Jerico told me that the President of the Republic, Don Valentin Pedro Carrera, received him in the formal office at Los Pinos with these concepts and asked him to have a seat in a chair conspicuously lower than the chief executive’s as the president caressed with his long fingers the busts of the heroes-Hidalgo, Juarez, Madero-that adorned his vast, bare desk. In addition to heroes, there were a good number of telephones and behind Jerico’s seat three television sets with the sound off but transmitting constant images.
He told Jerico he was always looking for new blood, for new ideas. Licenciado Sangines had recommended Jerico as an intelligent, very cultured boy, educated abroad and with no political experience.
“Just as well,” laughed the president. “Correct me in time, Jerico,” he said with the heartiness of informal address immediately authorized by the difference in their ages: Valentin Pedro Carrera was close to fifty but said jokingly that “after forty-one you can’t walk, you have to run.
“So you’re very cultured, right? Well, take good care of me because I’m not. Don’t hold back, correct me in time, don’t let me talk about the Brazilian female novelist Dona Sara Mago or the Arabic female philosopher Rabina Tagora.”
He guffawed again, as if wanting to ease tensions and put Jerico at his ease and receptive to what Mr. President Carrera intended to tell him.
“My philosophy, young man, is that there should be a rotation of individuals here, not classes. And it’s necessary to rotate individuals because otherwise the classes become agitated seeing the same faces. Those at the bottom become agitated because the permanence of those at the top reminds them of the absence of those at the bottom. Those at the top become agitated because they’re afraid a gerontocracy will perpetuate itself and the young will never get beyond subsecretary, or high-ranking official, or out-and-out mediocrity.”
He narrowed his eyes until he looked like a Chinese-Aryan, since his Spanish features were crossbred with swarthy skin and both of them with an Asian gaze.
“I called you after talking to my old adviser Sangines so you can give me a hand with a project I have in mind.”
He smoothed his reddish, graying mustache.
“I’ll explain my philosophy. The Mexican plateau is not only a geographical fact. It is a historical one. It is a flat height, or a high flatland, which allows us to look at the stature of time.”
Jerico half-closed his eyes in order not to yawn. He expected a complete oratorical exercise. That did not happen.
“But to get to the point, Jero… May I call you that?”
What was “Jero” going to say except simply to nod his consent. He says he didn’t feel intimidated and didn’t stoop to “Whatever you like, Mr. President.”
That individual proceeded to explain that man does not live by bread alone but also by festivals and illusions.
“You have to invent heroes and bequeath them,” said Carrera as he caressed the innocent heads of the bronzed leading men of the nation. “You have to invent ‘the year’ of something that distracts people.”
“No doubt,” said Jerico, boldly. “People need distraction.”
“There you go,” the president continued. “Look.” He caressed the three heads, one after the other. “For me Independence, Reform, and Revolution passed me in the night. I am a child of Democracy, I was elected and am accountable only to my electors. But I repeat, democracy does not live by ballot boxes alone, and here and in China memorable dates have to be created that give pride to the people, memory to amnesiacs, and a future to the dissatisfied.”
He didn’t say “I have finished speaking,” but let’s pretend he did. Jerico says he sent the chief executive a quietly interrogative look.
“Commemorative dates are born of unimportant dates,” my friend ventured and realized, taking his measure, that the president did not like anyone to see him disconcerted.
“In other words,” Carrera continued, “a president has to be a hedonometer.”
Jerico feigned an idiotic face. Presidential vanity was restored.
“The pleasure, happiness, joy of the people must be measured. You’re so cultured”-the tail end of irony appeared-“do you think a science of happiness exists? How much happiness does the average Mexican need? A lot, not much, none at all? Listen carefully. The voice of experience is talking to you, you can count on it!”
Though his gaze revealed the most perverse brutality.
“This country has always lived in miserable poverty. Always, a mass of the fucked and we, a minority of fuckers, are over them. And believe me, Jero, if we want it all to continue, we have to make the fucked believe that even though they’re fucked they’re happier than you and me.”
His face became serene.
“In other words, my good Jero: I don’t want Mexicans to be rich. I want them to be happy. Just look at the Gringos. Look at what prosperity has done for them! They work constantly, eat badly, you can bet they fuck in a hurry, a straight suburban quickie, they don’t have vacations, they don’t have social welfare, they retire at fifty and die beside a lawn mower. A lot of work, a lot of money, and not much satisfaction… Some happiness! In Mexico, at least, there’s always been a certain, what shall I call it? pastoral well-being, you’re happy with your tortilla here, your tequilas there…”
Once again the ogre.
“That’s over, young man. Too much information, too many appetites, too much envy. Max Monroy with his handheld devices has brought information to the most remote corners. Once you could govern almost in secret, people believed in the annual report on September first, they believed that the more statistics there were, the happier they would be, but damn it all to hell, Jero! No more. People are informed and they don’t conform and it’s my job to fill in the gaps at the patriotic festival, the commemorative parade, the ceremonies that replace the imagination and appease their spirits, their thirst and hunger.”
He gave Jerico a small, friendly slap.
“I need young blood. New people, with ideas, with education. Like you. Sangines endorses you. That’s more than enough for me. The good lic has never failed me, and if I’m here I owe it in great measure to Don Antonio Sangines. Well, well,” he said with a sigh. “This country is divided into cream, watery milk, yogurt, and the infamous dulce de leche. You choose.”
He looked at Jerico as one looks at a man condemned to death who has just been pardoned.
“Think positively, my young collaborator. Think about the efficacy of the parade and the festival. A ceremony is the cloak of dignity everyone can place around their shoulders, hiding their rags. Bring me ideas. Let’s celebrate sports and athletes, songs and singers, brands of beer, and national sweets, let’s even celebrate ex-governors. Invent reputations, boy. Create museums and more museums. Parades and more parades. Lots of music, lots of trombones. Lots of ‘Marcha Zacatecas.’ And don’t underestimate the political transcendence of what the assignment means. Ask yourself: Do people know their own interests? Max Monroy wants them to. I think they’re not unaware of them, they just replace them with commemorations. In the long run, Monroy wants to transform luxury into necessity. He wants people to take for granted that they deserve what they once had to pay for. If he succeeds, Jero, power is over, undone by critical exigency. If wealth is transformed into necessity, power becomes unnecessary because people are satisfied only with what others don’t have and power is satisfied only with what others already have. Otherwise tell me, what the hell are we promising?”
He stood and extended a robust hand. His rings hurt Jerico. The president stared at him. Like a tiger with its prey.
“Don’t even imagine that I’m talking more than I should.”
“No, Mr. President.”
“If you repeat it, nobody will believe you but I’ll make you pay.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“Don’t even think you can begin your political career by beating me.”
“If you think that, fire me.”
The president gave a loud laugh, reverting to the familiar
“Don’t worry. I’ll give you a pension. And something else.”
“Tell me, Senor.”
“Don’t make a fool of me.”
The telephone rang. The president walked over to answer it. He listened. Between silences he said:
