in the window, no barracks without its flag at half-mast, no private residence without its crepe.
Virtuous, intelligent, charitable, devoted, loyal, what virtue did not come to rest, like a pigeon on a statue, on the spiritual eaves of Dona Clara Carranza de Carrera? What sorrow was not drawn on the distressed though ecstatic face of the commander in chief of the nation? What Mexican did not weep seeing on TV the repeated images of a saintly life dedicated to doing good and dying better?
A stupid woman, ignorant, foolish, and ugly, from whom unpleasant odors emanated. A strange, unintelligible woman because of her mania for always speaking in profile. A spur, however, to a mediocre, neurotic man like Valentin Pedro Carrera.
“What memories do you have, you dummy?” she would say at the private dinners Sangines attended.
“I have a longing to be a nobody again,” he would respond.
“Don’t kid yourself. You are a nobody. Nobody, nobody!” the lady would begin to shriek.
“You’re dying,” he would reply.
“Nobody, nobody!”
Sangines explained the obvious. The lust for power leads us to hide defects, feign virtues, exalt an ideal life, put on the little masks of happiness, seriousness, concern for the people, and always find, if not the phrases then the appropriate attitudes. The fact is that Valentin Pedro Carrera exploited his wife, and she allowed herself to be exploited because she knew she would not have another opportunity to feel famous, useful, and even loved.
Neither one was sincere, and this confirms that in order to achieve power, a lack of sincerity is indispensable.
“Valentin Pedro Carrera was elected on a corpse.”
“Nothing new, Maestro,” I interrupted. “It was the rule in Mexico: Huerta kills Madero, Carranza overthrows Huerta, Obregon eliminates Carranza, Carranza ascends on the corpse of Obregon, etcetera,” I repeated like a parakeet.
“A bloodless etcetera: the principle of nonreelection saves us from succession by assassination, though not from ungrateful successions of heirs who in the end owe power to their predecessor.” Sangines finally tasted his cold consomme.
“The obligation to liquidate the predecessor who gave power to his successor,” I completed the thought.
“Rules of the Hereditary Republic.”
Sangines smiled before continuing, having tasted with that spoonful my elementary political knowledge due, as you all know, to the secret information Antigua Concepcion gave me in a nameless graveyard.
Many jokes were made about the presidential couple. Dona Clara loves the president and the president loves himself. They have that in common. And the black humor was profitable. In La Merced they sold dolls of the president run through with pins by his wife, with the legend:
Which is what really happened. Without the amulet of his dying wife, and as the memory of Clara Carranza, the martyr of Los Pinos, and the concomitant sorrow of Valentin Pedro Carrera began to fade, he was left without his saving grace, which consisted of living through the agony of waiting. At times you could say the president would have wanted to live the agony of Dona Clarita himself, make certain she continued to suffer, continued to serve him politically and not constantly threaten him:
“Valentin Pedro, I’m going to kill myself!”
“Why, my love, what for…”
“The fact,” Sangines continued, putting aside the consomme, “is that the weaknesses of Valentin Pedro Carrera wasted no time in appearing, like cracks in a wall of sand. Issues came up that required the decision of the executive. Promulgating and executing laws. Appointing officials. Naming army officers. Conducting foreign policy. Granting pardons and privileges and authorizing exemptions and import duties. Carrera let them slide. At most, he passed them on to his ministers of state. When he didn’t, the ministers acted in his name. At times what one minister did contradicted what another said, or vice versa.”
“We’re negotiating.”
“Enough negotiations. We must be firm.”
“We have an agreement with the union.”
“Enough coddling of the union.”
“Oil is a possession of the state.”
“Oil has to be opened to private initiative.”
“The state is the philanthropic ogre.”
“Private initiative lacks initiative.”
“There will be a highway from Papasquiaro to Tangamandapio.”
“Let them travel by burro.”
“Let us collaborate with our good neighbors.”
“They’re the neighbors. We’re the good ones.”
“Between Mexico and the United States, the desert.”
The truth, Sangines continued, is that the president made the mistake of forming a cabinet composed only of friends or people of his generation. This formula had fatal results. Friends became enemies, each one protecting his small plot of power. The generational idea did not always get along with the functional one. Being from a generation is not a virtue: it is a date. And you don’t play with dates, because none possesses intrinsic virtues beyond its presence-no matter how fleeting-on the calendar.
“Dead leaves!” Sangines exclaimed when the servant came in carrying a platter of rice with fried bananas, and as he offered it to me, he said respectfully:
“Good evening, Senor Josue.”
I looked up and recognized the old waiter from Errol Esparza’s house who had been fired by the second and now overthrown wife, Senora Sarita Perez.
“Hilarion!” I recognized him. “How nice!”
He said nothing. He leaned over. I served myself. I looked at Sangines out of the corner of my eye. As if nothing had happened. The servant withdrew.
“Rumors began to circulate,” my host went on. “The president does not preside. He inaugurates public works. He makes vague remarks. He smiles with a face more florid than a carnation. The unfailing evil tongues begin to speak of a cursed term. They even insinuate, in the second year of the government, that longevity in office is fatal to the reputation of the leader.”
“And to his health as well.”
Guided by a mad compass, Carrera dipped his big toe into foreign policy, the traditional refuge of a president of Mexico without a domestic policy. It turned out badly. The North Americans increased the armed guards along the northern border with increasing deaths of migrant workers. The Guatemalans opened the southern border for an invasion of Mexico by Central American workers. All that was left for the president to do was to stroll through the Davos Forum dressed as an Eskimo and give a speech at the General Assembly of the United Nations attended by no one except the delegates from Black Africa, who are very courteous.
“ ‘It was an unlucky moment for me when Clarita died!’ ” the president exclaimed one night.
“ ‘What you need is for half your cabinet to die,’ ” I dared to tell him. “ ‘Their incompetence reflects on you, Mr. President.’ ”
“ ‘What do you advise, Sangines?’ ” he asked me with a desolate expression.
“ ‘New blood,’ ” I said. “The result”-and he liquidated the last fried plantain without making a sound-“is Jerico’s presence in the office of the president.”
“What a good idea,” I said with sincerity but no conviction, trying to guess at the hidden intentions of Don Antonio Sangines, a truly astute puppeteer and know-it-all, I realized at that moment, in our lives. Jerico’s and mine.
“Shall I tell you what your friend has done at Los Pinos.”
It wasn’t a question. In any event, I agreed.
“He brought together functions scattered among various secretaries at the suggestion of the president. Appointments, the need to render accounts, consult with the executive before taking action, meet in a council of ministers presided over by Valentin Pedro Carrera, make periodic reports. And as for the president, to move ahead of the ministers in relationships with unions, management, universities, the fourth estate, the governors, the congress: Day after day Jerico took charge of everything, establishing a network of presidential control that made
