Читать книгу The Art of Flight - Sergio Pitol - Страница 11
ОглавлениеI’m waiting for Monsiváis in the Kilos on Avenida Juárez, opposite the El Caballito statue. We agreed to meet at two, have lunch, and go over the final pages of the text I was to publish in the Cuadernos del Unicornio (The Unicorn’s Notebooks). I don’t know how many times I’ve reread the proofs, but I’ll feel more secure if he takes a look at them. Carlos was the first person to read the two stories that will make up the notebook; the first, “Victorio Ferri Tells a Tale,” is dedicated to him. I see him almost daily, even if just in passing. We met three years ago—yes, in 1954—during the days preceding the “Glorious Victory.” At that time we were participating in the University Committee for Solidarity with Guatemala; we collected protest signatures, distributed fliers, attended a rally together that began in the Plaza de Santo Domingo. We saw Frida Kahlo there, surrounded by Diego Rivera, Carlos Pellicer, Juan O’Gorman, and some other “greats.” She was already living entirely against the grain; it was her last public appearance: she died shortly thereafter. From then on I began to see Carlos regularly: in the café at the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters; at a cineclub; in the editorial office of Estaciones; or in the home of mutual friends. More than anywhere else, I ran into him at bookstores.
Not long after we met, he came to my apartment, on Calle de Londres, when the Juárez neighborhood had not yet become the Zona Rosa, to read a story that he had just finished: “Fino acero de niebla” (Fine Steel of Mist), about which the only thing I remember is that it had nothing to do with the Mexican literature of our generation. The language was popular, but highly stylized; and the structure was very elusive. It demanded that the reader more or less find his own way. The fiction written by our contemporaries, even the most innovative, seemed closer to the canons of the nineteenth century next to his fine steel. Monsiváis brought together in his story two elements that would later define his personality: an interest in popular culture—in this case the language of the working-class neighborhoods—and a passion for form, two facets that do not usually coincide. When I expressed my enthusiasm after the reading, he immediately snapped shut, like an oyster trying to dodge lemon drops.
He had just finished reading when Luis Prieto arrived. He greeted Carlos warmly, and Carlos immediately shoved the pages into a folder, as if they were compromising documents. Luis told us that he had just come from Las Lomas, from a very entertaining gathering with a group of English philosophers, followers of Ouspensky; one of them, who was very rich, Mr. Tur-Four, or Sir Cecil Tur-Four, as the group’s members referred to him, had proposed building a place for meditation—a temple, to be exact—The Eye of God, on the outskirts of Cuautla, where the community would be able to perform the necessary rites. Some thirty people had attended to express their gratitude. Luis said he didn’t understand why they had invited him. It didn’t surprise me; I had accompanied him on many of his adventures through the impenetrable labyrinth of eccentricity that lay hidden within the city at the time, a world that included locals and foreigners, teachers, notaries, archeologists, old Balkan countesses, Chinese restaurateurs, Italian mediums, famous actresses, anonymous students, choreographers, rural school teachers, and opulent collectors of African, Oceanic, and pre-Hispanic art that had traveled the world, exhibited in the most famous museums, but also others, much more modest, who collected cigarette boxes, beer bottles, and shoes. Luis was also a friend of two nuns who had been cloistered during the time of religious persecution; one of them, congenitally ill-natured, a Mexican, and daughter of an Englishman, Párvula Dry, who at the slightest provocation would recount to whomever was standing in front of her, even a perfect stranger, her thorny post-convent odyssey, her arduous journey toward the Truth. The other never spoke; instead she just agreed solemnly with whatever her spokeswoman said. Every time I saw them with Luis, Párvula Dry would repeat, in almost the exact same words, that if both she and the other, the former Mother Superior, had managed to find themselves, it was due not to psychoanalysis, to which they had both turned, nor to tantric Buddhism, which is a mere fallacy, nor to the teachings of Krishnamurti, from which they learned nothing, but to their discovery of Ouspensky’s Tertium Organum. Luis was like a fish in water with these over-the-top characters. He eventually described the meeting in detail, the characters in attendance, the events that transpired; he told us that, in the middle of Mr. Tur-Four’s report on the progress of the construction of The Eye of God, a very large man, monster-like in his obesity, fell suddenly into a trance and from his lips the Maestro, Ouspensky of course, violently insulted the patron and the two dissolute nuns who were manipulating him, whose mere presence, he said, sullied their Work. He described the uproar that occurred in the room at these words and his astonishment when several of the participants, instead of attempting to silence the giant who continued his trance-induced tirade, began to savagely insult each other. Some fell into a trance and produced conflicting messages. A skeleton-like woman, who in her normal state sounded like a bird chirping when she spoke, emitted a thunderous voice with which she threatened the snake, the worm who claimed to be the Maestro’s messenger, with expulsion from the sect, and added that the former nuns, slaves of papism in the past, had already been redeemed and that, like the magnanimous Sir Cecil Tur-Four, they were absolutely necessary to the revelation of the Truth. Some fell into convulsions only to hurl increasingly inappropriate insults at each other; Luis Prieto deepened his voice and in a cavernous tone announced: “The session has been suspended!” At that moment they all came out of their trance, stood up and, like good Englishmen, said their goodbyes with the greatest propriety imaginable, except for a single elderly woman who became flabbergasted and kept repeating in English, “Two-four, stop! Two-four, stop!” and who had to be carried out on a stretcher. Luis reproduced the session in so many different voices and so many details that it looked as if a demiurge were recreating that amazing theosophical pandemonium before our eyes. Until then, for as long as I had known Carlos, I had never seen him laugh so much, nor could I imagine that a person so introspective and ensconced in books would be so receptive to such madcap humor. It was the first time I heard his inimitable guffaw. Luis and I began to tell variations of the story, adding characters, exaggerating some scenes for effect, and, to my surprise, the neophyte not only laughed like Rabelais but also contributed very skillfully to the construction and deconstruction of that verbal puzzle, the great game, of which Luis’s verbal synopsis had been only a starting point.
Those stories took place three years prior to the day I’m waiting for Carlos at the Kikos on Avenida Juárez. I wait for him as I read ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore, the intense, truculent, and painful tragedy by John Ford. Of all the works of Elizabethan theatre that I know, including those by Shakespeare, Ford’s tragedy is one of those that most impress me. I began to read it when I arrived at the restaurant, and I’m almost finished when the incestuous brother explodes in anger upon discovering that he’s been betrayed. It’s a literary period that I frequent more and more. I would like to study it in depth, systematize my readings, take notes, and establish the chronology of the period. But the same thing always happens: at the moment of greatest fervor I become sidetracked by other subjects, other periods, and I end up not studying anything in depth. Carlos is always late, but on this occasion he goes too far; it’s possible that he won’t even show. I’m famished; I decide to order the daily special. I eat and continue reading Ford. By the time dessert arrives I reach the end, which leaves me terrified. At that moment Carlos arrives. He’s coming from the Radio Universidad, where he took part, he says, in a taping on science fiction. He orders only a hamburger and a Coke. He places the proofs next to his plate and reads them in a few minutes as he eats. He makes one or two corrections. He then takes out a couple of pages from a book, marks through a few words, adds others, changes the last lines completely. He asks me to go with him to the Excelsior, which is next door, so he can deliver the piece that he just corrected; it will only take a moment. In no time we’ll be at Juan José Arreola’s house to deliver the proofs. Waiting for us there is José Emilio Pacheco, who today will submit his manuscript of La sangre de medusa (The Blood of Medusa), which will also be published in the Cuadernos de Unicornio. La Zaplana, Mexico’s largest bookstore, is located on the ground floor of the building immediately adjacent to the Kikos; we’re unable to resist the temptation to glance at the bookstore’s tables and shelves. Each of us leaves with an immense package under his arm. We’re proud of the rapid growth of our libraries (Monsiváis’s will eventually exceed thirty thousand volumes). We return to the Kikos to ask them to sell us some cardboard boxes because it’s impossible to move through the street or get on a bus with so many books in our hands. While they look for the boxes we drink coffee and examine our finds. During our four-year friendship, our reading lists have expanded and overlapped. We both purchased Conrad by coincidence that day. I pick up Victory and Under Western Eyes, and he picks up Lord Jim, The Outcast of the Islands, and The Secret Agent. We both read an abundance of Anglo-Saxon authors, I prefer English, and he North Americans; but the end result is a mutually beneficial influence. We leaf through our purchases. I talk about Henry James, and he about Melville and Hawthorne; I about Forster, Sterne, and Virginia Woolf, and he about Poe, Twain, and Thoreau. We both admire the intelligent wit of James Thurber, and we declare once more that the language of Borges constitutes the greatest miracle that has happened to our language in this century; he pauses briefly and adds that one of the highest moments in the Castilian language is owed to Casiodoro de Reina and his disciple Cipriano de Valera, and when I ask, confused by the names, “And who are they?” he replies, scandalized, that they are none other than the translators of the Bible. He tells me that he aspires one day to write prose that exhibits the benefit of the countless years he’s devoted to reading biblical texts; I, who am ignorant of them, comment, cowering slightly, that the greatest influence I’ve encountered is that of William Faulkner, and there he checkmates me when he explains that the language of Faulkner, like that of Melville and Hawthorne, is profoundly influenced by the Bible, that they are a non-religious derivation of the Revealed Language. Suddenly, he points out that it’s gotten late, that we have to rush to the Excelsior to deliver his piece. I ask him if it’s “The Idiot Box,” and he immediately changes the subject. “The Idiot Box” is a very acerbic column about television and its effects, which are very disconcerting to Carlos. Television! Who in the hell cares about television! Certainly no one I associate with. We arrive at the editor’s office. The section chief, to whom he must turn in his piece, has gone upstairs to a meeting. He might be back in a half hour. We sit wherever we can. A journalist sitting next to us, talking on the phone, says that things in Mexico are getting worse because of the government’s softness, that it’s giving in more and more to union pressure, that if the authorities do not intervene and eradicate the leprosy, the country will unravel. We continue to talk about books, which implies that literature is the subject to which we constantly return, although frequently interrupted by bursts of commentary of all kinds—cinema, the city, problems that concern us at the moment, the university, our lives, friends, acquaintances, and enemies—until we arrive at that subject which most entertains and amuses us: our novel, to the writing of which we have devoted hundreds of hours of conversation, without ever having written a word. Our novel, we confess, is in some way determined by the parodic humor of the young Waugh. We also know that it is equally determined by the impudence and imagination of La familia Burrón, the comic strip by Gabriel Vargas, and by the daily fireworks of Luis Prieto. Before beginning our work, and to exercise our mind a bit, we make a succinct summary of what is being written in Mexico, the authors worth reading, those it’s better to toss in the trash; those who pass are, of the contemporaries: Gorostiza, Pellicer, Novo, and Villaurrutia; The Labyrinth of Solitude and Freedom under Parole by Octavio Paz, which just came out; Juan José Arreola’s prose and the two superb books by Rulfo. We feel a genuine veneration for Pedro Páramo. We’ve heard very good things about two novels, one recently published, another about to be, but already widely commented on: the first is Balún Canán, by Rosario Castellanos; the other, Where the Air Is Clear, by Carlos Fuentes. And we no longer have time to delve into our parodic novel because an employee approaches to tells Carlos that the section chief is about to leave; to our utter amazement he adds that he’s been in his office for an hour. Carlos jumps up, hastily follows the employee and disappears behind a door. Ten minutes later he returns, calm. He’s almost certain that his piece will appear in tomorrow’s edition.
Night falls. A bus drops us at the corner of the Chapultepec movie house, just a short walk from where Arreola lives. When we arrive, he complains about our delay. José Emilio is about to leave. We convince him to stay awhile. Arreola is also about to leave. He has committed to attending the premier of Pirandello’s Henry IV at Bellas Artes. He assures us that the next day he’ll take the proofs to press. Our Cuadernos will appear very soon. He shows us a few sheets of stunning Dutch paper and gives us a lesson on watermarks. It’s obvious that he’s in a hurry to leave, but he agrees to sit for a moment to chat. He urges Carlos to submit material for a Cuaderno. José Emilio and I mention that he has a magnificent story. In unison we shout: “Fino acero de niebla!” Carlos bursts out laughing, covers his face with a cushion, and then promises vaguely that he’s revising something he’s about to finish. Arreola begins to talk about Pirandello, recalling the staging of his works when the great Italian companies toured Mexico; the best, according to him, was that of Mimi Agugli. He then turns to Louis Jouvet; he did not miss a single performance when his company was in Mexico, or in Paris, when he lived there. Theater is the genre that combines all literary perfections, he declares; he suddenly stands, marches around the room, and recites entire scenes while imitating all the characters from Farce of the Chaste Susana by Diego Sánchez de Badajoz; later, he retracts, in no way is theater the most important genre, such a claim is an aberration; he then discusses poetry and thereafter takes out a volume of Proust and reads to us, in perfect French, the chapter in which Albertine is surprised while asleep. Suddenly, a young man, visibly irritated, who has been listening to him, and who has remained silent throughout our stay, stands and barks that if he and Arreola do not leave at once they’ll never make curtain time. We all go out into the street. Arreola and his companion get in a taxi, and the three of us—José Emilio, Carlos, and I—walk up the Paseo de la Reforma, turn right on Niza, and walk to a taquería next to the Insurgentes movie house, where we would often go at night to eat soup and sample the most delicious selection of tacos imaginable. While we eat, we return to the subject of literature, each of us reiterating our preferences. To the usual names, we add others: Alejo Carpentier and Juan Carlos Onetti, and, thanks to José Emilio, poets are also introduced: Quevedo, Garcilaso, López Velarde, Neruda, Vallejo, Huidobro, the Generation of ’27. José Emilio eats quickly and says goodbye; he has to turn in a translation the next day. Some writers we barely know approach our table to sit and chat. They’re obsessed with defining the topics our generation is obligated to address. They begin to enumerate their projects; they know what they must do for the next five years at least. We eat without paying too much attention to the ambitions of our newly arrived guests. Later, we discuss a fabulous book, James Boswell’s The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., in which both biographer and biographee appear alternately as the remarkable characters they were, but they also prefigure traits belonging to Mr. Pickwick or, closer to home, to the comic strip character Don Reginito Burrón, which makes its reading even more enjoyable. We also discuss detective novels to avoid the formulaic and insipid conversation that dominates the table, and only out of politeness do we answer the questions that our acquaintances occasionally ask, without telling them that the only project that interests us is writing a satirical novel in which we would portray them as a bunch of grotesque and pompous idiots.
Perhaps we’re aware that we’ll never write a line of that novel, but perhaps we also sense that such a daily game can be one of the sources that will inspire our later work, that is if it is ever written. We cannot foretell the future, nor do we want to; the only thing that matters to us is the present and the immediate future; to think, for example, about what the coming days offer, how the complex situations that each of us confronts in his personal life will unravel, and with the same intensity, what books we will read in the days to come.
I return to Mexico in mid-1962. I’m excited to get back to my old habits and haunts. Nevertheless, I do everything possible to return to Italy. I do not have steady employment; I manage on a hodgepodge of jobs I do at home. After the absolute freedom I enjoyed in Rome, the idea of going back to an office is difficult for me to accept. During this time, I translate The Monk, the gothic novel by M.G. Lewis, which is published in installments in Salvador Elizondo’s magazine Snob. I do readers’ notes for Joaquín Díez-Canedo. Max Aub has given me small jobs at Radio Universidad: snippets to celebrate the anniversaries of famous writers; I also participate in a book review program, also at Radio, with Rosario Castellanos, José Emilio Pacheco, and Carlos Monsiváis. The Coordination of Cultural Diffusion, which oversees Radio Universidad, is enjoying a golden age under the direction of Jaime García Terrés. To start with, there is no censorship. Rosario Castellanos adds a very informal character to the program; everyone is able to express his or her opinion with no strings attached. We celebrate on the program the release of Carlos Fuentes’s The Death of Artemio Cruz; we dust off the work of Martín Luis Guzmán, which of late the author himself has not even paid much attention to. We discuss the new postwar Spanish narrative, the existence of which has been difficult to accept in Mexico. The prevailing opinion is that since the fall of the Republic it is impossible for anything worthwhile to emerge; that a new literature can only be born with the disappearance of Franco. Discussing, much less praising, new authors like Sánchez Ferlosio, Goytisolo, Martín-Santos, Aldecoa, bothers a lot of people who believe that to do so legitimizes the Franco regime. It’s a nuisance but it’s impossible to compromise with this kind of intolerance.
Since that day in 1957 I described before, many things have happened: there have been shockwaves that have provoked reactions against the government apparatus and its institutions; unexpected social movements have arisen; labor leaders have emerged who question the old codgers immobilizing the social organism. Corruption was condemned in many areas. There were protest marches and strikes nationwide; railway workers, teachers, telephone operators, and other union groups filled the streets and took control of them. There were impressive demonstrations. I remember one organized in support of teachers in which the participation of intellectuals was particularly important; there were not only young people but also those we considered our teachers. In a row ahead of Monsiváis and me were Octavio Paz and Carlos Fuentes, both functionaries of the Foreign Service. We marched in front of the Secretariat of Foreign Affairs just as the employees were leaving. Some diplomats applauded when they saw their colleagues in the march; others, horrified, could not believe their eyes.
The response was immediate: a disproportionate crackdown. From 1958 to 1960 riot police seemed to take control of the city, surprised, perhaps, by the obstinacy of students and workers who, in spite of the beatings, arrests, and torture, continued to express their dissatisfaction, handing out fliers, marching in the streets, singing subversive songs, ridiculing the government. The jails filled with political prisoners. Monsiváis, José Emilio, a dozen other writers, and I went on a hunger strike called by José Revueltas, in solidarity with the strike that Siqueiros and other political prisoners had undertaken in Lecumberri. We were living day to day, with a recklessness that could only be attributed to naïveté. We took for granted that nothing would happen to us, and it was senseless to worry beforehand. We did not possess a desire to be martyrs—on the contrary. Personally, the experience helped me to rid myself of a feeling of over-protection that was beginning to hinder me. Somehow we understood that the country needed changes, that the political institutions were rusty, that it was unhealthy for a nation to be perpetually governed by a single party. But we did not expect the violent reaction from the groups in control. They were only able to respond to dialogue with beatings, arrests, and even murder.
Every time I reread La segunda casaca (The Second Turncoat), that remarkable national episode by Benito Pérez Galdós, I’m moved by a statement made by the protagonist Salvador Monsalud:
I have always believed the same thing, and I very much fear, even after victory, that things in my country will continue to seem to me as bad as before. This is such a horrible mixture of ignorance, bad faith, corruption, and weakness that I suspect the evil is too deep for revolutionaries to repair. Among these, one sees everything: there are men of much merit, good heads, and hearts of gold; but there are also unruly ones who seek only noise and chaos; not to mention those filled with good faith yet lacking in intelligence and common sense. I have observed this group they are caught up in, unable to unite the greatness of ideas with the pettiness of their ambitions; I have felt a certain fear for principle; but after pondering it, I have concluded by affirming that the evils that revolution may bring will never be as great as those as absolutism. And if they are—he continued contemptuously—they well deserve it. If all this is to continue to bear the name of nation, everything must be turned upside down, that common sense which has been offended be avenged, drawing and quartering such ridiculous idolatry, such foolishness, and barbarism erected in living institutions; there must be a complete renovation of the patria, no vestiges of the past should remain, and everything must be plowed under with noise, crushing the foolish who insist on carrying an outmoded artifice on their shoulders. And this must be done quickly, violently, because if it is not done this way it will never be done… Here the doors of tyranny must be torn down with ax blows in order to destroy them, because if we open them with their key, they will be left standing and will close again.
This is what Salvador Monsalud proclaimed, the unblemished hero, the character whom Galdós treated with the greatest sympathy, as if he wanted to share the same exploits with him. But, unlike Monsalud, we did not think it was necessary to change everything, to turn everything upside down, rather simply to ensure that the Constitution be followed, that our legislative practice be real, and not a mere pretext that gives rise to oratorical pirouettes and flourishes; that the rights of the citizens be respected, that the corrupt leaders and uncivil rulers disappear, those scourges capable of tarnishing any system, and through momentary disharmony reach social harmony. After the repression began we no longer thought the same; we wished, like Monsalud, for everything to be uprooted so that nothing would ever be the same, and one of the options that we envisioned was socialism, whether democratic socialism like Sweden or Finland, or real socialism like that of Eastern Europe, or even a socialism sui generis like that of China. It was the period of the “Hundred Flowers,” not of the Cultural Revolution; I had just read a couple of very suggestive books: The Long March, by Simone de Beauvoir, and Into China, by the magnificent Claude Roy; both writers portrayed that world as a utopia in progress; an ideal vision built with real elements. In other words, the radical Monsalud, at first a purely literary character, ended up being our contemporary. We were tied to him by a common desire for justice, cleanliness, and decency. We also shared with him his doubts about what could happen after the change, if in fact there was one, and at the same time we were captivated by his adventurous life, not at all stifled by his political activity. We were anti-dogmatic by nature. E.M. Forster’s book Two Cheers for Democracy became my spiritual guide; since then, I always have it by my side.
I can say with confidence that during those three years—1958, 1959, 1960—our lives did not take the same course as those of the positive characters in Soviet literature and film. I would dare to believe that the opposite was true, and the proximity of some closed-minded, rigid, and dogmatic revolutionaries was the best antidote. Our ability to live happily remained intact, even if the spaces had become more limited and enclosed; perhaps that very thing made them more intense. Friendship in those days became almost fraternity. Carlos and I continued to observe the tireless cycle of the human comedy: its glories, its agonies, its tricks, and its tragedies, but also its foolishness, its pettiness, its infinite capacity to embody the grotesque, the pretentious, and the seedy. We did everything possible so that the turmoil in the streets did not overwhelm our readings, and that in the event it did influence our conversations—it was impossible, not to mention undesirable, to avoid it—it did not excessively dominate or weaken them. We continued to go to the same cineclubs, cafés, theaters; we saw each other with the same or greater frequency, we discussed every imaginable subject, but literature especially.
Exhausted by some personal conflicts, anxious because of a fallow period that I had begun to associate with the political maelstrom, I decided to take a break and leave the country for a time; I thought about a trip to New York to recharge my batteries, or to Havana to witness firsthand that new revolutionary reality that certain well-known intellectuals such as Jean-Paul Sartre or Michel Leiris were celebrating, but I ended up traveling to Europe. I sold what I had—books and paintings—which allowed me to spend a few weeks in London, a few days in Paris and Geneva, and an extended period of time in Rome.
While I was away many things happened.
On my return to Mexico, I find a modified reality. The climate of official antagonism has increased, moving into other sectors. Financiers have not forgiven López Mateos for having defined his government as leftist, even if it was within the Constitution. The nationalization of industries, especially those of light and power, creates in these circles a feeling close to panic. China has been allowed to hold an exhibition in Mexico on the advances achieved by the Revolution. What exasperates them above all is this unprecedented foreign policy during the presidential sexennial. More than one hundred thousand people protest in front of the Palacio Nacional against free textbooks, which they consider an assault on the religious sensibilities of the nation. Fliers are circulated revealing that the president’s wife is a Protestant. Overnight, notices appear on the doors and windows of tens of thousands of houses that read: “In this house we are Roman Catholics, and do not accept either Protestant or Communist propaganda.”
Moreover, a new and anti-dogmatic political thought has taken root. A group of intellectuals—made up of Víctor Flores Olea, Carlos Fuentes, Jaime García Terrés, Enrique González Pedrero, Francisco López Cámara, and Luis Villoro—founded a dissident publication: El Espectador, which carried a significant weight of opinion, especially among intellectuals.
At the same time, first imperceptibly then with an irresistible rhythm, a joyful spirit of carnival, of libertarian revelry, began to spread. Mexico is becoming a fiesta. My neighborhood, Juárez, is becoming the city’s Zona Rosa, teeming with galleries, restaurants, and cafés where everyone meets. I’ve returned with the intention of staying only a brief time and of picking up some translations to do in Italy. My desire to leave, however, wanes with each passing day. Monsiváis and José Emilio have become important cultural figures in the city. Their talent and their immense capacity to work have opened many doors for them, both at the University and in cultural supplements and magazines, which at that time are the only venues available to writers. Carlos’s program Cine y Crítica, which is broadcast by Radio Universidad, has become very popular, thanks in no small part to his cultural breadth and polemical character, but most of all to his humor, that never-ending rainstorm that falls on the desert of solemnity that characterizes our medium.
I go to Coyoacán to eat at the home of Vicente and Albo Rojo. José Carlos Becerra has arrived from Cuernavaca and says that he encountered military reserves on the highway. Twice they stopped his car and made him get out; they searched inside the car and the trunk. It wasn’t anything personal, he says; from what he was able to ascertain, they were searching all cars and buses. The newspapers are reporting that in the last few days there have been uprisings in different areas of Morelos and that panic is spreading in Cuernavaca. They accuse an agrarian leader, Rubén Jaramillo, of having taken up arms. The poet Becerra says that the talk of panic is a lie; they’re trying to create panic, perhaps as a pretext to arrest Jaramillo.
Monsiváis arrives during coffee. The get-together takes on a new life. Carlos remarks that the struggle between the solemn and the anti-solemn is beginning to cause tension in certain quarters. Lists are immediately made; everyone contributes names. In some cases, the opinion is unanimous; in others, there are doubts and reservations, nuances are noted. Examples are cited, of intellectuals as well as public figures, solemn in perpetuity, who, so as not to lose their clients, pretend to have loosened up. Luis Prieto comments that in the penultimate ordinary meeting of the association “Friends United for a Culture of Modesty,” several members remarked that they were alarmed by the disappearance of their own presence in their homes as well as at their businesses; their grandchildren, and also their employees, servants, and gardeners were all talking in front of them as if they did not exist—which they attributed to having succumbed to an excess of solemnity. They meet the first Tuesday of each month, Luis adds; the women in one of their homes, and the gentlemen in a room at the Bankers’ Club. Every few months both sexes celebrate a plenary meeting at the country club. Luis had to go as a representative of the attorney De la Cadena, a friend of his grandfather since childhood, who could not attend that day because it was his ninetieth birthday, which he wanted to celebrate with family. He presented a letter that authorized him to vote for de-solemnization provided that it was carried out gradually and judiciously. During that session, they voted unanimously to ask their tailors to dress them in the latest style, not all at once, since that would be unbearable, but little by little, pian piano. The other decision, although it must be noted that it was not unanimous, was to be initiated into modern music because they know it to be the centerpiece of the anti-solemn view. For this session, the banker Don Arturo María Junco, certain of the outcome of the vote, had already contracted a movie projectionist with equipment necessary to show a film: “Modern music, ma non troppo!” he said. The projectionist chose films by Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. When the title appeared on screen: The Gay Divorcee, the uproar was overwhelming. A divorcee! And gay! A gay divorcee? Never! Could it be that they were members of an association called “Friends United for a Culture of Debauchery?!” Fortunately, the man from the theater had another film: Pies de seda.
“Shall We Dance?” Monsiváis said immediately in English.
“As the projection progressed,” Luis continued, “something began to move inside the hearts of those watching. When it was over, they asked the projectionist to replay some musical numbers, and in one of them, Don Arturo María stood up and to everyone’s surprise began to do a few discreet tap steps, then spun like a top, waving a lace tablecloth that he had removed from the table, tossing it into the air, and running rhythmically to catch it before it fell. He moved about with remarkable ease, as if during his entire life he had done nothing but dance. A musical number was replayed, and on that occasion four or five others began to tap with him, and although the difference between Don Arturo María and the new enthusiasts was astronomical, the audience’s joy was absolute.”
“But how can you be sure, Luis, that whatshisname had not danced before?” Someone added: “I assure you he’s probably a smooth operator who’s fooled his entire fraternity.”
“He insisted he wasn’t, and I have no reason to disbelieve him,” Luis responds. “Even he seemed to be surprised by his exploits. He was ecstatic. This month I had to go back to the Bankers’ Club because old man De la Cadena overdid it on his birthday and is being insufferable, and this time the meeting was entirely different. Most showed up in shoes appropriate for dancing with disheveled hair, which some had dyed, or so it seemed, and print ties that they would never have dared to wear before voting for modernization. And, you guessed it, to top it all off, they themselves demanded that The Gay Divorcee be shown. ‘Modesty be damned!’ they shouted. At the end, just as before, there was a replay of musical scenes and dancing. Don Arturo María was out of control and unrecognizable. At one point, he turned to his brother-in-law, Rafael de Aguirre, stuck out his hand and said to him: ‘Hey, Fallo, now it’s your turn to be Ginger for a while and I’ll be Fred.’ Don Rafael was horrified. ‘What, you’re going to be Fred?’ he stuttered. ‘That’s right, and you’re Ginger; you understood me perfectly.’ I thought Don Rafael was going to collapse from an embolism, but his brother-in-law calmed him down: ‘Remember, Fallo, in this kind of dance one barely touches the tips of the fingers; or didn’t you notice? Did you watch the movie or did you fall asleep? In these numbers, each person twirls however he wants.’ ‘But what about my beard, Fatso? Won’t it look bad if Ginger has a beard?’ ‘We’ll all pretend that you don’t have one, or that we don’t see it, Fallo,’ his cousin Don Graciano de Aguirre, the dean of the Association, said forcefully. That said, the poor devil began to remove the cilices that were torturing his legs; ‘So I don’t lose my agility,’ he said, and also removed the scapulars because it seemed disrespectful to drag Our Lady of Pilar and above all the Virgin of Guadalupe into those dances. So they began to dance. Everyone else formed a semicircle and made choreographed movements with their arms and legs to enhance the couple’s artistry. When it was over, they decided unanimously to hire a choreographer to teach them how to stage more complex numbers; upon hearing this, the projectionist took a card from his pocket and handed it to the dean. It read: ‘Párvula Dry: Dance Teacher: Flamenco, Conga, Cuchichí, Mambo, and Other Rhythms.’ ‘We’ve entered a new era,’ the dean said. ‘Our Association has taken an historic step. On the one hand, it will improve our circulation, of which we’re in dire need, but also, and most of all, we’ll surprise our wives at October’s plenary session. Can you imagine, gentlemen, the looks on their faces? They’ll be so proud of us. Neither they nor anyone else will be able to brand us as solemn, do you realize? First thing tomorrow, I’ll contact Doña Párvula Dry.’”
Luis’s story is very famous, and it grows richer with each re-telling; characters we all know filter through it. The name Párvula Dry printed on the card becomes increasingly more important until she becomes the story’s protagonist. Upon discovering the size of her pupils’ fortunes, Párvula Dry will take advantage of them, scam them, promise to take them on a triumphant world tour, when in reality the most she will do is book them in Barcelona’s Bodega Bohemia, a Goyaesque dive where old variety singers are heckled and jeered by a ruthless public. Once there, she’ll escort the group, now called “Friends United of the Voluptuous Terpsichore,” in the front door then vanish out the back, only to reappear in Capri, where she’ll buy a sumptuous residence that once belonged to Gloria Swanson; thus beginning a new chapter in her stormy existence. By the end, the story undergoes so many changes that it ends up making no sense, but we all amuse ourselves to death.
Carlos and I take a bus that drops us in Bucareli, not far from the Paseo de la Reforma, which works out beautifully because we’re able to spend a moment in the Librería Francesa, where they have set aside for him two or three of the last issues of Cahiers du Cinéma; we stroll in the direction of the María Bárbara hotel, where the group Nuevo Cine is holding a meeting. Carlos’s library, from what I’ve seen, has branched out; it continues to be fundamentally a literary library, but now has sections devoted to social sciences, anthropology, history of Mexico, cinema, photography. Mine no longer exists; having sold almost all of my books before leaving for Europe, and the few I bought in Italy—with the exception of a volume of Rivadeneyra’s edition of Tirso de Molina, which I found by chance in a bookstore in Milan and brought with me to Mexico—are still in Rome, at Zamprano’s house, in boxes and suitcases that await my return.
As we walk to the café we also stop at the Británica. Carlos buys a few English magazines and half a dozen books on pop music and photography that, he assures me, are indispensable. I find The Gothic Revival by Clark, a study of that genre known as the Gothic novel that emerged in England in the eighteenth century—replete with horror, eroticism, occultism, orientalism, sadism, and gruesomeness—in which Lewis’s The Monk is set, which I’m translating at the moment. We finally arrive at the María Bárbara, to my surprise, before the meeting is scheduled to start, which gives us time to chat alone for a while, more or less seriously, something we rarely do.
I tell Carlos that I’m thinking more and more about staying in Mexico, and he encourages me to stay. He tells me that the struggle against solemnity that he has undertaken is more than just mere entertainment, or a simple act of amusement, although there is much of that. He’s convinced that the years of the recent past, those in which the riot police were a permanent fixture in the streets, could only have happened by virtue of a fossilization of mindsets and, therefore, of institutions. Everything is frozen: legislation; the cult of heroes, transformed into concrete statues or fountains with meaningless quotations that refer to nothing real; the official rites of the revolution are as vacuous as everything else. The mindset of politicians has become a part of that same fossilized structure. We have to begin to laugh at everything, to the point of chaos if necessary, and create an environment in which the sanctimonious become worried, for a large part of their ills and ours come from their limitations. Laugh at them, ridicule them, make them feel powerless; this is the only way anything can change. A Sisyphus-like effort, no doubt, but one worth undertaking, and one that eases the monotony of life. If it is impossible to humanize the faces of reinforced concrete that politicians hope to acquire from their first measly little position, then at least it will be possible to expose some cracks. Young people are fed up will all the nonsense. They won’t even set foot in the Museum of Anthropology so they don’t have to see the hieratic expressions of their leaders on the massive stone statue of Coatlicue, the Aztec goddess of creation. Everyone must learn to laugh at those ridiculous and sinister puppets that address the nation as if history were told through their mouth, not the living one, never that, rather the one they’ve embalmed. Anything new frightens them. When people finally see them for the rats they are, the parrots they are, and not as the magnificent lions and peacocks that they believe themselves to be, when they discover—of course it will take time!—that they are an object of ridicule, not of respect or fear, change will finally arrive; for that to happen they have to lose their base; they’re prepared to respond to even the most violent insult, but not to humor.
This is what we’re discussing when the friends Monsiváis is meeting arrive: José Luis González de León, Luis Vicens, José de la Colina, Paul Leduc, Tomás Pérez Turrent, Manuel Michel, Emilio García Riera, Juan Manuel Torres, among others. They’re meeting to discuss cinema, and on this specific occasion to plan the publication of some Cuadernos. Juan Manuel Torres tells me that he’s writing about the first divas—the Italians, la Menichelli, la Terribile-González, and la Borelli—and the erotic impulse they represent, which emerged around the birth of the cinema and is still present in it today. They then move to a long table at the back of the café to talk; I stay where I am and read the chapter about Lewis in the book I just purchased at the Británica. When they finish, we’ll go to the cinéclub to see Johnny Guitar, which is part of a season titled something like “The Tribulations of Eros.”
Off we go. It’s a rather idiosyncratic Western, in which the protagonists of the duel, an element that is essential to this genre, are two women. The fight is not between a villain and a hero, that coarse but law-abiding cowboy who is usually John Wayne, Gary Cooper, or Randolph Scott. Instead the villain is an insufferable woman. The indispensable leading lady is Joan Crawford. The conflict is between the owner/hostess of a saloon where the cowboys entertain themselves gaily and a raging puritan who devotes every waking moment to combating vice. For Joan Crawford there isn’t a single moment of rest; the other woman harasses and pursues her, and lays the most treacherous traps for her until she is led to the gallows. At the last minute, with the noose around her neck, it looks as if a hero is about to save her, although I mostly imagine this and don’t see it because of the commotion in the theater. We’re sitting, as we have for several years, very close to the screen, in the third row on the right. From the beginning, we find the movie intensely amusing. The villainess’s horrific tantrums and the palavering in which the heroine defends herself create a glorious dialogue. At times they sound like oracles; and others like grocers. Something about it is reminiscent of Ionesco’s world and the humor of the early silent pictures. Our cackles echo throughout the theater, although we’re surprised that ours are the only ones. The audience begins to shush us, insult us, and call for us to be thrown out of the theater. The commotion prevents me from enjoying the ending. When the lights turn on, a few spectators, almost all friends of ours, of course, curse at us. We’re a couple of Pharisees, ignoramuses; our materialist distortion keeps us from detecting and appreciating a new treatment of Myth. Are we not able to see that the true face of hate is love? Has it escaped us that the relationship we saw on screen is governed by the concept of l’amour-fou? We’ve witnessed an extraordinary case of l’amour-fou, and two or three of our friends repeat in unison—I’m not sure whether seriously or in jest—that l’amour-fou means mad love, yes: the mad, mad love proclaimed by the surrealists, with the great Breton in the lead. Did we even know who André Breton was?
We walk to the taquería next door to the Insurgentes movie house. We reflect with increasing pleasure on certain scenes from the movie and the frenzied intolerance of the priggish cinephiles. It’s been a day blessed by laughter. I feel in optimum condition to go home and make some progress for a couple of hours on the gruesome and wanton story of Lewis’s monk.
Suddenly a newsboy comes in with the latest edition of the paper. The headline takes up half the page. Rubén Jaramillo has been executed. We buy the paper. They talk about Jaramillo in the vilest of terms, as if he were a dangerous beast that has finally been hunted down. They’ve also killed his four children and his pregnant wife Epifanía. The tone is celebratory: another victory against the Bolshevist threat. Carlos gives me a brief summary of Jaramillo’s life: he was a Methodist pastor who had fallen out with the Morelos government because of a series of abuses that took place in the countryside. He lived in a village near Cuernavaca, where the price of land has increased enormously. Land speculation had set its sights on them. Jaramillo became a natural leader of the region; he stopped the tenant farmers from being evicted. Holding the paper in my hands is degrading; it expels a foul odor. “Dead dogs don’t bite!” it seems to shout. As we leave the restaurant, Carlos takes a taxi to return to Portales, and I walk few blocks home. My brief walk is enveloped in feelings of unreality, anger, and horror. Everything I’ve seen the last few days becomes a façade, which a harsh Mexico has taken it upon itself to smash to bits.
Not a single intellectual celebrated that crime, nor attempted to mitigate publicly the government’s responsibility. The journalists at the service of the State made sure to do that. They seemed to become intoxicated with fame as they carried out the task; they knew the greater his infamy the higher their reward from the public treasury would be. Writers had yet to lend themselves to that task. That would come later; during the Salinas presidency it would become a succulently “lucrative” profession. Fernando Benítez devoted a supplement in La Cultura en México, which he edited at the time, to Jaramillo’s murder. He visited the region of Morelos himself, with Carlos Fuentes and Víctor Flores Olea, where the events had occurred. The accounts they wrote were splendid and brave.
My desire to stay in Mexico disappeared that night. Soon after, I left the country. Carlos stayed and persisted in his projects, thanks to which he managed to accomplish a large part of the program he confided to me in 1962 at the María Bárbara. Since then, he’s written brilliant books, needless to say; they are a testament to chaos, its rituals, its slime, its greatness, infamy, horrors, excesses, and forms of liberation. They are also an account of a Rocambolesque and ludic world, delirious and macabre. They are our esperpento. Culture and society are his two great domains. Intelligence, humor, and fury have been his greatest advisors. I’m convinced that the current catalyst to create, in spite of everything, a civil society, is due to his efforts.
In his own way, Carlos Monsiváis is a constantly expanding polygraph, a one-man writers’ union, a legion of heteronyms that out of eccentricity sign the same name. If you have a question about a biblical text, all you have to do is call him—he’ll answer it immediately; the same if you need a bit of information about a movie filmed in 1924, 1935, or whatever year you like; you want to know the name of the regent of the city of Mexico or of the governor of Sonora in 1954; or the circumstances under which Diego Rivera painted a mural in San Francisco in 1931, which José Clemente Orozco dubbed “Assitorium”; or the possible transformation of Tamayo’s work during his brief Parisian period, or the fidelity of a line of poetry that may be dancing in your head by Quevedo, Góngora, Sor Juana, Darío, López Velarde, Gorostiza, Pellicer, Vallejo, Neruda, Machado, Paz, Villaurrutia, Novo, Sabines, of any great poet of our language, and the answer will appear immediately: not just the verse but the stanza in which it is located. He is Mr. Memory. He is also an incomparable historian of mentalities: an intensely receptive and sharp essayist—if you don’t believe me, just read the pages he has written on Onetti, Novo, Beckford, Hammett; a remarkable movie critic; a student of Mexican painting who has produced excellent pages on Diego, Tamayo, Gerzso, María Izquierdo, and Toledo; and a lucid political essayist. He is the chronicler of all our misfortunes and our marvels, more of the former, considering that the Mexico in which we’re living has been fertile in misfortunes and, in turn, the marvels appear exceptional as miracles often do; he is the documentarian of the extremely fertile gamut of our national imbecility. His weekly columns capture the statements of the great minds of our minuscule universe; in them speak financiers, bishops, senators, deputies, and governors, the President of the Republic, the “communicators,” the cultured doyens. The result is devastating. Next to him, the discoveries of Bouvard and Pécuchet would look like the apothegms of Plato or Aristotle. To these attributes, others can be added: bibliophile; collector of a thousand heterogeneous things; felinophile, Sinologist—Carlos Monsiváis is all this and more. And, in addition, as readers may have already surmised: he is my closest friend.
Xalapa, January 1996
