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?
“Manolete casts a spell on the bull,” said a melancholic Juan Francisco, dining alone with Danton in El Parador after the bullfight.
The son wanted to keep to himself the lesson of that afternoon when he saw Manolete fight: triumph and glory are passing things; we have to kill one bull after another so as to put off our own final defeat, the day when our bull kills us, we have to win ear and tail and exit in triumph every day of our lives.
“They say people are selling their cars and their mattresses to buy tickets to the Plaza to see Manolete. Could that be true?” he asked.
“For the first time, there are three programs a week in the Plaza,” said his father. “There must be a reason.”
The dashing bullfighter strolled around the centers of Mexico City’s cosmopolitan nightlife-the Casanova, the Minuit, the Sans Souci-accompanied by Fernanda Montel, a Valkyrian woman who balanced the depth of her decolletes with the height of her hairdos, genuine towers dyed blue, green, rose. In Coyoacan, the dethroned King Carol of Romania, with his drooping mustache, oyster eyes, and receding chin, walked his poodles with his lover, Magda Lupescu, more attentive to her silver fox furs than to her exiled king. From a table at Ciro’s, in the Hotel Reforma, Carmen Cortina made battle plans with her old allies-the actress Andrea Negrete, Butt del Rosal, and the English painter Felicity Smith-to recruit all the international fauna the tides of war had beached in Mexico. God bless you, Adolf Hitler! sighed the hostess to her group, seated not far from Ciro’s owner, a dwarf with a tiepin named A. C. Blumenthal, front man for Bugsy Siegel, the Hollywood gangster, whose discarded lover, Virginia Hill, owner of a tremulous chin and faded hair and that sudden sadness which attacks some women from the city of Los Angeles, was drinking martini after martini, and martinis were what the novelist John Steinbeck, his Gordon’s Gin eyes filled with lost battles and now in Mexico for the filming of his novella
Laura D az had to go to Ciro’s because Diego Rivera was painting a series of female nudes there, all inspired by Rivera’s own starry love, the actress Paulette Goddard, an intelligent, ambitious woman who spoke to Laura only in order to ignore Diego and annoy him, while Laura, in turn, scrutinized Ciro’s clientele with an irony as sweet as the street where “El Indio” Fernandez lived: people she hadn’t seen in fifteen years, Carmen Cortina’s group, and the satellites coming and going from her table: the painter from Guadalajara, Tizoc Ambriz, who stubbornly dressed as a young railroad worker though he was fifty. Indelible marks of time were printed on their faces, but they were invulnerable in their pretensions, stuck in their reality like a pantheon of wax figures: two tone Andrea, now quite plump; the once fat and jowly Spaniard Onomastico Galan, now deflated and wrinkled, like a used condom; the British painter James Saxon looking more and more like the entire House of Windsor; and her old companion from Xalapa, Elizabeth Garcia-Dupont, ex-wife of Caraza, now thin as a mummy, one hand trembling and the other clutching a young man: dark, mustached, and imperturbably pimpish.
A hand touched Laura Diaz’s shoulder. She recognized Laura Riviere, Artemio Cruz’s lover, who had overcome the fifteen years that had passed thanks to the elegant opalescent beauty concentrated in her unaging melancholy eyes.
“Come see me whenever you like. Why haven’t you ever visited?”
And then, homburg hat in hand, Orlando Ximenez came in. Laura, could not measure time; the only face she could confer on Orlando was the same youthful one he’d had at the dances at San Cayetano more than thirty years before. She felt a mild vertigo seeing the image of the boy who made love to her on the terraces scented with nocturnal oranges and sleeping coffee trees; she excused herself and left.
Gravitating toward something is not the same as falling toward it; it’s drawing closer, it’s when you draw close, Laura told Danton, who had thought, after the day with his father at the CTM and the Chamber of Deputies, This isn’t for me, but my dad’s right, what is for me? He too was gazing out from the balcony overlooking the Bosque de Chapultepec, and he knew that on the other side of the park was Las Lomas de Chapultepec section. That’s where the rich people lived, new and old money, he didn’t care, it was there that new mansions with swimming pools and lawns for garden parties and society weddings were being built, three-car garages, interior decoration by Pani and Paco el de La Granja, wardrobes by Valdes Peza, hats by Henri de Chatillon, flowers by Matsumoto, and banquets catered by Mayita.
How could a simple poor boy like himself, whose poverty was neither old nor new, get into those places? Because that’s what Danton Lopez-Diaz wanted to do. He gave due attention to his father’s modest suggestions: should he be a politician, a businessman, a journalist, a military officer? Then he decided to create his own destiny- that is, his own fortune. And since in Mexico it was hard to acquire class without money, the young economics student decided he had no option but to acquire money with class. Leafing through the society magazines was enough to make him see the difference. There was the new society created by the Revolution, rich, living in Las Lomas de Chapultepec, insecure but daring, dark skinned but cosmetically lightened, impertinently showing off its recently acquired wealth for good or ill: dark men-soldiers, politicians, impresarios-married to light women-creoles in distress, long-suffering. The revolutionaries, in their armed descent from the north, had harvested the prettiest virginal buds from Hermosillo and Culiacan, from Torreon and San Luis, from Zacatecas and El Baj o. Mothers of their children. Vestals of their homes. Resigned to the affairs of their powerful sultans.
And then there was the old, aristocratic, and impoverished society that lived on streets with the names of European cities, between Avenida Insurgentes and Paseo de la Reforma. Their houses were small but elegant, built around 1918-20, two-story buildings with stone facades, balconies, coach houses, and, overlooking the street, a
But oh how they prayed. That was visible. Every Sunday, just after one, the boys and girls of this “good society” met to go to Mass in La Votiva church on the corner of Genova and Reforma. Later, chatting, flirting, making plans to eat, where? At El Parador de Jose Luis around the corner on Niza? At Luisito Mun oz’s 1-2-3 on Liverpool? At the Jockey Club at the Americas Hippodrome? At the home of one of those people with picturesquely intimate names- Gifty, Princess, Miss Chubby, Missy, Froggy, Skinny, Cheeky, Diver, Kitty? In Mexico, only aristocrats and thugs were known by their nicknames. What was the name of that highwayman who sliced off the fingers of Danton’s great- grandmother with a machete? The Hunk from where?
Danton explored, calculated, and decided to begin there: one o’clock Mass in the white-and-blue La Votiva, Moorish as a repentant mosque.
The first time, no one turned around to see who he was. The second time, people looked at him with puzzled astonishment. The third time, a tall blond boy came over and asked who he was.
“I’m Lopez.”
“Lopez?”
“Yes, Lopez, the most well-known name in the telephone book.”
That got a laugh out of the boy, who threw his head of wavy hair back, revealing a long neck where his Adam’s apple bounced up and down.
“Lopez! Lopez! Lopez what?”
“Diaz.”
“And? What else?”
“Greene. And Kelsen.”
“Listen, everybody, this guy’s got more last names than all of us put together. Come have lunch at the Jockey.
