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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  I. A Capital Girl

  II. Pain

  III. Spoils

  IV. The Line of Oblivion

  V. Malintzin of the Maquilas

  VI. Las Amigas

  VII. The Crystal Frontier

  VIII. The Bet

  IX. Río Grande, Río Bravo

  Also by Carlos Fuentes

  Copyright

  1

  A CAPITAL GIRL

  For Héctor Aguilar Camín

  1

  “There is absolutely nothing of interest in Campazas.” The Blue Guide’s categorical statement made Michelina Laborde smile slightly, disturbing for a moment the perfect symmetry of her face. Her “little Mexican mask” a French admirer had called it—the perfect bones of Mexican beauties who seem immune to the ravages of time. Perfect faces for death, added the admirer, which Michelina did not like one bit.

  She was a young woman of sophisticated tastes because she’d been educated that way, brought up that way, and refined that way. She was of an “old family,” so even a hundred years earlier her education would not have been very different. “The world has changed, but we haven’t,” her grandmother, still the pillar of the household, would say. Except that there used to be more power behind the breeding. There were haciendas, demurral courts—for throwing out perfectly good lawsuits “that did not warrant legal action”—and Church blessings.

  There were also crinolines. It was easier then to cover up the physical defects that modern fashions reveal. Blue jeans accentuate a fat backside or thin legs. “Our women are like thrushes,” she could still hear her uncle (May he rest in peace) say. “Thin shanks, fat asses.”

  She imagined herself in crinolines and felt herself freer than she did in jeans. How wonderful, knowing you were imagined, hidden, that you could cross your legs without anyone’s noticing, could even dare to wear nothing under your crinolines, could feel the cool, free breeze on those unmentionable buttocks, on the very interstices of modesty, aware all the while that men had to imagine it! She hated the idea of going topless at the beach; she was a declared enemy of bikinis and only reluctantly wore miniskirts.

  She was blushing at these thoughts when the Grumman stewardess came by to whisper that the private jet would soon be landing at the Campazas airport. She tried to find a city somewhere in that panorama of desert, bald mountains, and swirling dust. She could see nothing. Her gaze was captured by a mirage: the distant river and, beyond it, golden domes, glass towers, highway cloverleafs like huge stone bows. But that was on the other side of the crystal frontier. Over here, below—the guidebook was right—there was nothing.

  Her godfather, Don Leonardo, met her. He’d invited her after their meeting in the capital just six months earlier. “Come take a look at my part of the country. You’ll like it. I’ll send my private plane to get you.”

  She liked her godfather. He was fifty years old—twenty-five years older than she—and robust, half-bald, with bushy sideburns but the perfect classic profile of a Roman emperor and the smile and eyes to go with it. Above all, he had those dreamy eyes that said, I’ve been waiting a long time for you.

  Michelina would have rejected pure perfection; she’d never met an extremely handsome man who hadn’t disappointed her. They felt they were better looking than she was. Good looks gave them unbearably domineering airs. Don Leonardo had a perfect profile, but it was offset by his cheeks, his baldness, his age. His smile, on the other hand, said, Don’t take me too seriously—I’m a sexy, fun-loving guy. And yet his gaze, again, possessed an irresistible intensity. I fall in love seriously, it said to her. I know how to ask for everything because I also know how to give everything. What do you say?

  “What’s that you’re saying, Michelina?”

  “That we met when I was born, so how can you tell me that only six months ago we—”

  He interrupted her. “This is the third time I’ve met you, dear. Each time it seems like the first. How many more times do I get?”

  “Many more, I hope,” she said, without thinking that she would blush—although, since she’d just spent ten days on the beach in Zihuatanejo, no one would have been able to tell if she was turning red or was simply a little sunburned. But she was a woman who filled the space wherever she happened to be. She complemented places, making them more beautiful. A chorus of macho whistles always greeted her in public places, even in the small Campazas airport. But when the lover boys saw who was with her, a respectful silence reigned.

  Don Leonardo Barroso was a powerful man here in the north as well as in the capital. For the most obvious reasons, Michelina Laborde’s father had asked Don Leonardo, the then minister, to be her godfather: protection, ambition, a tiny portion of power.

  “Power!”

  It was ridiculous. Her godfather himself had spelled things out for them when he was in the capital six months before. Mexico’s health depends on the periodic renewal of its elites. For good or ill. When native aristocracies overstay their welcome, we kick them out. The social and political intelligence of the nation consists in knowing when to retire and leave open the doors of constant renewal. Politically, the “no reelection” clause in the constitution is our great escape valve. There can be no Somozas or Trujillos here. No one is indispensable. Six years in office and even the president goes home. Did he steal a lot? So much the better. That’s the price we pay for his knowing when to retire and never say a word again. Imagine if Stalin had lasted only six years and had peacefully turned power over to Trotsky, and he to Kamenev, and he to Bukharin, et cetera. Today the USSR would be the most powerful nation on earth. Not even the king of Spain gave hereditary titles to Mexican Creoles, and the republic never sanctioned aristocracies.

  “But there have always been differences,” interrupted Grandmother Laborde, who was seated across from her cases of curios. “I mean, there have always been ‘decent’ people. But just think: there are people who presume to be of the Porfirio Díaz–era aristocracy—all because they lasted thirty years in power. Thirty years is nothing! When our family saw Porfirio Díaz’s supporters enter the capital after the Tuxtepec revolution, we were horrified. Who were these disheveled men from Oaxaca and these Spanish grocers and French sandal makers. Porfirio Díaz! Corcueras! Nonsense! Limantours! An arriviste! In those days, we decent people followed Lerdo de Tejada.”

  Michelina’s grandmother is eighty-four years old and is still going strong. Lucid, irreverent, and anchored by the most eccentric of powers. Her family lost influence after the revolution of 1910–20, and Doña Zarina Ycaza de Laborde took refuge in the curious hobby of collecting junk, bits and pieces of things, and, most of all, magazines. Every single doll (male or female) that enjoyed popularity—whether it was Mamerto the Charro or Chupamirto the Tramp, Captain Shark, or Popeye—she would rescue from oblivion, filling an entire armoire with those cotton-stuffed figures, repairing them, sewing them up when their innards spilled out.

  Postcards, movie posters, cigar boxes, matchboxes, bottlecaps, comic books—Doña Zarina collected all of them with a zeal that drove her children and even her grandchildren to despair, until an American company specializing in memorabilia bought her complete collection of Today, Tomorrow, and Always magazines for something like $50,000. Then they all opened their eyes: in her drawers, in her armoires, the old lady was stashing away a gold mine, t
he silver of memory, the jewels of remembrance. She was the czarina of nostalgia (as her most cultured grandson aptly put it).

  Doña Zarina’s gaze clouded over as she looked out from her house on Río Sena Street. If the city had been taken care of as well as she had maintained the Minnie Mouse doll … But it was better not to speak of such things. She had remained and witnessed the paradoxical death of a city that as it grew bigger diminished, as if it were a poor being who was born, grew, and inevitably died. She plunged her nose back into the sets of bound volumes of Chamaco Chico and did not expect anyone to hear or understand her lapidary phrase: “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

  To go on being “decent” people, to maintain the style to which they were accustomed, their culture, and even—though this was pure delusion—their name in the world, the family took refuge in the diplomatic corps. In Paris, Michelina’s father was assigned to accompany the young deputy Leonardo Barroso, and with each glass of burgundy, with each monstrous dinner in the Grand Véfour, with each tour of the Loire châteaus, Don Leonardo’s gratitude toward the diplomatic attaché of venerable family grew, eventually extending to the attaché’s wife and immediately thereafter to his newborn daughter. They didn’t ask; he himself made the offer: “Let me be the kid’s godfather.”

  Michelina Laborde e Ycaza, the young lady from the capital. You all know her because her photo’s been in the society pages so often. A classic creole face: white skin but with a Mediterranean shadow—olive and refined sugar—perfect symmetry in her large black eyes protected by cloudlike eyelids and the slightest of tempests in the shadows beneath, symmetry in her straight, immobile nose, vibrant only in the disquiet of those tempests, on their disquieting wings, as if a vampire had tried to escape from the night enclosed in that luminous body. Also her cheekbones, seemingly as fragile as quail eggs behind her smiling skin, trying almost to open that skin beyond the time allotted and expose her perfect skull. And finally, Michelina’s long black hair, floating, glistening, scented more from shampoo than from hair spray—the wondrous, fatal annunciation of her other, hidden soft hair. Every time, every thing divided: her upper lip, the deep comma in her chin, the separation of her skin.

  Don Leonardo thought all this when he saw her grown up, and instantly he said to himself, I want her for my son.

  2

  Well-traveled, sophisticated, the young lady from the capital observed the features of Campazas without surprise. Its dusty town square and humble but proud church with broken walls and an erect carved facade that proclaimed, The Baroque came this far, to the very edge of the desert—to this point and no farther. Beggars and stray dogs. Magically supplied and beautiful markets, loudspeakers offering bargains and crooning out boleros. The empire of soft drinks: does any country consume more carbonated water? Smoke from black-tobacco cigarettes, oval and strongly tropical. The smell of sugarcoated peanuts.

  “Don’t be surprised at the way your godmother looks,” Don Leonardo was saying, as if to draw her attention away from the ugliness of the city. “She decided to get a face-lift and even went all the way to Brazil to be done by the famous Pitanguy. When she came back, I didn’t recognize her.”

  “I don’t remember her very well.” Michelina smiled.

  “I almost sent her back. ‘This isn’t my wife. This is not the woman I fell in love with.’”

  “I can’t compare her,” said Michelina, in an involuntary tone of jealousy.

  He laughed, but Michelina again recalled old-fashioned styles, the crinolines that dissimulated the body and the veil that hid the face, making it mysterious and even desirable. In the old days, lights were low. Veils and candles … There were too many nuns in the family history, but few things fired Michelina’s imagination more than the vocation of the cloister and, once one was safe inside it, the liberation of the powers of imagination—the freedom to love anyone, desire anyone, pray to anyone, confess anything. When she was twelve, she wanted to enter some old colonial convent, pray a lot, flagellate herself, bathe in cold water, and pray some more: “I always want to be a girl. Blessed Virgin, help me. Don’t turn me into a woman.”

  The chauffeur honked as they came to an immense wrought-iron gate, the kind she’d seen outside studios in movies about Hollywood. Correct, her godfather said, around here they call our neighborhood Disneyland. People in the north love to make wisecracks, but the fact is, we have to live somewhere, and nowadays you need protection, no way around it. You’ve got to defend yourself and your property.

  “What wouldn’t I give to leave the doors wide open the way we used to here in the north. But now even the gringos need armed guards and police dogs. Being rich is a sin.”

  Before: Michelina’s gaze wandered from her memory of Mexican colonial convents and French châteaus to the real vision of this group of walled mansions, each one half fortress, half mausoleum, mansions with Greek capitals, columns, and svelte statues of gods wearing fig leaves; Arabian mosques with little fountains and plaster minarets; reproductions of Tara, with its neoclassical portico. Not a single tile, not one adobe brick—only marble, cement, stone, plaster, and more wrought iron, gates behind gates, gates within gates, gates facing gates, a labyrinth of gates, and the inaudible buzz of garage doors that opened with a stench of old gasoline, involuntarily urinated by the herds of Porsches, Mercedes, BMWs that reposed like mastodons within the caves of the garages.

  The Barrosos’ house was Tudor-Norman, with a double roof of blue slate, exposed timbers, and leaded glass windows everywhere. The only things missing were the Avon River in the garden and Anne Boleyn’s head in some trunk.

  The Mercedes stopped and the driver tumbled out running. He resembled a small cube with the face of a raccoon, a swift die dressed in navy blue who buttoned his jacket as he hurried to open the car door for the patrón and his goddaughter. Michelina and Don Leonardo got out. He offered her his arm and led her to the entrance. The door opened. Doña Lucila Barroso smiled at Michelina (Don Leonardo had exaggerated—the lady looked older than he) and hugged her; behind stood the son, Marianito, the heir, who never traveled, who went out infrequently, whom she’d never met but whom it was high time she did meet, a very withdrawn young man, very serious, very formal, very fond of reading, very given to hiding out on the ranch to read day and night—it was high time he went out a bit, he’d already turned twenty-one. That very night the young lady from the capital and the provincial, the goddaughter and the son, could go out dancing on the other side of the border, in the United States, half an hour away from here, dance, get to know each other, learn about each other. Of course. What could be more logical?

  3

  Marianito came home alone, drunk, crying. Doña Lucila heard him stumbling on the stairs and thought the impossible thought: a thief. Leonardo, there’s a robber in the house. It’s impossible—the guards, the gates. The godfather, in his bathrobe, ran and found his son kneeling and puking on a landing. He helped him to his feet, hugged him. A knot formed in the father’s throat, the son stained the beautiful Liberty of London robe with vomit. The father helped him to his dark bedroom, which had no lamps. The boy had asked that it be that way, and the father had made jokes: You must be a cat. You see in the dark. You’ll go blind. How can you read in the darkness?

  “What happened, son?”

  “Nothing, Dad, nothing.”

  “What did she do to you? Just tell me what she did to you, son.”

  “Nothing, Dad, I swear. She didn’t do anything to me.”

  “Wasn’t she nice?”

  “Very nice, Dad. Too nice. She didn’t do anything to me. I was the one.”

  He was the one. It made him ashamed. In the car, she tried to make pleasant conversation about books and travel. At least the car was dark, the driver silent. The discotheque wasn’t. The noise was unbearable. The lights, harsh, terrible, like white knives, chased him, seemed to look for him, only him, while even the shadows respected her, desired her, shrouded her with love. She moved and
danced wrapped in shadows—beautiful, Dad, she’s a beautiful girl.

  “Not half good enough for you, son.”

  “You should have seen how everyone there admired her, how jealous they were of me for being with her.”

  “We all feel good when that happens, right, Mariano? We feel on top of the world when people envy us because of the woman we have, so what happened? What happened? Did she treat you bad?”

  “No, she’s got the best manners—too good, I’d say. She does everything well, and you can see right away she’s from the capital, that she’s traveled, that she’s got the best of everything. So why didn’t the disco lights chase her instead of me?”

  “But she let you, right?”

  “No, I walked out. I took a gringo taxi. I left the Mercedes and the driver for her.”

  “No, I didn’t say left, I said let—she let you do what you wanted, right?”

  “No, I bought a bottle of Jack Daniels and drank it right down. I felt as if I was dying. I took a gringo cab, I tell you. I came back over the border. I can’t be sure I know what I’m telling you.”

  “She humiliated you, isn’t that so?”

  He told his father she hadn’t, or perhaps she had: Michelina’s good manners did humiliate him. Her compassion offended him. Michelina was like a nun in an Yves St. Laurent habit; instead of a surplice she carried one of those Chanel evening bags, the ones with a gold chain. She danced in the shadows, she danced with the shadows, not with him—him she turned over to the slashes of the strobe lights, dawn, frozen, where everyone could see him better and laugh at him, feel repulsion, ask that he be thrown out. He ruined parties. How could they have let him in? He was a monster. He only wanted to get together with her in the shadow, take refuge in the individuality that had always protected him. I swear, Dad, I didn’t want to take advantage of her, I only asked her for the thing she was giving me, a touch of pity, in her arms, with a kiss—what could a kiss mean to her? You give me kisses, Dad, I don’t scare you, do I?