They say you’re too isolated, and that your isolation has led you to imagine the very best and the very worst of others. The net political result, as you know, is that each of your subordinates interprets the president’s imperviousness in his own way, so that they fight among themselves. While you enjoy what in hushed tones you refer to as “my much-needed solitude to think clearly and act properly,” those closest to you are all squabbling with one another. Can’t you see what a great opportunity will present itself when it’s time for the presidential succession? All the contention and rivalry among your subordinates, encouraged by your supposed passivity, will allow you to become the referee.
Don’t fool yourself, Mr. President: The country sees your passivity as a flaw. Let’s be frank, you’ve lost your authority. But now, if you set your mind to it, you can win back some power. Win the inexorable battle of the presidential succession. The one thing that everyone considers your greatest flaw can become your greatest asset: Storm the castle without waking up the dogs.
Pardon me for saying so, but don’t pay attention to Seneca when he advises you to walk among the people like a king dressed as a beggar. Remember that if you open the palace windows you’ll be letting in both a brilliant sun and a fierce wind. The people will be dazzled, but the government will only catch a cold. Keep your aspirin and your sinus medicine handy.
Add an enema — not for you, but for your disloyal aides. And if you don’t know who they are yet, you will soon enough.
38. TÁCITO DE LA CANAL TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
A very brief missive, my dear lady. Everything that is said, written, plotted, or murmured in this country passes through my office. I am the one who, like a sieve, knows what to let through and what to prevent from reaching the president’s desk. I know what you, your old lover Bernal, and your young lover Valdivia have recently discovered. Too many secrets, too many love affairs, all that complicated tiptoeing. Be careful. I’m not going to let you get away with what you’ve been plotting, thanks to the delirious ravings of some decrepit archivist in the basement of Los Pinos. Down with the masks, madam. Or as you, educated by the Frogs, would say: C’est la guerre. Don’t forget your little weakness. You’re more than just a political woman. You’re a mother. Would you like that to get out? Or worse, would you like the boy to suffer? Think about it. I’m always willing to cut a deal.
39. MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN TO TÁCITO DE LA CANAL
You’re right, Tácito. Down with the masks and up with the curtain. You and Bernal are political rivals and can speak freely to each other. I, however, am not going to lose my temper as you have. Instead I’ll take advantage of this moment, almost as a necessary catharsis, to tell you a few truths. .
You’ve always believed in getting to the top at any cost, but you’ve failed to calculate the price of combat when combat is pointless. For now we’ve run out of ammunition, and your last round was the president.
You were counting on your obsequiousness to buy you a free ticket to the Eagle’s Throne. The whole country has watched you treating the president as if he were an untouchable Japanese mikado. What kind of image could you possibly present to the electorate, my unpresentable friend? Who doesn’t know that you push in the president’s chair every time he sits down to eat, and that then you lick the leftovers off his plate? Who hasn’t seen you standing behind the president as if your sole duty were that of guarding the emperor, making sure nobody touches or listens to him? “Let the president’s hair and nails grow, and I’ll clip them in private, unbeknownst to him, while he sleeps, and then I’ll keep them in a little box. . ”
Yes, Tácito, just like everything you keep. Like stolen goods. Tácito, you specialize in revealing people’s unpleasant pasts. I know perfectly well that you made me the victim of your slander once before, and now you’re threatening to do it again. But now it’s your own past that’s going to haunt you in the middle of the night and rob you of your sleep. You’ve dug up every last secret except for one: your own. Now, your guilty secret is going to be unearthed, and I swear to you, Tácito, it will terrify you, and with luck dispose of you for once and for all.
I won’t be deterred. Mark my words. What you’re trying to do to Bernal and me will rebound on you. I know what you’re up to, and if you touch a single hair on my head the entire world will hear about it. And even if you were to cut off my head, the evidence against you would come to light, with another charge — murder.
There are petty and evil people who know too much, Tácito. But there are also great and good people who know enough to silence that insufferable high-pitched voice of yours that makes you sound like a newly ordained priest. Do you know who you remind me of with that voice and physique? Franco, my dear Tácito, Generalísimo Francisco Franco. But this isn’t Spain, nor is it 1936. You’ve fallen for the ploy that Lorenzo Terán uses to manage his cabinet. He’s made everyone think: “You are my chosen one. You are my natural successor.”
Have you ever gotten inside the president’s head? Been able to imagine what he imagines?
Poor Tácito. You’ve read all the letters the president received from his cabinet ministers and you’ve insinuated that each and every one was proof of their disloyalty to him — until the president himself began to wonder if it was really possible that everyone close to him was disloyal except Tácito de la Canal.
Poor Tácito. You never realized that the more you fawned over the president, the more the public despised you — and the less the president himself trusted you, knowing well enough that in this country the horse you name emperor will kick you to death.
Poor Tácito. Deep down, I don’t harbor you any ill will. I just don’t like you. More precisely, I’d like to see you humiliated. Rich, in exile, but humiliated.
I’m going to hurt you, Tácito, I swear, and I won’t feel the slightest twinge of guilt because I despise you. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be so free with my contempt. There are too many who deserve it. Adieu.
P.S. Next time you go around stealing, be a little smarter about it.
40. EX-PRESIDENT CÉSAR LEÓN TO ONÉSIMO CANABAL, PRESIDENT OF CONGRESS
I’m back on the offensive, my distinguished though indistinguishable friend, and am here to remind you of the days when you — figuratively speaking, of course — were in the political bathroom with a towel over your arm and your hand outstretched, hoping for tips. Who dragged you out of there and made you an usher at the party assemblies and then “the man with the microphone” at the conventions, the one who called for order, attention. .?
“It is my great privilege to present the honorable licenciado César León, candidate for the presidency. . ”
From there you rose to the executive committee of the party, and then the golden exile of an ambassadorship in Luxembourg, where we have so many various and pressing interests (don’t laugh — nobody laughs at those bank accounts in Luxembourg) and you fulfilled your obligations as the trusty little guardian-gnome that you are. And now, congressman for the third consecutive time and president of Congress. Goodness, don Onésimo, how far we have come from those toilet bowl days. One should be grateful, don’t you think? And you’ve proved yourself more than worthy of your hometown of Campeche — why, you’re what they call a real campechano, nice, everyone likes you, sure. But you’ve still got to deal with your mortal enemy Humberto Vidales, the so-called Dark Hand of the state of Tabasco. Of course, it might be more accurate to call him the “Hydra Head”—chop one off and a hundred more grow in its place. In his case, however, those hundred heads are what he very proudly calls “My Nine Evil Sons.” In other words, an evil dynasty. Tabasco is better at that than any other state, and Dark Hand has his conspiracies and plots planned up to the year 3000.