happen.”
I stared at him intensely.
“Mr. President,” I said, with due courtesy, “when you were incomparable, you didn’t hate anyone. Now that you’re among equals, who is it that you hate?”
His answer was cunning and self-satisfied.
“The question, Mr. Secretary, is to
whom
are you equal?”
I had to laugh at his undeniably sharp wit, but the laugh froze on my lips when his eyes suddenly stopped sparkling and he said something to me in that powerful, menacing voice he always used to use to intimidate his allies as well as his enemies.
“If you want my advice, stay out of the Moro case.”
I can only assume that he’d already anticipated my reaction, unless he’d become incredibly stupid or incredibly naïve, which in the end are one and the same thing. My reaction, you understand, was essential in the presence of such a wily, dangerous man.
“Apparently, Mr. President, you don’t seem to realize that your days are over. . . .”
“And everything that happened then . . . never happened? Let’s see, how can that be possible?”
“Quite simply, the laws you once abided by have nothing to do with the laws we live by today. . . . The problems have changed, the solutions have changed and, I must reiterate, times themselves have changed.”
“Ah, but you and I, despite our different problems and times, will always, ultimately, commit evil acts if committing evil acts is necessary, won’t we?”
He then raised his leonine head and looked at me with arrogance and scorn.
“Don’t touch the Moro case, Mr. Secretary. As long as you don’t touch it we’ll get along famously.”
“Oh, shut up!” I said, losing my patience. “I know what really happened in the Moro case, but I’m not interested in doing the police’s work.”
“Well, let’s see. The police might do their job so thoroughly that you’ll be the one who ends up in prison.”
At that, I jumped up and snapped, “You’re nothing but a lost dream.”
“No.” He smiled as he walked to the door before turning to face me one last time. “Quite the opposite. I’m a living nightmare.”
I slammed my fist into my forehead after César León closed the door behind him. I should never have lost control in the presence of that viper.
In what direction, my dear friend, do the waves in the lagoon go now?
19
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
You have every right to reproach me for being so slow, my dear lady. Allow me to quote that well-known Italian adage, since Italy is the source of all wisdom but also of all political malice:
Chi va piano va lontano.
I only hope that one day you’ll grant me the distinction enjoyed by another Italian (one who is less anonymous than the author of this proverb, to be sure), and that you’ll recognize me, my dear lady, for what I am: a young boy who was graced with good fortune but who nevertheless lives according to the words of his namesake Machiavelli, who always warned against excessive reliance on Fortune, who, after all, is (and who does this bring to mind?) fickle, inconstant—shameless.
In any case, do you think it insignificant that I was able to undermine the arrogance of Tácito de la Canal and turn the adorable Dorita, so long subjugated by her boss and her mother, into a real woman?
I’ve continued to employ this tactic, my dear María del Rosario. Yesterday was February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers (who knows why), and so I organized a party in the office. I chose to hold it in the Emiliano Zapata room—because Mexico is a country that murders its heroes and then erects statues to honor them. It seemed the appropriate place for the staff of the presidential mansion. You know—all those people nobody ever sees precisely because nobody is ever supposed to see them. I’ve already mentioned the secretaries, so hard up these days without telephones, computers, and fax machines, forced to haul out the old Remingtons that were gathering dust in the
I stared at him intensely.
“Mr. President,” I said, with due courtesy, “when you were incomparable, you didn’t hate anyone. Now that you’re among equals, who is it that you hate?”
His answer was cunning and self-satisfied.
“The question, Mr. Secretary, is to
whom
are you equal?”
I had to laugh at his undeniably sharp wit, but the laugh froze on my lips when his eyes suddenly stopped sparkling and he said something to me in that powerful, menacing voice he always used to use to intimidate his allies as well as his enemies.
“If you want my advice, stay out of the Moro case.”
I can only assume that he’d already anticipated my reaction, unless he’d become incredibly stupid or incredibly naïve, which in the end are one and the same thing. My reaction, you understand, was essential in the presence of such a wily, dangerous man.
“Apparently, Mr. President, you don’t seem to realize that your days are over. . . .”
“And everything that happened then . . . never happened? Let’s see, how can that be possible?”
“Quite simply, the laws you once abided by have nothing to do with the laws we live by today. . . . The problems have changed, the solutions have changed and, I must reiterate, times themselves have changed.”
“Ah, but you and I, despite our different problems and times, will always, ultimately, commit evil acts if committing evil acts is necessary, won’t we?”
He then raised his leonine head and looked at me with arrogance and scorn.
“Don’t touch the Moro case, Mr. Secretary. As long as you don’t touch it we’ll get along famously.”
“Oh, shut up!” I said, losing my patience. “I know what really happened in the Moro case, but I’m not interested in doing the police’s work.”
“Well, let’s see. The police might do their job so thoroughly that you’ll be the one who ends up in prison.”
At that, I jumped up and snapped, “You’re nothing but a lost dream.”
“No.” He smiled as he walked to the door before turning to face me one last time. “Quite the opposite. I’m a living nightmare.”
I slammed my fist into my forehead after César León closed the door behind him. I should never have lost control in the presence of that viper.
In what direction, my dear friend, do the waves in the lagoon go now?
19
NICOLÁS VALDIVIA TO MARÍA DEL ROSARIO GALVÁN
You have every right to reproach me for being so slow, my dear lady. Allow me to quote that well-known Italian adage, since Italy is the source of all wisdom but also of all political malice:
Chi va piano va lontano.
I only hope that one day you’ll grant me the distinction enjoyed by another Italian (one who is less anonymous than the author of this proverb, to be sure), and that you’ll recognize me, my dear lady, for what I am: a young boy who was graced with good fortune but who nevertheless lives according to the words of his namesake Machiavelli, who always warned against excessive reliance on Fortune, who, after all, is (and who does this bring to mind?) fickle, inconstant—shameless.
In any case, do you think it insignificant that I was able to undermine the arrogance of Tácito de la Canal and turn the adorable Dorita, so long subjugated by her boss and her mother, into a real woman?
I’ve continued to employ this tactic, my dear María del Rosario. Yesterday was February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, the day of lovers (who knows why), and so I organized a party in the office. I chose to hold it in the Emiliano Zapata room—because Mexico is a country that murders its heroes and then erects statues to honor them. It seemed the appropriate place for the staff of the presidential mansion. You know—all those people nobody ever sees precisely because nobody is ever supposed to see them. I’ve already mentioned the secretaries, so hard up these days without telephones, computers, and fax machines, forced to haul out the old Remingtons that were gathering dust in the
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