Years With Laura Diaz, The (44 page)
Read Years With Laura Diaz, The Online
Authors: Carlos Fuentes
Danton knew his father would enjoy his tales of bars, challenges, and serenades which, at the suburban level, reenacted the movie deeds of the Singing Cowboy. In school, he was punished for such escapades. Juan Francisco celebrated them, however, and the son gave thanks, wondering whether his father was nostalgic for the adventures of his own youth or if, thanks to the son, he was enjoying for the first time the youth he had missed. Juan Francisco never spoke of his intimate past. If Laura was betting that her husband would reveal the secrets of his origin to their younger son, she was mistaken. There was a sealed zone in López Greene’s life story, the very awakening of his personality: had he always been the attractive, eloquent, brave leader she met in the Xalapa Casino when she was twenty-one, or was there something before and behind the glory, a blank space that would explain the silent, indifferent, and fearful man who now lived with her?
Juan Francisco taught the son he coddled about the glorious history of the workers movement against the dictatorship of Porfirio D
az. After 1867, when Maximilian’s empire fell, Benito Juárez found himself face to face, right here in Mexico City, with well-organized groups of anarchists who had secretly come in with the Hungarian, Austrian, Czech, and French troops who supported the Habsburg archduke. They stayed here when the French withdrew and Juárez had Maximilian shot. Those anarchists had grouped artisans into Resistance Societies. In 1870 the Grand Circle of Mexican Workers was constituted, then in 1876 a secret Bakunin group, The Social, celebrated the first general workers congress in the Mexican Republic.
az. After 1867, when Maximilian’s empire fell, Benito Juárez found himself face to face, right here in Mexico City, with well-organized groups of anarchists who had secretly come in with the Hungarian, Austrian, Czech, and French troops who supported the Habsburg archduke. They stayed here when the French withdrew and Juárez had Maximilian shot. Those anarchists had grouped artisans into Resistance Societies. In 1870 the Grand Circle of Mexican Workers was constituted, then in 1876 a secret Bakunin group, The Social, celebrated the first general workers congress in the Mexican Republic.“So you see, my boy, the Mexican workers movement wasn’t born yesterday, even though it had to struggle against ancient colonial prejudices. There was an anarchist delegate, Soledad Soria. They tried to nullify her membership because the presence of a woman violated tradition, they said. The Congress grew to have eighty thousand members, just imagine. Something to be proud of. It was logical that President Díaz began to repress them, especially in the terrible putting down of miners in Cananea. Don Porfirio began his repression there because the American groups that dominated the copper company had sent in almost a hundred armed men from Arizona, rangers, to protect
American property. It’s always the same old song from the gringos. They invade a country to protect life and property. The miners also wanted the same old thing, an eight-hour day, wages, housing, schools. They, too, wanted life and property. They were massacred. But it was there that the Díaz dictatorship cracked for good. They didn’t calculate that a single crack can bring down an entire building.”
American property. It’s always the same old song from the gringos. They invade a country to protect life and property. The miners also wanted the same old thing, an eight-hour day, wages, housing, schools. They, too, wanted life and property. They were massacred. But it was there that the Díaz dictatorship cracked for good. They didn’t calculate that a single crack can bring down an entire building.”
Juan Francisco was delighted to have an attentive audience, his own son, for whom he could rehearse those heroic stories of the Mexican workers movement, culminating in the textile strike at Rio Blanco in 1907, where Don Porfirio’s Finance Minister, Yves Limantour, supported the French owners and planned to prohibit uncensored books, require passports to enter and leave the factory, as if it were a foreign country, and note in company documents the rebellious history of each worker.
“Once again it was a woman, Margarita Romero by name, who led the march to the company store and set it on fire. The army came in and shot two hundred workers. The troops set up their garrison in Veracruz, and it was then that I came to organized the resistance.”
“What did you do before, Papa?”
“I think my story begins with the Revolution. Before that, I have no biography, my boy.”
He brought Danton to the offices of the CTM, to a cubicle where he received telephone calls, which always ended with his saying “yes, sir,” “just as you say,” and “an order is an order, sir,” before he went off to Congress to communicate to the labor deputies the orders of the President and Secretary of State.
That’s how he spent the day. But en route from the union offices to the Chamber and then back, Danton saw a world he didn’t like. It all seemed a circus of complicities, a minuet of agreements dictated from above by the real powers and repeated below mechanically in Congress and the unions, without argument or doubt but in an interminable circle of hugs, pats on the back, secrets whispered into ears, envelopes with official seals, occasional bursts of laughter, vulgar horseplay that had the obvious purpose of salvaging the leaders’ and deputies’ ill-treated
masculinity, constant dates for grand banquets that might end at midnight in the House of the Lady Bandit, winks of “you know what I mean” in matters of sex and money, and Juan Francisco circulating among all this.
masculinity, constant dates for grand banquets that might end at midnight in the House of the Lady Bandit, winks of “you know what I mean” in matters of sex and money, and Juan Francisco circulating among all this.
“It’s orders …”
“It’s convenient …”
“Of course they’re communal lands, but the beachfront hotels will give jobs to the whole community …”
“The hospital, the school, the highway—these will all integrate your region better, Congressman, especially the highway, which will run right next to your property …”
“Well, yes, I do know it’s his lady’s whim, but let’s give in. What do we have to lose? The Secretary will be grateful to us for the rest of his life …”
“No, there’s an interest higher up that wants to stop this strike. It’s over, understand? Everything can be achieved through laws and conciliation, without fights. You have to realize, Mr. Congressman, that the government’s raison d’être is to ensure stability and social peace in Mexico. That, today, is what revolutionary means.”
“Yes, I know President Cárdenas promised you a cooperative, comrades. And we’re going to have it. The problem is that the requirements of production demand a strong leadership nationally linked to the CTM and the Party of the Mexican Revolution. If we don’t have that, comrades, we’ll be swallowed up by priests and landowners, as always.”
“Have faith.”
Wasn’t he going to request a sightly more elegant office?
No, Juan Francisco told Danton, a spot like this is appropriate for me, modest, and better to work from. This way I don’t offend anyone.
But I thought you made money to show off.
Then you should work as a contractor or a businessman. Those people can do what they like.
Why?
Because they create jobs. That’s the formula.
And you?
We all have to play the role assigned us. That’s the law of the world. Which do you like, son: businessman, newspaperman, soldier … ?
None of those, Papa.
Well, what do you want to do?
Whatever I have to.
Chapultepec-Polanco: 1947
T
HE INAUGURATION of President Miguel Alemán in December 1946 coincided with an astonishing event in the Avenida Sonora household. Aunt María de la O started speaking again. “He’s from Veracruz, a
jarocho,”
she said—of the new, young, elegant head of state, the first civilian President, after a series of military men.
HE INAUGURATION of President Miguel Alemán in December 1946 coincided with an astonishing event in the Avenida Sonora household. Aunt María de la O started speaking again. “He’s from Veracruz, a
jarocho,”
she said—of the new, young, elegant head of state, the first civilian President, after a series of military men.
Everyone—Laura D
az, Juan Francisco, Santiago, Danton—was taken aback, but Aunt María’s surprises didn’t stop there: for no reason at all, she started dancing
la bamba
at all hours of the day or night, her swollen ankles notwithstanding.
az, Juan Francisco, Santiago, Danton—was taken aback, but Aunt María’s surprises didn’t stop there: for no reason at all, she started dancingla bamba
at all hours of the day or night, her swollen ankles notwithstanding.
“No fool like an old fool,” said a scornful Danton.
Then, at the beginning of the new year, María de la O made her sensational announcement: “The time of sadness is over. I’m going back to live in Veracruz. An old beau of mine from the port has asked me to marry him. He’s my age, though I don’t know exactly what my age is, because Mama never registered me. She wanted me to grow up quickly and follow her in the crazy life. Silly cunt, I hope she’s sizzling in hell. All I know is that Matías Matadamas—that’s my boyfriend—can dance the
danzón
like an angel, and he’s promised to
take me dancing twice a week in the city square, right along with everyone else.”
danzón
like an angel, and he’s promised to
take me dancing twice a week in the city square, right along with everyone else.”
“Nobody’s named Matías Matadamas,” said Danton the wet blanket.
“You little snot,” replied Auntie. “For your information, St. Matías was the last apostle, the one who took the place of Judas the Traitor after the crucifixion so there would be an even dozen.”
“Apostle and boyfriend all at the last minute!” Danton laughed. “As if Jesus Christ were a peddler who sold saints cheaper by the dozen.”
“Just you wait and see if the last minute isn’t sometimes the first, you disbeliever.” María de la O was berating him, but truth to tell, she was not in the mood for reproofs. What she wanted was to be dancing
bulerías.
“I can just see myself, holding on to him tight,” she went on with her best daydream air, “cheek to cheek, dancing on a brick, which is how you should dance the
danzón,
barely moving your body, just your feet, your feet tapping out the beat, slow, delicious, sexy. Oh boy, family, I am going to live!”
bulerías.
“I can just see myself, holding on to him tight,” she went on with her best daydream air, “cheek to cheek, dancing on a brick, which is how you should dance the
danzón,
barely moving your body, just your feet, your feet tapping out the beat, slow, delicious, sexy. Oh boy, family, I am going to live!”
Nobody could explain Aunt María de la O’s miracle; nobody could thwart her will or even take her to the train, much less to Veracruz.
“He’s my boyfriend. He’s my life. My time has come. I’m tired of being a parasite. From now to the grave, pure Caribbean fun and nights on the town. A little old lady died shuffling cards. To hell with that! Not me!”
With those words, a not unusual proof that the tongues of the old loosen up when there’s nothing to lose, she boarded the Interoceanic train almost with relief, a renewed woman, a miracle.
Even though Auntie’s chair was empty, Laura Díaz insisted on continuing the afternoon ceremony of sitting at the balcony and observing the to-and-fro of the city. It had changed little between the inauguration of General Avila Camacho and that of Mr. Alemán. During the war, Mexico had become a Latin American Lisbon (Casablanca with
nopales
, quipped Orlando), a refuge for the many men and women fleeing from the European conflict. Two hundred thousand Spanish Republicans came, and Laura told herself that Jorge Maura’s labors had not been in vain. The cream of the Spanish intelligentsia arrived, a terrible bloodletting for the contemptible Franco dictatorship but a
magnificent transfusion for Mexico’s university life, literature, art, and science. In exchange for shelter, the Spanish Republicans renovated Mexico’s culture—a wonderful example of the universalism that saves cultures from nationalist viruses.
nopales
, quipped Orlando), a refuge for the many men and women fleeing from the European conflict. Two hundred thousand Spanish Republicans came, and Laura told herself that Jorge Maura’s labors had not been in vain. The cream of the Spanish intelligentsia arrived, a terrible bloodletting for the contemptible Franco dictatorship but a
magnificent transfusion for Mexico’s university life, literature, art, and science. In exchange for shelter, the Spanish Republicans renovated Mexico’s culture—a wonderful example of the universalism that saves cultures from nationalist viruses.
In a small apartment on Lerma Street, the great poet Emilio Prados, with his blind man’s glasses and his tangled, graying mane, lived modestly. Prados had already foreseen the “flight” and “arrival” in his beautiful poems about the “persecuted body,” which Laura memorized and recited to Santiago. The poet wanted to flee, he said, “tired of hiding in the branches … tired of this wound. There are limits.” As Laura recited, she heard the voice of Jorge Maura reaching her from far off, as if poetry were the only form of true actuality allowed by the eternal God to His poor mortal creatures. Prados, Jorge Maura, Laura D
az, and perhaps Santiago López-Díaz as he listened to her read the poems—they all wanted to arrive “with my rigid body … that flows like a river without water, walking on foot through a dream with five sharp flames nailed to my chest.”
az, and perhaps Santiago López-Díaz as he listened to her read the poems—they all wanted to arrive “with my rigid body … that flows like a river without water, walking on foot through a dream with five sharp flames nailed to my chest.”Coming and going, tricked out like an Englishman taking a stroll, was Luis Cernuda with his houndstooth jackets and Duke of Windsor ties, his slicked-down hair and French movie-star mustache, scattering the most beautiful erotic poems in the Spanish language along the streets of Mexico City. Now it was Santiago who read to his mother, running feverishly from one poem to the next, never finishing one, finding the perfect line, the unforgettable words:
What a sad noise two bodies make when they love.
I could knock down their body, leaving only the truth of your love …
I know no freedom but the freedom of being imprisoned in someone …
I kissed his tracks …
Luis Bun
uel was in Mexico City, too, expelled from New York because of the gossip and calumny there of his former friend Salvador Dal
, now anagrammed into Avida Dollars. Laura D
az learned about him from Jorge Maura, who had shown her Bun
uel’s film about the Las
Hurdes region in Spain, a film of unbearable pain and abandonment that the Republic itself censored.
uel was in Mexico City, too, expelled from New York because of the gossip and calumny there of his former friend Salvador Dal, now anagrammed into Avida Dollars. Laura Daz learned about him from Jorge Maura, who had shown her Bunuel’s film about the LasHurdes region in Spain, a film of unbearable pain and abandonment that the Republic itself censored.
And on Amazonas Street lived Don Manuel Pedroso, former rector of the University of Seville, surrounded by first editions of Hobbes, Machiavelli, and Rousseau, with his students at his feet. Danton, brought to one of Pedroso’s
tertulias
by a fellow student in the law school, remarked to his friend as they walked along Paseo de la Reforma to dine at the Bellinghausen restaurant on Londres Street, “He’s a charming old man. But his ideas are utopian. That stuff’s not for me.”
tertulias
by a fellow student in the law school, remarked to his friend as they walked along Paseo de la Reforma to dine at the Bellinghausen restaurant on Londres Street, “He’s a charming old man. But his ideas are utopian. That stuff’s not for me.”
At the next table, Max Aub was eating with other exiled writers. He looked focused: short, curly hair, immense forehead, eyes lost in the depth of a glass swimming pool, and expressions impossible to separate, like the faces on a coin, where heads was his frown and tails his smile. Aub had shared adventures with André Malraux during the war and predicted for Franco a “true death” that would be totally unrelated to any calendar date, because for the dictator it would be, more than a surprise, an
ignorance
of his own death.
ignorance
of his own death.
“My mother knows him,” said Danton to his classmate. “She’s in with the intellectuals because she works with Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo.”
“And because she was the girlfriend of a Spanish Communist spy,” said the friend, though that was the last thing he said, because Danton broke his nose with a punch. Chairs were turned over, tablecloths were stained, and Laura Díaz’s son angrily shook off the waiters and departed the restaurant.
The torero Manolete, now living in Mexico, was bringing crowds to the bullfights. A Francoist, he was actually El Greco’s last creation: thin, sad, stylized, Manuel Rodríguez “Manolete” was skillful in a priestly way. He fought standing tall, immutable, vertical as a candle. His rival was Pepe Luis Vázquez, Juan Francisco explained to Danton when father and son went to the new Plaza Monumental Mexico along with sixty thousand fans to see Manolete, Pepe Luis being the orthodox Sevillan and Manolete the unorthodox Córdoban, who broke the classic rules by not extending the
muleta
—the short staff on which
the red cape is hung—to calm and control the bull, who didn’t take risks to make the bull enter the space of the fight, who stood still, calmed and ordered, never moving from his place, exposed to the bull, who was bringing the fight to him. And when the bull charged this unmoving bullfighter, the entire stadium gasped in anguish, held its breath, and exploded into an
olé
of victory when the marvelous Manolete broke the tension with an extremely slow-moving attack and sank his sword into the bull’s body. Did you see that? Juan Francisco asked his son as they walked, in the crush of the crowd, out of the Plaza through the honeycomb of crisscrossing long passageways. Did you see that? He fought the whole time face to face, never bending, dominating the bull from below, our hearts all skipped a beat watching him fight! But Danton remembered only one lesson: The bull and the bullfighter saw each other’s face. They were two faces of death. Only apparently did the bull die and the bullfighter survive. The truth is, the man was mortal and the animal immortal, the hull went on and on and on, charged and charged and charged, again and again, blinded by the sun, and the sand stained by the blood of a single immortal bull who saw generation after generation of mortal bullfighters pass on. When would Manolete die, in what ring would he find the death that he only apparently dealt each bull, what would be the name of the bull that would kill Manolete, where was it waiting for him?
muleta
—the short staff on which
the red cape is hung—to calm and control the bull, who didn’t take risks to make the bull enter the space of the fight, who stood still, calmed and ordered, never moving from his place, exposed to the bull, who was bringing the fight to him. And when the bull charged this unmoving bullfighter, the entire stadium gasped in anguish, held its breath, and exploded into an
olé
of victory when the marvelous Manolete broke the tension with an extremely slow-moving attack and sank his sword into the bull’s body. Did you see that? Juan Francisco asked his son as they walked, in the crush of the crowd, out of the Plaza through the honeycomb of crisscrossing long passageways. Did you see that? He fought the whole time face to face, never bending, dominating the bull from below, our hearts all skipped a beat watching him fight! But Danton remembered only one lesson: The bull and the bullfighter saw each other’s face. They were two faces of death. Only apparently did the bull die and the bullfighter survive. The truth is, the man was mortal and the animal immortal, the hull went on and on and on, charged and charged and charged, again and again, blinded by the sun, and the sand stained by the blood of a single immortal bull who saw generation after generation of mortal bullfighters pass on. When would Manolete die, in what ring would he find the death that he only apparently dealt each bull, what would be the name of the bull that would kill Manolete, where was it waiting for him?
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