Dedication

       Did I request thee, Maker, from my clayTo mould me Man? did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me, or here place In this delicious garden?

      —Milton, Paradise Lost

      Contents

       Cover

       Title

      Dedication

      OTHER WORKS BY CARLOS FUENTES IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      About the Authors

      Copyright

      OTHER WORKS BY CARLOS FUENTES IN ENGLISH TRANSLATION

       Where the Air is Clear

       Aura The Good Conscience The Death of Artemio Cruz A Change of Skin

       Holy Place Terra Nostra The Hydra Head Burnt Water Distant Relations

       The Old Gringo Christopher Unborn Myself with Others The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World

       The Campaign The Orange Tree Diana: The Goddess Who Hunts Alone A New Time for Mexico The Crystal Frontier: A Novel in Nine Stories

       The Years with Laura Díaz Inez This I Believe: An A to Z of a Life

       The Eagle’s Throne Happy Families Destiny and Desire

       Vlad

      Chapter 1

      I don’t understand what happened. Last Christmas everybody was smiling at me, giving me gifts, congratulating me, predicting a new year—yet another year—of success, satisfaction, and just rewards. People nodded approval at my wife as though to tell her she was very lucky to be married to the toast of the town . . . Today I ask myself, what does it mean to be “the toast of the town . . . ?” Or, for that matter, burnt toast? I feel more burnt than toasted. Was this the year when my memory, so subject to illusions, at last grew disillusioned? Did what happened really happen? I don’t really want to know. All I want is to go back to last year’s Christmas: a family affair, comforting in its stark simplicity (in its inherent stupidity) and annual reoccurrence; a prophecy of twelve months to come that would not be as gratifying as Christmas Eve because fortunately they would not be as silly and wretched as Christmas; the holiday that we celebrate in December—just because—as a matter of course—without knowing why—out of custom—because we are Christians—we are Mexicans—war—war against Lucifer—because in Mexico we’re Catholics to a man, not excepting the atheists—because a thousand years of iconography instructs us to kneel before the Nativity scene of Bethlehem even as we turn our backs on the Vatican. Christmas takes us back to the humble origins of faith. There was a time, another time, when to be Christian was to be called an atheist, to be persecuted, to hide, to flee. Heresy: a heroic path. Now, in our sorry age, to be an atheist shocks no one. Nothing is shocking. Nobody is shocked. What if I, Adam Gorozpe, were suddenly to knock down the little Christmas tree with my fist, smash the star, wrap a wreath around my wife Priscila Holguín’s head as a crown, and—as they used to say—to drum out (whatever that means) my guests . . . ?

      Why don’t I do that? Why do I keep acting with my famous bonhomie? Why do I keep behaving like the perfect host who, every Christmas, invites friends and colleagues over, plies them with food and drink, gives each of them a different present—never the same tie twice, or the same scarf—even as my wife insists that ‘tis the season for re-gifting the useless, ugly, or duplicate presents that were foisted on us, and for dumping them on those who, in turn, give them to other dupes who thrust them upon . . .

      I look at the small mountain of gifts piled before the tree. I am overcome by the fear of giving a colleague the gift he gave me two, three, four Christmases ago . . . But thinking about this is enough to ward off my fears. My story isn’t up to New Year’s yet. It’s still Christmas Eve. My family surrounds me. My innocent wife smiles her most conceited smile. The maids pass around punch. My father-in-law distributes cake and cookies from a tray.

      I should not get ahead of myself. Today everything is fine; nothing awful has happened yet.

      I look out the window distractedly.

      A comet trails across the sky.

      And my wife, Priscila, loudly slaps the maid who serves the cocktails.

      Chapter 2

      Again a comet shoots across the sky. I am paralyzed with doubt. Is the bright heavenly body preceded by its own light or does it merely introduce the light? Does the light mark the beginning or the end? Does it presage birth or death? I believe the sun, the greater celestial object, determines whether the comet is a before or after. In other words: the sun is the master of the game; the comets are specks, chorus members, the extras of the universe. And yet, we are so accustomed to the sun that we only notice its absence, its eclipse. We think about the sun when we do not see the sun. Comets, though, are like launched rays of solid sunlight, emissary beings, ancillaries to the sun, and in spite of everything, proof of the existence of the sun: without servants, there is no master. A master needs servants to prove his own existence. I ought to know. As I am a modern lawyer and businessman who can vouch for my whereabouts five times a week (Saturday and Sunday being holidays), taking my place at the head of the conference table, my subordinated subordinates spaced before