant girl to the house; he has made me teach him how to use soap and lotions. I believe the Chac-Mool is falling into human temptations; now I see in the face that once seemed eternal something that is merely old. This may be my salvation: if the Chac becomes human, it’s possible that all the centuries of his life will accumulate in an instant and he will die in a flash of lightning. But this might also cause my death: the Chac won’t want me to witness his downfall; he may decide to kill me.
“I plan to take advantage tonight of Chac’s nightly excursion to flee. I will go to Acapulco; I’ll see if I can’t find a job, and await the death of the Chac-Mool. Yes, it will be soon; his hair is gray, his face bloated. I need to get some sun, to swim, to regain my strength. I have four hundred pesos left. I’ll go to the Müllers’ hotel, it’s cheap and comfortable. Let Chac-Mool take over the whole place; we’ll see how long he lasts without my pails of water.”
* * *
Filiberto’s diary ends here. I didn’t want to think about what he’d written; I slept as far as Cuernavaca. From there to Mexico City I tried to make some sense out of the account, to attribute it to overwork, or some psychological disturbance. By the time we reached the terminal at nine in the evening, I still hadn’t accepted the fact of my friend’s madness. I hired a truck to carry the coffin to Filiberto’s house, where I would arrange for his burial.
Before I could insert the key in the lock, the door opened. A yellow-skinned Indian in a smoking jacket and ascot stood in the doorway. He couldn’t have been more repulsive; he smelled of cheap cologne; he’d tried to cover his wrinkles with thick powder, his mouth was clumsily smeared with lipstick, and his hair appeared to be dyed.
“I’m sorry … I didn’t know that Filiberto had…”
“No matter. I know all about it. Tell the men to carry the body down to the cellar.”
In a Flemish Garden
Sept. 19. That attorney Brambila gets the most harebrained ideas! Now he’s bought that old mansion on Puente de Alvarado, sumptuous, but totally impractical, built at the time of the French Intervention. Naturally, I thought it was just another of his many deals, and that he intended, as he had on other occasions, to demolish the house and sell the land at a profit, or at least to build an office and commercial property there. That is, that’s what I thought at first. I was astounded when he told me his plan: he meant to use the house, with its marvelous parquet floors and glittering chandeliers, for entertaining and lodging his North American business associates — history, folklore, and elegance all in one package. And he wanted me to live for a while in his mansion, because this Brambila, who was so impressed with everything about the place, had noticed a certain lack of human warmth in these rooms, which had been empty since 1910, when the family fled to France. A caretaker couple who lived in the rooftop apartment had kept everything clean and polished — though for forty years there hadn’t been a stick of furniture except a magnificent Pleyel in the salon. You felt a penetrating cold (my attorney friend had said) in the house, particularly noticeable in contrast to the temperature outside.
“Look, my handsome blond friend. You can invite anyone you want for drinks and conversation. You’ll have all the basic necessities. Read, write, do whatever it is you do.”