Black jewels, the deep sea still under the sun, bottom of sand rocked by the time, dark cherries from the meat tree and warm entrails. He never told her that. No time. There was no time to tell her so many things about love. There was never time for the last word. Perhaps closing his eyes, she would return whole, to live on the eager caresses that pulsed on the man’s fingertips. Perhaps it would be enough to imagine her to have her by his side forever. Who knew if the memory could really prolong things, intertwine the legs, open the windows at dawn, comb the hair, and resurrect the fragrance, the noises, the touch. He got up. He groped for the bottle of mezcal in the dark room. Suddenly, it did not work to forget, as everyone had said, but it brought out memories more quickly.
From “The Death of Artemio Cruz,” by Carlos Fuentes.
(Translated from Spanish by Louis Villalba)
I met Carlos Fuentes a few years ago when he presented a new novel at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. A gentleman, Mexican Carlos Fuentes commanded an aristocratic yet humble presence as he delivered his speech in perfect English. His passion for literature sprang from his voice like the fountain in his surname. The beauty of his poetic prose is evident in this snippet, “Black jewels, the deep sea still under the sun, bottom of sand rocked by the time, dark cherries from the meat tree and warm entrails. He never told her that. No time. There was no time to tell her so many things about love. There was never time for the last word.”
Every year, when the Noble Prize of literature was named, I always waited for him to win. But, like life, awards can be unfair. He passed away in 2012, yet his work lives on.
Snippet in Spanish:
Joyas negras, hondo mar quieto bajo el sol, fondo de arena mecida en el tiempo, cerezas oscuras del árbol de carne y entrañas calientes. Nunca le dijo eso. No hubo tiempo. No hubo tiempo para decirle tantas cosas del amor. Nunca hubo tiempo para la última palabra. Acaso cerrando los ojos, ella regresaría entera, a vivir de las caricias ansiosas que pulsaban en las yemas de los dedos del hombre. Acaso bastaría imaginarla para tenerla siempre a su lado. Quién sabe si el recuerdo puede realmente prolongar las cosas, entrelazar las piernas, abrir las ventanas a la madrugada, peinar el cabello y resucitar los olores, los ruidos, el tacto. Se incorporó. Buscó a tientas, en el cuarto oscuro, la botella de mezcal. De repente no servía para olvidar, como dicen todos, sino para sacar fuera los recuerdos más de prisa.
