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
