Adam in Eden. Carlos Fuentes
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a preacher on the corner of Insurgentes and . . .
“An eleven-year-old preacher.”
“Right.”
“A Boy-God.”
“You’re talking nuts.”
“But I’m not nuts. You have to listen to me, because you can’t go there to see what’s happening. I can. Nobody knows me from . . . nobody recognizes me.”
If this was a reproach about having to be a secret lover, the reproach did not register with me at the time.
“What does he say?”
“Stop running around, that’s mainly what he says. Don’t rush. Where are you going in such a hurry? Where’s the fire? Can’t you just wait one single minute? Don’t you want to hear the voice of God?
“At first they heckled the Boy. Until that child’s gaze silenced the crowd.
“If only you could have seen him, Adam. His very gaze conferred authority. It was a gaze full of veiled threats. A loving gaze, too. A powerful love mixed with a great authority and a trace of menace. All this in a ten- or eleven-year-old boy.”
“Is he blond? Ugly?” I said, wanting to lower L’s admiring tone, which was getting on my nerves.
“He’s, I don’t know, luminous. Yes. He shines, but it’s like he really sees us.”
“Rhymes with Jesus,” I tried to joke.
“No, no, no, no,” L said, “not that, that would be like a parody, wouldn’t it? No, this child isn’t God, he’s not Jesus, he is, I don’t know, Adam. What’s the word? He’s a messenger . . .”
“How do you know?”
“Adam. He had wings on his ankles. Wings on his ankles. You see where I’m going with this?”
“Yes, not very far. Anybody can glue a pair of little wings to their ankles, to their back, to their . . .”
“But nobody admits it . . .”
I gave her a questioning look. “He took off the wings from his feet, do you hear me?”
“So even he admits he’s a fraud.”
“Just the opposite! He said that he was a schoolboy. He would go to school every morning, where he learned to read, to write, to sing, to do math, and to draw. But after school, he would transform. He followed his heart, he said, and he’d put on the white gown, and stick the little wings to his ankles, and put on the wig of golden curls, and he’d go preach at this intersection of busy avenues, nobody told him to do it, just his heart, the need of his soul, he said, he was a schoolboy, nothing more, he was not deceiving anybody, he would rather go play marbles, but he did what he had to do, not because he had to obey an order, but because he could follow no other path, that’s what he told us.”
“Us? Are we many?”
“The crowd is bigger every afternoon, Adam. Haven’t you heard?”
“You know very well that I don’t communicate well with the city authorities.”
“Well, you should hear about it. You don’t trust the city? Then believe me, baby. I’m telling you what I saw.”
Chapter 10
Abelardo moved out of his father’s house, and when I saw him, he told me the following:
My cousin Sonsoles, sucking on her Mimi lollipop and prancing around, told me that someone had telephoned on behalf of the poet Maximino Sol. He wanted to meet me and would be expecting me at his house in the Condesa neighborhood at five. I went to the audience feeling ill at ease: Maximino Sol was a great writer; he also exerted a fascinating sort of tyranny over Mexican literature, monopolizing the publication of magazines and, through his disciples and close friends, the book reviews in newspapers. I went there, I admit, fascinated, resisting an impulse to rebel by admitting that pride, while a virtue, was also an extravagance for an unknown poet. Maximino Sol received me in his wood-paneled office, where he introduced me to a thirty-year-old man with blood-shot eyes and a mustache in the style of the writer Valle Arizpe or some colonial Kaiser. I identified him as the poet’s notorious enforcer, who in proud cynicism, signed his attacks against Sol’s enemies as “Luna,” the moon, while Sol, the sun, atop the lyrical Olympus, beatifically feigned ignorance of his satellites tumbling around madly in the lower depths. A sidekick to his boss, a parasite on others, he would forever be someone’s servant; as a servant to money and power, he would never exist on his own account. I pictured this assistant, slightly overweight at the hips, sporting a ruff and holding a quill pen at the ready, waiting to take dictation of every word pronounced by the poet who, with old-fashioned Mexican courtesy, received me in a three-piece suit, a white shirt, and a thick silk necktie fastened with a tiepin. The poet’s body, tiny and chubby, looked constrained in the gray pinstriped vest, and his double chin hung a bit over the knot of his tie. The vest, instead of tightening the body, was tightened by the body, so that Maximino Sol seemed put together from two perfect circles, the double-chin giving rise to the belly that seemed to emerge from the neck, and vice versa. But the leonine head concentrated all the energy that was absent in the flabby body, and his carefully ruffled mane gave him a fierce air, emphasized by the mixture of impatience and disdain in his gaze. Nevertheless, an angelic veil magically covered all of Maximino Sol’s manners and movements.
He sat down and told me that my little poem published in K____ magazine had come to his attention. There was perhaps too much influence from Neruda and Lorca—he said while smiling cherubically—and he suggested, in any case, that I choose instead models like Jorge Guillén and Emilio Prados, whom one could paraphrase without being too obvious. In any case, he went on, mimicry is inevitable in literature and, after all, to choose one’s mentors well is a sign of talent.
The amanuensis passed an open copy of the magazine to the poet.
“You have talent,” the poet said, leafing kindly through the pages where I had imprinted my literary baby steps. “And besides, you are young . . .”
Sitting uncomfortably before the great man, I felt even less comfortable in my soul than in my body. Before acknowledging the compliment, I examined the rich mahogany of the office, I admired the perfect order of the bookshelves, and I tried to amuse myself by speculating about the way the poet organized his books: by genre, alphabetical or chronological order, or a combination of all these? I let my mind wander to distract myself from the obvious: I was being recruited so that my youth and talent would join, as he would soon inform me, the writers of K____ magazine, directed by Maximino Sol. The poet’s discourse had been directed to a conscript. His affable smile and his alert eyes told me, without words, that a great honor was being done to me, and that is how I understood it.
“Thank you,” I said.
But the association of my youth (verifiable) and my talent (still questionable) in one equation, made me uncomfortable, especially when Sol went off on a long disquisition about the lack of real minds in our literature.
He recalled everybody: the poets—Alfonso Reyes, Salvador Novo, Xavier Villaurrutia, Jaime Torres Bodet, Jorge Cuesta, Gilberto Owen, José Gorostiza, Carlos Pellicer, and even Tablada, Urbina, González Martínez—and a few novelists—Azuela, Guzmán, Muñoz, Ferretis, Magdaleno. Sol began by dispatching, one by one, the writers of his generation, of previous generations, and then of generations younger than his own. In Olympian style he conferred prizes and punishments, granting this poet a second place, those two a third, the one over there an honorable mention, the vast majority a failing grade, and one, his mortal enemy, was flat-out sent to stand in the corner with donkey ears and the impenitent heretic’s dunce cap. In any case the mediocre or bad poets sat in the front rows and the novelists, considered more or less the mentally disabled of literature, in the last.
I wondered, as I listened to Sol talk, what place he would grant me, especially when I ceased to be young and had my own body of work. I understood as well what place Maximino Sol awarded himself in this perpetual