And yet . . . no doubt about it. The din that woke him came from his own s.p.a.ce, the presidential residence Los Pinos, and not from the interior of the house but-President Mayorga opened the windows to the balcony-from outside, from the avenue through the garden watched over by icy, immobile statues (because some are warm and dynamic) of his predecessors at the head of the state.

He soon had the evidence. He went out to the balcony. Two cars were racing at top speed along the alameda of Los Pinos. An unchecked suicidal speed competing with life more than with the courage of the two untamed drivers who, to a lethal degree, accelerated the low-slung cars, one black, the other red, both capable of revivifying all the statues in the garden, from tiny Madero to gigantic Fox.

A very Mexican idiom-Mayorga thought of it-said, to indicate native stoicism and impa.s.sive strength, that something or someone "bothered me the way the wind bothered Juarez."

The president of the republic did not lose his serenity and did not explicitly invoke the Hero of the Americas. He pressed the proper b.u.t.tons, put on his robe, and calmly waited for his military aides to give him an explanation. One of them smiled stupidly. The other did not.

"It's your son, Mr. President," said the serious one.

"Enriquito," the idiot said with a smile.

"He's racing with a friend."

"Richi, you know? Richi Riva."

"We thought you had authorized it."

" 'Don't worry. My father knows.' That's what he said. Quique and Richi." The aide-de-camp with a limited future in the presidential residence gave a stupid smile.

2. Enrique Mayorga felt offended, uncomfortable, flat-out annoyed that his father, the president, had made a date with him for breakfast at nine in the morning without taking into account the scant hours of filial sleep, not to mention his hangover, his eyes like a bedbug's, his tongue like a rag.

To make matters worse, President Mayorga had seated Quique's mama at the table, the first lady, Dona Luz Pardo de Mayorga, Lucecita. Father and mother sat at the two ends of the table. Enrique sat in the middle, like the accused between two fires, naked under the Calvin Klein robe with the yellow and green stripes. Barefoot. The only things missing, the boy thought, were the hooded executioner and the guillotine.

He scratched at the bristles emerging on his neck and thought with pride that his Adam's apple was not trembling. "What the h.e.l.l is it now?"

The president got to his feet and gave his son a resounding slap in the face. Enrique swallowed hard and waited.

"Do you know who you are, you moron?" said Justo Mayorga, still standing, looking down at his diminished offspring.

"Sure. Enrique Mayorga, your son."

"That's what you know, you idiot? Only that?"

"The son of the president," Quique managed to say in quotation marks.

"And do you know who I am?"

"Don Corleone." The boy laughed before he was slapped a second time.

"I'm a man of the people." With a powerful hand, the president lifted his son's chin, and the boy could feel the controlled trembling of his father's long, sensual fingers. "I come from the bottom. It cost your mother and me a lot to reach the top. When I was a boy in Sinaloa, I lived in a hut with a roof so low you had to go in on your knees. Yes, Senor, when I was a boy, I slept with the straw roof up my nose."

"And now, Papa, you want me to live like you did?"

The third slap of breakfast.

"No, Senor. I want you to be responsible about my position, not make me look ridiculous, not give my enemies ammunition, not let people think I'm a weak or frivolous man who spoils his son, a rich kid who doesn't work or do anyone any good."

Enrique was attached to the idea that the words and slaps weren't going to upset him. But now he kept silent.

"From the bottom, kid. Through diligence, dedication, studies, night cla.s.ses, humble jobs but a great ambition: to move up, to serve my country-"

"Without friends?" Quique interrupted. "Alone, all by yourself?"

"With your mother," the president said in a firm voice.

"Your slave," Quique said and smiled, but Dona Luz nodded and signaled her husband with her finger.

"My companion. Loyal and discreet. Attentive to my needs and not putting obstacles in my way."

"Justo . . ." murmured Dona Luz with an unknown intention.

"I can't have friends," Justo Mayorga said savagely. "And neither can you."

"Without friends," his son repeated, sitting up straight in his chair. "The Loner of Los Pinos, that's what they call you. Listen, don't you like anybody? Why don't you have friends?"

Justo Mayorga returned to his seat. "A president of Mexico has no friends."

Dona Luz shook her head, imploring or understanding. Her tastes were always ambiguous.

"I achieved everything because I had no friends." He paused and played with the crumbs from his roll. "I had accomplices."

"Justo . . ." Dona Luz stood and walked to her husband.

"A president of Mexico can govern only if he has no friends. He can't owe anything to anybody." He looked at his son with cold severity. "And n.o.body's going to tell me I can't govern the country if I can't govern my own son."

He stood. "I don't want to see your pals around here again."

3. Don't be discouraged, Richi Riva said to Enrique Mayorga, hugging him to the rhythm of the yacht anch.o.r.ed in Acapulco Bay, it's all right, we won't run races at Los Pinos anymore, but as long as your papa doesn't send you away with the bodyguards, we can keep having a great time, look, here we are, the two of us alone on my yacht, and as the saying goes, gloomy night falls and you and I have our lives in front of us, don't let yourself get trapped by the old geezers, play it smart, look at Acapulco in the distance, how fantastic, how those lights shine and each one is like an invitation to let yourself go, Quique, give in to your emotions, that's something n.o.body can take away from us, that's what makes all the papas green with envy, because they don't know how to have fun anymore, but you and I, Quique baby, look at Acapulco waiting for us, imagine the wild night that's waiting for us, we can go wherever we feel like, you have the protection of the federal army, Quique my friend, who else in this country can say "The army is my babysitter"? we're untouchable, bro, don't let yourself be trapped, everything's under control as long as you're with Richi Riva, your best bud, we'll go to whatever disco you want, your goons will open the way for us, we're the greatest and we have everything under control, pick the babe you like best, send the lieutenant to bring her to the table, what else is power for, you jerk? look at the supply right here in the disco, what do you prefer, society girls, good-looking broads, top models, or plain European wh.o.r.es? ah what the h.e.l.l, go on, order those bleached blondes to stop in front of us on the floor and moon us, to pull down their panties and show us their buns, go on Quique baby, don't be shy come onto the dance floor with me, let's give in to our emotions, the gringa doesn't want to come over to our table? tell the lieutenant to threaten her with the uzi, f.u.c.k, don't let yourself be trapped by power, use it Quique my friend, let the eagle lift you up and the serpent get you excited, don't let yourself be trapped, don't be afraid, I ordered the soldiers to occupy the roof of this dive and if you get tired of the hood we'll just move on to a cooler one, let's see, Lieutenant, bring us that broad and if she refuses threaten her with the uzi and if there's a boyfriend (the broad's, not yours, Lieutenant, it's no innuendo) take him away by force and if he gives you any trouble shoot him on the beach ah f.u.c.k don't wake the wildcat I have inside, Quique my friend, because you should know I want to move at full speed with the whole world, I want to be nice and have everybody love me, and the only thing I want is to get along with the galaxies, I swear, I love to have good relations with bad friends, it's my specialty, f.u.c.k, don't beat yourself up so much Quique my friend, make a stand, you're the son of the prez, you can do whatever the f.u.c.k you want, just surround yourself with soldiers, that's what the national army's for, so you and I can have a h.e.l.l of a time in a cool world, now let's go, this hole stinks, Mancuernas is expecting us, you know, the one with the retro haircut? the one who pets me and caresses my cheek and tells me Richi you have a sweet and dangerous face, but your eyes are gla.s.s . . .

4. Senora Luz-Lucecita-let them arrange her hair carefully but she avoided looking at herself in the mirror because I don't want to know the face I have after three years in Los Pinos and I'm just waiting for the moment I go back with Justo to a life that's more peaceful for me, for him, for our son, I came with Justo from Sinaloa to Los Pinos, I've been a loyal companion, I've never asked anything for myself, I've only worked to clear the way for Justo so he doesn't stumble on my account, I've never shown any personal ambition, I've only worked for my husband's success, tried never to overshadow him, never to say anything that would hurt him, nothing that creates storms of publicity or causes any gossip, I'm not complaining about anything, life has been good to me, I could have been a little provincial woman for the rest of my life, I never had any ambition except to support my husband and understand his pa.s.sion to serve Mexico, and he's so all alone, as he never tires of telling me, alone and with no true friends, only accomplices, as he says, the president doesn't have friends, the president doesn't love anybody but he uses them all but what about my son? don't I have the right, after so much sacrifice, to love my own son, to indulge him a little, to protect him from his father's severity? doesn't my son deserve, precisely because he likes the wild life so much, a little of the tenderness his father and his friends and his women don't give him? I want to be a reserve of tenderness for my son, they've a.s.signed me the works of charity appropriate for an honorable first lady who knows her place, but I need to give charity to my husband so he at least learns to love at home and to my son so he doesn't get trapped in the dead end of being angry with his parents, why do I protect my son, I ask myself when I'm alone, does he even deserve my protection? maybe I do it for egotistical reasons, I don't open my eyes to avoid my current face in the mirror while they style my hair because that way I can be another woman, I save myself from the politics that make us dirty and the power that steals our souls and I protect the most authentic thing I have left today and that's my memory of youth, my nostalgia for the provinces, for beauty, for youth, the coast of Sinaloa, the evocative names of Navolato and La Noria, El Dorado and El Quelite, Mocorito and the Mesa de San Miguel, late afternoons on the Sea of Cortes the five rivers that flow to the sea, the valleys of sugar and rice, the music of La Tambora in the little square of Santiago Ixcuintla, everything I knew as a girl and never forget because without childhood there's no nostalgia, without youth there are no memories, and my love for the man who tore me away from tranquility and carried me in his strong arms up the mountain, whispering to me, Justo Mayorga whispering to me, Luz Pardo, his sweetheart from Mazatlan, be happy my love, hope for everything and don't understand anything and I'm not complaining because I lived the warmth of life with him, hoping for everything though I didn't understand anything but always telling myself, Luz, you have the right to happiness whatever happens try to be happy today don't let power make you think that everything beautiful and interesting in life, everything nice in life, is in the past, don't lose your private self Lucecita because if you let it escape it will never come back no matter how much power you have, don't give in to that secret desire of yours, the desire to be absent, don't become completely invisible, make people think you share your husband's dream of giving hope again to Mexico after all the calamities that have happened to us, return their faith to Mexicans, I want to help the president my husband in that though I know very well the two of us he and I are only actors in a farce, he smiling and optimistic though reality denies it, I smiling and discreet so the people forget about so much failure and hold on to the dream that Mexico can be happy, that's what we're working for, that's why we smile at the cameras, to make people believe the ongoing lie, the dream renewed every six years and now we did it this time everything will turn out fine, oh I'm complaining, yes, how quickly everything pa.s.ses and what else can I hold on to except love of my husband performing the eternal comedy of the happy orderly stable country and my poor son not understanding anything, trying to break the order established by his father, not realizing that this lasts only six years and wanting him not to know that if he doesn't make the most of things now he'll go back afterward to that small ranch which means being a n.o.body after being everything on a big ranch, I have to maintain those two illusions of my husband's power and my son's pleasure and I don't know how to tell them by indulging and supporting them that neither one will last, that power and pleasure are mere sighs and I was really happy only when I was hoping for everything and didn't understand anything, when everything was warm like a beach at home and I didn't know yet the cold truth that happiness doesn't come back no matter how much power you have . . .

5. Sitting at his desk with the tricolor flag planted behind him like a parched nopal, President Justo Mayorga read the urgent communique. The agrarian leader Joaquin Villagran had occupied the federal Congress with an army of workers carrying machetes and demanding-nothing less-radical policies on all fronts to bring the country out of its endemic poverty. There were no insults on their banners. Only demands. Education. Security. Honest judges. From the bottom. Everything from the bottom. Jobs. Work. From the bottom. No waiting for investments from the top. No asking for loans and canceling debts. School and work, from the bottom. Sharecroppers, day laborers, trade unionists, artisans, members of village communes, Indians, workers, small contractors, poor ranchers, village merchants, rural schoolteachers.

And the movement's flag. An Indian sitting on a mountain of gold. "Mexico is the country of injustice," said Humboldt in 1801, the president recalled. The Indian, the campesino, the worker had joined together and taken over the seat of Congress. Who would get them out? How? With guns? Congress is surrounded by the army, Mr. President. Because in Mexico no one governs without the army, but the army is inst.i.tutional and obeys only the president.

"While the president represents the state," the secretary of defense, Jenaro Alvirez, informed Justo Mayorga. "Because we soldiers know how to distinguish between transitory governments and the state that endures."

He stared at Mayorga. "If, on the other hand, the president stops representing the state and defends only his own government . . ." He smiled affably. "We Mexicans are like a large extended family . . ."

General Alvirez hurled his suspension points like bullets. And Justo Mayorga closed the folder with the day's information and gave free rein to his interior murmur, I don't do business with my conscience, I'll do whatever I have to do, right now I don't know what I should do, the situation is serious and I won't resolve it the way I have other times by firing secretaries of state, removing functionaries, blaming others, letting it be known that I've been deceived by disloyal colleagues, the usual Judases, the fact of the matter is I don't have any colleagues left I can blame, the ball stopped on my number on the roulette wheel, it's not a day for distractions, it's a day for internal courage, I must be strong in my soul to be strong in my body, outside, on the street, I have to repeat to myself that being president is not owing anybody anything and being grateful for even less in order to appear in public as if I were the dream of the man in the street which is to be president of Mexico, what every Mexican thinks he deserves to be, the chief, this is a country of chiefs, without chiefs we wander around more disoriented than a parakeet at the North Pole, that's the truth, I have to be cold inside to be heated in my external performance and it irritates me that my son's frivolity now seems like a fly in a storm, the idea that keeps coming back pains me, my son is my worst enemy, not the leader Joaquin Villagran who's taken over the Congress, not the army under the command of General Jenaro Alvirez surrounding the Palace of San Lazaro and waiting for my orders, "Remove the agitators,"

my good-for-nothing son and his friend Richi Riva have draped themselves in the middle of my mind and I want to get them out so I can think clearly. I can't be the mental prisoner of a couple of frivolous kids, I don't want anybody to say how will he govern the country if he can't govern his son, ah you p.i.s.sant little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you're giving me a feeling of failure that paralyzes me, I haven't known how to teach you my morality, don't be anybody's friend, you can't govern with frivolity and sentimentality, being president is not owing anybody anything . . .

"Mr. President. The army has surrounded the Congress. We're waiting for your order to remove them."

6. For the whole blessed day, Luz Pardo de Mayorga wandered like a ghost through the empty rooms of Los Pinos. Her intimate, enduring alliance with Justo Mayorga made her as sensitive as a b.u.t.terfly trapped under a bell jar. Something was going on. Something besides yesterday's unpleasant breakfast. Who knows why, this afternoon she would have liked to be absent. She had dressed for lunch, but her husband sent word he wouldn't arrive in time. There was no one in the residence except the invisible servants and their feline secretiveness. Dona Luz could fill the afternoon hours however she chose, watching soap operas, playing the CD of the boleros she liked best, We who loved so much, who made a wondrous sun of love . . .

she hummed very quietly because in this house-the president had told her-even the walls have ears, be careful Lucecita, don't show your feelings, keep the rancor you feel in your heart, because you can't be authentic, because you're the prisoner of Los Pinos, because you'd like it if your husband weren't so powerful, if he got sick you could show him the real affection you have for him, if you were braver you'd demand that he understand Enrique, that he not feel so resentful if the boy has a good time and you don't anymore, Justo, you don't know how to have a good time anymore and you can't stand pleasure in anybody else, try to imagine my soul split in two, between the love I feel for you and the love I feel for our son, don't you say you love only your family, n.o.body else, that a president doesn't have the right to love anybody, only his family? you'll allow me to doubt, Justo, you'll permit me to think that your political coldness has come into our house, that you treat your son and me like subjects, no, not even that, because with the ma.s.ses you're seductive, affectionate, you put on a mask with the people, and with us who are you, Justo? the time has come to say who you are with your wife and son . . .

"Don't dress up too much. Be more circ.u.mspect."

"I only want to look nice."

"Don't fondle me so much."

Justo Mayorga leaned over to kiss her temple. Then he saw something he hadn't seen before. A tear suspended in the corner of his wife's eye. He felt transported, irrelevant, on his way elsewhere. He looked at that single trembling tear, suspended there without ever falling, without rolling down her cheek, he saw it kept there since her youth, since they were married, when Luz Pardo promised herself never to cry in front of her husband.

"I can't conceive of losing you and continuing to live. It would make no sense."

7. Attack, Mr. President. In half an hour we can empty the Congress. Don't do anything, Mr. President. Just surround them until they give up because of hunger. Don't make them into martyrs, Mr. President. If they go on a hunger strike, more people will come to encourage them than there are soldiers surrounding them. Abandon the place, Mr. President. Be n.o.ble. Leave them there until they get tired and leave on their own.

Attack. Surround. Don't do anything.

The dusty wind of a February afternoon shook the trees in the park and the curtains of the official residence. Father, mother, and son sat down for supper. First there was a long silence. Then the first lady remarked that a storm was brewing that night. She bit her tongue. She didn't want to refer to anything more serious than the weather. Restless, impulsive, irritated, Quique broached the subject of what the point was of getting to the top and not enjoying life.

"Don't worry, son. Three more years and we go back to the ranch."

"You, not me," said the rebel, then immediately modulated that. "I'm not going to any ranch. Even if you drag me. I'm staying here in the capital. Here's where my pals are, my life, I don't need you two."

"Inside here we have no idea what's going on out there," the president said calmly but enigmatically. "Don't kid yourself."

"You're not going to stop me from being Richi's friend." Quique raised his voice provocatively. "With Richi I stop being the president's d.a.m.n son, I'm myself." He got to his feet violently. "Without mommies and daddies all over me."

"Watch your mouth in front of your mother," said the president without becoming irritated. "Beg her pardon."

"Pardon me, Mom." Quique approached Dona Luz and kissed her on the forehead. "But you two have to understand me." He lifted his supplicating, haughty head. "I'm different, with Richi I'm different."

Senora Luz armed herself with courage and, looking first at one and then the other, she raised her voice for the first time in her life, knowing she would never do it again, though now her husband's impressive calm authorized her to speak forcefully, to break the gla.s.s that enclosed their lives.

"Do we really deserve one another? Do the three of us love one another? Answer me."

She wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. An undesirable foam had gathered there, like the waves of Mazatlan, because of the strength of things, because of the law of the tides.

"Give me something," shouted Luz Pardo. "Why don't you ever give me anything? Don't I deserve anything?"

She didn't cry. She never cried. Only that afternoon did she allow the tear she owed Justo Mayorga to escape. Now her desperate weeping choked in her trembling chin. She got up from the table and walked away, saying in an inaudible voice, "Answer me . . ."

She managed to hear her husband's words. "I don't want disorder in my house," and then, when Justo Mayorga came into the bedroom and found her lying down, he asked, "Didn't you watch television?" And she: "I don't have the heart, Justo, understand me."

The president turned on the set. He sat down next to Dona Luz and took her hand. On the screen Justo Mayorga was seen approaching the palace of Congress, ordering General Alvirez, "Let me alone, I'm going in alone," and entering the Congress occupied by rebel workers, Justo Mayorga alone, with no aide, no armed men, alone with his courage and his head high, that was how the entire nation saw him go in on TV and that was how they saw him come out later leading the agrarian leader Joaquin Villagran by the hand, smiling, waving his free hand-the right one, always-raising his left together with the right hand of the leader, announcing, "We've reached an agreement."

But the agreement didn't matter to the crowd gathered in front of the Congress, what mattered was the president's bravery, the guts to go in alone into the mouth of the lion and get an agreement with the union leader, the important thing was that the people loved him, the people were right, the president was a real man, everything bad that happened was because the president didn't know about it, if the president knew, if the bureaucrats didn't lie to him, see, he goes in all alone and comes out holding the leader by the hand and so tomorrow we're all going to the Zocalo to cheer our president who's very macho, Justo Mayorga on the balcony of the palace, with only one arm-the right one-raised, conceding without shyness and in silence, yes, I'm the chosen one of the ma.s.ses, I'm the proof that the man on the street can reach the top, look at me, admire me, the president is the lucky charm of the Mexican people . . .

"Never say it out loud, say it to yourself the way you're saying it now, in secret, like an intimate confession . . . I'm the lover of my people . . ."

And in an even more secret voice, "Power postpones death, it just postpones death . . ."

8. Richi Riva was put on a Qantas plane to Australia. Quique Mayorga Pardo tried in vain to break through the barrier of bodyguards who prevented access to the ramp: "I'm the president's son!"

The soldiers had turned into a hostile, impenetrable world.

Quique drove his Porsche back to Los Pinos. He parked it in the garage. He got out. He slammed the door. He clenched his teeth, held back the tears, and began to kick the red sports car, powerful kicks, denting the body.

9. "What did I give the leader Villagran? Nothing, Lucecita. I wrapped him around my finger. The usual promises. The important thing is that people saw me go in alone. They know their president's hand doesn't tremble. Without firing a shot. When I went in, they were shouting 'Death to Mayorga!' When I came out, nothing but 'Long live Mayorga!' Pure guts, Lucecita, pure guts. They'll be quiet for the rest of my term. Then we'll go back to the ranch."

Chorus of the Family from the Neighborhood

He left the house because they beat me they stripped me they forced me My father my mother Because they both died and there was n.o.body but me in the house Because I don't have relatives Because the guys told me don't be an a.s.shole come to the street you're alone in your house they beat you they give you a hard time they call you rat In your house you're f.u.c.ked you're lower than a c.o.c.kroach I feel so alone bro like a d.a.m.n beaten insect So low bro So attacked bro Give me shelter with no roof on the street Be safe take root on the street Don't even look at people who aren't from the street Here you're safer than in your house bro Here n.o.body asks you for anything Here there aren't any f.u.c.king responsibilities Here there's only the turf Here we're the family of the turf between El Tanque and El Cerro Don't let anybody by who isn't family from the neighborhood bro Anybody who steps over the line smash him in the face We're an army a hundred thousand children and adolescents running free Alone without a family in the streets Stuck on the street Do they want to get away from the street?

There's no place else Some came to the street Others were born in the street The family is the street We were born to the street Your mama aborted in the middle of the street They kicked her in the middle of the street until the fetus dropped out In the middle of the street Because the street is our womb The gutters our milk The garbage cans our ovaries Don't let yourself be tempted bro f.u.c.king packing for a super f.u.c.king cleaning windshields f.u.c.king peddling f.u.c.king guy who wipes the windshield a.s.shole f.u.c.king kid for falling-down drunks f.u.c.king d.a.m.n pimp beggar Refuse bro Live on air on alcohol on cement Better to go dying like a d.a.m.n c.o.c.kroach In streets tunnels garbage cans Than think you've been defeated

The Father's Servant

1. This town is suffocating. One would say that at an alt.i.tude of over three thousand meters, the air would be purer. This isn't true, and one can understand it. The volcano is a priest with a white head and black tunic. It vomits the same thing it eats: ashen solitude. The proximity of heaven oppresses one here on earth.

The legend insists on repeating that Popocatepetl is an alert warrior who protects the nearby body of the sleeping woman Iztaccihuatl. They didn't tell Mayalde the story that one has known since childhood. The priest brought her up here to live, in the foothills of Popocatepetl, on the same day the girl had her first menstruation, and he said to her: "Look. It's the sacrilegious stain. We have to go far away from here."

"Why, Father?"

"So you won't sin."

"Why would I sin?"

"Because you've become a woman. Let's go."

They left the sacristy of Acatzingo with its beautiful Franciscan convent and came to live here, where you look at snow and breathe in ash. It was the isolated spot closest to Puebla, and since no one wanted to come where one was, they gladly sent him.

"Are you taking your niece, Father?

"Did you think I'd abandon her? She depends on me. Without me, she'd be a poor orphan. She owes everything to me."

"Ah!"

"Though let me clarify, Bishop. She isn't my niece. Don't burden me with that old story."

"Ah! Your daughter?" the bishop asked with raised eyebrows.