“See that castle that used to be a prison? Can you begin to imagine the number of politicians who should be there now, purging their wrongs?”
“If you say so, sir. .”
He shrugged his shoulders, creaking slightly.
“We have two golden rules in Mexican politics. One is benign: no re-election. The other is more unforgiving: exile. The reason, however, is the same: All delinquents are recidivists, my young friend.”
He peered at me from the depths of the lines under his eyes.
“You know, it is a mistake to think that a president controls only the weak. The most urgent but most difficult task is that of controlling the powerful. I’m going to give you a rule for you to share with all the people you know who aspire to public office. Anyone who wants to be part of the cabinet should first take in a liter of vinegar through his nose. That’s the best training there is for getting close to the presidency, I promise you. . ”
The waiter approached us with the massive, steaming coffeepot. The Old Man declined. He had not offered me a third coffee, but he pushed my coffee glass toward me.
It was then that, rather inopportunely, I asked the former head of state, “And you, Mr. President, is there anyone you favor to be Lorenzo Terán’s successor?”
The Old Man fell silent for a moment as he gazed out at the crows settling down for the night in the Indian laurels that lined the plaza: flocks of birds making such a racket as they searched for nighttime shelter that luckily they drowned out my voice, even though I know the Old Man heard me. I’ve never known a man with as keen an ear as the ex-president, my dear lady, even though all the people who used to ask him for favors would very stupidly steer him over to the most isolated corner of his office and say to him, “Since everyone says that deep down you’re a good man. .”
I don’t know if the Old Man Under the Arches is a good man or a bad man. All I know is that he’s a sly old dog, that he knows everything, and reveals nothing. Did he hear me? Did he not? Did he not want the waiter to hear? Whatever the case, my admirable though cruel friend, the Old Man used those minutes of silence, interrupted only by the raucous (or was it mournful?) cawing of those birds in the twilight, to give me a political lesson in how to say everything without saying anything.
I urge you to repeat, in front of a mirror, each and every one of the gestures the old ex-president demonstrated for me.
First, he raised one finger to his earlobe and rubbed it. One must know how to listen.
Then he covered his eyes with both hands. If I saw you, I don’t remember.
After that, he took his index finger and tugged at one of his eyelids. Keep your eyes open. Careful. Always be on your guard.
After that, he raised one eyebrow as if to suggest skepticism. Don’t let this man pull the wool over your eyes.
And at the same time, he tilted his hand left and right as if to say, Be careful with this other one. He’s more slippery than an eel. He knows how to sustain a ruse.
For his finale, he placed his index finger on one of his nostrils. Don’t let them fool you. Sniff them out.
I enumerate, my dear friend, the quick succession of signals that followed the nasal symbolism. Hand on heart. Both hands flapping to indicate the separation of incompatible issues. Hand on crotch to indicate balls. Thumb pointed upward, like Caesar granting life in the Circus Maximus, and then turned down as if condemning someone to death. Index finger cutting the throat like a razor blade. Index finger and thumb held together in a perfect “O” to indicate success. Lips pursed in a grimace to inject a measure of doubt into the moment of triumph. Squinting eyes to suggest doubt and the question, Who do you think you are? Shoulders raised in resignation, as if to say, What can we do about it? Hands held open, as if to say, Such is life. And then his famous index finger raised in ominous warning. And finally, the same finger passing over the lips like an invisible zipper. Not a word. Shh! Silence is golden.
After this masterful display of body language, my admirable and desired lady, all that was left for me was to thank the Old Man Under the Arches for his advice, his time, his attention. He looked at me from behind his mask of impartiality. He wanted me to look at him as a character playing a role. The benign country patriarch. The wise Mexican Cincinnatus. He was educating me: Son, play stupid. A man has to know how to act the fool. Be the village idiot. Pure gesticulation. Not a word. The master of circumlocution. The juggler of all things unspoken because they are understood by all. The king of the euphemism.
I left, thanking the Old Man, who bowed his head toward me as a parrot settled on his shoulder and the waiter offered him a box of dominoes.
The sun was setting quite spectacularly, hidden crows cawed, and the castle-prison of San Juan de Ulúa, so sinister during the day, looked legendary as night fell.
P.S. You have rescinded my right to speak to you in the familiar until I can prove myself worthy of these circumstances. You have sent me like a little schoolboy to be taught by the Old Man Under the Arches as if the latest version of Plato’s Academy were now located in this derelict old port’s main plaza. But don’t think I’m offended, it only entices me. NV.
14. DULCE DE LA GARZA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
Madam: If I dare to write to you, it is only because I have no other way of contacting you. And you are who you are. The whole country knows that. There isn’t a single woman with more influence (I don’t know if I’ve said it properly — perhaps I should say there isn’t a single more influential woman?) than you. All doors open for you. The powerful listen to you. But your doors are closed to the powerless. And I am an insignificant woman. Once, I could have been as powerful as you are now. But my name says it all — at one time I could have been, but I wasn’t. So I write to you now, madam, I freely admit it, because you are powerful and I am not. But I also write to ask you woman to woman: What has become of my beloved? Can’t you tell me anything? Who is buried in my lover’s grave in Veracruz? Why are there two graves, one beneath the other? One with a wax model inside melting from the heat, and the other empty? Madam, if you have ever felt love for a man — and I don’t doubt that you have— please take pity on me. In the name of the man you have loved most dearly in your own life, think of me, have mercy on me, my loneliness and my pain, and please tell me: Where is the body of my beloved? Where can I go to bring him flowers, kneel down, pray for him, think of him, and tell him how terribly and desperately I miss him and need him? Can’t you help me? Is this a lot to ask? Is it too much? Am I asking for the impossible?
15. EX-PRESIDENT CÉSAR LEÓN TO PRESIDENT LORENZO TERÁN
I wish to thank you, Mr. President, for the friendship and even the trust you have shown toward me by rescinding the unwritten ban that has kept me out of the country during the years of my “ex-presidency.” Your generosity toward me is proof of your self-confidence. I haven’t come to take anything away from you, Mr. President. If only your predecessors had said the same. As golden as it may be, exile is always bitter. A man carries his country in his heart, his blood, his head. But also in his feet. To be able to set foot on Mexican soil again, Mr. President, is the marvelous gift you have given me, and I intend to repay it with gratitude and loyalty.
On that matter, I had come to believe that the proof of my loyalty to you was my silence. Now you, showing a magnanimity that befits you, and in the spirit of mutual loyalty, have asked for my advice.
Imagine what that means to a man like me, showered with adulation one day only to wake up the next melancholy day and find himself out of office, asking the painful question, “Where did all my friends go?”