The Eagle's Throne (34 page)

When I became secretary of defense under Lorenzo Terán, I felt more sure of things and so I brought you in, I put you into circulation, sent you to deliver my messages, especially to the interior office. That was where you met María del Rosario Galván. What happened next was inevitable. María del Rosario is a fool for attractive young men. And if she thinks she can groom them politically, an affair is inevitable. She’s a natural Pygmalion in a skirt.

She knew the president was suffering from terminal leukemia. And as the head of national security, I knew as well. It was my obligation to know. Both of us played our respective games. She made you think that she was putting her money on you for president. Now you know the truth. President, yes, but only for a brief period after Terán’s death, just enough time to prepare Herrera’s campaign and election. In order to do that, we had to eliminate a formidable cast of characters. The “usual suspects,” as they say in the movies. Tácito de la Canal, César León, Andino Almazán, General Cícero Arruza. We had to outfox that other ex-president in Veracruz and defuse the plot he hatched involving his secret prisoner in the Ulúa Castle. We had to see to the sentimental accidents of the sniveling woman of the port, Dulce de la Garza; but calming women down is so easy, especially when they’re simpleminded and smitten like Dulce de la Garza, idiotically scheming and crassly licentious like Josefina Almazán, or intelligent—perhaps too intelligent for their own good—like Paulina Tardegarda, a woman you’ll never hear from again, I assure you. One personal, perhaps even romantic detail: Paulina’s only possible companions now, as she’s chained by the legs to her safe deposit box, are the sharks at the bottom of the sea.

No, she’s not short of water now, your dubious friend Paulina Tardegarda, keeper of too many secrets—which turned you into the perfect blackmail victim. Learn not to trust. Don’t even trust me, your own father, Nicolás. And don’t cry for Paulina. The sharks in the Gulf of Mexico will eat her, but her heart will survive. The advantage of a poisoned heart is that it’s immune to fire and water. If it’s any consolation, think of how her heart will survive, like a cocoon of blood at the bottom of the sea.

There are still some loose ends, my son, lest you’ve forgotten. Your protégé, Jesús Ricardo Magón, is so disillusioned that he has no anarchist or homicidal tendencies left. I had him deported under charges of drug trafficking. He’s in prison in France. As he stepped off the plane he was detained by certain members of the Surété with whom I am connected. Don’t worry. I paid for his ticket, first class. His parents, don Cástulo and doña Serafina, think he’s gone to Europe to study. He’s so young! They keep thanking me for the “scholarship” that I got for him as per your orders. And Miss Araceli now has a lifetime subscription to ¡Hola! magazine. She’s since married (or rather, I made sure she married) Hugo Patrón, who’s thrilled with the disco-bar he now runs in Cancún.

Then there’s the question of our two official rivals, María del Rosario Galván and Bernal Herrera.

Their calculations are correct. In the democratic elections to be held in July 2024, Herrera will win. Nobody could possibly challenge him successfully. And you yourself are out of the running because of your present position. There’s no way you can succeed yourself.

In the space of fourteen years, from the age of twenty to thirty-four, you acquired an impressive education, what with your natural talent and my guidance and teaching. Now, however, I have to give you a piece of advice. Don’t be so precocious. Don’t reveal your true colors by shining too brightly now. Remember how the Old Man tried to trick you a couple of times—the Pastry War, Mapy Cortés, the conga, pim-pam-pum? You had no reason to know anything about Mapy Cortés or the conga. But you should have known about the Pastry War. Be careful. Don’t overestimate your newfound education. Don’t ever give anyone a reason to scratch your gold-plated surface and discover a baser metal beneath. Don’t give people cause for jealousy. Keep quiet about your education. Keep the illicit activity in check. It’s not always justified. We’re doing everything possible to consolidate our power base. But it has to stop there. A few dead people now and then? Only when absolutely necessary. You’ve already seen what it did to Arruza’s reputation. He was so busy showing off about his criminal activity that he never stopped to think that someone else might beat him at his own game, that someone would kill the great Cícero Arruza. And Moro—he had to be killed. But you made a mistake sending “Dark Hand” Vidales—he’s vindictive and convinced that his dynastic succession will keep the vendettas alive. You thought you were compromising him with your own guilt when you sent him to Ulúa. Don’t believe it. He’s the one who could compromise you. He’s going to give us a few headaches. What we have to do now is think of how best to neutralize him. Poisonous gifts, that’s what we have to give that viper. From now on, we have to seduce him to the point of putting him to sleep. Presidential lethargy has its advantages, you know. Terán just didn’t know how to exploit it. You need to figure out how not to be perceived as a violent man—make sure whatever violence you resort to is carried out in the name of “justice.” And be careful to keep the moment of truth at bay. But don’t think for a minute that the time for violence in Mexico is over.

My son, my beloved son. Surely you can understand the depth of my feelings—the feelings of a father who lost a precious—unequaled— woman, your mother, to the tyranny and brutal prejudice of her family, the Barrosos. She was the fragile altar of my strongest passion. Let the two of us rebuild this temple ruined by the lies, pretension, greed, and arrogance of the unscrupulous ruling class epitomized by the Barroso family, whose only heir is the perverse María del Rosario Galván. Do you think I’ll allow her to scheme in peace? Why should we have scruples with people who are unscrupulous with us?

Always remember: María del Rosario is from up there, the same social class as your mother. Think of María del Rosario as your mother, but with a fortune, mistress of a life that was denied Michelina. Avenge your mother’s cruel fate on María del Rosario.

I will take care of Bernal Herrera.

You are my creation, Nicolás. My heir. My partner. Together we’ll win. It’s all that matters: attaining power and keeping it forever.

Nicolás Valdivia, my son, power unites us as a longing for the truth. You and I are going to take possession of that truth.

I want to give you one more piece of advice. From now on, don’t let anyone find out what you’re thinking—not even me. Especially if you plan to betray me.

I promise you: In politics, any betrayal is possible. Or at least imaginable.

67

CONGRESSMAN ONÉSIMO CANABAL TO NICOLÁS VALDIVIA

Mr. President, I write to you in the strictest confidence. And with alarm. The heart and soul of the Congress of the Union have been violated. Well, only one office, but Congress is, after all, an inviolable whole. It is the sanctuary of the law, Mr. President. In any event, today I woke up to an urgent phone call from the building custodian, Serna.

In the middle of the night, someone entered the San Lázaro Legislative Palace. Someone deactivated the alarms, slipped past the guards, perhaps bribed the security people. I don’t know. Someone with power, evidently. Mr. President: The office of our friend the congresswoman Paulina Tardegarda, the woman to whom you and I are so indebted, has been ransacked. Her safe deposit box has been wrenched, yes, literally and completely wrenched out of the wall, leaving a gaping hole in its place, which makes the office look awful—we ’ll have to have the whole wall rebuilt, do you realize how much this will cost? (Speaking of expenses, when are you going to name a new treasury secretary now that Andino Almazán has left us?)

The worst thing isn’t that the safe deposit box has been stolen. The honorable congresswoman has disappeared, Mr. President. She isn’t at her apartment on Calle Edgar Allan Poe. Her housekeeper says she didn’t come home last night. We’ve already launched an investigation, on the quiet, of course. But she’s nowhere to be found. She’s vanished without a trace.

What could possibly have become of her? Do you know anything? If it were just that she’d taken a sudden vacation, or was having a good time with someone—well, fine. But the safe deposit box, too, Mr. President? The two things at the same time are what I find most alarming.

I need to know from you. Should we put out a national alert because Paulina Tardegarda has gone missing? Poor thing. She was no saint, but she wasn’t a sinner, either. I can’t imagine anyone would kidnap her out of passion—she wasn’t exactly attractive. She was big enough to kidnap someone herself if she wanted to.

In any case, I need you to authorize the national alert. I can’t do it; only you can. Otherwise, her remains will never be found. Or else they’ll turn up in a witch’s garden, and then turn out not to be hers. Or Paulina will have suddenly undergone plastic surgery like the famous drug trafficker, the “Lord of the Heavens.” Forgive me if this is out of line, don Nicolás, but you know, I think she had the hots for you. . . . Oh, sorry, sorry, who knows, maybe she was just trying to make herself a bit prettier. Poor Paulina, she could use it. . . .

Well, anyway, enough of all that. You do agree that this is a most urgent matter, I trust. I await your orders to take action or to let the issue die, whatever the president thinks best.

Your humble and loyal servant,
Onésimo Canabal

PRESIDENT OF THE HONORABLE CONGRESS OF THE UNION

68

BERNAL HERRERA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN

You’re right, María del Rosario. They’ve changed the rules of the game. Valdivia may appear to respect the electoral calendar but I don’t believe there’s anything in his head or heart that will compel him to hand over the presidency on the first of December, 2024, if in fact I’m elected. We have a problem: There’s no viable politician out there to challenge my candidacy. Tácito, at least, would have been from the presidential cabinet like me. The mini-parties have no charismatic candidates to speak of. The local bosses will support whoever offers them the most protection. The danger for me is that I may end up alone out there. I’ll stand out, my stature will only make me vulnerable. The bad thing about being tall, said de Gaulle, is that we’re people who get noticed. His conclusion? “Tall men have to be more moral than anyone else.”

You once said to me, referring to Tácito, that hatred is more intelligent than love. And I’m going to keep on protecting myself from the illustrious Mr. De la Canal. I don’t trust his newfound humility. He wears it as if he just found it at a flea market. The filial love he professes is not to be trusted. Only believe in his loyalty to sex. According to my sources, he’s already seduced his father’s maid, a woman who calls herself “Gloria Marín.” Oh, well, as you once said to me, “Fidelity is so sad!”

María del Rosario, you and I are going to continue to act as a team, but this time we’ll be at a disadvantage. Don’t laugh at me if I warn you against any attempt to rekindle our old flame. It’s better to be frank. Falling in love again would only demonstrate that as a political couple we’ve suffered a setback and are trying to compensate for it. It would be proof of our weakness and disillusion.

I’m telling you this as a preventive measure. You seem to have become more sentimental lately, and perhaps that could help our situation. I have, too, and I’m tempted by the idea that you and I might be able to love each other again, the way we did at the beginning.

But it would be a weakness, and you know that. We’d be together only in order to lick each other’s wounds. We’d console each other today. And detest each other tomorrow.

Take a cold look at what our relationship was like at first. I only wanted to give you love. You wanted to want love. I believe the only kind of love that would satisfy you is a love that is pure desire. You couldn’t bear a secure, everyday affection. Without risks. You’re a woman who adores risks. You take it to extremes that some—people who don’t love you as I do—would call immoral. Stealing a man from another woman—or another man—makes you happy. Your erotic passion is so deeply ingrained that it has become completely and totally intransigent. Don’t deny it.

I am not obstinate. I am steady. And in my steadiness there’s no room for nostalgia for passion. I know: For you, being unfaithful doesn’t necessarily mean being disloyal. And for that reason, living with you would force me to do something that I don’t ever want to have to do again. I don’t want to be constantly examining and reexamining my relationship and my heart. Living with you would expose me to that agony, and it would be a never-ending one. Marucha, have you been faithful or not?

Thank God we never married. We managed to act as one without having to put up with each other. We can’t go back to what we were. You couldn’t bear it. I’ll give you the reason. Be lovers again? You and I know that the second time wouldn’t be just a mistake. It would be lunacy. Wouldn’t it? The best you could give me would be the necessary distance to love you so much that I would consider you unworthy of my love.

(You know that I admire you for what others despise in you.)

(Don’t torment yourself. Think of all the things we didn’t say to each other.)

Let’s not be tempted at this difficult moment to rekindle our passion. After all, it’s not as though we’ve broken up. We’ve just untied things. What do we have in common? We are powerless over
love,
and we are powerless over power if we’re not together.

I want to reaffirm our pact.

Remember that you and I could destroy each other. Better to stick together. Let there be peace between us. Our pleasure was too tempestuous. Now more than ever, let us proceed calmly.

Never forget that you and I have always been able to reach agreements even when we haven’t technically been
in agreement.

Resign yourself as I have resigned myself. Surrender to my imagination, just as I surrender to yours. There, inside our minds, we can experience our passion forever.

I do have to admit, however, that right now the doors that open on to my mind are like the doors of a saloon: They swing open, they close, they slam shut. . . . But there is one thing I know: We have to find Nicolás Valdivia’s weak spot. The wound that makes him bleed. His most shameful, shamefaced secret. That’s our only hope of defeat. If we want to prevent Nicolás Valdivia from staying in power, we’re going to have to put our heads together.

And in the final analysis, remember—a little bad luck is the best antidote for the bitterness that has yet to come. And the greatest bitterness is that of those who wield absolute power. Nothing satisfies them, they always want more, and that’s where they lose. We identify Nicolás Valdivia’s weakness and we’ll have the key to his downfall.