Diego Rivera the Red [1 ed.] 9781611920406, 9781558854345

Citation preview

Diego Rivera the Red By

Guadalupe Rivera Marín Translated into English by Dick Gerdes

Arte Público Press Houston, Texas

This volume is made possible through a grant from the City of Houston through The Cultural Arts Council of Houston, Harris County. Recovering the past, creating the future Arte Público Press University of Houston 452 Cullen Performance Hall Houston, Texas 77204-2004 Cover design by James F. Brisson Cover art “Self Portrait 1941” courtesy of 2004 Banco de México Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust. Av. Cinco de Mayo No. 2, Col. Centro, Del. Cuauhtémoc 06059, México, D. F. and The Smith College Museum of Art Collection Rivera, Guadalupe Marín. [Diego el Rojo. Spanish] Diego Rivera the Red / Guadalupe Rivera Marín; English translation by Dick Gerdes. p. cm. ISBN 1-55885-434-7 (clothbound : alk. paper) PQ7298.28.I8985D5413 2004 863′.64—dc22 2004052338 CIP The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

© 2004 by Guadalupe Rivera Marín Printed in the United States of America

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For Diego Rivera, life was a fantasy, just as his own life was fabled story.

To my sons Juan Pablo and Diego, and my grandchildren Luis Fernando, Juan Pablo, María Fernanda, Paulina, and Rodrigo. To my friend, Ifigenia Martínez, who provided me with the peace and quiet that I enjoyed in her hospitable home in Bucerías, Nayarit, where I revised the final version. To the Rockefeller Foundation for the grant that allowed me to enjoy the Bellagio Study and Conference Center in Italy, a place of great natural beauty. There, I wrote the first narrative draft. Finally, my thanks to Nicolás Kanellos and his able staff at Arte Público Press, to my translator, Dick Gerdes, and to Henry A. J. Ramos, who facilitated the book’s publication in English, and his brother, Gregory Ramos, who assisted in its review.

Contents PART I The Awakening of a Fantasy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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PART II Fantasies of Love and Politics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 PART III Fantasies of Revolution . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 196

PART I

The Awakening of a Fantasy I whirlwind, inching along like an old drunk rummaging on all fours, became trapped in a ravine known as Cata. Trash, dead leaves, and pieces of tin roofing torn from nearby houses were its booty. Then, as it wound its way down the narrow, cobblestone streets of the town, it made a rumbling noise not unlike a thousand horses’ hooves galloping across the plains. Finally, the fierce gusts of wind collided with the gazebo in the middle of the main plaza, Jardín de la Unión, and lost force, but not before almost lifting into the air a woman dressed in black and a child she was holding by the hand. He wore a small straw hat and was dressed in several different colors. The woman looked fatigued, visibly shaken, and white as a sheet. She used every bit of her strength, not only to hold on to her shawl that looked like a parachute, but also to keep the little boy from flying away like a kite. Stumbling along the street in semidarkness, the aunt and her nephew came to the Church of San Diego. It was dark inside. Suddenly, the little boy began to complain. Covering her face, the aunt pretended not to hear him as she sat down in a pew near the main entrance of the church. “Auntie, no, not here. My father doesn’t want you to take me to church—never, ever,” said the seven-year-old boy, trying to pull away. “But Dieguito, didn’t you see how that wind was going to blow us away? So, we came here to give thanks to God. Quietly now, pray

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with devotion,” commanded the aunt, yanking him by his sleeve to make him sit down. “I don’t care about that wind. I don’t care about God. I want to go home!” screamed Diego as he pulled on her skirt. “You settle down now,” insisted Aunt Totota, giving him a slap. “Just let go of my skirt, go on outside, and watch the wind carry you off.” “Na na na na na, don’t take me to the fountain; na na na na na, take me to Meco Mountain,” taunted the boy, humming a little tune to himself. “What are you saying? You’re just being foolish!” said the aunt angrily. “I’m not foolish. Only the women of this house are foolish,” he responded. Mockingly, he started humming again: “No ni no ni, I don’t like them; they’re like fleas, and I just crush ’em.” By then, the aunt was really mad, and she pinched his arm hard to make him sit down. “Start praying!” Instead of obeying her, Diego began darting playfully among the pews, like blurred objects in the dim light. Feeling his way, he came upon a niche in the wall of the temple that was dimly lit with just a few candles, which made it difficult to see the image of Our Lady of Light of Guanajuato perched on an altar. The impending gloom of the interior of the church made it seem more like a tomb than a place of worship. An Indian couple, dressed in tattered rags like those worn by poor lepers, prayed in their native tongue to the Lady, asking for protection, shelter, clothes, and food. Their children were so thin that they looked like bamboo shoots. They begged their parents for food, but the parents responded by saying that they didn’t even have stale tortillas in their knapsacks. Diego dug into his pockets in search of anything—a piece of candy, a coin, a small toy, or one of those marbles that magically changes colors—but he had nothing, only holes in his pockets. Realizing that he was unable to help them, he became desperate and decided to return to his aunt. Of course, he thought, she’ll give them something! No, not true, she’s mean; she never gives anything away. If Nana, who takes care of me, were here, she’d give them any-

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thing she had on her, even if it was just enough to buy a simple taco. Turning back to look for his aunt, he heard the poor boy’s mother plead, “Virgencita, just some old clothes and enough money to buy masa for some thick, corn tortillas. My little kids are fading, like flickering candles. We beg you to help us, Oh Beautiful Virgin.” Diego, shaken by the woman’s pain, murmured angrily, “Why are you asking for help from that Virgin? She’s just made of wood. She’s just like the broken one made of that soft, moth-eaten balsa wood in our attic. As far as I can tell, tables and chairs that are also made of wood can’t hear us; so, this Virgin Lady, even though she may be from Guanajuato, can’t hear us either. And if she can’t hear you, how can she give you what you want?” The mother and the father looked at him in horror. They didn’t dare say a word. Even Diego frightened himself by what he had said. Tripping over the pews, he went looking for his aunt. Noticeably moved, Diego walked up next to her and tugged at her coat. “Totota, give me some money to help those poor kids over there. Their parents asked the Virgin to give them something to eat.” Becoming even more anxious, he screamed, “That wooden Virgin isn’t going to give them anything. The little kids are starving to death. Give them something!” Since his aunt Totota was already upset with her nephew’s improprieties, these words—sounding like a virtual curse—infuriated her. Unlike the way she usually treated the boy, which meant spoiling him, she dragged him by his ear to the entrance of the church. She was exasperated and flushed in the face. “What can I give them? All you do is feel sorry for those dirty Indians, like that nanny of yours, Antonia, has taught you. What kind of a boy are you? How can you say those things? The devil is in you. Let’s leave before someone hears you!” The chaplain of the church, the austere Father Jiménez, had overheard everything.

II rofessor Diego Rivera Acosta continued to conduct political activities that were contrary not only to the Porfirio Díaz regime

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but also to his crony Manuel González, the governor of the state of Guanajuato. It was also known that from within the Masonic lodge of Guanajuato, the mining engineer oversaw the enforcement of the reform statutes by the local clergy. His reports were always opposed to the interests of the church. For that reason, Father Murgía, a superior of the Jesuit order, was always suspicious of him, which he made public from the pulpit of his reknowned church. The day that the newspaper El Demócrata, edited by Diego Rivera Acosta and his liberal friends, hit the streets, all this and more came out, which became the talk of the capital of Guanajuato. The collaborators of the weekly paper accused the Jesuit order of being an accomplice to the government in its scheme to sell the mines and the gold and silver refining industry to the English and the Germans, who had recently immigrated there. But that wasn’t all: as a result of the public denunciation, new activities in the Rivera household began to take place. Workers from all walks of life visited Rivera residence, seeking Don Diego’s advice on how to organize themselves and defend their interests. In the patio at the back of the house, miners painted aggressive protest slogans on large canvases nailed to wooden frames. They also smeared tar onto large torches made of ocote pine. One evening some days later, street sweepers, cart drivers, peons, ore diggers, and their bosses abandoned the mines in a protest over poor working conditions. Marching two by two in a long column and carrying torches that sputtered red fire and gave off black smoke, they started down the hill from the Real de Rayas mine that had been founded in 1554. Marching in rhythm, the column looked like an enormous red serpent spewing large puffs of thick smoke from its mouth. The combination of black smoke and red fire looked like an undulating anarchist’s flag, symbolizing the new power of the workers. The serpentflag descended slowly into the heart of the city, where the miners displayed their blankets painted with their demands and began shouting their grievances. “Down with the elitists! Down with the governor!” “We want food!”

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“Fewer work hours!” “We want new tools!” “Death to the snobs! Long live the people!” “Don’t sell the mines to foreigners!” It was already dark outside when the professor asked his son to accompany him to the newspaper offices; hand in hand, off they went. “Dieguito, do you want to come up to the roof with us to see something you’ve never seen before?” Although he was visibly hesitant, young Diego accepted. From there, he could see the flames from the torches emerging from the growing darkness. As the protesters approached, he could finally see the miners up close and hear their demands that were becoming louder and louder. Impromptu journalists began commenting on the signs; the boy, standing nearby, heard what they were saying. “Lara, look at those old tools and lanterns that were used during the Spanish colonization!” exclaimed Félix Bravo, a reporter. “You know, they don’t even give the miners rags to cover their noses and mouths.” “Yeah,” answered Bravo, “that’s why there’s so much disease.” “With those wages, they can’t even buy tortillas. They’re starving from hunger,” added Manuel Lara as he paced back and forth on the roof. Right then, remembering the spectacle he saw when his nanny Antonia had taken him to the mines in the Xichú Mountains, young Diego timidly joined in the conversation. “You know, Dad, what they’re saying is nothing. I saw something a lot worse up there on Gorda Mountain.” “So, what did you see?” “Well, did you know that up there the Chichimeca Indians go around barefoot and almost naked? It’s unbelievable, you can see their bones sticking out. They don’t even have any tortillas in their rucksacks. Poor things, and all beat up like that, they go down into those holes to take out that powdered metal.” Their conversation was drowned out by the shouting strikers crowding into Baratillo Plaza, exactly in front of the offices of the only newspaper that supported their cause.

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“Let Professor Rivera speak! Long live El Demócrata newspaper! We want to hear what the real citizens of Guanajuato think!” Responding to the miners’ demands, Professor Rivera, with his son by his side, began to speak in a strong, manly voice. “Miners, people of Guanajuato, every day it gets harder and harder to earn enough money even for food. Our lives are not improving. To the contrary, with the scarcity of corn and beans, prices have shot up. We don’t even have enough to make tacos. It seems like suffering has become a way of life. On the other hand, look at the rich people and the church leaders: they lack nothing.” Suddenly, he paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and altered the tone of his voice so that the demonstrators could grasp better what he was saying. “We must unite with the new organizations. That way, we’ll be able to get rid of the elitists and their protectors—the priests—who ignore the needs of the workers. They’re happy to say it’s God’s will while our situation worsens with each passing day.” Young Diego was astonished to see the transformation in the faces of the workers as his father was speaking: the looks of disgust turned to hatred. His father must have said something good, he thought, but he didn’t understand why he had made them so mad. After listening to Professor Rivera, the workers shouted, “Death to the mine owners,” and cheered for Professor Rivera, the liberals, and the liberal newspaper. Diego watched the demonstration disperse down side streets. When he could no longer see any demonstators, he walked home alone. His father had become lost in the throng of protesters. The professor did not get home until dawn. Manuel Lara, Félix Bravo, and fellow journalists brought in a wounded miner and prepared a makeshift bed for him in the living room. Cresencio Torres had become the first man to succumb in the struggle. Although it had been a hard scene for Diego to swallow, it had awakened a deep curiosity in the boy. He continued to visit his friends in the railway yards; given his interest in locomotives and machines, they called him “Engineer.” He also started to frequent the newspaper offices, often jumping from roof to roof nearby, until he

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could jump down to the patio where the printing shop was located. The press was primarily used to print religious images. The owner, Don Tomás, would show Diego name after name of saints that the boy had never heard of. “Listen, Don Tomás,” the boy said to him one day, “if you’re the guy who prints up these saints, how is it they can listen to my aunts afterwards?” “Oh, Engineer,” replied the man in surprise, “what can I tell you? That’s just the way it is.” “Look, Don Tomás, it’s the same with your images as it is with the saints I found in our attic. I lifted their robes and all I saw was balsa wood underneath. What the heck can those images and saints hear, anyway? Nothing. You and my aunts are talking nonsense!” Furious, he walked out of the shop. Startled, Don Tomás yelled at Diego, “Damn kid, no wonder those bums you fight with in the Jardín del Cantador call you an ornery little scrapper.”

III ne afternoon, while Diego and Nana were walking through the Pastita neighborhood, it started raining cats and dogs, as if the rain gods had opened the floodgates. They took refuge from the heavy downpour under a portico that afforded them a view of the craggy mountain range surrounding Guanajuato. “Nanny, look! The storm has made the big frogs that are carved into the side of Meco Hill sing.” “Oh, my dear child, they’re made of stone, they can’t sing. Stop that nonsense and hurry up. The wetter we get, the angrier your mother will be with me.” She covered him with part of her shawl. “Don’t you think they’re singing, Nanny? Don’t you see how the one that’s climbing the rock has opened its mouth to sing, ribbit, ribbit, ribbit?” The third time that Diego imitated the frog his mouth became enormous. “Young man, I’ve told you over and over not to imitate animals!

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See! Your mouth gets so big that if you keep doing it, you’ll end up looking just like them.” “Nanny, I don’t believe you,” he said sarcastically. “You think that when I grow up I’ll look like a green frog with black spots everywhere? I think the little ones are funny, but I don’t like the big ones as much. And those big brown toads with the double chins hanging down? I don’t like them at all.” “Dieguito, that’s the way it is. If you hang around those animals too much, you’ll end up like a frog yourself, or even worse, a big old toad that goes around jumping from one puddle to the next. Come on, hurry up! Even though the rain has stopped, just look at us— we’re soaking wet.” “Nanny, if you want me to hurry, I’ll race you. Let’s see who gets home first.” Jumping over the wet cobblestones, Diego disappeared down Cantarranas Street. After getting so wet that day, Diego came down with a bad cold and a high fever. His mother became hysterical. She cried and complained, hoping that the boy would get well with home remedies and lots of prayers. Just to be safe, she also sought the advice of the esteemed Dr. José Arizmendi, who was a kind of confidant to her. When he arrived that morning, she was waiting at the foot of the stairs. “Oh, Doctor,” she said apprehensively. “Dieguito’s so sick. Please save him! I’ve suffered enough with my little Carlitos’ death. Don’t let the same thing happen to my life’s treasure! And Pilar, my daughter, is so small!” “Calm down, woman, I’ll take care of him.” The doctor proceeded up the stairs and to Diego’s room. He sat down on the bed next to the little boy, talked to him and discovered how he had gotten sick. “María,” he said comfortingly, “it’s normal for your son to have a high fever. He has an ear infection that was brought on by his cold. But don’t worry, after he takes this cough syrup and pills for two or three days, he’ll be fine. But, if after taking the first doses his fever doesn’t subside, call me immediately.” Feeling more at ease, the boy’s mother walked the doctor to the door.

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Before saying good-bye, Dr. Arizmendi made a polite suggestion. “Señora María, as a friend of the family, let me be so bold as to recommend a change of climate for your son. Send him to stay with friends in the countryside.” “But how could we be apart from each other?” replied the mother with alarm. “He’s such a delicate child that I don’t even like for him to leave the house. And when he does, look what happens.” “I’m giving you some good advice. Dieguito needs some sunshine and fresh air. He’s been too cooped up in here.” “If you say so, doctor, I’ll talk to my husband about it. Goodbye, and thanks for everything.” That night when Professor Rivera returned home, his wife told him about the doctor’s advice. He was a rational man. He saw life in such a practical way that to him even the spiritist practices of his wife and in-laws seemed in accordance with their social class. “Listen, my dear, you must understand that my son has a very special mind that’s quite different from the other children’s. He’s a daydreamer, very imaginative, and that’s why he does what he does. If he got wet and that led to an ear infection, something he was doing at the time must have been very interesting to him.” “No, it’s not like that. Aunt Vicentita says that the darn kid acts like a little devil, and you do nothing but encourage such behavior,” scolded María, wringing her hands and pacing the floor. “No, María, it’s not that he has a horrible character; it’s simply that he has character. That bothers you, because you’d rather keep him tied to your apron strings, whereas he, despite his young age, rebels against it.” Once the child was over his sickness, Professor Rivera paid a visit to his friend, Pepe Arizmendi, to thank him for his services. After talking for a while, they agreed that Dieguito should get away from the stuffy environment of the house, where day after day the complaints and the arguments about the method of raising and educating him grew more frequent. “My dear friend Arizmendi, if you aren’t too busy, let’s take a walk and continue our conversation,” proposed the professor. “Is that okay with you?”

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“Of course, but give me a moment to gather up my things.” They walked in silence for a while, following the irregular paths of the Jardín de la Unión. After acknowledging the polite greetings of some passersby, they finally resumed their conversation. “I’m worried about Dieguito because just about everyone is going around spoiling him,” said the professor. “I’ve got to make a man out of my son, not a doll, the plaything of these women. Sometimes, those Barrientos aunts and my wife drive me up the wall. I’m going to have to say enough is enough in order to stop them from ruining him, to be honest, more than they already have.” “You’re exaggerating, my friend,” said the doctor. “You’ve got a great kid. He’s restless because he’s intelligent. It’s not for nothing that the older folk of a more humble condition care about him so much. But I agree with you: he must be made aware of the realities of life. And it’s true that the women in your family have sheltered him too much. That isn’t good at all.” Some days later, Dieguito was playing with the water fountain built into the patio, just in front of the front door of the house. He was throwing a rubber ball into the basin with all his might, making the cool water splash him while at the same time jumping up and down and singing a song that he had made up: “I’m a big frog, happy and free/and my mama gets angry with me/ I splash in puddles in the morning light,/and jump and skip through the great, big night.” “Dieguito, don’t get wet!” screamed, hostile voices. Diego pretended to play with marbles and small stones that he would toss into the air like jacks for a while, after which he returned to playing in the water and singing his song. A short time later, his mother appeared at the door after coming in from shopping. She was loaded down with packages. When she heard the boy’s mocking verses, she became angrier than usual. “And so, you’re the big frog and you’re making fun of me. You’re a spoiled brat, and you’re asking for a spanking. You’re punished for five days, so get to your painting room. Don’t even think about going to the terrace or the patio, much less to the stable, where all you do is mess around with those animals.” “Locked up for five days?”

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“Yes, five, not one less and not one more.” “Gosh, that’s really mean, Mommy. Hey, won’t you give me a chance to get anything? Not even some pencils or colors?” “What do you think I’m going to give you? A spanking, that’s what!” Coincidentally, Professor Rivera was returning from a meeting with teachers who were opposed to corporeal punishment and child abuse. When he went into the house, he heard his wife’s menacing threats. Excited, he screamed, “No, don’t do that. Listen, María, start packing his things. He and I are going on a trip tomorrow. I’ve already arranged everything. That’s what Dr. Arizmendi recommends.” “What do you mean? He himself saw how sick the boy was.” “That’s precisely the reason. He needs a change of climate. He needs to see life as it really is. Here, he’s been living in a world of falsehoods. All you want to do here is turn him into a foolish, vain sissy.” “It must be his nanny’s fault. She spoils him rotten,” she responded, without hiding her anger. “No, it’s all of you, the entire family. You’re all determined to educate him to please the good conscience of the people of Guanajuato. As if we owed them anything!” Just before dawn some four days after that argument, the travelers were already waiting for Mateo, their driver. The family could barely fit in the tight space between the carriage and the walls of the back street of Recodo. The door connected to the stables. The trunks were packed for a trip of some duration, and there were enough provisions to sustain the father, the son, and the driver for over two weeks. “Good-bye, my son! Good-bye, Dieguito! Good-bye, Chato!” shouted the women mournfully, as if the boy were going to the other end of the world and never returning. “Ladies, and especially you, María, don’t make this more than it is. Enough of this drama!” Professor Rivera was irritated by what he thought was their irrational behavior. Then, he patted his son affectionately and said, “Say good-bye, Dieguito, and then a clean slate

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and a fresh start. From now on, it’s a young man going on a trip around the state with me. Understood?” “Understood, Dad!” Doña María was noticeably distressed, not because of her son’s departure, but also because she thought that her husband no longer took her opinion into account with respect to the education of the boy. “But, Diego, you haven’t even told me where you’re going.” “María, I will write you from wherever we are,” he blurted out. “And my child? Ever since he came back from Xichú, he hasn’t gone outside. And you can see how he was affected by that trip.” “It was good for him. Or wasn’t it, Antonia? You took care of him like a true mother.” Feeling scolded, the nanny lowered her eyes nervously and partially covered her face with her shawl. She was hoping the garment would protect her from Doña María’s disapproving looks and from the path of the “evil eye.” Trying to follow the discussion, young Diego looked back and forth at each person. Then he took his father’s hand and pulled him toward the carriage. “Let’s go, Dad. You said Señor Alcocer was going to have breakfast waiting for us. I’m getting hungry just thinking about it.” “So, you’re going to Valenciana?” asked Aunt Totota. “You guessed it, Doña Vicenta. That’s exactly where we’re going, to visit my friend Antonio Alcocer. From there, we’ll head down through the Santa Rosa Mountains to Dolores Hidalgo.” “Good heavens, Diego! That’s the worst road there is around here!” “So it is. I want Dieguito to learn about the working mines and haciendas in the area, and also the small ranches and farmlands nearby. According to the messenger I sent ahead of us, your cousin Luciano Rodríguez will be waiting for us in two weeks at his hacienda, Chichimequillas, near Silao. As you can see, we’ll take a turn around the Bajío region.” “Let’s go, father, please, let’s get going!” Tired of the arguing, young Diego waved good-bye to the group, saying, “See you soon, Mother. ’Bye, Aunties. Good-bye, Nanny. I’m leaving now.”

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Don Diego helped him into the carriage. “Let’s go, Mateo. Get the horses moving, I can see they’re getting restless. Good-bye, ladies. We’ll see you when we get back.” At that very moment, young Diego felt free, and he pretended to play a violin while he sang in a low voice. “Birds of a feather flock together/And so will pigs and swine— and old biddies/Rats and mice will have their choice/And so will I have mine.” “Now, now, son, show more respect,” his father cautioned him. Instead of listening to his father, the boy stuck his head out the window and, bringing his right hand to his nose, he played for the ones left behind another sort of violin.

IV he old city of Guanajuato, capital of the state by the same name, was connected to La Valenciana mine by means of a road that had existed since time immemorial. Those who built it were the first miners to arrive in the region. They had to cut through imposing rocky hills along the sides of a canyon, through which passed a small stream that would become a raging river during the rainy season. The miners had worked long and hard in order to break up the large boulders on the path. Only through great effort were they able to overcome the steep incline up the mountainside in order to reach the top, where in the midsixteenth century they discovered the great mother lode and multiple rich veins surrounding it. Mining camps had existed there since colonial times. Over the centuries, that desolate, rocky desert, where an abundance of minerals was continually discovered, was transformed into a center of architectural wonder and cultural dominance. The La Valenciana mines became operational after others had at Rayas, Mellado, Cata, Sirena, and Tepeyac. By the end of the eighteenth century, it was the most prosperous mine in New Spain. The first owner, Antonio de Obregón y Alcocer, became rich so quickly that in little time he had acquired the title of Count of La Valenciana. By the time Señor Anastasio de la Rivera—who was the professor’s father and young Diego’s grandfather—had become partners with

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the owner at the time, the mine produced an average yield, but no more. Memories of the bonanza years were but a legend among later heirs. That day, Don Antonio, the last owner, was waiting for the father and son to arrive for breakfast. Afterward, they would visit the main mine shafts.

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The horses trotted along the rocky road. Although it wasn’t quite daybreak, Mateo drove the carriage with confidence. This was not the first time that Mateo had taken his boss to Señor Alcocer’s house. Like a good liberal, the host had shed the title of Count of La Valenciana and introduced himself simply as Antonio Alcocer. The trip had taken about as long as it usually does, and as they climbed the last hill, the city behind them looked like a nativity scene, while ahead of them to the east they finally spotted the imposing structures of the mining camps. The main buildings possessed beautiful Baroque facades, which were enriched with exceptional stone and ironwork and gave a sense of wealth and power. The buildings continued to maintain their splendid past, preserving with dignity what had to be among the most dazzling constructions in the American domain of the Bourbon Empire. The early morning light began to fill the sky in front of which the outline of the church and the parish could be seen. Surprised by those truly colonial masterpieces, Dieguito again stuck his head out the window. Bright colors everywhere brought magic to the environment. He was completely taken and moved by what he was seeing. “Father,” he blurted out spontaneously, “I like these great big houses more than the ones in Guanajuato. The big church is better than San Diego or the Compañía. Everything is so pretty here.” “Son, don’t get so excited,” he replied with a look of sadness, “you’re only seeing the façade of a mining company. Over the next few days, you’ll learn the secrets that its land holds. When you discover those, then you can tell me what you think.” The noise of the horse carriage awoke the sleeping townspeople. The barking dogs were the first to announce the arrival of strangers;

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in no time, men, women, and children were standing in their doorways, curious about the visitors who had arrived so early in the morning. Meanwhile, a few servants were waiting in the patio of the opulent colonial mansion. Before stepping down from the carriage, the travelers had already spotted Don Antonio and his eight sons standing in front of the enormous doors at the entrance. “Dad, you mean all of those boys are brothers? Do you see how many there are?” He pointed at them and started to count. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . eight! Big ones and little ones . . . like dwarfs and midgets . . . and I don’t even have one brother—much less a midget—to play with.” “What a crazy thing to say, Dieguito. You have your little sister, who’s going to love you very much when she gets older. Even though we try hard to make you happy and give you lots of attention at home, I know that sometimes you must feel sad. Cheer up, now. Let’s get out of the carriage, son.” And with loving tenderness, the father helped his son get down. The old friends hugged each other, and each brother introduced himself, from Antonio, who was about twenty years old, the oldest, slim, and good-looking, down to Luciano, who was barely three years old and greeted the visitors in a childlike tongue. Two of the boys were between six and nine years of age, and they immediately began talking to the young guest. “My name is Pedro,” said one. “My name is Juan,” said the other. “And I’m Diego María Rivera,” Dieguito responded, waving to everyone. The adults and the group of brothers laughed heartily. This was a great way to begin a friendship with their new visitor, who would end up being a true friend to all the Alcocer brothers. “Professor Rivera,” said Don Antonio, “welcome to our house. Please make it your home. Would you like to get settled into your rooms? The servants have already been instructed to take your belongings to the guest rooms, where I’m sure you and Dieguito will find everything you need. Or shall we eat breakfast first? Food is on the table.”

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“Let’s have breakfast so we won’t inconvenience Señora Alcocer, who is, I’m sure, so kindly waiting for us,” answered the guest. The servants asked each one what he wanted to eat. To young Diego’s gluttonous delight, there were a lot of things to eat: various kinds of tamales; eggs prepared any way you wanted them; homestyle enchiladas, with a side of chicken, salsa, potatoes, and lettuce; refried beans; and two local specialties—white “atole,” a warm, almost porridge-like drink thickened with masa and sweetened with “piloncillo” or Mexican unrefined brown sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla beans; and “buñuelos,” those flour tortillas fried in hot oil until crispy brown on both sides and sprinkled with honey or sugar and ground cinnamon. Don Antonio sat at the head of the table, the Riveras were to his right, and his sons—aligned by age—sat to his left. Young voices were heard throughout the breakfast. Don Antonio had allowed his sons to talk to the young guest. Juan and Pedro quickly became friends with young Diego. Meanwhile, Don Antonio discussed plans with Professor Rivera. “Tomorrow we’ll visit La Valenciana mining camp. They’ll be doing the rock crushing. But today, I propose that we go to an area leading up to the Santa Rosa Mountains. Since it’s the rainy season, the boys can swim in the river, and you can give us some lessons in botany and zoology, subjects that you know very well.” “You flatter me, but I’ll be more than happy to share my learning with you.” Upon hearing his father’s response, young Diego was barely able to contain his feelings of pride. His eyes lit up with happiness. “Yes, yes, Dad, teach us everything you know,” he blurted out enthusiastically. Everyone else laughed at the candor of his comment. The host stood up and affectionately patted the boy’s head. “Dieguito, your little pumpkin head thinks quickly and intelligently! Congratulations! It’s obvious that you truly love and admire your father! That’s the way it should be!” Just then Señora Alcocer, an elegant, beautiful woman, appeared at the kitchen door. The men thanked her over and over again.

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“Thank you so much, Doña Josefa!” “Many thanks, my wife!” “Thank you, Mother!” “A magnificent breakfast, Señora Alcocer!”

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When they returned from their walk at sunset that day, the children unloaded their hats full of wild fruit and acorns that they had picked in the woods near the mountains. The hikers were tired, but happy. “This walk has been an unforgettable experience,” said Don Antonio, who had gleefully accompanied them. “My dear friend Rivera, my boys and I appreciate your erudition. Now I suggest we eat a light meal, rest, and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll have to get up bright and early for the visit to the mines tomorrow.”

V hortly before five o’clock in the morning, the whistles of the minning camps located all along the main mine shaft went off. The strident combination produced a discordant symphony of strange sounds. The noise, if only briefly, frightened everyone there. It was especially disconcerting for those who worked in the deep recesses of the mine, in particular those who drilled the rock walls in the depths of the tunnels. These barreteros were affected the most by the thunderous noise, due to the fear that shadowed their subterranean labor. When the moaning howl of the siren was heard at La Valenciana, the Alcocer family and their guests had already gathered at the front entrance to the ore concentration center. Shadows that could only be identified by their voices crossed back and forth in front of them; each one said his name and the type of work he did. They were like ghosts, quickly appearing and then disappearing. “Boss, I’m Macario Rojas, frontline driller. I work in the older mine. I must leave now.”

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“Don Antonio, my name is Teódulo Capilla. My job is to keep the gangs of laborers and the packs of mules that work in the refining section in line. I’m the boss of the whole kit and caboodle. At your service.” “My humble boss, they call me Meco, by the grace of God and the saintly María. Well, I don’t do anything but haul water for the animals, which I’m proud of.” “A good day to you, Don Antonio, by the grace of God. By the light of day or the darkness of night I’m your servant, Merced López, administrator of the company store.” “A very good day to you, Señor, it’s a pleasure having you here. I know that in a little while you’re going to visit the interior of the mine. I’ll gladly wait for you there. If you remember me, I’m Tomás Sánchez,” upon which he was surprised to find himself face to face with his boss’s guest. “Unbelievable! Professor Rivera! I didn’t ever expect to see you around here. I’m Tomás Sánchez, an overseer in the main mineshaft. Without any offense to you, Don Antonio, I was really hoping to meet the professor,” he said enthusiastically. “Well, now you have, Tomás, and you’ll have plenty of time to converse with our friend.” “Of course, we will!” said the guest, shaking the miner’s hand. In this manner, the visitors learned the names and occupation of those men who, more than anything else, looked like phantoms. The group, composed of two adults and five boys all with appropriate gear, started walking toward the refining section. They arrived at a patio area illuminated with large, flaming torches, where Teódulo Capilla was tying the last mule to a revolving crusher that separated rocks and dirt from the silver and mercury. “Perfect timing! I’m glad you could come! Work is just beginning! You children, listen up so you can hear the sound of the gondolas bringing in the rocks to be ground over here and out on a conveyer belt over there.” “And is that where we’ll see the silver?” asked Pedro, anxiously. “No, Pedrito,” answered the taskmaster. “It takes a lot more work for the mules, along with the workers using pick axes, to grind everything up into something like roasted corn flour. Those animals

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go around and around, trapped in that circle, in order to pulverize the rocks and make it ready for the blessed mercury that will separate the silver from everything else.” The boys were listening intently to Teódulo Capilla explaining the process patiently, when a voice interrupted him. “Hey, you, Meco, you skinny guy,” yelled somebody from the patio area. “What’re you doin’ just standin’ there? Get a move on and start bringing some water for the animals; they’re practically foaming at the mouth from thirst. And you, Teódulo, stop boring those kids and pull your own weight over here.” Dieguito, Pedro, and Juan listened attentively to these different expressions that were new to them. Felipe and Manuel, the two older brothers who had visited the mines frequently, understood perfectly what was being said. All of a sudden, the headlight on the lead gondola illuminated the patio. Lugging shovels on their shoulders, several workers appeared from nowhere and began emptying the crude material from the cars. “Just imagine, Professor,” said Don Antonio loudly so that everyone could hear him, “each one of these circles in this work can easily represent the circles of the inferno described by Dante in his Divine Comedy. The number of hours necessary for the amalgamation process of the silver are unending, exhausting, and full of incalculable pain. In a way, then, you could say that the rocks bring wealth when the process is done creating a lot of pain and suffering.” “That’s true, Don Antonio, but it seems to me that these workers are treated more humanely. It’s much better to work by the light of these torches, or in the sun and rain, than slave away deep down inside the earth.” Proud, the father and host continued to explain how the mining operation worked. “Children, see how the two packs of mules do their work? When they go around in circles making the rock crusher turn, their eyes are covered so they won’t get dizzy or get sick.” “But, Father, I can see that these animals really do work like mules. Is there no way they can better themselves?” intervened Pedro. “I think that having to go round and round is what makes them

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so ornery,” added Juan. “Why, of course, that must be why we have that saying, ‘as ornery as a mule,’” concluded Diegouito. The adults enjoyed the children’s comments, but these were quickly followed by Professor Rivera’s keen insight. “You’re right, Don Antonio, thanks to human intervention, rocks are turned into silver. Man becomes a creator of richness. And it’s true that the refinement process is a ritual by which human intelligence has applied force to change the physical nature of material objects. Through his own action, man becomes the true creator.” Don Antonio preferred not to respond to that last statement, as it challenged his orthodox Catholic thought. Nevertheless, Manuel, the young thirteen-year-old, boldly questioned the comment. “Professor, do you think that man can be a creator the same way God is?” “That’s the way I see it, my friend. If you like, I’ll explain it to you at a more convenient time. Well, if your father allows me to!” “No problem, Don Diego. Whenever you like.” For several minutes, silence reigned over what had been a truly ceremonious ritual. Finally, the calm voice of the host brought the group back to reality. “Tomorrow, we’ll continue our visit. From up on the hill at the crack of dawn, we’ll exchange the monotonous work of the rock crusher for a view of spectacular beauty that can only make one happy. You’ll be able to contemplate the city of Guanajuato converted into an enormous fireworks display.” As planned, the next day just before dawn, the group made its way slowly up to a spectator area at the very top of the hill. Once there, they could see how everything was being transformed into a great palette of colors arising from the ground at the same time the sun began illuminating the houses and buildings of the beautiful capital city. It was all just like the reds, greens, blues, yellows, and whites that burst forth from the darts and stars created by the “Firework Masters,” with the magic lights of their own world of artifice. The children jumped up and down gleefully, and began to play a game that involved trying to identify streets, houses, and churches that little by little were already beginning to take on their natural hues.

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“Look, there’s Uncle Sabás’s house; the light has painted it green. And over there is Grandma Sofía’s place. It looks bluish red. Hey, Pedro, the black spot that I see near the Jardín del Cantador is our cousin Chucho’s dog.” “Liar! You can’t see that far away!” “Sure I can. He’s even wagging his tail!” Without being noticed, young Diego dropped back from the group and found an open spot covered with loose sand. He picked up a stick and began drawing on the ground what he had been seeing before his eyes. A few moments later, Don Diego turned and looked around for him. He went over to Dieguito just as he was finishing an improvised drawing of the hill topped by the Mellado mine. “Hey, Engineer, don’t tell me you’re already at work.” “Look, Dad, I want to copy what I see. Guanajuato looks like the set of color tubes that you gave me for my birthday. I know how to do it: I can put one house on top of another until I’ve recreated the city and those hillsides.” “Son, you’re so right! You’ve done a great job. My classes on geometry have served you well. You even draw with a lot of precision. But, come, let’s go. The boys are waiting to eat breakfast.” “Just one more minute. Let me include the Church of the Compañía. And besides, there’s just one more detail missing: the outline of the giant frog in the rocks of Meco Hill.” “Okay, okay, son. You’ve done very well, but let’s get going, now!” As an end to end all, that afternoon Don Antonio made preparations at the “hacienda de beneficio” to surprise the children by taking them on the small ore cars to visit some of the installations above ground. “Father,” exclaimed Dieguito with enthusiasm, “this is like getting on ‘La Burra.’ It reminds me of going to Silao on that train that was pulled by mules! Let ’er rip!” “Let’s go,” yelled the boys in unison as they climbed into the ore cars. Felipe, who immediately sat down in the first one, screamed instructions to the rest of them. Manuel, who was in the last one, didn’t seem to hear him. So, Felipe got mad and yelled even louder. And, thus, amid all the screaming, finally the moment to return home had arrived.

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Sunday was a day of many contrasts. They visited the neighboring convent and enjoyed a hot cup of chocolate in the house of Brother Tomás de Escurdia, an educated man who spent his time showing both the adults and the children the valuable collection of works of art and ancient books in the monastic cloister. In order to extend the tranquility and intellectual endeavors of the day, Don Antonio invited Don Diego to see his own library. Upon opening the door to the beautiful room, where the walls were covered with finely carved wooden bookshelves, Professor Rivera found himself surrounded with hundreds of books, bound in parchment the way they used to be. “Professor,” said the host, proudly, “I can show you some books about the history of La Valenciana mine, including information about the original owners and the camp installations, part of which had been passed down to our friends, the Rul family.” “Thank you for the offer, and if you don’t mind, Don Antonio, I’ll pick out two or three books that I would like to read later at bedtime. The information they contain will be useful when we visit the tunnels and subterranean galleries of the mine. In addition, they might shed some light on the history of the division of these lands among our families. It’s something that I’ve never fully understood.” Suddenly, Dieguito, Pedro, and Juan came running down the hall and barged into the library. The little Engineer was unable to contain himself. “Wow! Señor Alcocer, this is like being in the Middle Ages! Hey, do you have children’s books with pictures of plants and animals?” “Why, of course, my little friend, I’ll show you some right over here. Come with me.” Taking him by the hand, Señor Alcocer led the boy over to a section with children’s books. “Here you are. You can read all you want.” Dieguito could not shake his amazement and replied timidly, “I’ll take a look at them . . . I still can’t read that well, though. But I promise you that the next time you invite me, I’ll read every last one of them.”

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After some discussion and reading, Don Diego had acquired new information about mining operations, and his son had finished the story about the wolf and the seven little goats.

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Three days later, the group was winding its way like ants up the side of a nearby hill. Don Antonio beckoned to them to stop in front of an opening that was barely distinguishable among the rocks. It was the entryway into a cave that seemed to be endless. Two types of darkness immediately surrounded them: the first one was like an unending night, and the other one was at the far end of the tunnel. They were unable to determine where one type ended and the other began. For security, the boys latched onto the adults, but it wasn’t long before the darkness became less dense inside, revealing shadows and lights coming from a group of miners. Men and shadows became intertwined, with almost no difference between the two. “Father,” said Dieguito in a quivering voice, “it’s darker than dark. Is it like this everywhere in here? Black on black?” “No, my son, no. Those men carrying lanterns will guide us to the tunnels lined with large torches, where they’re picking away at the rock that contains the rich metals.” Once their way was lit, the group began to descend into the bowels of the earth. The ground was covered with mud, and the children began sliding on it. In order to prevent accidents, they tied a safety line to the smaller ones. Two workers led the way with one end of the rope, and two more followed behind them with the other end. As they made their way, the humidity increased, as did a suffocating heat that seemed to come out of nowhere. One by one, small drops of water were falling from the roof onto their thick wool caps. It was Juan Alcocer who suggested a new game. “Let’s count the drops that hit our caps. Whoever gets the most drops on his cap from here to that light up ahead is the loser, and when we play leapfrog, he’ll be the frog.” “Okay, let’s play,” said Pedro. “It’s now or never,” responded Dieguito.

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Jumping around and laughing, they finally made it to the end of the tunnel, where the workers untied the safety cord. They couldn’t believe what they saw: an enormous, eight-sided cavity that served as the nerve center of the mine. Eight tunnels larger than the access tunnel itself converged at that point, with other numerous branches that were accessed by hanging stairs. Eight pulleys with their thick, long ropes were used to raise and lower buckets of water that, like lifeblood, gushed out of the rocks. Mules were used to put all this rudimentary machinery into motion. Don Diego and the boys were astonished. It seemed as if they were protagonists of a dream, a terrifying and unnerving nightmare. It was difficult to cope with the semidarkness, hundreds of feet below the surface, where the dim lighting created phantasmagoric shadows. The children were the first ones to express feelings of horror and panic. “Father,” said Manuel, clasping Don Antonio’s hand tightly, “where are we? This is the first time I’ve ever come down here. It seems like the road to hell.” “I’m afraid,” added Pedro. “Me, too,” intervened Juan, squeezing his brother’s hand with all his might. Of all the Alcocer brothers, only Felipe acted nonchalantly about what they were seeing. “Father, my eyes have become accustomed to the darkness. Every time I come down here, it all seems so strange, but fascinating, too.” In order to show his enthusiasm, he started walking toward the center of the octagon. “Hey, young man, come back here!” yelled Don Antonio. But Felipe, as if he had heard nothing, kept walking to the other side, where he started to talk to a child who was carrying a basket of rocks. Watching everything that was going on, Dieguito darted behind his father and ran after Felipe. “Hey, Felipe, I want to hear what that little boy is saying to you. Hi. What are you doing down here?” “I’m working,” responded the little miner.

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“But you’re so young. How can you carry so much?” “Ugh! I’m not that young. I’m twelve, but I haven’t grown. To be able to grow, they say, you have to eat, but I hardly make enough to buy a taco.” “What about what you do make?” asked Felipe. “Well, I owe it to the company store.” “And what’s that?” asked Dieguito. “It’s a place where they take everything from the miners. I’ve already said that to my father,” said Felipe, “but he doesn’t pay any attention to me.” “Well, this is really bad,” responded Dieguito. “After we leave here, I want you to tell me about things like this, okay?” While this was going on, Professor Rivera and Señor Alcocer were chatting amicably as they leaned against a wooden arch. “Don Antonio, I’ve never had the opportunity to be down in a mine like this. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve managed to bring us to the very center of the mother lode. What a rare privilege!” “It’s been a privilege for me, Professor. Frankly, few people not connected to this work have ever been right down to the place we call the heart of the beehive. The numerous tunnels and passageways are really like a honeycomb. But now, let’s see something different.” A few minutes later, miners with the oil lanterns appeared. The new light illuminated other parts of the workplace. “Hey, boys, come on, let’s keep going,” yelled Don Antonio. They had been walking a ways, when all of a sudden the tunnel became obstructed with a cloud of dust, through which Macario Rojas and a fellow worker were carrying a wounded miner. They couldn’t stop coughing. “Hey, guys, what happened?” asked Don Antonio. “Boss,” answered Macario, “we messed up. We were going to set off some explosives and they blew up before we could get out of the way.” “That’s true, Patrón,” intervened one-eyed Jiménez. “The roof caved in on top of us. Thanks to our prayers to those saints in that song, “Heaven Help Us, Jesus Mary,” only Fulgencio Robles, who we call “Chivo,” was hurt. And here he is.”

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“Get him to Dr. Castellanos immediately,” ordered the owner. The incident prevented the group from continuing down that tunnel. They changed directions and went toward the area where the miners were picking away at the rock with their pick axes. The force with which they struck at the rocks created a lasting impression on the boys. “Father,” said Felipe, “each blow against those hard rocks is like a bit of life being picked away. Isn’t there some other type of tool they could use?” “So far, there isn’t anything better, my son. I assure you.” “Yes, you’re right. It looks like the earth is spitting fire each time they strike the rocks,” added Dieguito. “No, not quite, my son. You’re seeing sparks that are caused by the metal pick axes striking the rocks.” “Mining is difficult,” intervened Don Antonio, “so much so that the miners’ struggle to better their living and working conditions can mean death for them.” “I’ve already seen that happen, Don Antonio,” said young Diego. “It was the night when the miners marched through the streets of Guanajuato with their serpent of fire.” “You saw them march down from the mines? You heard their complaints?” asked Don Antonio, incredulous. “That’s not for children!” “That’s true,” said Professor Rivera hastily, as if to excuse himself. “I let him go with me to meet with the miners when they presented their grievances.” “And, Daddy, you know that I’ll never forget the face of that dead man!” added Diegouito, as he sided up to his father and took his hand to kiss it. “Dieguito, you’re quite advanced for your age, aren’t you?” asked Don Antonio. “He certainly is, Father,” intervened Felipe. “He thinks like me, so much so that he seems to be my age. That’s why I like you, Dieguito. We’ll be good friends, I promise. Here, let me give you a hug. Just remember, here, we all care about you.” With that conversation, Don Antonio thought it was prudent to end their tour of La Valenciana mines.

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VI s they dropped down from the Santa Rosa Mountains, Don Diego and little Diego contemplated from the window of their carriage the vast, open land below, part of which was dry and other parts that were fertile, that they would cross on their way to Silao. At one point during the tiring trip, Don Diego asked the driver to stop. “Mateo, stop the carriage, I want to see something for a moment. What a beautiful view, right, Dieguito? Let’s get out of the carriage so that you can see the extensive Guanajuato Valley from here.” “Sure. We need to rest anyway. The ride has been so bumpy that my rear end is really sore.” They sat down in the shade under an old mesquite tree. From there, they could view the desert-like plain to the north and the fertile crops to the south in the Bajío region. “You know, Dieguito, we’re going to visit some important places in the state of Guanajuato. Based on our conversations, you already know the history of Dolores Hidalgo, San Miguel de Allende, and Celaya, where the first battles of our country’s independence took place. It was here that the inhabitants fought against the Spanish, who had colonized us. And you shouldn’t forget the valor and historical importance of Miguel Hidalgo and Ignacio Allende, two brave men whose names were given to these towns.” “I know, Dad, everything you’ve taught me about history and geography I’ve got stored in my noggin. Father Hidalgo gave the cry of independence in Dolores. General Allende rebelled in San Miguel. After that, the insurgents headed toward Celaya, and in between Salamanca and Irapuato there’s Silao, which is where we’re headed.” “No, son! You’re mistaken. Allende was the Captain of Dragones, and Silao is after Irapuato, before you get to León.” “Ah, I really did butcher that one. You know how it is, sometimes I think I know it all.” “Don’t worry. From now on, we’ll take it easier, because we have some extra time before the day that I told your Uncle Luciano we’d arrive at his place.”

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Back on their way to Silao, Dieguito felt ecstatic to be with his father. “You know, Dad, we’ve never spent so much time together as now. I hope you realize how much I really love you.” “Yes, my son, I also love you very much. And you don’t know how badly I feel about not having spent more time with you. Politics and the mining business took me away from you. But, don’t worry, from now on we’ll be together more. I promise you.” “What are politics?” Dieguito asked after a brief silence. “It must be bad if it has kept us apart. Or not?” “Well, if you see it that way, yes, it’s bad. But, in reality, it has its good side, too. You have to look for it. For instance, it’s a way to reduce the poverty of the miners, or to make sure rich people don’t get too rich. A politician has the possibility of creating and applying solutions.” “Does that mean the politicians are the bossy ones who run everything? If so, then I definitely don’t like them. They’re just as bossy as my aunts!” “Hey, son, you’re always coming up with something new. Don’t be impertinent. It’s more complicated than that: not all bossy ones are bad politicians, and not all the politicians are bossy. You know, this is really difficult to explain, so let’s drop the topic for now, and I promise that from now on we’ll be better friends.” “Dad, you’ve always been my buddy. And we still have a lot of time to be together. It’s great that all those women are back at home and not here, right?” The same day that they had promised to get to Luciano’s place, the Rivera carriage passed through Silao. Farther up the road, Mateo turned the carriage toward the hills. Up on top, they could see the vast corn and wheat fields of the Chichimequillas Hacienda, an ancestral property belonging to the Rodríguez de Valpuesta family. “Look out there, son, you can tell by the excellent tilling of the land that it was done with strong oxen, and irrigated with water from the Lerma River.” “Is it that river way over there?” asked the child, sticking his head out the window.

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“Sure is, and it’s one of the largest in the country. Based on what we’re seeing, son,” the professor said as they were crossing a bridge over one of the many irrigation ditches, “the harvest should be very good this year. The cornstalks are full of corn, and the first crop of wheat is already high.” “Daddy, look at all the bulls eating grass! Wow! They’re all different colors, not like the ones near the house that are dark and ugly . . . and skinny, too.” “That’s right, Dieguito. Your uncle has fine cattle grazing around here, and he probably has more in the corrals. That’s where he keeps his prize animals.” As they approached the hacienda, the shrubs of rosemary, oregano, mint, and sweet basil filled the air with their stimulating aroma, which later became the sweet scent scattered about by a number of flowering plants, such as the huele de noche and the climbing roses and jasmine that grew along the outer walls of the great house. After passing through the large iron gate that led to the old colonial mansion, the guests climbed out of the carriage and walked to the front door, where several people were waiting for them: Luciano Rodríguez, his wife Virginia Aranda, their three sons, and two beautiful daughters. When he saw them, Dieguito quickly brushed off his clothes and straightened the knot in his tie. “Look, Dad, what a pretty family.” “You mean to say pretty girls,” answered his father slyly. “They’re quite different from the Alcocer boys, right?” The travelers were greeted with the cordiality typical of a rural family, which was followed by the standard introductions. The oldest of the two beautiful young girls was named Virginia, the same as her mother, and the younger one was named Emilia. Similarly, the oldest of the three boys had the same name as his father, and the other two were called Martín and Maximiliano, in honor of their paternal and maternal grandfathers. The landowner extended his calloused hand, gave his relative a strong hug, and patted his nephew on the head. “Well, Dieguito, I can hardly recognize you. Look how much you’ve grown since the last time I saw you playing in the streets of

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Guanajuato! Please come in and make yourself at home. We hope you’re comfortable here.” Dieguito immediately made friends with his two cousins. The kids disappeared out in the fields somewhere, and the adults sat down to talk on the porch while they waited for lunchtime to roll around. “You know, cousin, we don’t complain about anything here in Silao. The soil is good, and we’re never lacking for water. We prosper through our labors, and all is going well. President Porfirio Díaz favors hard-working people, and Governor González, who is also the political boss around here, comes to visit us as a friend. He respects us.” “In that kind of a setup, it’s worth working hard. Unfortunately, for us miners everything is going to hell in a hand basket, if you’ll excuse my bluntness. González is doing everything possible to make life hard on us; several mines are about to close down because their production keeps going down.” “Look here, make some changes in your life: try farming and we can help each other. Guanajuato must remain the country’s top grain producer. Don’t you see that our neighbors, Jalisco and Michoacán, want to be on top, too?” replied Luciano enthusiastically. “I only wish it were possible for me, but at this stage in the game it just isn’t. Everything I own is invested in that damn mine, La Aurora, and I don’t even have enough money to support my family. Metals don’t pay the bills anymore. In fact, several miners and I are ready to complain to the governor and to the president about the way we’re being treated, as opposed to the way they’re treating the foreigners,” answered the professor. “Whatever you like, but if you’ll allow me an opinion: I wouldn’t get into a fight with the president. It could be that Don Porfirio Díaz has other things in mind,” responded Luciano in a sly tone. “That we already know, and that’s what worries us. We aren’t going to sit back and let him turn our mines over to the English and to his cohorts in the North. Those sons of bitches!” “Wow! So you are ready to fight! You better be careful! But remember, you’re my cousin, María’s husband, and if there’s anything we can do, we’re here for you.”

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Professor Rivera and his son were guests at Luciano Rodríguez de Valpuesta’s home for several days. Dieguito’s cousins taught him about working on a farm, how to distinguish between different branding irons, and how to set traps for animals that prey on chickens and their little chicks. One morning, after his cousins Luciano and Maximiliano had shown him how to set a trap, the new hunter was visibly satisfied. “This is a good one, let’s see what we catch, maybe a gopher or a raccoon.” “We don’t have any of those around here,” said the oldest. “Here, all we have are raccoons and every once in a while a skunk. Be careful, cousin, don’t fall into that trap!” “So, what are you trying to say to me? That I’m a skunk?” he responded angrily. “Huh, you’re old lady’s a skunk.” After a couple of swings, the two kids broke into a fistfight. “No fighting, now,” intervened Concepción, the foreman who came over to separate them. “Come over here. The laborers are going to shuck the corn, and they’ve got some hot tortillas, and I’ll bet a taco or two.” He took them by the neck and walked them over to a group of laborers sitting around a fire. “All right, you ornery little critters, stay right here and don’t even move. You, Maximiliano, come over here. And you, Luciano, go with Doña Engracia and see if she’ll serve you a bowl of soup. And leave your cousin alone!” Astonished, Dieguito looked all around him. He saw men and women preparing food on comales, the flat clay dish used for cooking tortillas directly over the fire. While some of them ate tortillas with beans and chiles, others could do no more than throw some salt on tortillas spread with lard. “You know what, cousin, it seems to me that the workers are as poor as the miners. I thought the worst off were those down in the mines. Well, these people are suffering even more. This is no good either.” “Ah, so what, little cousin,” said Maximiliano. “We think it’s better to be a rancher than a peon. These people are as bad off as your friends, the miners. Are you going to be a miner?”

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“Nope, train engineer. That way, I can go wherever I want on my locomotive. That’s what I want to do. Do you know what? I also like to paint with lots of colors, and the geometry you use to make squares, triangles, and circles of all sizes. And let’s see . . .” “I, on the other hand, am going to be a rancher, like everyone else in this family,” interrupted Luciano. “I just love being outside with the animals. When it rains, it feels like something new is sprouting from inside me, the way trees and cornstalks must feel. I’ll never leave here. Even if I could, where would I go?” At that moment his beautiful sister Virginia came riding up, mounted on a spirited horse that she easily controlled. “Hey, kids, I’ve been looking for you. You’re holding up the meal. Get on back. Let’s go!” “Good gracious! Even here the women are bossy,” commented Dieguito in a low voice. “They must be from my mother’s side. That’s the Rodríguez family for you. With this cousin, the beauty ends where the yelling begins.”

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Some days later, young Diego sneaked away to the corrals of the hacienda. He walked alongside the green fields toward the mountains off in the distance. Spiny bushes had invaded the treeless terrain and had cast a reddish hue to the summer landscape. Reaching the top of a hill, Dieguito contemplated the vast properties of his wealthy relatives, the Rodríguez de Valpuesta family. He came upon three mesquite trees whose branches created some shade. He sat down under the largest one and thought to himself that he was so happy to have found that shade. If they came looking for him, he hoped they wouldn’t find him. Pensive, he turned his head to study the solid rock construction of the main house that was surrounded by a formidable stone wall. Off in the other direction, he discovered the huts that dotted the dry, dusty hillsides. Once again, he winced in disgust, banged his fists against the ground, and yelled out loud. He didn’t understand anything, and as his father had said, the rich are super rich and the poor

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are super poor. Why can’t it be the other way around? He wanted the poor to get rich and the rich to get poor! Then he heard the voice of the foreman, who was out looking for him. “Master Dieguito, where have you been? We’ve been looking high and low for you. What are you doing here all alone? . . . I heard your screaming.” “Listen, Concho, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. All of a sudden, I couldn’t stand to be around my cousins anymore, so I came up here to see something different. I wanted to get as far away from that mansion as possible.” “Well, you’re right, son. If you’re not rich, you can’t be like them.” “I don’t think my family is rich or poor. I discovered this while traveling on this trip. That’s why I seem out of sorts. Poverty makes me sad, but I get even more upset by these super rich people.” “Child, I understand what you’re saying. If you want to walk a little more by yourself, I’ll keep watch over you from far away. Go on, now, get going, then you’ll feel better. Here, give me your hand and I’ll pull you up.” Continuing on, Dieguito came upon some shepherds and their flocks that were spread out among the nooks and crannies of the hillsides. He looked at what the shepherds were wearing and saw that they were barely covered in rags, just like that family he had seen at San Diego Church. Wow! These people hardly have anything on. He remembered that whenever he got mad, he would just take off whatever he was wearing, throw it on the ground, and stomp on it. He was a bad person, he thought. Was it really true that he had the devil in him, like Aunt Totota said? As he walked along, he felt bad; but when he came upon a little girl who was letting her flock drink from a puddle, he felt even worse. She told him that sometimes her filthy, thickly matted sheep would lose their new offspring in the underbrush, and one time she didn’t dare return to her hut as a result. “What’s your name, little girl?” he asked.

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“I’m Tomasa. And you?” “I’m Diego María Rivera.” “You know,” she said, without pausing, “the other day my favorite lamb, ‘La Manchadita,’ the little spotted one, got stuck somewhere, I don’t know where.” “And then what happened?” “Well, when I finally found her, I went home hungry and cold. And, you know what? My mom started pulling my hair. She just grabbed my pigtails and yanked and yanked. If I knew better, I’d never go back.” “And did it hurt much?” “Yes, a lot.” “Well, Tomasita, the next time she does that to you, come to Guanajuato.” “You think so? But my mother would beat me to death.” “So, take a chance. Come and stay with my nanny and me. We’ll have lots of tortillas and beans for you. Look for Pocitos Street and you’ll find us right there. The Rivera family. Everyone knows us.” By then, the sun had fallen behind the hills, and Dieguito hadn’t returned. He didn’t even return to the mesquite trees, where Concepción had first seen him and had remained, waiting for him. The foreman mounted his black stallion and started out looking for him in the direction of old Timoteo’s hut. He saw a feeble light coming from the shack at the same time he spotted the poor old man coming toward him. Concepción lifted his lantern to illuminate the path. “Is that you, Don Timoteo?” he spoke loudly. “Have you by chance seen that little boy we’ve been looking for?” “That’s me, and I can tell by your voice that you’re Concho. And here’s the exhausted, little kid. He said he was hungry. He ate the little bit I could give him. Can you believe that he was so thirsty that he even drank some sweet maguey juice? And who would believe that he didn’t want to leave my hut? When I heard your horse coming down the path, I came out to meet you. Here, take him. He’s half asleep.” Concho lifted Dieguito onto the horse and then pulled himself up. “Thanks, Don Timo. The bind he has put us in . . . I’ll come back

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tomorrow and tell you who he is. I’ve got to beat it back to the big house, because by now everybody’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off. You should have seen his father—he’s Don Luciano’s cousin. The poor guy was worried sick.” Concepción dug in his spurs and took off galloping as if he were being chased by the devil. He didn’t stop until he turned Dieguito over to his afflicted father.

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The next day Don Diego decided they should return home. Yesterday’s incident had made him reflect upon the emotional state of his beloved son. The coarse reality of what they had seen had deeply affected the little boy. He had been exposed to too much; he would never forget any of it. As a result, their tour around the state of Guanajuato came to an end. The boy’s father was convinced that Dieguito had seen more than was necessary of the hard facts of life. While it was true that he had learned about the geography and history of the region, one of the more important lessons that he learned was that while the rich people ate eggs, meat, fruit, and bread, the poor people only ate tortillas, beans, and chile.

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Professor Rivera and his son returned home. One night after dinner, Doña María complained to her husband about the way he had abandoned her. “Diego, given that you’re always involved in your causes, I’ve decided to do something for myself. For some time now, I’ve been attending obstetrician courses given by Dr. Federico Sánchez de Tagle. I’ll get my diploma soon and stop worrying about your ideas.” “Are you really studying to be an obstetrician, María? That’s wonderful, because now you can help educate our son! There are a lot of things in life that I can’t explain.” “That’s not true. You’ve already taught him about politics and other dangerous activities. You won’t even let Aunt Vicenta prepare him for his First Communion.”

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“Listen to me: I don’t want to talk about it. We baptized him. What more do you want?” “Yes, but ever since then he’s grown up like a little animal.” “What do you mean? He’s very smart, and he knows more than we think.” “The only thing that this child has learned is the sad understanding of reality that he came to know on that trip. He can hardly read and he doesn’t even know how to write,” insisted Dieguito’s mother. “Look here, María,” he answered, with a big belly laugh, “even if our son only knew how to read a few lines or even an entire book, he wouldn’t have been able to discover the world as he knows it now. He’s an exceptional child, and he hasn’t been educated between the pages of a book or ruined by the whims of teachers. Now, when he feels the need, he’ll learn how to read and write.” “And what kind of an education is that? Your son, who you and others so proudly call the ‘Engineer,’ has reached the point of insulting me, calling me a liar because I don’t say things with brazen bluntness. He prefers his nanny to me, because she has taught him more about the Indians than about thinking people,” answered the mother bitterly. “Do you really believe all that stuff?” replied Don Diego, offended. “Of course, I do. What’s worse is that he despises me because I had a daughter and not another little boy with whom he could play. It seems like he hates me because I protect his innocence—the same innocence that you insist on destroying.” “Listen here, María, I think you’re exaggerating things!” said the father defensively. “That couldn’t be farther from the truth. In fact, you should know, Professor Rivera, that your son not only killed a rat to find out what was inside, but also, when he found the babies, he threw them in my face, telling me that I had lied to him when I told him that his sister—that ‘ugly little girl’—had arrived at this house in a little box . . . Oh, I don’t know what to do with him,” said Doña María in desperation.

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“Now that you’ve taken those classes, you’re capable of explaining the facts of birth to him intelligently.” “Oh, you’re so misguided. And you’re taking my son down the same path.” While this conversation unraveled, Dieguito sat glued to his chair and listened to his mother’s terrible accusations. Indignant in the face of such bitter accusations, Professor Rivera replied with emphasis, “The day when all children are like him and come to understand life not through reading books but through their own knowledge, which they pull from millions of years back and which arrives to them through all the preceding generations, then the world will be different. When fetishes are smashed to pieces and blood is spilled, if necessary, in order to destroy the lies, then the work will have been done and the light will never die.” The professor reaffirmed his words by drawing the cosmic number eight in the air with his fist, the symbol that encloses and complements itself. Solemnly, he turned to his son. “Engineer, come over here. Give me a kiss. Don’t be afraid. With what you’ve learned on the trip, what you already know, and what you have heard just now, you have a more than sufficient basis with which to be inititated into the knowledge that the Rivera family passes from one generation to the next. Your grandfather and I have obtained the thirty-third-degree level of Freemasonry. There is more that I can teach you, and there is more that you can learn.” Upon hearing him say that, the mother made the sign of the cross and, as if the worst of the biblical creatures had suddenly appeared— Lucifer himself—she hurried out of the room, shouting as she went, “May God protect us from the devil and his followers.”

VII ome months after that fateful trip around the state, the life of the Rivera Barrientos family became inextricably complicated. Don Diego’s investment in the mine had come to naught, and the family ended up living off the salary he received as a grade school inspector. The family money dried up even more when he decided to dis-

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seminate the ideas of unionism and anarchy in El Demócrata. These ideas, coming from Spain and France were circulating widely in Mexico among miners, peasants, and above all, professors living in rural Guanajuato. Given that Don Diego spent even more money on the oppositionist movement of the miners, the family was always broke at the end of each month. Meanwhile, however, Doña María Barrientos had finished her program of obstetrical studies and graduated with honors. Then the unexpected occurred, something that the family never imagined would happen and that would produce a turnabout in their lives. One afternoon, the influential owners of the mines, with the exception of Don Antonio Alcocer, lodged a complaint with Governor Manuel González that Professor Diego Rivera, who was participating in protests and strikes, was inciting the miners to riot against the sale of the mine to foreigners. “These sales are a personal project of President Díaz,” affirmed one dignitary. “What Rivera is doing is in complete irreverence for the highest political authority of the nation. I propose that we take him into custody this very night in order to avoid scandal.” At the same meeting, representatives of the clergy took the opportunity to accuse Professor Rivera of being an incorrigible Mason and, as such, a personal enemy of God and his Church. “Mr. Governor, it is fortuitous that Chaplain Jiménez is here along with me, your servant and friend,” declared Monsignor Miranda, the chaplain of the Virgen de la Luz parish. “As representatives of the Holy Catholic Church, we denounce this professor for being a Free-mason and for announcing it in public and flaunting his grade of thirty-three. He offends the Christian townspeople with his immoral attitude.” “And what do you propose, Monsignor?” asked González. “Sir, we humbly propose that you authorize the offended townspeople to hang him.” After a brief silence, the governor responded, “It would be a good example for the heretics. . . . In principle, I’m in agreement. The question is how and when to do it.” “Leave that up to us, Mr. Governor,” responded Chaplain Jiménez.

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“Ecclesiastic representatives, mining representatives: the order for arrest against this Rivera has been substituted for a more drastic punishment. I hope you are satisfied. May God grant you peace!” The government sentence raced through the town like wildfire, from ear to ear, from the pulpits to the markets, and from there to the plazas. In no time at all, the good consciences of Guanajuato had agreed to act at midnight. However, there were others who went against the order and refused to participate in such a macabre and unjust act of violence. Ignacio James, an engineer and rancher, and one of Rivera’s liberal friends, told the professor about the plans of the townspeople. Thus, the irreverent member of the opposition could escape from Guanajuato, leaving in the dust behind him his properties, his libertarian ideas, and his dreams of riches. “Your only option, professor, is to head for Mexico City. You can count on me, I’ll help you in any way possible,” affirmed James. “I advise you to look for your brother-in-law, the lawyer José Natividad Macías. He’s a friend of Díaz, and he’ll protect you. “That’s what I’ll do. Macías and my sister Emilia will be on my side.” At ten o’clock that night, the condemned man was already making his way toward San Juan del Río. He was riding a fast horse that James had given him; it was as black as the night sky.

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Several weeks later, the frightened and anguished obstetrician María Barrientos was forced to close up her house and office in order to follow her husband to Mexico City. Seated in the train car taking the three Barrientos women and the two Rivera children to Mexico City, the afflicted mother sought refuge in her children and gently pulled them to her lap. “You’re all I have in this world, my children. I’m worried something horrible awaits us. You know, Vicenta, the most humiliating thing about this trip was the moment when that despicable Indian, Antonia, who tried to steal my son away from me, saw us get into the third-class cars, where people of quality do not travel, only

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uncouth Indians like her.” “Yes, I know, María,” answered Totota. “Just look where we’ve ended up. And all because of those eccentric ideas of your husband, that renowned professor!” “There you have it,” added her sister, Cesárea, “you could’ve married any one of your other suitors. But, of course, you liked him, because he was part Spanish and a so-called intellectual. Am I right? Oh, my little sister, you and your big dreams.” “Well, frankly, Cesárea, I always thought things would be different, but here we are.” “I see, I see,” answered Vicenta, “even though I know the worst is yet to come. Your husband, that Rivera, not content to live his life just fighting against decent people, has taught Dieguito to be a rebel and a libertine, indifferent to the horrible consequences of such an education.” Pretending not to pay any attention to the conversation, the boy turned to look out the window of the train, while his sister, María del Pilar, kissed him on his hand. Instead of staying at a luxurious hotel, as Doña María had hoped, upon their arrival at the capital the family crowded into Aunt Adela Rivera’s place. She was Don Diego’s sister, who was married to a music teacher, Rafael del Valle. They lived in a low-class tenement near Hornacinas Street in La Lagunilla. The first unpleasant surprise for the exiled family was that Don Diego had left on a trip without telling anyone where he was going. The second was the fetid smell of the rooms they were to occupy. The third was the nauseating nitrous deposits on the walls of the apartment, which were about to disintegrate. The only pleasant thing about the place were the flower-pots with geraniums and a few roses adorning the hallway. Space was tight, for both the Del Valle’s and for the recently arrived travelers. Under the circumstances, there was no other option but to accept the fact that they had to share two bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a patio for washing and hanging clothes. And so it was that the Del Valle couple had provided a room to the people the neighbors were calling to “the squatters from Guadalajara.” “The people around here call us that without knowing who we

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are,” said Doña María, upon learning their new nickname. “I know, I know,” said Aunt Totota. “They’re ignorant. They don’t even know where we come from. I can only imagine what they’ll say when they find out that instead of paying rent on another room, we’ve installed a toilet on the patio.” And that’s how the immigrants spent their first few days in a poor, inhospitable neighborhood of the capital, amid the gossip of the neighbors and the headaches caused by the fetid smells that emanated from the dingy hovels and sewers of the immense neighborhood. After some time had passed, Professor Rivera returned to find out that not only his wife and children had migrated to Mexico City, but also Aunts Vicenta and Cesárea, all of whom were staying in the tiny home of the Del Valle couple. “Listen, Adela,” he told his sister in confidence, “how was I supposed to know that these ladies would follow us into our ruin? Will I ever cease to have them as a burden to me? I’ve never been able to enjoy my own family. Very few times have the four of us been able to be alone together.” “I understand, Diego,” said his sister, “especially now that I’ve had to deal with them. They are extremely difficult, even irritating. The worst one is Vicenta, who Dieguito affectionately calls Totota. He should call her ‘Tonta,’ stupid woman.” “That’s the way Dieguito feels about her too, but that’s the way it is. I can’t complain, because I can’t really change things.” However, the situation got worse when Doña María gave her husband some postdated mail. Among the letters was one from Guanajuato that had been sent by Ramón del Villar, the husband of Aunt Cesárea, who had remained behind in order to take care of family matters. He wrote to Don Diego in order to bring him up to date on what had happened after he left Guanajuato. The professor read the letter in silence, after which he gathered everyone together—relatives, wife, and children—in order to explain to them why they wouldn’t be able to return to their beloved state and city. “María,” he said, unable to contain his anger, “put little Pilar to

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bed. I have to read this letter to everyone. And you, son, I want you to stay.” With great seriousness, he sat down at the head of the only table they had. “Pull up some chairs and sit down. You, Engineer, sit here next to me. . . .” Guanajuato, April 8, 1893 Professor Don Diego Rivera Acosta Guadalajara Dearest Brother-in-Law and Excellent Friend: I set pen to paper to send my greetings, with the hope you are in good health and enjoying the presence of your dear family. I beg your pardon for any discomfort this letter might cause you. Given our close relationship as relatives and, more importantly, our long-standing friendship and the confidence that we inspire in each other, I felt compelled to write to you. You should know that yesterday morning, two days after your precipitous exodus from this city, a group of people led by Chaplain Jiménez came to our domicile on Cantarranas Street. They commanded me to appear in person at the town hall in order to inform me of the decisions the group of authorities had made the night before with respect to your behavior as a citizen of Guanajuato, and that of our beloved nephew Dieguito. I complied, and at exactly noon the town council authorized the town trustee to read aloud a document that they refused to give to me, but from which I was able to copy a few paragraphs. I will attempt to reconstruct others, as my memory permits. If my memory does not fail me, the document said: “In the name of the Town Council, I, the Town Trustee, accuse the formerly respectable citizen, Diego Rivera Acosta, of the following offenses against the citizenry of Guanajuato and against the general norms of society: First, of being in open opposition to the regime of the illustrious General Porfirio Díaz. Second, of having pro-

Diego Rivera the Red moted subversion among humble miners and peasants through socialist speeches. Third, of having declared himself an enemy of the clergy. Fourth, to openly promote his association with the Masonic Temple.” Town authorities offered as proof a list of the most recent strikes that had been declared by the miner’s union; several copies of your newspaper, El Demócrata, which contained writings against the federal and local political regimes; and pamphlets that personally attacked Governor Manuel González and other municipal authorities not worth repeating. Next, Monsignor Miranda stepped forward to speak to the assembly about the Jewish origins of the Rivera family, because of which your parents had married secretly within that faith and then, much later, in a civil ceremony. They also failed to baptize their children. In addition, as everyone already knew, he reported that you are a Mason and a personal enemy of the Holy Roman Apostolic Catholic Church. As a result, the Monsignor concluded that you are a heretic, stubborn and degenerate, and that, therefore, you well deserve the gallows and even lynching; but, since God knows what he is doing, there must be some reason you were absolved from that danger. He ended up pardoning you publicly, on the condition that neither you nor anyone in your family, especially not Dieguito, ever return to Guanajuato. With respect to my dear little nephew, Dieguito, it pains me immensely to have to enumerate the charges that Miranda himself laid against him: “The child Diego María Rivera has publicly committed blasphemy against the Blessed Virgen de la Luz of Guanajuato, against the saints and other virgins; in addition, he accused the makers of religious statues of being imposters. We must insist that the accused child also abandon this city.” My dear friend, I fully understand what all of this means to you. It also hurts me deeply. How is it possible that a child under seven years old can be considered a creature of evil, just because he is intelligent and can think for himself? Those people are despicable, and they

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When he had finished reading the letter, Professor Rivera stood up and violently crumpled the pages between his hands. “This information only serves to demonstrate the stupidity and foolishness of those men who have let power and arrogance blind them. Unable to see reality as it really is, they act without considering the consequences. Porfirio Díaz and Manuel González, traitors to the cause of the people, only respond to the interests of would-be liberals given over to conservative xenomania; they strip the peasants, indigenous peoples, and the workers of their jobs and their salaries, as well as abuse the dignity of the rest of society. It goes without saying that the ecclesiastical hierarchy gave its unanimous support, because the clergy—even though it pretends to help the townspeople—has the same interests. “Son, if you care to respond to anything they’ve said against you or me, please speak up,” said the professor, having vented his feelings. “At least from this painful situation, we can find solace in your sound reasoning. So, propose something, without worrying about us adults.” The mother, after listening intently to what her husband had said, jumped into the conversation. “Look, Diego, if what you’re really saying to him is not to worry about my authority, let me tell you that we’re witnessing here the consequences of the upbringing you’ve given your son. I warned you

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before, and now I can only repeat: You brought this on yourself, so why are you complaining? Okay, let’s see what this child has to say, this young boy who you can’t see is a true weakling. . . .” At that moment, the child understood that if he said anything, he could precipitate an all-out war between his parents. “Father, I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to say. I think I should go to bed. Mother, good night. Good night to everyone. See you around.”

VIII he situation that Ramón del Valle described in his letter created great distress among the members of Rivera Barrientos’s family. Recrimination and screaming became the norm; unintelligible murmurings and harsh looks were now part and parcel of the household. Somewhat burdened by guilt, even though he believed he had educated his son correctly, Don Diego did not dare to look directly at his wife. He worried about the fact that his son had become involved in a public scandal that had gotten out of control. He now saw that his son was torn between his new worldly experiences and the daily family in-fighting, which was the result of the family’s limited worldview. He talked about the situation with his brother-in-law one morning on their customary walk downtown. “As you can imagine, Rafael, I’m deeply pained by what’s happened. But, more than anything, I’m worried about Dieguito.” “Why, Don Diego?” “He’s become so submissive. When I finished reading that letter from Ramón del Valle the other night, he didn’t even try to defend what he has learned with me.” “It seems that way, my dear brother-in-law. I, too, have noticed a change in him over the past few weeks. When he arrived, he was a free, talkative little boy. Today, he’s quiet and sad—he’s too introverted, I would say.” “What should I do?” “If you want my opinion, enroll him in a good school, even if we

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are halfway through the school year.” “But I don’t have any pull anywhere.” “Don’t worry about that,” answered the music teacher, putting his arm around the professor. “If you like, I’ll take you to a school that I think will work out best.” “Rafael, if you don’t have anything more important to do, could we please go immediately?” “Of course. We’ll pay a visit to my friend Alberto Ruiz, who’s been the principal at an excellent French lay school for some years now.” “A French lay school?” “Exactly! A long time ago, Professor Ruiz provided protection to a group of teachers who immigrated to our country after Napoleon’s soldiers routed the masses.” “You must be referring to those who participated in that bloodless Red Week, right?” “Yes, those intellectuals who were anarchist and socialist combatants.” “But that occurred in 1871, more than twenty years ago.” “Well, those exceptional men—among whom is included my friend Ernesto Ledoyen—have spent most of their lives in Mexico, teaching the children of Masons and liberals the meaning of freedom, equality, and fraternity. Ah, and to sing La Marseillaise.” “Rafael, I think this would be an excellent environment for Diego María to become himself again—that happy child, my dear Engineer, as everyone in Guanajuato used to call him.” “If you really think so, then let’s walk toward Alvarado Bridge. The school is fairly far from here.” “No problem. The walk will be worth it. Afterward, we’ll find a way to move to that neighborhood. For everyone’s sake, the sooner we find our own house, the better.” “Don’t worry about it. Adela and I enjoy your company.” “I know, and we are happy at your place, too. Nevertheless, I’ve asked María to start looking for something for us.” During the walk toward the edge of the city, the two friends exchanged thoughts, especially concerning the political situation in

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Mexico. They feared bad times were ahead. The dictatorship was stronger than ever, and the people were beginning to demand their rights, which had been completely destroyed. Their lengthy discussion had brought them to a partially shaded house with iron lattice work covering the windows. They knocked on the door, and a friendly looking man soon appeared. “How may I help you? I’m Feliciano Ramos, the porter for the school.” “Thank you. We’re looking for Alberto Ruiz. I’m Rafael del Valle, a music teacher. This is my brother-in-law, Professor Diego Rivera. We would like to say hello to the director.” “Please come in. The director is in his office. I will let him know you’re here.” While they waited for Feliciano to return, the visitors looked around the school. “The place is ample and airy. The patio is well-suited for children’s sports and games. I would also like to meet some of the teachers,” commented Rivera, looking satisfied. At that moment, the porter returned to tell them that the director could see them. “How nice to see you again, Rafael. What’s the occasion for your visit?” “Alberto, please excuse the interruption, but before explaining the reason for our visit, I would like to introduce you to my brotherin-law, Professor of Primary Education Diego Rivera, native of Guanajuato and bonafide Mason.” “Professor Rivera, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Through my Masonic connections, I have heard about you and your fight for social justice. It’s an honor to have you pay a visit to this school, where our students learn the concepts and ideas in which we believe.” “My dear friend,” intervened Del Valle, “we’re here to ask you to accept my nephew, Diego María Rivera Barrientos, as a student in your prestigious school.” “But, Rafael, there’s no need for you to continue! We already know about Dieguito’s story and his exceptional rebellion. We assumed that given your friendship with the teachers of this school,

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we would receive your petition sooner or later. For us, it’s an obligation to help those who are enemies of Díaz, as you the Rivera family are. Starting tomorrow, there’ll be a place for the youngster. In fact, Don Ernesto Ledoyen will personally take charge of his education. He is an excellent teacher.” “My brother-in-law has taken it upon himself to provide me an excellent recommendation for him. I appreciate your consideration and assistance, Señor Ruiz.” “No thanks are necessary, Professor Rivera. Before you leave, why don’t we meet Señor Ledoyen?” Rafael del Valle and Diego Rivera were delighted, and in a few moments the four educators were chatting away as if they had been friends forever. They discussed the advantages offered by a lay education as opposed to the religious instruction taught in many other schools. They concluded that, “to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s.” “The problem with my son,” said Professor Rivera timidly, as they were leaving, “is that he hasn’t attended any school in a formal sense. At home among the family we’ve taught him what he knows, which has turned out to be much more practical than what’s written in the textbooks.” “Don’t worry, Señor Rivera,” said Ledoyen in Spanish with a French accent, “here he will learn to speak and write not only Spanish but also French, which is the official language of the school. I will teach him the best Spanish I know.” “You have put me at ease, Professor, because to tell you the truth, my wife has made me feel extremely guilty.” As they walked back home, Professor Rivera felt good about the type of education that his son was about to receive. “Okay, Rafael, tonight I’ll talk to my Engineer. I’ll tell him the news, and tomorrow I will take him personally to the French Lyceum. The school offers more than I ever expected. I’m sure that Señor Ledoyen will understand the boy perfectly and that he will educate him in our way.” “I feel the same way you do, Diego. Your son will learn greatly from his teachers. I’m sure of that.”

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“You’re right. So, now we’ll start looking for a place near the Alvarado Bridge; that way, we’ll be close to the school.”

IX veryday, unexpected things happened in the patio areas of the tenements on Hornacinas Street: the same day that Professor Rivera and Uncle Rafael struck out to find adequate schooling for Dieguito, the little boy escaped and started playing with the kids in the neighborhood. “Dieguito!” screamed Doña María from the doorway of the room they were occupying. “Come here! I don’t want you playing with those dirty kids. Come with us. We’re going with your aunts to look for a place to live.” Dieguito was obviously not pleased, but he reluctantly abandoned his new friends and suddenly found himself surrounded by a bunch of women who didn’t understand him at all. “But, Mommy,” he said, exasperatedly, “you’re always bossing me around. You never let me play.” “How can I let you play with that bunch of paupers. I can only imagine what you would learn just listening to them,” answered his mother sternly. Practically dragging Dieguito and his sister out the door, the three Barrientos women set out to explore places to live all around the Santo Domingo Plaza. They went up and down stairs in all kinds of places that had “For Rent” signs in the windows. After a long and arduous search, they still hadn’t found anything that corresponded to their needs for the price that they could pay. “Did you notice, Cesárea,” said María, scandalized, as they went back to La Lagunilla, “each neighborhood where we went was its own little city unto itself. It seems each one houses hundreds of families, each one poorer than the last.” “That’s the way it is, María. And given their accents, they must be from all over Mexico.”

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One of the neighborhood tenements they discovered was called “La Gran Pulquería,” because it was located across the street from the most famous pulque shop, where they served the fermented juice of the maguey plant. The bar was called “Los Rusos,” because of the paintings on the walls that portrayed people wearing boots and fur coats in a winter setting, typical of Russia. The daily scandals propagated by the local drunks were so infamous that the ladies from Guanajuato preferred to skirt the block in order to avoid hearing the vulgar remarks of that “band of drunks” crammed together around the pulque barrels scattered about the sidewalk. The fetid, penetrating smell of the decomposing pulque, which did not seem to be fermented fruit but the excrement of some oblivious drunk, also repulsed the prudish Barrientos ladies. Aunt Cesárea and Dieguito got separated from the group and, out of curiosity, decided to walk by the window through which the liquor was being sold. The buyers who hung out around the small opening were vagabonds, women, and men in uniforms, all of whom were not allowed into the bar. Walking only a few steps away from the entrance, the young Rivera peeked inside. He was dumbfounded by the paintings that decorated both the inside and outside of the bar. “Child! What are you doing? Don’t look at those indecent paintings on the walls?” insisted Aunt Cesárea. “I want to look at them, because there’s nothing like this in Guanajuato,” answered the young boy. “And just so you know, Auntie, what I’ve gained from hanging around with those ‘paupers,’ as my mother calls them, is they’re teaching me to read. I already know what that sign says: ‘Los Rusos. First Class Pulque.’ Also, those figures are paintings of real Russians.” “And who says you’re right, you know-it-all?” “Well, look at their boots. We don’t wear those here.” “Boots, shmoots! Let’s go.” “Wait, Auntie, let me look at them again. See their clothes? The woman is blond, with big blue eyes and skin white as the snow on the ground. She’s dressed like a real Russian. I’ve seen it in a geography book: short skirts and red boots.” “Dieguito, what you’re seeing is indecent. Look how she expos-

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es her legs. What kind of country is that, anyway?” “From what I know, Auntie, it’s a very big country . . . and beautiful too,” answered the little boy. “Besides that, what does it have that’s so interesting to a sevenyear-old boy?” added Cesárea. “It’s a country where there’s music and dancing. I would like to see that. Someday I’ll go, Auntie.” After he had finished talking, Dieguito ran across the street all the way to the front entrance of a tenement. “See you later, Aunt Cesárea! I’m going to see some buddies who are waiting for me. Today, they’re going to show me around inside, right down to the guts of this place.” Just as he said it, the two brothers—Macario and Benito Boscoso, sons of the building manager—were waiting to take him into La Gran Pulquería. “Hey, Chubby the Squatter, what took you so long? We almost gave up on you. We’ve been here waiting a long time.” “Didn’t you see that my old aunts wouldn’t let me go? It was hard to get away from them.” “Man, I don’t believe it. But let’s get going, buddy.” “Yeah, it’ll be getting late soon. Still, you’re going to see the chaos of this place from the inside,” added Benito. “True, and don’t chicken out on us, eh?” said Macario. While they were wandering around the place, inspecting one of four interior patios, two things happened that made Dieguito happy. First, they saw an enormous man carrying a knapsack as big as he was. He sat down in the middle of the main patio. He was dressed just like the Chichimeca Indians that Dieguito had seen with Antonia when they were in the Xichú Mountains. Like them, he had a bow and some arrows in a leather pouch. In a ritual that seemed out of place, the nomad bowed reverently toward the sun, the four cardinal directions, and the four basic elements of nature. Next, he removed a white linen cloth from his bag, on top of which he placed small piles of medicinal herbs, shells of different shapes and colors, pieces of bone, ojos de venado deer amulets, bunches of garlic, limes, and goldfinch birds. They were the

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same objects that Dieguito had seen his nanny place on an altar dedicated to Our Lady of Sorrows in her house on Good Friday during Easter. When the three boys approached the man, the kid from Guanajuato couldn’t resist asking him a question. “Say, Chief, where are you from? I think I’ve already met you.” The man just stood there staring at him with a serious look on his face. “Get outta here, you little brat. What are you up to? Why do you think I’m some chieftan and you know me? Macario and Benito, those two I know, but you? Nope.” “I was just wondering, because up in the Xichú Mountains, near Guanajuato, my nanny used to meet with the Indian chiefs and the shell dancers, who look a lot like you. They wore big feathers on their heads and painted drawings on their bodies, just like yours. I’ll never forget that tiger head that’s on your chest.” “What? You mean you remember? This tiger is my godfather and no one else has one like it.” “But you told me back then that it was your nahual, your spiritguide, not your godfather.” “You’re amazing, kid. Yes, my friend Antonia was always lugging you around with her. It’s true, my name is José María, and I’m a Chichimecan from up that way, captain of the shell dancers, of the Lord of the Crown, and of the Holy Cross of Calderón.” “And what’s all this about your nahual?” “It’s the shadow of the tiger that follows me and protects me when I do business here and there. According to Antonia, your nahual is a big frog, just like the one on the rocks right there in Guanajuato.” While they talked about the mountains and their stories, women from the tenement came out to buy medicines for the eyes, for wrongs committed against them, and for unrequited love. They asked for rose petals that had been blessed beneath the light of the waking moon, or a rabbit foot with a red ribbon to hang around the neck to ensure having twins. The customers with more money purchased bunches of goat’s rue, rosemary, and sweet basil. The poor-

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est customers bought bunches of pepper tree sticks to conduct the common cleansings against spells and bewitchings. As José María was leaving, the young Dieguito walked him out to the street to say good-bye. “Don’t you see, Mr. Captain of the Shell Dancers, I remember everything. If you happen to see my nanny Antonia, say hello to her for me and tell her to come and find me. Tell her where I’m living. I know she wants to know where I am, just as I’m waiting for her to come here.” After visiting with the “herb witch doctor,” the next person who caught the Dieguito’s eye was a tall, graceful woman who was dressed in her native china poblana garb with a knee-length skirt and a short-sleeved blouse with a revealing neckline, embroidered with beads. Carrying a large basket throughout the neighborhood and as far away as La Lagunilla, she sold sweetbreads and all kinds of Mexican candies, such as muégano caramel balls, charamuscas, pepitorias, alegrías, and trompadas. As soon as la china invaded the patio area of the tenement with her musky aromas and seductive perfumes, the three youngsters approached her to buy whatever they could. They pulled on her skirt in bold flirtation, and she responded with vulgar remarks that made everyone who was standing around laugh. When she finished making her sales, she made her exit by telling jokes with double meanings and singing a song in homage to her young lover, “Lagartijo,” the rogue who, looking like he had been smoking marijuana, followed her around. Her song was accompanied by obscene gestures. “Here comes the devil, with his twenty-five brothers. Saying that he’s getting rid of all the marihuanos. And when la marihuanita came around, She got into a fight with Doña Juanita. After she got beat up, her face was red, and Her ears went stiff, so stiff, and her tail stood on end, stood on end.” After she finished singing her aggressive little ditty, the fierce woman told everyone who was standing around to sing the song with her. Macario, Benito, and Dieguito went over and started to dance

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with her while she shook the tambourine to the beat of the music. People started to sing in unison. When she finished her seductive movements, she handed trays of candy to the three boys and commanded them to follow her. “Listen up, you two little urchins, follow me with those trays! And you . . . my little dandy wearing the torn pants . . . follow us!” she said to Dieguito. The little “dandy” was ready to go with them, but when they got to the street, his Aunt Totota showed up and hauled him away by his ear. “You little devil! I was spying on you and heard everything. Off you go to the house! When are you going to straighten up? I got tired of waiting for you—your buddies must have cast a spell on you!” Completely out of sorts, the other women of the family were waiting anxiously at the door of their apartment on Hornacinas. “Totota, where has this little boy been?” “In La Gran Pulquería. That’s where I found him.” “And just look where we’ve ended up,” declared Doña María. “I’ve heard some singing too: ‘Mexico City: the great one/ Querétaro: just like heaven/ Salamanca: the same as purgatory/ And Guanajuato: the inferno itself.’ But, in reality, the inferno is right here.” “You’re right, María. We even have witch doctors, relatives of that nanny Antonia, who are on our doorsteps. Dieguito sent a message with one of them to that Indian Antonia, telling her to come here. Then there was that loose woman, who was perverting children and wanted to carry off our little boy,” added Totota. “And you, Dieguito, is it true what your aunt says about you wanting your celebrated nanny to come and fetch you from here? Well, you’re going to find out where you’re going, all right.” “Where, Mommy?” asked the little boy. “To bed, with the lights off, until your father comes home and I tell him about your behavior.” Facing that threat, Dieguito tried to break away from his aunt and run away. Once he was free, he ran directly toward the front door, leaving behind three women who were fuming. He went back to La Gran Pulquería to look for his buddies Macario and Benito.

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When he couldn’t find them, he asked their father where they were. “Señor Boscoso, do you mind if I stay here at the front door until my father comes back? I’m not sure when he’ll get here, but it should be before it gets dark.” “Don’t worry, little boy, come in and tell Petra to pull up a chair for you. You can wait as long as you want to. If you get hungry, ask for something to eat. She cooks anything, and she’s good at it, too.” “Thank you, sir. I promise not to cause her any problems. I’ll be waiting at the back of the room until my father arrives.” “There you go! When my kids come back, I’ll get them to tell you more about the neighborhood. And don’t believe everything you see. You’re still green around the ears.” Given Señor Boscoso’s directness, Dieguito didn’t know how to respond. Petra heard what her boss had said, went over to him and offered Dieguito something to eat. “So, Squatter, what’ll it be? I have pambazos with potatoes and sausage, green enchiladas with cilantro, chopped onion, and pieces of cheese. And I’ve just made tortillas with duck meat, cooked in vinegar with strips of jalapeño on the side.” “I’ll take everything, Petra. And a lot, too, because I haven’t eaten since this morning, and I’m dying of hunger.” “No problem. Take a seat at that table by the window. I’ll even give you some beans right out of the pot. And if you want something else . . . I’ll see if I can fix it for you.” The table by the window turned out to be perfect for watching what was happening on the street outside. The dimly lit interior protected him from being seen by passersby. From that vantage point, he could watch the colorful parade of strange characters who gave life to the neighborhood: the bird peddler, accompanied by the singsong of his caged mockingbirds and sad goldfinches; the water vendor and his donkeys laden with large, brown earthen vessels brimming with fresh water from the Chapultepec springs; the lady selling turtledoves and sandpipers that would be eaten for a Sunday meal; and the pulque vendor, who calmly repeated his jingle in a loud voice: “This water of mine is twice as pure as that of Los Rusos, so there you go, dear customers, buy mine so you won’t die of stomach

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cramps for having drunk pulque cured in oxen shit.” As night was approaching, the organ grinder arrived and started to play “Viva mi desgracia.” About that time, Dieguito spotted his uncle and his father coming down the street, heading toward their fetid living quarters. They appeared to be talking avidly and seemed to be happy. The young boy said good-bye to Petra and ran out stumbling into whatever was in the way. “Hey, what’s up, Uncle? What’s up, Dad? I’m glad you came back together.” “And what are you doing out at this hour?” “Well, waiting for you.” “Don’t tell me that you’ve had another run-in at home and that you’re waiting for us to bail you out.” “That’s it, and my problems are big ones, to boot.” “What have you done now to upset your mother?” “I ran away a few hours ago, and I’ve been hiding with Señor Boscoso at La Gran Pulquería.” “All right, explain it to us. Come, you can tell us while we have a glass of fruit juice.” The father listened attentively to his son, and after advising him to use more prudence so as not to upset his mother, he changed the topic. “Son, we have a surprise for you.” “What is it, Dad? Tell me.” “It’s something really special,” said Uncle Rafael. “Something special, Uncle? Well, it must be a present, maybe a trip somewhere, or maybe we’re going back to Guanajuato to see the big frogs. Is it something like that?” “No, not exactly. Your uncle and I think that you should attend school. You’ll be much happier there.” “But, Dad, I’m not sad. It’s just that mom gives me a hard time. And, by the way, who will I go to school with?” “With some children just like you: mischievous and wrestless.” “You’re going to have a wonderful teacher,” added Uncle Rafael. “Who?” “A mentor, a special teacher, someone who you’re definitely going to like very much.”

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“And all this—school and a man—where is it?” “A bit far from here. Near the Alvarado Bridge.” “It’s really far, then. It must be farther away than Santo Domingo, where my cousins the Macías brothers live.” “That’s true, but I’ve already found a house near the school, the French Lyceum, where I signed you up. Your teacher will be Ernesto Ledoyen, who is excellent. He will teach you well. Just remember that once you’ve finished grade school, I want you to enroll at the National Preparatory School and then go to the Military College.” “But, Dad, why do you want to make things hard on me? You know that I don’t like taking orders.” “It’s a family tradition. Your grandfather was in the military, and so was I. You will do the same. That’s my final word.”

X or the young Diego, everything happened so fast: first, the move to the Alvarado Bridge neighborhood; second, signing up for school, where he would have to behave; and third, worst of all, his father decided to move to Pachuca, the capital of the state of Hidalgo, to invest the last of the family’s savings in a mine, Real del Monte. Young Diego became terribly depressed.

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In an effort to ward off his sadness, one afternoon he went looking for Professor Ledoyen. On arriving at the school, Dieguito barely tapped on the door with the bronze door knocker, as if he really didn’t want to knock at all. He was afraid they wouldn’t let him in during off-hours. When the janitor Ramos opened the door, he smiled at the boy affably. “Señor Rivera, what are you doing here at this hour?” “Señor Feliciano, I would like to speak to Señor Ledoyen. Ever since we moved, I’ve been feeling lonely. My father isn’t here, and I have no one to talk to.” “Of course. Come in. We found out when your parents decided to move by The Alvarado Bridge. We saw the moving van coming

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down old Tacuba Street. You know what? Señor Ledoyen has stepped out for a short while. You can wait in his office. You know where it is by now.”

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When Dieguito walked into the teacher’s office and sat down, he felt better immediately. The warmth that emanated from the room made him feel at ease. While he waited for his teacher, whom he liked and admired greatly, he looked around the room at the pictures and lithographs hanging on the walls. The first one he noticed was a scene in which several men were about to die in front of a firing squad. Despite having to face death imminently, you could see courage in their faces. He recognized the second one, because it revealed the moment when Maximilian of Habsburg, Miguel Miramón, and Ignacio Mejía had to face the firing squad. Ah, yes, he thought to himself, that was when my grandfather and my father fought against the French. They were there together, in Querétaro, and now that’s why they want to ruin me by sending me to a military school. Leave that to my cousin Juan Macías; even now he looks like a soldier. No way, I don’t want to die in front of a firing squad, and I don’t want to kill anyone either. A third lithograph showed a woman standing in front of some barricades in the Place de la Concorde, holding a brightly colored flag with the words “Paris Commune, 1871” embroidered on it. Dieguito read the words out loud and wondered how many people had been killed there. Photographs were hanging on the other walls. One showed military men and civilians discussing some maps of Paris as they stood around a large table. Another showed townspeople defending streets that were blocked with large gunnysacks full of sand. And there was another with groups of men with National Guard flags guarding the plazas and avenues of the city. Just as the boy was inspecting a glass case with several military medals and a small blood-stained notebook, Professor Ledoyen opened the door to his office. “Señor Rivera, what brings you around here? But what a nice

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surprise. Did you find my mementos interesting? All that was a long time ago, a time when I experienced not only glory but also terrible tragedy.” “I believe you, Señor Ledoyen. Sorry, I was just curious. It all seems so unreal.” “No problem, I understand. How may I help you?” “Well, you see, sir, now that I live nearby, I thought maybe I could talk to you, like a friend,” answered the boy, with a tone of sadness in his voice. “In order to make ends meet, my mother put her office for consultations near where the Macías family lives. They’re our rich relatives. She feels more secure being close to them, especially because my father hasn’t returned from Pachuca yet. She goes to work and leaves me at home alone with my aunts.” “So, how do you feel about all this? Say, before we continue, make yourself comfortable. Feliciano will bring us something to snack on.” “Thanks,” said the visitor, as he got settled into his chair. “Well, Señor Ledoyen, I guess I’m not doing so well. My aunts keep pestering me about receiving Communion from those priests in those dumb robes, and I’m against it. Over and over, they keep after me to go to that darn church. In the afternoons, they make me play with my sister María del Pilar. We have to make little churches out of wood and cardboard, and then paint them with those saints. The only manly thing they let me do is play with paper soldiers. Just imagine! Everything I learn here is like pissing into the wind.” “Whoa, Señor Rivera, slow down. I’m surprised by the way you speak Spanish. First of all, you must learn to say things differently. You’re starting to talk like your neighborhood friends in La Lagunilla. Secondly, if your relatives, the Macías, hear you speak, they’re not going to let you play with your cousins. But, no matter, would you prefer to speak French? Maybe you speak it better, and there won’t be any need to correct you.” “Señor Ledoyen, you’re right. I apologize. I will make an effort to do better. I guess I was expressing my anger. Please, let’s continue in the good Spanish that you use in class.” “Very well. But it’s true: under those circumstances you need

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someone in whom you can confide. In addition to being your teacher, consider me your friend.” “That’s why I came to see you, Professor, because you’re my only friend. I feel like I can talk to you about my problems. Thank you for listening to me. But, you know what? Besides being my friend, I would also like for you to tell me about other countries and how they are different from mine. I would like to learn something about the world every day. For example, I would like to know more about the French people in those photographs and how they fought to better their lives . . . and who helped them.” “I can tell you about that, Señor Rivera,” responded Ledoyen, giving the boy an affectionate tap on his shoulder. “I can see that the situation in those pictures concerns you, and I understand that. As a youngster, I, too, was upset by class differences in France, my country, where I fought for a great cause on the side of the oppressed.” “That’s what I would like to learn about,” Dieguito declared. “I was looking at those pictures on the wall, and I imagine that they’re related to that Napoleon guy who sent the Emperor Maximilian to Mexico.” “That’s correct, my young friend. Those pictures depict battle scenes of the men and women of Paris fighting an army led by Luis Adolfo Thiers. It occurred when the popular government known as the Commune was in power. There was a war between France and Prussia at the time. And when Napoleon III was defeated by the Prussians on the outskirts of Paris, Thiers abandoned the capital and sought refuge in Versailles, leaving the city defenseless and without a government.” “And what did the people in the city do?” “The Parisians—workers, small businessmen, craftsmen—who were being guided by not only intellectual revolutionaries like me, but also the important journalists around the country, became organized in order to take control of the situation. We were organized in such a way that everyone participated in running the country. Sadly, that government of anarchists and socialists lasted only a few months. The emperor himself ordered it disbanded.” “Señor Ledoyen, would you please tell me more about the anar-

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chists and the socialists? I heard them mentioned in Guanajuato. That’s what they called my father and me. I have learned how much the workers, the miners, and the peasants suffer. Even though I think a lot about it, I don’t know how to help them. I mostly want to help children. I have seen those poor kids die from hunger.” “The way to help them is through good government, and that’s not easy. First, you’ve got to understand politics, which is the same as governing, and that means governing in the interest of the majority of the population. But, Señor Rivera, have you really seen a child die from starvation?” “Completely die? No, Professor,” he answered sadly. “But in Guanajuato I did see two little Otomí kids almost die of hunger. Their parents didn’t even have a tortilla to give them. Even if I don’t govern, I would like to learn more about politics. To be able to help the Otomís some other way, but I don’t know how.” “Señor Rivera, what do you say if, in the afternoons, after finishing school, you and I meet here in my office? Since you came here unannounced today, I can only imagine that no one at your house knows where you are. It will take some time to explain politics, government, anarchy, and socialism. Let’s call it quits for today. We don’t want to upset the ladies at your house.” “Señor Ledoyen, you’re right, I should go. I’ll see you soon. Have a great afternoon, oops, I mean evening. And many, many thanks!”

XI nce, many months later, as was customary, Dieguito showed up unannounced at Señor Ledoyen’s office. They exchanged greetings and sat down in two comfortable chairs next to his desk. Hot chocolate and sweet rolls were on a table nearby. “Young man, would you like a cup of foamy hot chocolate? We can try some of these delicious pastries while we chat. Choose whatever you like.” “What a great idea, Señor Ledoyen! Your whole office is filled with the aroma of hot chocolate and fresh pastries. And that cup is

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so large! This is a real banquet! I’ll try one of these jelly rolls.” Between sipping hot chocolate and tasting a wide variety of local pastries—some of which might make one think of biscotto, brownies, fruitcake, tarts, ladyfingers, cream puffs, pound cake, gingersnaps, and raisin bread—the young student expressed his recent concerns and worries. “Señor Ledoyen, I would like to ask you something.” “Go right ahead, Señor Rivera. If I know how to answer you, I certainly will.” “It’s the same as before: I would like to know how to defend the poor.” “Why does that concern you?” “Because of what I’ve learned from you and my father, and because of the poverty I saw in the Xichú Mountains and in Guanajuato. And also here in the neighborhoods nearby when we first arrived.” “And what has been the outcome of your experiences?” “For me, the world is very unjust: the rich have everything and the poor have nothing.” “My friend Rivera, you are absolutely right. That’s the way the world is. Unfortunately for humanity, this terrible difference exists. As far as I’m concerned, I believe life is worth living only if we fight to diminish this breach between the haves and the have-nots. But let’s go outside and take a walk around the patio. It’s nice outside.” “I would love to, Professor!” Once they were outside and taking a stroll around the patio, the young boy started asking more questions. “You fought to bring equality to everyone. Isn’t that true, Señor Ledoyen? In class, you told us about the big differences between the great President Juárez and Emperor Maximilian, the foreigner who came to govern Mexico. One was a friend of the poor, and the other was a friend of the rich.” “Correct. We discussed all of that in our history class. And, if I’m not mistaken, I also taught you in class that a revolution is an armed movement led by some brave people, or when a group of poor people, like you call them, unite themselves against a bad govern-

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ment. That’s what happened at the end of the eighteenth century when the Parisians banded together and beheaded the tyrannical Bourbon kings. That was the French Revolution.” “Who were those brave people who didn’t like bad governments?” “They’re dissidents, among whom you usually find intellectuals, teachers, writers, journalists, and also artists of all types, people whose sensitivity causes them to absorb the problems of society into their life’s work.” “And who backs the kings and the tyrants?” “Their own families and others whom they protect, that is, politicians who belong to the aristocracy and nobility, as well as businesspeople and landowners who live off of the work of others.” “So, my father is an intellectual, and my mother would like to be an aristocrat. While he despises kings and dislikes emperors even more, she says she’s a relative of one.” “Well, that could be, but let’s continue talking about France. The intellectuals fought against the monarchy, and in 1792 the First Republic was created by uniting diverse social classes, from landowners to the downtrodden, that is, peasants, workers, and artisans.” “And how do they participate in the government, those that are rich and those that are poor?” “By means of what I explained in class—elections. Everyone uses their vote to elect those who they believe to be good governors.” “Professor Ledoyen, sorry to interrupt you, but according to what I’ve learned, even though Mexico is a republic, my father said that President Don Porfirio Díaz has become almost like a king, because he’s elected every four years. I guess he’s been in the government for a long time.” “Correct. President Díaz is reelected because the authorities organize elections in which there are no other viable candidates; hence, the people just vote him in. Your father is right: after so many years in power, this government has become a dictatorship.” “But everyone speaks badly about him,” interrupted Dieguito energetically. “I’ve heard people everywhere—in the streets, at the markets—say they don’t like the man. They say the elections aren’t

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real, Mexico isn’t a republic, it’s all false, and a government like that does nothing to help the poor people.” “But, Señor Rivera,” continued the professor with some irony, “it does seem to me that you are interested in politics; perhaps some day you will dedicate yourself to this crude activity, just like I did in my youth, when I was a militant with socialist groups demanding that the general population run the government.” “But, Professor, like they say in Guanajuato, could I be a socialist some day? Or even an anarchist? I don’t understand the difference. Could you explain that to me?” “I will give you a brief explanation, but let’s go back to our comfy chairs in my office. It’s getting chilly.” “You’re so right. Let’s go inside, where it’s toasty.” Once they were comfortably seated, Don Ernesto continued. “Well, you see, Señor Rivera, the anarchists—men like the Frenchman Pierre Proudhon and the Russian Mikhail Bakunin— sought to eliminate overbearing governments from human society, and they demanded the freedom to live and work without exploitation. This doctrine also advocates the elimination of private property; that is, the land should belong to everyone. The idea is that no one person in particular will lead the government, and the natural resources should belong to everyone. No one owns anything; everything is divided up among everyone.” “Okay, Señor Ledoyen, what I like about anarchism is that there isn’t anyone bossing people around, freedom is for everyone, and the end of government. That way, the people aren’t cheated. But I don’t like to share my things. Darn it, anything but that!” “Don’t get mad, young man, it’s not quite like that. And remember that everything in life has its pros and cons. Let’s see if socialism appeals to you more,” said the teacher, barely cracking a smile. “The socialists want everything to be distributed equally. They say, for example, give to each person according to his necessities, and to each one according to his capabilities. In short, they fight to eliminate social inequality.” “And who is controlled under socialism?” asked Dieguito. “Very good question, young man. Under this political system,

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the government should be elected by everyone’s votes. It’s still only a theory.” “And did you ever reach the level to govern?” “Some friends and I did. During the rebellion of the Commune, at first we demanded and then fought for the equal distribution of wealth. We wanted everyone to have more or less the same, in accordance with the type of work that each person did. Basically, we tried to eliminate social injustice. During the so-called Red Week, shown here in this engraving, we lost the opportunity to establish the first socialist government in the world. So far, no nation has achieved it, even though diverse groups—followers of the great thinker Karl Marx—believe that one day the rich classes will disappear under the hand of the proletariat, that is, the workers and the peasants.” “Professor, I like that! I’ll be a socialist . . . and an anarchist, too. I’ll fight to rid the world of the exploiters so that there’ll be no rich people or poor people, but only equals. Even the downtrodden Indians who live in the Xichú Mountains.” “Young man, you have understood me well, and that way of thinking will take you down any number of roads. If you continue in that fashion, when you’re big you’ll be a socialized anarchist or an anarchistic socialist . . . all at once. For now, your good intentions will do.” “I don’t think so, Professor, I’ll be more than that. I promise to read more and, in time, fight for the ideas of those guys you’ve mentioned. To start, I’m going to help the miners, the peasants, and the poor people here in the city.”

XII ewildered, everything Dieguito saw around him seemed strange, including the hanging black cloud that slowly began to descend onto the roof of the convent, as if it were seeking a place to rest. When the young boy looked closer, he saw that it wasn’t exactly a cloud, but something soft and woolen; a formless canvas, blown about by the wind, ended up surrounding him. For a second, he found himself unexpectedly enveloped in an elegant cassock.

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“Holy cow!” he heard himself saying, “I’m wearing the same thing that Father Juventino Bustos—the prior of the Company of Jesus in Guanajuato—wears.” In order to prove that what had happened was real, he ran his hands over his body. He wanted to make sure that he had magically been ordained into the Jesuit order. Nevertheless, his rejoicing lasted only an instant, because at that moment the bottom edge of the robe began to wrap around his legs in the form of a centipede whose innumerable legs were trying to imprison his ankles. In order to free himself from that strange, ugly insect, he ran toward the staircase in front of him. As bad luck would have it, he fell headlong down the stairs. During his descent, he could only think about reaching the last step and putting an end to his suffering from the bruises. “Okay, enough, I can’t take it. Stop, stop!” he screamed loudly. But he found no repose. He fell into a large metal pipe that gyrated like a spring on a pivot in a gigantic clock that spun the hands out of control. Suddenly, the minute hand flew off wildly, at which time the young Jesuit grabbed it by the tip and pole-vaulted onto a cornice of a nearby terraced roof. By then, the moon loomed large in the sky, and it illuminated the entire cloister and nearby buildings, that is, his house and the doors and windows of the neighboring school. Once he distinguished the window to his room, he cried out in desperation. Why wasn’t he in his room? Why was he dressed like a Jesuit? When did he become a priest? He was going to jump through that window right now in order to take off this getup; if necessary, he was going to climb the wall and break the window. He refused to go to school with those horrible, little, stupid, ignorant kids, or to the convent with those friars! As he prepared to jump up, an extremely elongated figure appeared in an opening of the monastic tower. He looked like none other than Father Servín himself, who was the director of the nearby Hispanic-Mexican Lyceum. The priest’s arms were raised high into the air, as if he were going to fly away. The sleeves of the black frock that he was wearing had turned into wings; likewise, he had the appearance of an ugly, ominous bird that had begun to grow way out

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of proportion, as if someone were looking at him through a magnifying glass. When the animal began to take flight, Dieguito saw himself becoming potential prey. That buzzard, he thought, wants to grab me with his claws! Terrorized, he screamed out loud again. “I don’t want to stay here anymore! I can’t stand it! No more!” His outcries reached the lunar surface. Selene, surprised by such a strange situation, hid behind the clouds in order not to witness the demonic evil occurring on earth. A startled Doña María Barrientos sprang up from her bed when she heard her son’s scream and ran to his room. She opened the door, turned on the light, and tried to wake him up. “Baby, are you all right? Wake up! You’ve had a nightmare. Wake up, my baby!” “Let me go, you nasty bird. You’re bad luck. Don’t gore me with those talons! Don’t pick at me with your bloody beak! You’re pushing me to the edge of a cliff, but this time I’m not going to fall off!” screamed the sleeping boy, wildly striking the air with his fists. After shaking him repeatedly, his mother finally managed to wake him up. “Where am I? Where has that buzzard taken me?” “No, Dieguito, no buzzard brought you here. You haven’t left this house. We’re here in San Ildefonso, where we live now. You must have had a nightmare. I told you not to eat so many enchiladas,” continued his mother with reproach. “No, mother, it wasn’t enchiladas or anything like that. I had a nightmare because I’m mad. I’ve already said it: I don’t want to go to the Jesuit school, and even less with that Father Servín. I refuse, even if their lousy school is right next door! I was doing really well in Don Alberto’s school with my teacher Señor Ledoyen!” “Why, of course, with those ruffians from the Alvarado Bridge neighborhood, where they taught you more blasphemies than those you had already learned. And with that heretic school director, your father’s good friend. And to top it off, with that communist teacher Ledoyen. By the way, I don’t understand why they haven’t thrown him out of the country. No matter, I’m the one supporting you now, and whether you want to or not, I’m sending you to the Hispanic-

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Mexican Lyceum, where you’ll study with decent children of the capital, like your cousins, the Macías, and other families—the Liceagas, the Ajurias, and the Torroellas—who are also from Guanajuato.” “But, Mom, I don’t want to be decent. I want to be one of those ‘ruffians,’ that name you give the simple townspeople just to be mean. They are the ones I want to be with. I can’t stand the Jesuits, nor those conceited dandies, and I despise the military that my father talks about.” “Ah, ha, so that Ledoyen has turned you into a Communist already, eh? And I’m mean, huh? Ha. Well, as soon as morning comes, you little braggart, you get up and get dressed, because I’m taking you straight to Father Servín. You’ll board there, and I’m going to tell him to straighten you out, whatever it takes. Just look at all those wasted years at that other school. Those commies who don’t believe in God have led you astray.” “Mom, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ve never heard Señor Ledoyen talk about Communism. I don’t even know what it is. My teacher has told me about his battles for social justice, and I don’t think that’s the same thing. And he hasn’t said anything about your God, either. Nothing good, nothing bad.” “Whatever you say, but you’re still going to the Catholic school.” “Are you really truly going to take me to that horrible, old buzzard?” “Where do you get those ideas?” “From my dreams, Mother, and they tell me the truth.” “You and your crazy dreams. All you need is a swift kick in the rear end. Leave me alone, or else I’ll give it to you—really truly, like you always say.” The next morning, Diego was admitted as a special student in the Lyceum on San Ildefonso Avenue. From then on, he attended classes—even religion classes—every morning, and in the afternoons he spent his time watching military maneuvers in the compound next to his house. As Dieguito and his sister watched the soldiers marching around from his bedroom window, he announced “Now I know what it means to be a military person, like our grandfather and father were.”

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“Now you understand, you say?” she responded. “Yeah, it means to give orders. It’s easy to figure out: in the army, the first person in command is the general, then the colonel, and down the line until you reach the sergeant, the lesser in command who tells the soldiers what to do, even though they have no clue why. That’s called discipline, just like in that school. But, there, if you don’t obey, they beat you with a switch.” “You know, maybe our mother is in the military,” his sister replied instantly. “She’s always bossing us around, and if she could, she’d give us whippings, too.” “Nah, what do you mean? Well, maybe you’re right. If women were in the military, she’d be at least a colonel, someone important. Look, that row of soldiers made a wrong turn. If they had been in battle, they’d be dead by now.” “Oh, Diego, you’re always so smart. So, how do you know?” “Hey, Sis, it’s based on the science of strategy. I found one of Grampa Anastasio’s books, and I’ve been reading it—secretly. I want to be ready, just in case. Our cousin Juan told me some gossip.” “What gossip?” “He overheard our mother say that even if our father isn’t here, she’s going to send me to military school, which is what he wants. If not, I’ll be sent off to become a priest. Either way, it’s all discipline, and I hate discipline.” “So, then, what do you want to do when you grow up?” “Join the military, never. All the army does is recruit peasants and factory workers, and they become the first soldiers to be killed in battle. Become a priest, no way. All they do is take money from those same people. And I don’t want to be a store or bakery owner, because they don’t pay their workers enough. I’ve already checked it out, and I really do know what’s going on.” “Diego, it looks like you’ll become a train engineer, just like our Aunt Totota says you used to say when you were little.” “That’s right, you little chatterbox, I’ll be a train engineer so I can get outta here and go a long ways away, free as the wind. Or I’ll be a painter, which is what I’d really like to do. I’ll paint stories so that everyone can learn about the bad things that rich, powerful people do.

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But you’re not blind: you already know that what I like best is to draw and paint with lots of paintbrushes and colors that our dad gives me. They say that when I was just starting to walk I would paint on the walls of our house in Guanajuato, and now, I’m not allowed to.” At that moment they heard the stern voice of their mother. “Children, it’s time for dinner and then off to bed you go. Tomorrow you have school.” “We were so right, Sis!” said an anguished Diego María. “Our mother should be a colonel.” “What do you mean, colonel? According to what you told me, she deserves to be a general of the highest rank,” reasoned his sister. “Let’s get going, brother, because if we don’t obey, she’ll come after us with a stick.” “Don’t exaggerate! Although from the looks of it, you might be right.”

XIII fter the adolescent Diego opened his eyes, he remained in bed contemplating the rapid transformation of night into day through the window of his room. Diego scooded down and pulled the serape over himself, trying to soothe his headache and resentment. While it was still dark, he began to realize that he had no control over his head, arms, legs, hands, and feet; they felt heavy, making him feel like a sack of rocks and broken bones. When he tried to move, his body sounded like it was a skeleton being dragged across the marble floor of a mausoleum. Something was happening to him, he thought. What a sad situation he was in: he wasn’t a child anymore, but he didn’t fit in with the adults, either. Señor Ledoyen was the only person who understood him, even though during the hours he had spent with him, he saw that Ledoyen was declining. Unfortunately for Diego, his mentor was like a small candle whose light would soon be snuffed out. Diego felt so alone, and no one knew when his father would come home. At that moment, he heard the voice of his Aunt Vicenta. “Diego, get up!” she said, imperiously, as she opened his door.

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“You’ll be late if you don’t get a move on. And, remember, no breakfast until you’ve had Communion.” “Auntie, I can’t even move. My body feels like a sack of cement. I feel sick. Couldn’t I be excused from Communion at school? I don’t want any breakfast, much less Communion.” “You can’t do this to us now, young man. Today is graduation day. You’re finished with grade school. So, what are you? Foolish?” “I’m not foolish, and you all know it. It’s just that everyone has made me do exactly what I didn’t want to do, and believe what I didn’t want to believe. You’ve all forced me to live in a world of lies. Enough! After today, it’s over.” “Oh, quiet! Let’s don’t start arguing again. Get going, now! Get up, or else I’ll pull your covers off.” “But, Auntie, don’t you see? I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do tomorrow.” “Tomorrow you’ll think about it. Now, lazybones, hurry up and get dressed. You’re running late.” “Darn it, leave me alone. I miss my father, and I wish he were here.” “So, that’s what it is. You’re better off shutting your trap, you little devil, your mother might hear you. Those are bad thoughts. Today, we don’t even want to think about upsetting her. And I certainly don’t want to continue listening to your cheeky comments.” It was hard for him to get up and get the day started. Finally, he went to look for his mother, who was in her room getting dressed. He took a quick look around the room in order to confirm that all its objects and everything about the way she had decorated the room— without character, indifferently—reflected her personality. He thought to himself that her room was the same as the rest of the house, nothing more than an extremely desolate, obscure, and severe place to live. “Mother, I hope to see you later at school. I’m not sure if I’ll receive any prizes. I’m happy that I at least am graduating, and someone said that I did fairly well in French and drawing.” “Only take note of what you’ve done badly. To make us happy, you could have done better in religion and moral civics. Just remem-

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ber that your aunts and I have signed you up for additional studies in another Catholic school. We would like you to continue your ecclesiastical studies. If not that, you must follow your father’s dictates, that is, attend military school.” “That’s what both of you want, but I’m saying no. I’ll be neither a priest nor a colonel. Ever since the day that my father left, you’ve done nothing but make my life miserable with the same old thing. I won’t be a stupid priest running around begging for money, and I won’t be a soldier running out in front of the enemy. I won’t do either of them.” “Young man, be quiet. I won’t argue with you, and don’t be so blasphemous. Go on to school. We’ll catch up with you later.”

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As always, Doña María had dressed all in black and wore a gold chain from which hung a locket with a picture of her husband inside. Anyone seeing her on the street would think that she was a respectable widow. She lived the way she behaved. She differed from the real widows only in the way she signed her name: instead of María Barrientos, Widow of Rivera, she would write simply María Barrientos Rivera. She seriously hoped for her husband’s return, but until that miracle happened, she would continue to dress all in black. The aunts would dress in black, too. For those three women, all glory was back in Guanajuato; now, in San Ildefonso, they were the living portrait of three pious old ladies who were accompanied only by one spot of color, the festive clothing of the young girl of the house, the beloved María del Pilar. By the time Diego’s mother, aunts, and sister were entering the building, the majority of the parents and all of the teachers were already taking their seats. Father Enrique Servín, the director of the school, took a seat at the back of the auditorium in order to observe the ceremony in all its splendor. “I can’t believe it,” said Diego to his lifelong friend from Guanajuato, Miguel Ajuria. “When we moved in next door, I had a nightmare that I haven’t been able to forget: Father Servín was trans-

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formed into a nasty buzzard. Now that I see him off in the distance, he seems once again ready to take flight. But, look closer, he’s no buzzard; he’s an eagle. That look in his eye is terrifying.” “You’re right, buddy, the look that he just gave us was like that of an eagle, ready to seize us with his claws.” “That’s the way it was in my dreams; he was like some turkey buzzard carrying me off in flight to who knows where.” Right then, the director called out, “Student Rivera Barrientos, please come forward.” “Did you hear that, the eagle wants to take you prisoner!” Diego wasted no time obeying the director’s command. He mounted the stage where the director stood and the Jesuit hierarchy and teachers were seated. With that typical voice of authority, the director addressed the audience. “Distinguished parents, teachers, and students of the Catholic Hispanic-Mexican Lyceum, I am very pleased to award the gold medal to the student who, month after month during his studies at this institution, has excelled the most in his class in the areas of Art and Drawing, Señor Diego María Rivera. This is the first time in the history of this lyceum that a student has won this award for excellence in the arts, and what’s more, at barely eleven years of age.” The entire audience stood up to applaud the student who had won the gold medal for 1897. On his way down from the stage, the student laureate seemed to stumble; nevertheless, as if someone in the distance had transmitted to him the strength to catch himself, he straightened up precisely at the moment he was about to fall to the floor. Seemingly attracted to the same mysterious force, he was able to distinguish a figure—tall, thin, and simply, but elegantly, dressed—standing in the doorway to the auditorium. Once he could focus his eyes better, he immediately realized that it was his father. Given the serious circumstances caused by his long absence, the visitor felt impelled to remain at the back of the room. Incredulous, Diego returned to his seat. “Miguel, my father’s here! He’s at the back of the room,” whispered young Diego. “He didn’t want to barge in, so he’s standing at the door. This is the best thing that could happen to me today!”

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His classmate looked around toward the back of the room. “You’re right! I’m so happy for you! You even have a smile on your face. Say, buddy, your old man has a good sense of timing.” Once the ceremony had ended, both boys went over to say goodbye to the school director. Miguel Ajuria thanked him for the good education he had received. Diego was more direct in what he said. “Señor, during the time I have been at this school, many good things have happened to me, but nothing like this gold medal in recognition of my grades in drawing class. I hope my parents will agree to let me become an artist and a painter. I hope they understand what I want to do.” “Señor Rivera, although you haven’t gotten over being the angry little boy you were when you first came here, I have found you to my liking. I will help you convince them. I hope they will hear me out.” “Thank you very much, Father Servín. For me, to be an artist is a question of life and death, and just between you and me, having to do something else will be the end of me, especially if I have to wear that cassock or a military uniform.” “Diego María Rivera, just because I said I’ve taken a liking to you does not mean you can be insolent. But I understand.” The Barrientos clan—composed of his mother, his aunts Vicenta and Cesárea, and his uncle Ramón del Villar, who had just moved to the capital—formed a circle around the successful little student in order to isolate him from the threat represented by the Rivera clan, made up of his father, the frustrated miner and professor, his aunt Adela and uncle Rafael del Valle, all of whom were standing nearby. The student laureate became furious over their attitude of confrontation. Feeling contempt, he escaped from the Barrientos group and waited for the Riveras to approach him. As soon as Don Diego got close, he ran to jump into his arms. “Father, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. I love you so much! Aunt and Uncle, I’m so happy to see you, too. I hope we’ll spend the day together, and you, Dad, have you come back to stay with us now?” “Yes, son, I left my suitcase in the entryway. Isn’t that the house you live in now?”

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“Yes, it is. We moved here when you went away. We live on the second floor in the back, where it’s a little dark inside. It’s not as nice as our house in Guanajuato.” “You still remember? Those were the good times.” “Yes, I still remember. I was so happy back then. There’s no way I could forget the times that we were together.” Standing close by, Doña María overheard their conversation. She couldn’t believe her ears. She was almost tongue-tied. She grabbed her sister Cesárea’s arm and, practically pulling her along, they started to return to what she considered her exclusive domicile. Hoping to smooth over the unfortunate situation, Ramón del Villar put his arm around Professor Rivera’s shoulder. “Don Diego, it’s nice to see you back. Let’s go to the apartment. Things will calm down there, right, Dieguito? Rafael and Adela, please excuse María; try to understand her position. She was totally taken by surprise. Vicenta, try to calm your niece down. She can’t contain her crying.” As if they were fleeing from some kind of plague, the Barrientos sisters quickly scaled the stairs. Once inside, Aunt Totota opened the windows; it was stuffy. At the same time that Aunt Cesárea started to lay out the table and prepare some food, Doña María locked herself in her room. Once the rest of the entourage had arrived—that is, the Riveras—Don Diego apologized to his son, asking him to share his room with him. “Son, let me stay with you in your room. I hope that soon things will settle down and your mother will forgive me.” After the meal, the curious relatives interrogated Don Diego about new developments in the mining company. He didn’t exactly know what to say. When he was alone with his son, he told him how the mining operation had failed. “Son, it was impossible to work in Real del Monte as well. The English have taken over most of the veins. What’s more, everything I had invested has completely disappeared. I was so right about my arguments against Díaz, because this is the result: the mining industry in the entire country is now in the hands of foreigners.” “Don’t worry, father. Now we’re going to be two people united

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in a new life. I will do something to contribute to our family.” That night, Don Diego invited his two children to go downtown to celebrate his return. “We’ll eat some of our favorite sandwiches at that stand next to the cathedral. They’re the best. What do you say?” All the money their father had in his pocket barely covered what they consumed that night.

XIV ent on getting out of the house early the next morning, Diego María gathered up his box of colors, his portfolio with paper, and his other instruments for drawing and left. Despite his wearing his father’s old wool sport coat and a scarf that Antonia had given him the day they left Guanajuato, he could feel the biting cold of winter right down to his bones. He had put on his black felt hat, the top of which had been smashed down and the edges turned down. If only the devil would come to take him down to that damn inferno, he said to himself as he was leaving, and La Llorona, that weeping woman from the legend, she can go straight to hell, too. Who would’ve known what was going to happen! He wanted more than anything in the world for his father to return. Now he wished he would leave and go anywhere, because that’s the only way things were going to calm down. His mother was only getting worse, and no one was happy. There was only screaming and arguing all the time, and it was driving him crazy. He needed to escape, walk away, disappear. Let the earth swallow me up, he murmurred. Dragging his feet, he finally got to Alameda Park. There was hardly anyone around at that hour. He sat down on a bench in front of the main gazebo and started to draw. He began by making sketches of nearby buildings and other decorative objects around him. He wasn’t happy with the results. As if he had actually lost his mind, he threw the drawings to the ground. Then, with anguish reflected in his face, he took a mirror out of his box and looked at himself. “Damn it, I don’t know why it’s occurred to me to become a painter. I really don’t know what I am or what I want. I need to know

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the truth about myself. Okay, I’ll make a list of the ways my family saw me when I was little, and then I’ll write down what they say about me now. After that, I’ll draw myself in different ways in order to see how ridiculous I look. Antonia thought I was a frog or a toad; my mother, a vagabond; my father, a child prodigy; my aunt Totota, a little devil; my aunt Cesárea, a little angel; my sister, a brother; the railroad workers, an engineer; my buddies, a scrappy little fighter. Now, Antonia doesn’t see me at all; my aunts see me as a Jesuit; my mother, a stubborn heretic; my father, a military general; and my sister, a wise person. Father Servín thinks I’m an immature artist, and Señor Ledoyen, a future anarchist. As for me, I see myself as a painter, but on the street they must think I’m a ragamuffin. He spent the rest of the day sketching self-portraits. Each one had the characteristics that had been assigned by each member of the family. At one moment, he felt ridiculous and laughed out loud. He made such a noise that it even surprised him. Thinking he was crazy, pedestrians stopped to look at him. “Hey, young man,” said a poorly armed policeman with a sour face, “I’ve been watching you. Is there something wrong with you? You’ve been here all morning scratching at that paper and then erasing everything. Then you laugh like a hyena, and your screeching voice causes a minor scandal. As if you didn’t know, don’t be pulling my leg. Don’t you have anything better to do around here than toss paper into the garbage can?” “So that’s what you think, eh? That I’m an idiot? Look at all those sheets of paper on the ground. They’re drawings I’ve made. Stand straight right there and you’ll see that I’m not a useless jerk.” Following his orders, the policeman stood erect and motionless. With three bold strokes, Rivera made a drawing of his ungainly figure. He looked like an indigenous Don Quijote without his suit of armor, horse, or lance; instead, he had a crooked cap on, wore a uniform that lacked a button here and there, and was holding a billy club. As for his boots, a disaster: they were split open and untied. “Look. Here’s your portrait.” “Let’s see.” The artist showed him the sketch and the cop—now indignant—

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reproached him. “Listen, you, I look stupid there. Don’t make fun of me. You think I look like that?” “Well, that’s the way I see you. Look closely at my work. Pay attention to what I’ve done: while you go around harassing people, I spend my time annoying you.” “Young man, don’t be so disrespectful, or else I’ll throw you into the hoosegow. So, let’s see the other ridiculous figures you’ve drawn.” The guard looked at the other drawings with curiosity. “Well, of all these deformed people you’ve drawn, the one that best fits you is the priest. Underneath all those pleats, you don’t notice so much how potbellied you are.” “Ah, now you’re being a smart aleck right back at me. Well, I’m done for today. I’m leaving.” “I’ll be waiting for you, Mr. Painter . . . or Artist, or whatever you want to call yourself. The next time, though, I’ll throw you in jail.” Diego didn’t bother to answer the threat; he just smiled at the cop, mockingly. He put his materials away, rolled up his drawings, and started walking in the opposite direction from his home. He wanted to talk to Señor Ledoyen. It was as if he were waiting for the young man. Señor Ledoyen himself opened the front door for him. “Señor Rivera, what a pleasure to see you! I’ve heard about your distinguished exploits. It’s great that not only did you finish the school year with honors but also your father returned after a long absence. Both events make me happy for you.” “I appreciate it, Señor Ledoyen. I came to show you my medal. I am really proud of it. But, I also came to talk to you about my problems. May I come in?” “By all means. Feliciano has just taken a tureen of stew to my desk. We’ll share it.”

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The meal transpired without incident. The main dish consisted

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of a stew made of fresh beef, carrots, and potatoes. The salad afterward was crunchy fresh. His mother’s cooking wasn’t nearly as good. Don Ernesto cultivated his small garden plot at the back of the school with seeds imported from the Old World. Topping off the very French meal was apple tart. As soon as they were finished, Feliciano diligently picked up the plates and silverware and took everything to the kitchen. Then the professor and his student continued their after-dinner discussion. “Señor Rivera, now that your father has returned, what are you going to do? You have graduated from school, and you should begin to make some decisions.” “To tell you the truth, Señor Ledoyen, I’m completely lost. As usual, my mother and father are practically enemies, and they are still trying to decide on my future. Yesterday afternoon, Don Diego insisted on enrolling me in the military school. At other times, my mother and I argue over it, because she—along with my aunts—tries to convince me about the inherent goodness of pursuing an ecclesiastical career with the Jesuits. Just imagine me becoming a priest or a soldier. As if either one were so easy!” “It’s true that it won’t be easy to go into the military or join a priestly order,” acknowledged the professor. “But either way, Don Alberto Ruiz, Father Enrique Servín, and I—your good friend—will always support you.” “Thank you very much, but neither one interests me,” added Diego immediately. “I know, but don’t worry about it. You will never be a friend of discipline.” “That’s right, neither the military nor the priesthood. Whatever it takes, I will always be free. That’s the way it is with artists, even though right now I don’t know how to achieve it.” “Don’t despair, you’re still very young. If you truly want to be an artist, you’ll find a way to achieve it.” “That’s what I love to do, Señor Ledoyen. Let me show you my latest drawings. I did them this morning. Oh, I forgot to tell you that in addition to the gold medal in art, I didn’t do so badly in debate. I won a trophy.”

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“So, let’s see those drawings.” Diego spread his work across the table. “I drew several self-portraits, just the way my family sees me: my aunts, my mother, my father.” As he went along explaining to Señor Ledoyen the different ridiculed versions of himself, his ire began to subside. Finally, when he saw himself dressed like a priest, then like a soldier, he laughed out loud. “Señor Ledoyen, isn’t it true that I look stupid wearing that priest’s robe. And look at me in that elegant general’s uniform. I look more like a recruit who’s been drafted by the army. On the other hand, I like those overalls worn by Teódulo Castillo, the miner who’s a friend of my dad’s. But what I like best are the clothes being worn by that master painter Germán Gedovius, which is the way I saw him dressed in a magazine, El Mundo Ilustrado.” “Fine, Rivera, but while I continue looking at your drawings, I want you to tell me what you like and don’t like about each one.” After going through almost all of them, Diego had kept two for the very end, as if he were going to play a pair of aces in a card game. “Well, I like Teódulo’s overalls, scarf, and hat, and I like Gedovius’s felt vest, the wide-brimmed hat, and the wide cravat. I don’t look so bad in either outfit. What do you think?” “I can only say,” answered Señor Ledoyen, “that the time you spent with us and then with the Jesuits didn’t straighten you out at all, Señor Rivera. With your brazenness and ideas, you’d be better off becoming a leader, but I don’t see you in any such portrait.” “Ah, if I’m going to be a leader, as you say, it has to be something important. But what does that word mean? It sounds like English.” “Well, it’s used nowadays to refer to those who lead or direct political or social causes, and I foretell that one day you will lead miners or artists. By the way,” continued the professor, “I must inform you that I will be leaving my teaching duties and returning to France. Just imagine, I won’t be a teacher anymore. What’s worse, I have to leave this beloved country. Señor Rivera, this is probably our last meeting together, our last good-bye. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

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“But that’s impossible, Señor Ledoyen. I can’t believe it.” “That’s the way it is. I’m getting old, so I must return to my country. But I don’t want you to worry. Before I leave, I will write a letter to your parents and ask the school director, Don Alberto Ruiz, to give it to them. I will ask them to take into account your artistic vocation. Given your recognized talents, it’s necessary that they let you dedicate yourself to painting.” “Many thanks, Señor Ledoyen. But do you really think I can become a good painter,” he asked without hiding his vanity. “You will be. You, Señor Rivera, will become a great artist, and even if no one asks you to, you’ll also become a good politician. You don’t know how much I think of you, and I hope you have the same feelings for me.” “Oh, I do, dear teacher. I will always remember you as a good friend, and I won’t ever forget what you taught us. By the way, did you know that my mother calls you a Communist? Would you please explain what it means? Because every time she says it, it seems insulting. Is that right?” “Señor Rivera, Communism is a sickness, because it’s a chimera. They want to take humanity back to its origins, to a time when people sat down at the table together and shared their bread and wine without making a distinction as to where they came from. As I’ve already explained, several different social groups have vied to construct a communist state, although according to my humble opinion, it is something very difficult to do.” “Señor Ledoyen, I want to return to that kind of life, too, where no differences exist, where everyone is equal. I will tell my mother that it’s true: you did infect me with that disease.” “I wouldn’t say anything to her, frankly. She will hate me for the rest of her life. According to what you’ve told me, I can only imagine that she thinks differently than I do, because she’s very conservative and religious.” “You’re so right. She’s very old-fashioned and traditional.” “Don’t you mean to say religious?” “Right. Sometimes she goes overboard. But I’m strong and, thanks to you, I’ve been made aware of other ways to live and, above

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all, to think.” When they said good-bye to each other at the large, old front door of the school, both teacher and student understood that another stage in their lives had come to an end. Señor Ledoyen had foreseen the coming of the end: he was returning to France to retire, which he awaited with tranquility. On the other hand, the young Rivera perceived following a road in life that contained as many forks as he had talents.

XV n order to escape the mediocrity of his life, the young painter, who was depressed, spent his summer holidays endlessly walking the streets of his neighborhood. He would go from one end of the old market to the other, where everything under the sun, both new and used, was sold; or he would go up and down the intricately connected little back streets that made up the essence of the city. One of his favorites was Las Cruces, where vendors sold lassos for calf roping, “charro” cowboy hats, and basketry from Celaya, all of which reminded him of the trip he had taken with his father to the Bajío region, where he had met, but really didn’t get to know, his beautiful cousins Virginia and Emilia Rodríguez de Valpuesta. Another favorite was the narrow little street, Tabaqueros, located between Portaceli and Balvanera, where young Rivera could appreciate some of the rarest of fragrances that he had ever smelled; among his favorites were the bitter smell of glue, the oil of turpentine, and the black smoke of tar, all of which emanated from the multiple casketmaking shops that were all scrunched together along that tiny street. It was there, among those tiny, disorderly, funeral factories, that the adolescent fantasized about death. One afternoon, a sense of curious morbidity led him into one of the shops; unable to contain himself, he ran his hand along the surface of the first casket that he came upon. “Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering who those white caskets with the blue trimming are for. They’re the prettiest.” “What a ridiculous question, young man. Those are for none other than young virgins of the indigenous peoples of the Chinam-

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pera region, near Iztapalapa, Xochimilco, and Tláhuac, where they grow flowers and vegetables.” “And why do they come all the way here to buy them from you?” “Because, according to the inhabitants of those lakes, blue and white are the colors of Tláloc, the god of rain and storms, and I’m the only one who makes them with those colors.” “Well, if I’m around here when it’s my turn to go,” said Diego, referring to his death, “will you let me choose one of these?” “Hey, you, what kind of scoundrel are you to say things like that?” “I’m a braggart from Guanajuato and a vain Mexican, and I like the colors that the Indians prefer. And I also like their food, customs, and prayers. I have lived with the Chichimecas in the Sierra Gorda Mountains, outside of Guanajuato. I grew up with them, and that’s why I like them and the way they live.” “Ah, you are a friend! You’re right, that’s just the way I feel. I’m just like that, too. If you ever need a coffin, I’ll even give you a discount.”

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On other occasions, Diego would go hunting for all sizes of frogs in the main irrigation ditch bordering one side of the National Palace. As he croaked along with them, he didn’t want to lose his ability to relate to his nahual and his old friends. One late afternoon, he decided to go in another direction. Instead of going to the central plaza and climbing up inside the church steeples in order to watch the sun go down behind the hills beyond the old Paseo de Bucareli and Chapultepec Castle, where the threatening military school was housed, he walked down Carmen, to the south. Suddenly, he was surrounded by another smell, which was coming from the corner at Santa Inés. It was not unlike the smell that used to come from the shop where his father would print copies of El Demócrata. As was customary with him, he responded out loud. “Well, I’ll be damned, it smells like a printing shop here.” “Hey, boy,” said a small drunk man who overheard him. “You’re completely out of it. How is it you don’t know that Santa Inés is the

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patron saint of journalists? Well, that’s not exactly right; I mean to say that she protects those who produce newspapers. Over there, near their church, the linotypists are setting the type right now. If you don’t believe me, you crazy kid . . . well, the truth is that only crazy people talk to themselves, but go see them for yourself.” “And what about the drunks, who’s going to believe them?” answered Rivera. “But that’s okay, I prefer not to listen to their stupidities and even less smell their stench.” And so, without thinking, he started out toward Santa Inés. Almost immediately, he was attracted to a shop window painted with large gold and black letters: José Guadalupe Posada: Engraving Shop. He approached the window, but since it was fairly dark inside, he could only make out a reproduction of the Last Judgment hanging on a wall. He wondered if Posada liked the works by Michelangelo. He thought that only his father and he liked his work. As he continued walking along, he came upon a building with a red brick front. He stopped to read the inscription on a plaque: “San Carlos Royal Academy of Fine Arts. Founded in 1785.” As if he were committing a crime, he entered the building stealthily. To his surprise, in the hallways he discovered an amazing collection of sculptures copied from the classical Greek and Italian Renaissance periods, just like he had seen in his books. He couldn’t believe it! So that’s why Miguel Ajuria had told him to come here to study as soon as he had finished school. Well, he had just decided that he was going sooner than that. And whoever said that he wanted to be an architect? No, he wanted to be a painter. Then he came upon a sign next to a door: National School of Painting and Sculpture. It opened onto a patio covered with stained glass depicting mythological themes like the ones in which the muses amused themselves playing with satyrs and cupids. Speechless, he literally walked into the large workbenches where apprentices had been practicing and on top of which there were half-finished clay sculptures with the markings of toothed chisels everywhere. There were other near-finished, plaster sculptures whose whiteness stood out in the semidark environment. Then it occurred to him to try to create one of those playful muses with some

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clay. He was hard at work when all of a sudden a person of grand stature, dark eyes, and abundant white hair and beard walked up to him. “Young man, I don’t recognize you. Are you a new student? I’m Germán Gedovius, a painter. May I help you?” “I know who you are, Sir. I admire your work, and I hope very soon to be one of your students. Please excuse me, I just happened by, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to mold some clay. To me, this is just play, because I’m really a painter.” “No problem. I understand perfectly. And with whom do I have the pleasure?” “Sorry, I’m Diego María Rivera. I came to visit the school, because I like to draw and paint, and I wanted to find out about night classes. But the environment was so inviting that I started to make a sculpture.” “Fine. So, let’s see here, if you want information about classes, just follow me please. I’ll take you to the right office, even though I must say you look awfully young to enroll here.” “You think so? I’m over thirteen years old.” “Well, you look older. At least you’ve got that in your favor. You must be quite interested if at your age you’ve already decided your artistic vocation.” “It’s true, Sir, there’s nothing that’s more important than this. I would like very much to begin to discipline myself by having an assignment every day to draw, draw, draw.”

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It wasn’t long before Diego had achieved what he was seeking. By using whatever trick he could, he convinced the registration office to let him take some night courses as a nondegree student. After only a few short days there, he had made friends with Juan Pacheco, an engraver, and Ramón Beloanzarán, a silversmith, both of whom worked in Posada’s studio. “A question, young man,” said Juan one night when he saw Diego leaving his drawing class, “do you really want to learn how to

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do engravings? Aren’t your other classes enough?” “Yes, they are, but frankly I’ll do anything to meet your boss, the master engraver. Every evening when I’m on my way home from school, I go by his studio and peek in the window. As I watch him engrave the most astonishing figures I’ve ever seen on those zinc plates, I want to learn how he does it. Don Lupe, as you call him, seems to me to be a truly gifted artist.” Days later, Pacheco gave him some advice. “Look, here, little guy, if I take you to see him and we interrupt his work, he’ll get mad at me. So, don’t be afraid, be brave and just go into his shop. Strike up a conversation. He’ll like you, if you explain to him which teachers in the academy are your favorites. I’m sure you both agree on the same ones. Just watch: he’ll end up being your friend.” “You, Pacheco, know as well as I do which ones I admire the most: José María Velasco, Santiago Rebull, Félix Parra, and Germán Gedovius, who I especially appreciate. None of the others deserve my respect,” answered Rivera, emphatically. “Well, they’re the same ones that Don Lupe holds in high esteem, too. You just have to tell him! Also, if he lets you work in his studio, you’ll learn about some political plans of a group of subversives. The directors of an opposition newspaper, El hijo del Ahuizote, Don Antonio Vanegas Arroyo and Daniel Cabrera, come by to visit Don Lupe a lot. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to hear Díaz’s enemies make their plans. You’ll be surprised by their liberal ideals.” “Are you pulling my leg? You mean I’ll get to know those union anarchists and socialists who write for that newspaper?” “Exactly. All of those valiant combatants: the brothers Ricardo and Enrique Flores Magón, Librado Rivera, Juan Sarabia, and Camilo Arriaga, who are called ‘The Troublemakers.’ They’re all friends, and they come by frequently to visit us.” Diego followed Pacheco’s advice. He paid a visit to Posada, and in no time the boy had the run of the studio. And so it was that soon, in the company of Pacheco and Beloanzarán, the young political and artistic novice became friends with the janitor and the guys who cleaned the engraving plates and tools. In the evenings after class,

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Diego would meet with them to discuss the opinions and political complaints that were made into caricatures in the opposition newspapers. Diego never told his family that he was taking art classes; as far as they were concerned, he was a regular student at the National Preparatory School, where students were taught to prepare for the military academy.

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After a certain time of maintaining that double life, between the preparatory school and the academy, his efforts to conceal his clandestine activities from his parents had begun to cause him serious emotional and physical problems. It had become so bad that one morning when he awoke with the sun hitting his eyes, he screamed out loud. “Mother! I can’t see anything! I’m blind! I can only see some spots and a luminous serpent with a checkered backside that’s breaking through the darkness surrounding me. Come, I need you!” Doña María went to his side. Out of desperation, she closed the window blinds. Then she took his head and held it next to her bosom. “Easy now, Dieguito. Open your eyes. The bright light blinded you and that’s why you couldn’t see.” The young boy was absolutely terrified. He slowly opened his eyes and begged her to do something. “Please, mother, wrap my head with a handkerchief soaked in alcohol. Then bring me some coffee with salt—they say it’s good for headaches. Whatever I have, I’ve had it for some time now. But it’s never been this bad.” After his mother did everything he asked for, he fell soundly asleep. A few hours later, when his mother returned to his room, she found him sitting in bed holding his head in his pillow. “I feel much better, mother. Let some light in now. I need to be able to see and think clearly in order to explain what’s screwed me up.” “Watch how you talk. You know I don’t approve of it. But I’ll listen to you. Why are you always so tired and coming home so late?”

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“Well, if you have to know, mother, I’ve been going to night classes at the School of Fine Arts. Yesterday, they asked me to become a regular student. For that, you must come with me. Please say yes. I told them that I was thirteen, so if you don’t support me, they’ll throw me out on my ear.” “I figured something was underfoot. I just knew it! Why can’t you just be a normal child, the way God willed it?” “If that’s the way you want it, then I’ll put it this way: your God has definitely chosen me to become a painter.” “As usual, you always have to start blaspheming. If only your father could hear you. He’s already gotten you accepted into the military academy once you’ve finished preparatory school. He’s not going to like this at all.” “Mother, you and my father have never been in agreement on how my sister and I should be educated. On the one hand, there have been differences in religion; on the other, there’s the poverty in our family. I believe the time has come for us to give you our opinions as to what we want to do in the future.” “All right, so what is your opinion and what do you want to do?” “Without a doubt, I believe that my vocation is the arts, and I want to become a painter. The more time I spend with pencils, paintbrushes, and colors, the more I’m convinced of it. No matter what I do, my goal is to paint. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life. Well, there’s more: I also want to have some role in politics.” “Politics? Don’t tell me your father has poisoned you with his ideas, or do you still remember what that old Ledoyen infected you with?” “Mother, please don’t talk about them like that. Both men have been true teachers.” “Dieguito,” she said, with emphasis on the diminutive, “I don’t want any more problems with you. It hurts me to see you get sick every time you have to face something difficult and you don’t know how to deal with it. But this news about politics is unbelievable and totally unbecoming of anyone in my family.” “But, mother, don’t you see how being trapped in this painful poverty that we live in hurts me, too? I will always fight for those

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who suffer the same way we do or have it worse than we do.” “I know, son, our situation asphyxiates you,” conceded his mother with resignation. “I’ll help you. I’ll even do more: I’ll convince your father to agree to your plans. We’re fully aware of your aptitude for drawing, and if this is what you’ve decided—knowing you like I know you—there’s nothing that will change your mind.” “Are you serious, Mom?” he asked, astounded. “I prefer to accept it, rather than see you suffer even one more day. The time has arrived to recognize that you’re growing up, even if I have to suffer for it. It’s always been the same: I’m destined to suffer in resignation.” “Mother, I love you. And it hurts me to hear you talk like that. But, really, you shouldn’t exaggerate.” “I’m not exaggerating, and in order to show you that I’m right, I’m prepared to suffer the consequences—defending you from your father. Tomorrow, we’ll go to that school and get you enrolled as a regular student.” “Do you really mean that? This will be the best thing you’ve ever done for me.” “I’m dead serious about it. I’m more than sure that you’ll be successful; after all, you draw really well. There must have been a reason when you were but a child that you went around drawing on the walls and the floors. If you only knew how much I miss our house in Guanajuato. I’ve never been at ease here.” “Me neither. I miss my frogs and the landscape, but more than that, I miss my room where I used to paint.”

XVI t was the end of the nineteenth century. After twenty years of dictatorship, Díaz’s preference for anything foreign was completely obvious. A European influence could even be felt in the San Carlos Academy, especially when they invited Antonio Fabrés, a painter from Catalonia who was well-known in Madrid and Barcelona, to join them. No sooner did Don Antonio begin to give classes than Diego Rivera, alias Panzas, and his friends Francisco de la Torre,

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Alfonso Garduño, José Clemente Orozco, and Raziel Cabildo were in total disagreement with him, not only over his teaching methods, but also regarding his painting style, which they considered too academic and extremely decadent. “Francisco, I’m getting more bored every day with that Catalonian’s classes. He’s limiting our talents, that is, if we have any.” “You’re right, Panzas. I don’t really understand what he’s doing either. Even Saturnino Herrán, Fabrés’s favorite student, gets bored when all we paint are knights with their swords and armor and horses covered in clinking metal. The old man continues to see this country as a Spanish colony, and for that reason he won’t even let his little pet paint what Mexicans like about their own country.” “Right, Francisco, and, you know, the only reason I’ve managed to survive is because I’ve made friends over at Posada’s studio. Those guys have shown me the aesthetic values of our people. I agree with Saturnino: the best things we can paint are the colors and the landscape of Mexico and the poor peasants. For instance, just look at the colors that the Indians use in their clothes. Even though they are poor, they’re graceful and proud.” “I know. That’s why we admire you so much. You defend our people more than those renowned congressmen.” While they were talking, one of their classmates, Gabriel Gutiérrez Guerrero, overheard them. “That’s right. I’m with you guys. I also reject traditional conformity, not only in art but also in politic. As soon as I have the opportunity, I’ll lodge a complaint against Fabrés with the school director, Antonio Rivas Mercado.” “Fabrés seems like a cynic who wants to overthrow Rivas Mercado,” said Rivera. “We mustn't let it happen, no matter what.” “That’s all we need: a Spaniard to come along and destroy Rivas Mercado’s nationalist movement and his idea to create a Mexican school of painting that has the backing of teachers such as Velasco and, now, Gerardo Murillo, the seditious revolutionary and anarchist who recently came back from Italy,” added Francisco de la Torre. “And who’s he?” asked Gutiérrez Guerrero, alarmed by what he heard.

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“A magnificent painter and even better revolutionary,” answered Diego. “He’s from Guadalajara, where he founded the Bohemian Circle. He later spent some time in Europe, and he has just returned from Paris with the idea of doing some modern painting in Mexico.” “What do you think Murillo means by modern painting?” wondered Gabriel. “Whatever doesn’t look academic. Ever since he studied in Rome and Florence, he’s proposed painting the walls of public buildings in Mexico, like they did over there during the Renaissance period and here during the pre-Hispanic period.” Murillo had been charged with working with the most advanced group of students in painting and drawing, including De la Torre, Herrán, Guerrero, Rivera, and José Clemente Orozco. One afternoon, the innovative teacher boisterously interrupted a nude drawing class. “Rivera. Orozco. I’m going to critique your recent drawings, so bring them to my studio on Saturday morning.” “But there’s no class on Saturdays,” protested Orozco, “and I already have something to do.” “I don’t give a damn. Be there at 6:00 A.M. sharp. Understand, you lazy bums? There’s work to do.” “José Clemente, what’s up with him?” asked Rivera. “Now he really wants to put the screws to us. Does he take us for fools? I’m going now. See you there.” “Hey, you, Panzas Rivera, come over here! Who do you think you are? You draw well, just like your buddy, one-armed Orozco, but both of you have to change your style; otherwise, you’ll never go anywhere. And that’s why I need you guys: I want to start a revolution in this school with you and whomever else wants to bring down Fabrés.” “Well, you could’ve told us that first,” blurted out Francisco, “instead of treating us like dumb asses and swearing at us, because you just about did yourself in, dear teacher.” “Do you think you’re so important, just because you just came back from Europe? Look here, we respect you for your revolutionary ideas, but don’t go too far with this,” intervened Herrán. “I still hold Antonio Fabrés in high esteem, so I really don’t want to participate in your devious plans.”

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“Ah, that’s the way I like to see you react. You’re like baby fighting cocks, with your combs standing erect, but without your spurs. I insist that you show up at 6:00 A.M. on Saturday in order to get everything ready. And, by the way, stop acting like jerks. We’ll see you then.” Without saying a word more, the famous Murillo slammed the door shut, leaving everyone there with their mouths hanging open.

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According to their plan, the group got together to do whatever necessary in order to organize what was to be the first student strike in that ancient academy’s history. After pulling it off with success, the so-called great teacher and his followers rejoiced in the first spectacular triumph of their lives. Thanks to their homemade rockets, rock throwing, and cudgels, the insurrectionists repelled the fearful police force sent by the dictator. As a consequence, they were able to convince the school authorities of the need to replace not only Fabrés, but also his antiquated teaching methods. They proposed that he immediately pack up his junk and be put on a boat back to Spain. In effect, with his departure, a new program dedicated to Mexican art was initiated. Its proponents spent their time going outside the city to capture the Mexican landscape in their paintings; among them, Murillo and Rivera soon had the opportunity to present their new styles, when they were invited to exhibit their work in the building where renowned literary artists would meet. “Hey, Panzas, today I met with Alfonso Reyes and Rafael López from your home state. Along with Alfonso Cravioto, they’re going to create a new literary magazine called Savia Moderna.” “And how did you get to meet them?” asked Rivera. “You think they’re really going to do it?” “Yes, it seems so. But they’re also interested in our stuff. They consider us to be as innovative in painting as they are in literature.” “That’s fantastic. Do you think they’ll let us into their circle?” “I’m almost positive of it. In fact, they invited us to do an exhi-

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bition of our paintings at their club on Tacuba.” “Damn, we’re that important already? I’m up for it.” “Well, you’d better get prepared. In addition, López, from your state, says he knows you and your work. He wants you to do some drawings for the cover of the magazine.” “Of course, he knows me: we’ve been friends since childhood. When we used to get into fights with the guys who hung around the Jardín del Encantador, he even called me that scrappy little fighter back then. Besides being an excellent poet and writer, he’s very erudite; in fact, he’s astonishing.” At the exhibit, whereas Murillo’s paintings scandalized high society women, Rivera’s were somewhat more conservative and, hence, more popular. However, the most interesting part were the reviews in the press, from the cultural pages of the important newspapers to the commentaries in the tabloids, due mainly to the fact that large quantities of pulque and tequila were consumed by the public. The tenor of the event went from euphoria and fireworks to pushing and shoving, fistfighting, and the odd pistol shot into the air.

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Some months later, Rivera’s professional situation became complicated: given his excellent grades and being designated the best student in San Carlos, President Porfirio Díaz awarded him a scholarship that consisted of a trip to Europe and a year’s study abroad. But, as luck would have it, Roberto Montenegro, a more experienced painter from Jalisco who belonged to Murillo’s group, also received first place. On the day of the awards ceremony, the voice of the renown writer Justo Sierra reverberated against the corrugated metal roof covering the patio of the National School of Painting and Sculpture. The muses and cupids adorning the walls, as they pursued each other with sexual fervor, suddenly seemed frightened and were about to fall on top of the audience that was in attendance. Without realizing the danger to which he had been exposed, the “teacher of the future generations” concluded his speech.

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“And, finally, my dear friends, I would like to end by stating that given the unusual circumstance in which this year there are two distinguished students in this academy, Señores Roberto Montenegro and Diego María Rivera, who have been chosen to receive the annual scholarship awarded by President Díaz from the government of the Republic, the two winners will have to decide among themselves who will receive the scholarship. It’s up to them.” At that moment, the speech was interrupted, when friends of each winner starting screaming to show their support for each one. “Viva, Diego!” “Viva, Roberto!” “Flip a coin right now!” The school director, Rivas Mercado, tried to impose some order. “Señores, show more respect for the authorities! Please, leave the room!” Out on the street, the rivals accepted the challenge of their followers, and they agreed to toss a coin in the air. All of a sudden, they were surrounded by their friends and enemies. “You choose, Panzas Rivera, you’re the youngest,” said Roberto, with courtesy. “Okay, I accept, friend. I’ll take heads,” answered Panzas. “That’s fine. I’m tails. Who do you choose to toss the coin?” “Let it be ‘Sad Face’ Raziel Cabildo. He deserves the honor, before he falls down drunk or dies.” “Diego, you never stop joking, do you? Raziel, do you have a coin in your pocket!” “Yes, I’ve got one. Here goes. . . . Damn it, tails. Panzas, you’re screwed.” That night, when Diego got home, his sister María del Pilar could tell that something serious had happened. She went up to him and put her arm around his shoulder. “What’s wrong, Diego?” she asked, sharing his affliction. “Well, what do you think’s wrong? I lost the scholarship. That brown-nosing dandy, Montenegro, won the scholarship. And it was so stupid the way he won it, too. We tossed a coin. That’s what happens to me when I act like an idiot, wanting to be a macho in front

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of my friends.” “Don’t be so upset, Diego. Try to look at it differently. I just heard that the director of the Department of Health, Doctor José María Liceaga, commissioned our father to travel to Veracruz to interview the governor of the state. Ask him to take you and your box of paints with him. You can paint while you’re there, and at the same time, take some vacation time that you deserve.” “You’re right, Sis, you’re right. I’ll do what you suggest. I’m not going to sulk. I’ll be a painter, with or without a scholarship!

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The meeting with the governor of Veracruz, Don Teodoro Dehesa, was a complete success for both father and son. Professor Rivera not only interviewed the state governor and obtained a favorable response to his proposal, but also introduced Diego to that important political figure. Don Teodoro was an educated man who loved the arts. He inspected young Rivera’s drawings in some detail and determined that Rivera had artistic talent; as a result, he decided to make the young man an honorary citizen of the free and sovereign state of Veracruz, a title that allowed him to receive a scholarship to continue his studies in Europe. In addition to calling attention to his artistic abilities, the governor also recognized the fact that the Barrientos family had been loyal to the state government. Don Carlos Barrientos, the brother of the painter’s mother, had been a long-standing customs inspector. When he was saying good-bye to the Riveras, Don Teodoro embraced the artist at the same time he informed him of his decision. “Young Rivera, give me a little time. By February, you’ll be on your way to Europe. Start thinking about where you want to study. You can count on me.”

XVII hen they were about to begin their trek back to Mexico City, Diego felt much better now that he had been offered a scholar-

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ship by Governor Dehesa. He asked his father if he could remain in Orizaba, where some of the Barrientos family lived. In addition, the enormous volcano—the highest in the country—would make a great scene to paint. His uncle Carlos offered to put him up, and for the next few weeks, Diego spent his time painting several canvases that reproduced the beauty of the tropical landscape, always with the white-capped volcano in the background. The early morning hours were the best time to paint. The light at that time of day, reflecting off the snow on the mountains of Citlaltépetl, created resplendent reddish, orange, and golden tones. Those shimmering hues, in combination with the dark green, deep blue, and violet-like colors of the jungle that surrounded him, produced an astonishing mirage for the onlooker. For Diego, the mountains were reborn every morning, just at sunup, as they burst from inside the earth. Given that he would become so absorbed in his work every morning, it became difficult to capture over and over the extraordinary spectacle to its fullest. In addition, Rivera was nervous about his forthcoming trip to Europe, not to mention the constant rumors that were circulating widely about a strike by the Río Blanco textile workers that could easily end in bloodshed. The entire local population felt the tension, and the presence of a police force backed by the tyrant Porfirio Díaz made violence seem likely. The henchmen went around saying that “in complying with orders from above, they would kill every last insurrectionist who continued to strike for their untenable work petitions.”

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On January 6, 1907, the painter concluded his project at the very moment the fog began to cover the landscape where he had set up an easel. He cleaned his brushes and closed his box of paints. He studied his accomplishments with contentment. As best he could, he gathered up his canvases and belongings. Walking slowly, as was his custom, he started back to town. When he reached the cobblestone road, he heard the hooves of

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galloping horses and voices giving commands. Hiding behind some nearby bushes, he overheard two men talking while they reigned in the powerful steeds on which they were mounted. “Señor Subsecretary Martínez, what are your orders?” “General Maas, we’ve been told by President Díaz to bring an end to the strike. The Flores Magón brothers have created organizations throughout the country similar to the Free Workers’ Union that was founded by one Jesús Neira, here in Orizaba. This guy’s a delinquent, and he’s being sought by police in Mexico City, Toluca, Puebla, and elsewhere.” “So be it, General Martínez. We must eliminate him, along with this local mob. Our president, General Díaz, will look favorably upon us.” Right before his very eyes, Diego María Rivera witnessed an entire federal army battalion, fortified by years of dictatorship under Díaz, march past him. After the soldiers had stationed themselves at different places throughout a graveyard, Diego went straight back to town. He wanted to inform his Uncle Carlos of what he had seen. “Uncle,” he said, upon reaching the house, “I just ran into those bandits led by Generals Rosalío Martínez and Joaquín Maas. They’re coming this way with an entire battalion. I heard them say they were going to crush the textile workers’ strike, even if they have to kill the entire population.” “Are you sure it was them?” asked Don Carlos. “I could recognize them a mile away. I consider them not only the cruelest enemies of the people, but also my personal enemies,” answered Diego emphatically. “That’s fine. As soon as curfew sounds, we’ll let Neira and his men know about this, even though I’m pretty sure they already know. I think you should take it easy, Nephew, you’ve seemed upset lately.” “I’m upset more than you can imagine. The truth is I’m mad at myself; I feel like a coward. I’ve just turned twenty years old, and all I’ve managed to do is spend my time painting the poverty of the peasants, while the workers who are on strike are dying of hunger. I want to help.” “But what can you do?”

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“I could at least talk to them. I could tell them not to believe the things that the authorities and the priests tell them, because neither of them have any respect for the more humble people. While they work only to die of hunger, the ones in power earn fortunes, and the priests threaten them with hell in order to get their tithes and alms.” “Diego, I’ve never heard you talk like that. Frankly, I don’t know you that well, and I never suspected that at your age you would be such an oppositionist. Are your parents aware of this?” “It would make my father happy; in fact, he would like to be like me, but he can’t. He has some strange dealings with the National Health Board. My mother tends to look the other way; she, too, is afraid to do anything. It has been very difficult for me,” answered the painter angrily. “Now I understand. I’m sorry. Your father has deserved better. But back to what we were talking about, your ideas seem to be something more than revolutionary.” “But, Uncle, don’t you agree with me? If not, why do you want to warn the strikers? I know you are an honorable man, a nationalist at heart. I know about your fight for the train workers’ concessions, which is why you had to leave Irapuato. And were you not a leader in the movement against selling the national railways to the English? Also, I know that they were going to kill you because of it.” Don Carlos had no other alternative but to accept the facts. At eight o’clock that night, uncle and nephew heard the bugle call for curfew. Everyone knew that to violate curfew meant sudden death. “Listen to me, Uncle,” commented the painter, “the dictatorship is using all of its power to break the backs of the unfortunate workers of a factory that has done nothing but make Porfirio Díaz’s friend, Antonio Escandón, filthy rich, and he’s done it by exploiting men, women, and children.” “You’re right, Diego. That’s what got him in with the French businessmen, Michel and Spetellier, who created this textile consortium, as if owning railroad lines and large ranches were not enough. I like the way you think. Now I understand why your father would like to follow in your footsteps. Let’s go now, and don’t make any noise.”

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Don Carlos led the way along a path that was partially covered by foliage, until they reached a hut built out of pieces of discarded wood and corrugated tin. It looked completely abandoned. No one, except some vagabonds, would live in such a place that must have been for storing grain at one time. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, an owl started screeching. When an owl screeches, an Indian is dying, thought Diego, remembering an old saying. He felt a shiver go up his spine. Then a response to that owl was heard. “A bad omen, Uncle, undoubtedly something bad is going to happen,” said Diego as he looked into the darkness for the luminous eyes of what he imagined to be two nocturnal birds that were communicating with each other. “Nephew, follow me. Go down there underneath the planks of the floor, and then we’ll have to crawl a ways until we reach a ladder.” “I think we’ve arrived, Uncle. Here’s the ladder.” “Yes, that’s it. Now, go down and you’ll find a narrow corridor.” Once they were in the tunnel, they walked along feeling the walls until their eyes became accustomed to a dim light coming from two lanterns. Once again, there was the screeching of an owl, along with a response. By then, the painter understood that those were signals being used by the strikers and their band of followers, including his Uncle Carlos, who undoubtedly was part of the group. “Do they already know we’re here?” “Correct. Let’s keep moving, young man!” Finally, they came to a door through which they could hear voices. “Yes, Diego, it’s Neira. Let’s listen to what he has to say.” “Comrades, we are here to follow in the footsteps of our teacher Bakunin and, in Mexico, the Flores Magón brothers and Gutiérrez de Lara, who came before us. Through their teachings, we know that we, union anarchists, seek to destroy dictatorships in exchange for egalitarian societies. Our mission today is to seek emancipation.

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Tomorrow, at daybreak, we’ll find out which way it goes.” “Uncle,” whispered Diego, “I heard my teachers—Ernesto Ledoyen, Juan Pacheco, and José Guadalupe Posada—say the same thing, but Neira states it as if it were an immediate objective. I can’t believe I’m here!” “We can talk about that later. Right now, we must follow instructions.” The speaker invited the two men inside. A compact group of men and women were sitting around a table that was lit with lanterns. It was the central strike committee. Surprised, everyone looked at each other: they had been waiting for their friend Carlos Barrientos, but not the young man who had arrived with him. Other strikers who were standing in the room looked surprised as well. “Comrades, this is my nephew Diego María Rivera, who in addition to being a young, brilliant painter, has declared himself today to be a fearless and honorable revolutionary. So, I took the liberty of bringing him with me. Confide in him as you would in me, and please accept him as one of us.” “I’m Jesús Neira, the leader of this movement. Let’s shake hands, young man, and I’ll introduce you to some of our compatriots. During the course of the night, you’ll meet the rest of us.” “Here you have Pablo Gallardo and his wife. That’s Manuel Juárez, secretary of the Orizaba Free Workers Union. José Illescas, director of our newspaper, La Unión Obrera. Eduardo Camacho, from the bakers’ union. Hipólito Flores and Ciro Mendoza. And the great activists and fighters, Rosalío Galván, Rafael Moreno and Celedonio González. And over here, young man, is Heriberto Jara, who was with me when we struck at La Fama Montañesa factory, in Tlalpan, outside Mexico City. Our female compatriots are Margarita Martínez, Carmen Cruz, Dolores Larios, and Isabel Díaz. “Young man,” intervened Heriberto Jara, “after weeks and weeks of being on strike for better working conditions, we’ve just been informed that Díaz, being the good dictator that he is, decided to declare our strike null and void, and that we are to report to work tomorrow. We’ve been without food for days now, and we’re certainly too weak to work.”

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“That’s right,” added Lucrecia Toriz passionately, “we’re unable to do anything but break into that store, the one that belongs to Víctor Gracín, that Spanish ‘gachupín’ who owns practically everything in the town of Río Blanco.” “Yes, the son of a bitch won’t even give us credit to buy food. So, we either eat or die fighting,” added Margarita Martínez. “We can’t even give our kids a tortilla or a piece of bread.” “Please take it easy, comrades,” intervened Jara, “let’s have some order and go on with the meeting.” “Señor Rivera,” said Neira, “would you like to say something?” Diego was tongue-tied. He was so nervous that it seemed like it was the first time in his life that he had ever spoken to a group of people. He saw the desperation on the faces of those who were there, which was totally different from what he would see in the faces of his friends and classmates: architects, painters, and sculptors at San Carlos Academy. These people were deeply pained, and they desperately wanted to survive this fight that seemed so hopeless. They were waiting for death, just the way their leader Neira had anticipated it. “Diego, take it easy,” intervened his Uncle Carlos. “Just say what you’re feeling. They will identify with you, and they’ll thank you for it.” Gathering up courage, he decided to speak to them. “My fellow workers, men and women, earlier today I overheard Generals Rosalío Martínez and Joaquín Maas sentence this town to death, only because the people are demanding their rights. I am fully aware of your horrible working conditions, with no set number of hours, no decent salaries, no regulations that protect your families, spouses, or children. I know that you are forced to live in huts that they call lodges and that you spend the entire day having to put up with the loud noise of the machines. I also know about the misery and hunger you face, because you will always be in debt to the company store, and that you will always be dragging your lives through this muddy town, without any hope of going to school in order to better your lives or those of your children. I am aware of all this, and let me finish by saying that at this very moment I’m swearing an oath to the

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people of Río Blanco and its leaders that I will leave a legacy of murals for future generations to understand and feel the courageousness of your efforts and the limitlessness of your sacrifice.” Deeply affected by the painter’s speech, the workers looked for solace in each other. They were fearful of their uncertain future. Neri and Jara stood up to shake hands with Diego. Moved emotionally, Lucrecia Toriz went over to him. “Thank you, Señor Rivera. Your words give us courage. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” “Comrade Toriz, please don’t ever forget that people like you and your companions will one day be the principle subjects of my revolutionary painting.” Also surprised and not knowing what to say, his Uncle Carlos decided to leave. In the tunnel, they became surrounded by a tragic silence. “Uncle Carlos, once again that old saying: when the owl screeches, an Indian will die. Which ones of us will die tomorrow?”

XVIII hen the bells in the church steeple began to announce four o’clock in the morning, Don Carlos knew right then, especially after hearing the way his nephew had spoken, that the young man wouldn’t be returning to the countryside to paint anymore. Instead, they would participate in the great events that were about to unfold. What’s more, the revolutionary uncle already had taken out his old firearms. “Diego, my father used these guns when he was a young lad fighting against the French invaders in the famous battle of Querétaro. In fact, he found himself pitted against his cousins, the Rodríguez de Valpuesta family, who supported the monarchy. “You mean they fought with the French? Now I understand why they’re rich and support Díaz.” “That’s the way it is. You understand well. Now it’s time to go. These two old, used carbines aren’t much firepower against the weapons of the federal forces, but I guess they’re better than noth-

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ing. At least that’s what my father taught me: it’s better to have an old rifle than possess no courage.”

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Protected by the darkness of the endless night, they made their way toward the Río Blanco factory. As they got closer to the perimeter of the installations, they could see more and more troop movement. Finally, they could make out the uniformly arranged field tents of the Thirteenth Regular Battalion, whose commander was still asleep. The two generals were probably taking it easy; for sure they wouldn’t end up dying. On the contrary, those who were going to die were the unlucky poor people who believed in the justice of God and Díaz, even if no one could say it out loud or to themselves in a whisper. The heavily prepared battalion surrounded a vast area. Maas and Martínez gave orders to advance forward. All that was left to do was make contact with the enemy, a defenseless enemy, but nevertheless, the enemy. With the help of the sexton of the local church, the uncle and his nephew managed to hide their arms and clothes underneath two frayed priest’s robes. Walking slowly to look the part, they managed to get by the military blockade and carefully found their way into the church, where they removed their camouflage and strategically situated themselves in the church tower. They were visited by the head priest, Rafael Delgado, and an aide from the mayor’s office, Pepito Grajales, who was charged with documenting everything he could observe. Within minutes, they began to see the town fill up with people. Men, women, and children were walking slowly, measuring each step, toward the company store owned by Vicente Gracín. Meanwhile, the two generals were trotting back and forth on their horses that were chomping at the bit. Representing the federal authorities, the undersecretary screamed orders at the people. “Go back to work, you sons of bitches, and everything will be forgotten, you motherfuckers. If you don’t, you’re going to pay for it. We’ll kill all of you, and you’ll end up in hell, along with your wives, who are nothing but whores.”

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The insults were too much for the people. Frightened and offended, some of them wanted to turn back. But at that moment, Margarita Martínez, who was Rosalío’s wife, responded in kind. “If you bastards want to destroy us, we—your very whores—will prevent it from happening. Lucrecia! Isabel! Carmen! Dolores! Our men must see us stand with them. You hear what that asshole general is calling us? We’re just the opposite! We’re the fucking mothers of all of them. Let’s keep moving toward the company store. Gracín is waiting there for us. If he doesn’t open it, we’ll loot it and then set the place on fire. That’s why we brought these torches, right?” The Spaniard tried to defend his store, but he seemed incapable of repelling the onslaught of the inflamed townspeople. When all was lost, he started to run toward the church for safety. However, two bursts from two old carbines made him turn back toward the massive wall of people. Carlos Barrientos, a long-standing revolutionary, and Diego María Rivera, a young rebel, had fired their rifles to make the gachupín turn back. He returned to his store; it had already been ransacked and set on fire. “Damnation upon you, you starving Indians,” he screamed before becoming asphyxiated with the smoke. Like a response coming from hell, the military leaders ordered an all-out attack by the soldiers. While the workers responded to the aggression with picks and axes that they had taken from the company store, women and children stood their ground with clubs and rocks that they had found on the streets. The uncle and his nephew reloaded their rifles. So as not to feel responsible afterward, the clergy repeatedly implored the two men not to fire at the soldiers. From above in the steeple, they saw people die who had been their friends. Lucrecia Toriz, who had stood next to Margarita Martínez when she answered back at the soldiers, fell dead at her feet. Her yelling had been silenced by bullets. Rafael Moreno, the head of the union anarchist movement, also died next to them. When the head priest saw him fall to the ground, he crossed himself and prayed. “May God forgive him and take him to heaven. Even if he had

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his own ideas about hell, he was still a good man. If Jesús Neira survives, he is going to truly lament Lucrecia’s death. They understood each other about everything. May heaven have mercy on her, Rafael, and all the ones who have died.” Neither Don Carlos nor Diego made any comments regarding the priest’s prayers; they didn’t want to get into an argument. They had just witnessed the most dramatic scene of their lives. They were speechless. And so it was, in silence, they watched the generals ride off triumphantly, leading away their armies barely touched by a few sticks and stones.

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Once they were back in Orizaba the following night, Diego asked Don Carlos if he could try to recuperate from the strong impressions he had received the day before by spending some time alone in his room, where he could reflect on what had happened. However, his migraine headaches came back again, stronger than ever. Out of desperation, the painter started to pull his hair out and bang his head against the wall, splattering blood on the furniture, walls, and the floor. When he saw it, he ran out to vomit and lost consciousness. After he had finally woken up, who knows how much later, the pain had diminished. The red stain on the wall was testimony to his self-flagellation. When Don Carlos saw the young man finally open his eyes, he made a deep sigh of relief. “Diego, you’re alive!” “What happened, Uncle? I only see the whiteness of death. I’ve had a horrible nightmare. I dreamed that I was seriously wounded or, most likely, dead. I saw myself lying on the ground, wounded and dying.” At that moment, Diego felt something pulling on his hair, and when he touched his head he realized that it had been tightly bandaged. His uncle sat down by him on his bed and examined him closely. “Am I alive? But, Uncle, I wasn’t the one who fell next to Margarita Martínez and Chabla Cruz, when they took me out of the church to help them light the door on fire. Or was I wounded next to

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Rafael Moreno? Yes, they did kill him. I know, because I saw him with his guts hanging out. And how many of those soldiers did we kill before they tried to kill us? It seemed like I saw the enemy falling everywhere after we had fired our rifles. But the ones who died were our friends. Those damned federal troops didn’t pardon the lives of any of the valiant rebels.” “Diego, take it easy! Be patient! I’ll answer your questions. But, for now, just rest. You seem to be terribly confused about things. Thanks to God, you’ve come back to your senses. You’ve been unconscious for quite a while. Neither the family doctor nor I were able to revive you.” “But, Uncle, tell me what’s true and what isn’t. I want to forget everything, if it’s really true that I’m still alive. I don’t want to feel anything, I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to live anymore.” Then, Diego fell into a deep stupor. When Diego María woke up, his Uncle Carlos was in anguish. “Diego, I have something important to tell you. I just received another letter from your parents. They’re worried that you haven’t communicated with them. They can’t understand why you haven’t returned home.” “Uncle Carlos, you haven’t told them what’s happened, have you?” “Of course, not. Your mother, who is my dear niece, would have gone crazy, or they would already be here demanding an explanation.” “So, may I stay longer with you? I would like to get better and then finish up my last painting.” “Of course, you can, but only if you write your parents and let them know.” “Thanks. I’ll do that now. To tell you the truth, I need some time to digest everything. Like my teacher Señor Ledoyen thought, my interest in politics has grown by leaps and bounds, but it’s mainly due to what’s happened. Well, I’m just like my father. He’s a nationalist and a revolutionary, and so am I.

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Back in the capital, when Diego opened the large, old door to the building they lived in, he found his sister María standing there. Anxious to know when he would be returning, she had been waiting for him in the entryway. “Diego,” she screamed excitedly, “I’m so glad you’re back. Aunts Aurora and Concha Alcocer were waiting for you in Querétaro. Father Mercado has invited you to paint a nativity scene in the chapel of the Mota Palace that belongs to our relatives, the Alcocer family. Before mother finds out, hurry and repack your suitcase.” As they walked quickly toward the stairs, he gave his sister a hug and they continued talking. “Damn, Sis, to whom do I owe this good fortune? The timing is perfect. After what I’ve been through with Uncle Carlos in Orizaba, I need some spiritual peace and quiet. I’ve never been through anything like that, but I’ll tell you all about it later.” “Well, what happened?” “Nothing short of a battle between courageousness and cowardice, life and death, justice and human infamy.” “Hey, brother, you’re always exaggerating things. By the way, talking about Orizaba and Uncle Carlos, a telegram came from Xalapa. True to form, mother opened it immediately and who knows what it said, but she almost fainted right there. She’s been crying since then. She’s in her room right now. Don’t even dare to go in.”

PART II

Fantasies of Love and Politics I s usual, the gusty February winds blew everything around that was not nailed down. Voluminous clouds impeded the light of the moon from shining on the surface of the water, or a nocturnal traveler from distracting himself by looking up at the stars. The waves on the ocean were invisible, and only their sound beating against the prow of the aging Alfonso XIII could be heard. That ship, so believed the people who knew it well for having gone back and forth between Santander and Veracruz, was capable of crossing the Atlantic Ocean without a pilot or a rudder. Wearing an overcoat that went from his chin to his feet, a scarf around his neck, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his ears, the painter found refuge behind the doorway. It still didn’t afford enough protection to keep him from shaking like a puppet due to the intense cold that came with nightfall. Despite having found himself submerged in the middle of cosmic darkness out in the middle of the ocean, Rivera was unable to understand why he wasn’t feeling anything at all. He thought it was strange that he wasn’t even afraid, despite never in his life having been in such darkness in which there was absolutely nothing around him. It all reminded him of Zarathustra and his black magic: the magician of all magicians had said that a superman is superior to a regular man, because he has no fear. The painter wondered if he would be so audacious as to learn to live and to love.

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Then he remembered that language so charged with emotion when the magician abandoned his country, as now a Diego was leaving his own—albeit with a bitter taste in his mouth. The tragic difference between Zarathustra and himself, he thought, was that the wise man did it for the love of his fellow man, whereas Diego María Rivera was doing it for egotistical reasons, in order to break away from a rigid existence, which was contrary to his aspirations as a human being. Suddenly, the light of the moon broke through the clouds and illuminated the night, the ocean, and the silence. It was a dazzling spectacle, but the feeling of emptiness remained, all of which stimulated him to continue speculating about the meaning of life. The painter opened up to himself and began to accept the idea that his family had been a disaster. He had not loved anyone to that point in his life, but he thought that it could have been love that he felt for his young English teacher, whom he had met in the Alvarado Bridge neighborhood. He remembered that when he went to her house that his heart began to race and he could feel his temples pounding. He didn’t doubt for a moment that she didn’t feel the same thing, like the time when she had finished the first lesson and she looked at him tenderly with her big green eyes, flirting from deep within her body and soul. She had become such an expert in that game that he would become excited without even possessing her. On one of the last afternoons they spent together, sitting next to an irrigation ditch flowing with greenish water coming from nearby cornfields, she told him with a certain ironic tone to look at that water, because it was the same transparent liquid that made up their bodies. Within three days, she said, she would offer him the liquid that came from her insides in exchange for his vital fluids that reflected the sparkling of the stars. From that moment on, she continued, they’d be in command of the universe. She made good on her promise, and Diego responded in kind. “You learned quickly and well, young man. It was fabulous.” Those were her words, and when they tired of making love, they parted company. He watched how the ship parted the waves and left behind white

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foam that looked like lace. Although several years had passed since then, the memory of that lovemaking made him feel the same voluptuousness as before. Desire exuded from every pore of his skin. He asked himself, Am I a good lover? A successful painter? A budding politician? Amid the loneliness of the ocean he could be sincere with himself and, thinking truthfully, he felt like a twenty-yearold dolt, with the pimples of youth on his face and the power of God the creator in his spirit. Diego began to walk back and forth on the forward deck in order to ward off the cold and stimulate the romantic feelings that had brought to mind some verses from Canto de la noche, by that vagabond Persian poet whom he admired so much. “And now night has fallen. The songs of lovers come alive. And my soul is also a lover’s song. There is a disturbing uneasiness in me that gives sound to my voice. Inside, there is an amorous desire that speaks the language of love. I am the light. Ah, if I were the night, but my aloneness only sees me bathed in light. Ah, if I were the shadows and darkness, oh how the breasts of light would quench my thirst!” He finished reciting the poem, firmly convinced that it accurately described his state of mind. In fact, it seemed as though Zarathustra had dedicated it to him.

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During the remaining twenty days of the trip, the painter never abandoned his state of melancholy to once think about the possible years of adventure and uncertainty that awaited him. Only after landing at La Coruña and stepping onto foreign soil did his attitude change. Facing the challenge, he felt strong enough to conquer the old continent. He exclaimed to himself, What the hell! Why should I be afraid? After all, aren’t I a talented Mexican painter, with experience in love and politics to boot? He suffered his first setback just a few hours later, when he learned that traveling on a train from Santander to Madrid was anything but easy. The train engine, struggling to pull the cars, was

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blowing out so much black soot from the smokestack that it didn’t matter whether you were in first, second, or third class—everyone got dirty. When the train finally arrived at its destination, none of the passengers could really tell the color of their skin or their clothes.

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And that’s the way he looked when he finally made it to the Hotel Russia, where several well-known intellectuals and artists were staying. When he saw himself in the mirror in the vestibule, he was flabbergasted. He was streaked with black from head to foot, as if he were covered with a tiger or ocelot skin. The receptionist looked at him strangely. “Indian,” he said with sarcasm, “if that’s the way you’re used to dressing in your country, you’d better change your ways. Here in Madrid, no one will believe that you’re a painter; instead, they’ll call you ‘El Pintao,’ the painted one.” As he walked into his small, but clean room, the maid offered him her services. “Well, what do you know, look how this handsome young man is covered in black soot! How would a sponge bath suit you? I’ll bet your soft skin, that I imagine is lily white, needs it.” “If you say so, girl, it must be true.” The young maid brought in a brass wash basin, water, perfumed soap, several towels, alcohol, and even some lavender water. After making all the necessary preparations fit for a king, she continued talking in her typical Madrid accent. “Sir, you won’t be dissatisfied . . . in fact, your bath will be a great welcoming gift. You’re going to look more attractive than any other dandy around here.” “Young woman, you’re treating me like royalty. In reality, I’m just a budding painter with a scholarship, like so many other poor artists who’ve come from overseas.” “And lucky me, one from Mexico to boot,” interrupted the girl with irony. “The way you speak is cute. Do you have any other cute traits?”

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“It’s a matter of finding out,” he answered, maliciously. “And, by the way, what’s your name?” “Well, it’s what it’s supposed to be: Carmela.” The young Madrileña tiptoed toward the door of the room and, with daring eyes, double-locked the door. “Not even the Virgin of Pilar can get through that door!” Feeling revived from the bath, having developed a relationship with the maid, and recuperating with long hours of sleep, on the morning of his third day in Madrid he took a look at himself in the mirror. Wow! I’m not a bad lover, after all. Now we’ll see if I’m as good a painter. To begin, I’m going to familiarize myself with the Spanish painters. I’m going to go to the Prado Museum and wherever else I need to go to find all the Greco and Goya paintings. I’m going to get to know this city that at times seems so contradictory. On the one hand, it smacks of a long history of Spanish colonialism, but, on the other, it’s attractive for all the marvelous, original European art that’s here.

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He left the hotel and hit the streets with the attitude of a twentyyear-old who thinks he’s about to conquer the world. Upon arriving at the Prado Museum and after immediately being overtaken by the magnificent style of the building, he calmly began to study the works of art that were housed there, especially the ones by the great Spanish masters, whom he had admired early on at the San Carlos Academy. By the time nightfall had come around, he found himself in the rooms with the Goya paintings. He sat down next to some windows that marked the limits of the space where he was. A few rays of the sun gave an extraordinary luminosity and realistic perspective to the paintings. Suddenly, the walls of the small, contiguous room turned red. The combination of the incoming light and the stimulating colors on the canvases completely transformed the environment. “Now I know what hell must be like,” he thought to himself, “the same place that Aunt Vicenta always talked about. And these are the paintings that

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Goya dedicated to the invasion of Spain by Napoleon’s forces.” Those scenes seemed to him as bloody and violent as the ones he personally experienced in the Río Blanco factory incident, also an earthly hell where revolutionary demands were born. “Look how this master represented human ferociousness so vigorously! When all is said and done, Napoleon’s imperial forces were as cruel as the French invaders that created the industrial markets in Mexico. The common folk have every right to defend themselves whichever way they can.”

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Completely inundated with antagonistic impressions, on his way back to the hotel he felt like striking up a conversation with the first person who came along. He wanted someone to explain to him his feelings of repulsion toward everything that Madrid represented. Across the street from his boardinghouse was the Café de Pombo, which had a special ambience due to the presence of strong tobacco smoke, dark coffee, and the animated discussions of the customers. “There’s Rivera, from Guanajuato. Hey, you little shit, what the hell are you doing here?” yelled someone. He turned to see who had made such a graphic statement, and he came face to face with his friend and rival, Roberto Montenegro. “What’s happening, Mr. Lucky One from Jalisco? But, to be frank, I’m the lucky one to have run into you.” “Look who’s talking. Come on over and sit down. Let me introduce you to my friends, Julio Antonio and Miguel Viladrich. Julio is a sculptor and a great seducer, which corresponds to his pure gypsy lineage, and Miguel is a well-known painter from Catalonia who undoes the offenses occasioned by the Andalusian here. “Well, I’ll be damned, as some of us would say, Roberto. We’re evenly paired up, two “Mexicas” against two “gachupines,” or better yet, two on horses against two wearing thong sandals. Or is that not right?” said Rivera, sarcastically. “Not to worry, Panzas, my friends had nothing to do with the conquest of Mexico. Is that what you’re referring to?” “You’re right, people from Catalonia and Andalusia aren’t the

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same as those from Extremadura. My friends, I’m Diego María Rivera. I’ve just gotten off a ship, and I still haven’t adapted to my new status, being from the Indies. I feel aggression in the very pores of my skin. In reality, I’ve come here to work, if the master painter Eduardo Chicharro accepts me as an apprentice. Our great friend Atl told me to consider his great talent and the possibility of learning how to improve my brush strokes. I’ve already seen some of his work, which has impressed me, because he’s agile and new, like all contemporary painting should be.” “What are you going to learn from him?” interjected Roberto. “You already know a lot. Friends, this young man was one of the best students in the San Carlos Academy.” “But you won the presidential scholarship. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” blurted out Viladrich. “It was pure luck. It’s just that I’m older than he is, and I have more experience. You know what, Diego? Murillo wrote and told me about your scholarship. You can’t imagine how relieved I felt when I read that. You’re the one who should be here in my place.” “No matter what, Roberto, now we’re both here.” Amid joking with a Mexican twist, the two Mexicans spent a good part of the night conversing with the two Spaniards about their experiences at the San Carlos Academy, such as their opposition to Fabrés and the toss of the coin that determined their destinies.

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Now very conscious of the total lack of importance of his work in Madrid, Diego started out toward Eduardo Chicharro’s studio. He was dressed like a painter: dark brown corduroy suit with pockets of all different sizes, white shirt buttoned at the neck with a black neck scarf, and a wide-brimmed hat—also black—with one side over his left eye. He carried a letter of recommendation that Gerardo Murillo had given him before he left Mexico. Chicharro had been a student of Joaquín Sorolla’s, and both of them were considered to be among the best contemporary academic painters in Spain. His studio was located in the heart of the old part of the Castillian city in a building that had been renovated with glass

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walls that faced into an interior patio. It was replete with potted plants, especially roses, not unlike the gardens at the Royal Palace. Don Eduardo met with the new student in his private study, where the noise of his assistants working in the large, open studio would not interrupt them. He read Murillo’s letter in which he made reference to Chicharro’s excellent reputation in the visual arts and stated that his friend and disciple Rivera wouldn’t find a better teacher in Spain or in all of Europe. Those comments pleased the Spaniard to no end and served as a perfect entrance for the Mexican apprentice.

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Days came and went, and months passed by. Study tours conducted by the consecrated Iberian painter allowed Diego to travel around most of northern Spain, especially the Basque country, where his revolutionary fugitive grandfather Anastasio de la Rivera was from. While Diego was in Lequeito, he painted romantic, ornate baroque scenes. In Santander, they became scenes of abandoned fishing boats with the nets spread out along the beaches in front of grey, solitary seas. In Barcelona, besides painting in the Concert Café, he visited Las Ramblas and met not only the anarchist Anselmo de Lorenzo and his group, but also the anarco-syndicalists led by Francisco Ferrer, with whom he became friends. As it turned out, his conversations with Don Ernesto Ledoyen had prepared him well, and he ended up spending some time with Lorenzo, during which he was able to strengthen his ideological position. “The way I see it, any type of governmental politics is always repressive and directly affects the humble and the meek, artists, workers, peasants—be they from Mexico, Catalonia, or Madrid— and, of course, intellectuals.” “But, shouldn’t we also include those trained workers throughout Europe,” responded Lorenzo, “along with the intellectuals, who die fighting against the industrial revolution and capitalism that threaten their freedoms?” “Yes, of course, I admit that. For the proletariat class, the con-

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flict is between capitalism and freedom, which is the same for us artists who are committed ideologically to the cause. I learned that in Orizaba . . . back in Mexico.”

II he master artist Chicharro had created a professional environment in his studio. His assistants had absolute freedom in their pictorial creativity, without the fear of offending the academic school of the period. Sporadic visits by the “teacher of teachers,” Joaquín Sorolla, provoked grave reprimands, serious commentaries, and repeated corrections to the students who dared to veer from Spanish orthodoxy toward French Impressionism or any other artistic tendency in vogue at the time. With much parsimony, Don Eduardo would walk around his studio. Conscious of his elegance and distinction, he went over to the Mexican painter’s easel and smiled. “Rivera, the master Sorolla is coming this afternoon. I’ve told him that you’re one of my most outstanding students, and he wants to see what you’ve done.” “That’s hard to believe, sir, but I thank you very much. You mean that the great master is coming only to see my work?” he added, ingenuously. “Yes, it’s true, and I suggest you show him first ‘Piedra vieja y flores nuevas,’ old stones and new flowers, and two or three others that you did on our trip to the Basque country, such as ‘Vasconia’ and ‘Cuando los remos descansen,’ when the oars come to rest. “Yes, sir, I will do just that.” Beaming with pride, Diego adjusted his necktie and in a loud voice, so that the other apprentices could hear him, called out to his helper. “Rodrigón, come with me, let’s go to the store. Today, Don Joaquín Sorolla is coming to see my work.” “Boss, I’m with you.” Obeying instructions, the student selected the three canvases suggested by his teacher. That afternoon, Sorolla examined them in

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detail. Pleased, he asked to see more paintings. Doing the best he could, Rodrigón brought out more. After going over most of them with a critical eye, Don Joaquín surprised Rivera himself. “Your hands will earn you millions. Your paintings are excellent. I am certain that you’ll be very successful in your profession.” For the second time in his life, after first receiving the gold medal at the Hispanic-Mexican Lyceum, Rivera was overjoyed. He had been recognized as a faithful interpreter of Spanish academic painting. That night at the Café de Levante, along with Julio Antonio and Miguel Viladrich, he wondered what the future held in store for him. “Is that what I want? Will I be content being just a good disciple of the school of Spanish painting?” “Knowing you,” answered Miguel, “I don’t think so. You’re not the one to be painting old stones and new flowers. You’re much more than a conventional follower.” “Why, of course, Diego,” added Julio Antonio, “just do it: let your ideology guide your art, not the other way around. If you’re going to join in with my anarco-syndicalist friends, you need to paint revolutionary art. Be consistent with yourself. To be a leftist is to be courageous and a rebel. You can’t think progressively and paint like a stupid conservative.” “I don’t understand why you’re saying all this. You’re attacking me.” “I said that, because I received a letter from Anselmo de Lorenzo, who told me about your subversive activities in Barcelona.” “It’s true, and what you say is right. Yes, I was with Lorenzo. I admire him. I agree with his way of looking at things. I want to become who I really am. More than painting pure art, I want to protest and show my fury against social injustice. I want to change the theme of capturing on canvas only the beauty and color of the landscapes of these vast regions. Instead, I want to show the human misery that surrounds us here and throughout Europe. “It’ll be worse if you witness what you want from jail, just because you followed that crazy Julio,” declared Miguel. “Don

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Ramón del Valle Inclán, who was here just the other day, referred to you as the Mexican who is becoming an anarchist, which he said was okay, but he also said you had better take care.” “That’s what Valle Inclán said? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’ve read his works. He doesn’t conform to anything.” “Listen to me, my Mexican friend,” intervened Julio Antonio. “See those tables over there? That’s where the intellectual elite of Madrid tend to meet. When the time is right, we’ll introduce you to them so you can learn a few things.” “That’s right,” added Viladrich. “Our literature, especially the romantic type, lacks something that painters can provide. Continue to educate yourself. Soon you’ll get to know only Valle Inclán, whose erotic novels are widely read, but also Ramón Gómez de la Serna, already a well-known literary critic and political analyst, despite his youth. That way you’ll kill two birds with one stone: you’ll get a lesson on the art of love and another on politics. Gómez de la Serna is a child prodigy like you. I’m sure you’ll become friends.” “Me? What do you mean prodigy? Stop messing with me, Miguel.” “Stop what?” “Shut up, both of you!” Julio Antonio butted in. If you don’t stop it, I’ll kick the crap out of both of you. Let’s go and have some fun. There’s a great show tonight. It’s the best circus in Europe. Let’s take it in, and afterward we can drink a toast to our friendship.” None of the three friends could imagine at that moment what was about to happen to them. They calmly left the Levante Bar and started out on an adventure that would fill their love lives for months to come, despite the fact that for two of them things would end destructively. Rivera would be filled with regret, and Julio Antonio would die from knife wounds as the result of an aristocratic duel. The incident became the focus of an article in the newspaper with the highest circulation in all of Castilla. Society’s elite class, as well as the common folk, gloated over the story, which was written by a journalist who went by the pen name of “El Sordomudo,” the Deaf-Mute.

Diego Rivera the Red It was inauguration night for the 1907–08 winter season of the Price Circus in Madrid. Anyone of importance had balcony or choice orchestra seats. As the expectations of the audience reached an emotional pitch just before the performance began, three distinguished aristocratic women, who were also as indomitable as fierce animals, which was not atypical among the Spanish nobility, were seated in the principal box reserved for the likes of kings. The oldest of the three women was a little more than thirty years old. She was dressed to demonstrate her opulence. She was as beautiful as the finest cluster of grapes for making a rich wine. Standing erect, her posture exuded defiance. The other two women, each of whom was barely more than twenty years old, acted differently; one, who seemed to be of a romantic temperament, was dressed in mourning; the other, aggressivelooking and challenging, had piercing eyes like those of an eagle. In the box next to them were seated three young men, who were acting naturally impertinent, and as far as I could tell, seemed like artists, given the way they were dressed. They were all pretty much the same age, in their early twenties. Nevertheless, one of them was taller and larger in size, another seemed to be typically Catalonian, and the third one, who was good-looking and unmistakenly Andalusian, possessed some Greek traits, like the ones who pose for the sculptors who carve those classic pieces. Together, they represented a typically Mediterranean aspect of our society. Instead of watching the circus performance, I decided to observe them. Maschi et femine, they exchanged glances, began to flirt, and shared muffled laughter, all of which led to passing love notes back and forth, with queries and responses; quickly, then, the situation went from simple flirtation to serious propositions. When the performance was over, the group left discretely. To the good fortune of my readers, I can tell you that sometime later I saw them arrive at a French bistro that had become stylish. They were seated in a booth for six with a curtain pulled closed. The waiters served bottles of fine champagne whose shape had nothing on those

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Guadalupe Rivera Marín of the women who were present. In addition, all kinds of food were served. Before I could finish the delicious entrée that I had chosen from the menu, the group departed in pairs: the slightly older woman left with the taller, husky man, whom I overheard speaking with a Mexican accent; given the dark circles under his eyes, the Apollonian of marked Mediterranean extraction accompanied the young woman in mourning who could have easily passed for one of the Marquis Riscal dynasty; and, finally, Miguel Viladrich, the Catalonian painter offered his arm to. . . . And here, I will let my readers’ curiosity try to identify the other five persons whose names I have purposely omitted.

Naturally, the article stimulated gossip in just about every place where this group had been. At the Pombo and Levante Bars, the commentaries, vulgarities, and jokes characterized the three gallants as “The Three Shoddy Lovers.”

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Rivera experienced an oscillating relationship with his lover that went from ecstasy to blind hatred. In a moment of crisis, given the tormenting nature of his love affair, the painter decided to move to Catalonia in order to rid himself of his “nefarious” passion in exchange for something more “sublime.” During his sojourn, he combined his efforts to learn more about impressionist painting while participating actively in politics. He sought out Francisco Ferrer, offering his collaboration as an activist in the Workers’ Solidarity Movement by working several days distributing propaganda in the most important textile factories. Given his knowledge of the language of social commitment, he marched alongside Ferrer down Las Ramblas in Barcelona, leading workers’ protests with red flags that displayed anarchist slogans, such as “Land and Liberty.” By expending his energy in these solidarity activities, little by little he was able to regain his emotional stability.

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Musing to himself one day as he drank a cup of coffee while looking out at the ocean, he concluded that Barcelona conformed more to his temperament than the Castillian city of Madrid. He was in a city that was ripe to host painters determined to utilize the colors of the Impressionist pallet. There was no room for the affected style of his teacher Chicharro. He had discovered that his colleagues who hung out at the Concert Café were truly original when they produced scenes of violent love affairs between dancers and their admirers, or scenes in which revolutionary politicians marched down Las Ramblas singing socialist songs. Weeks went by while he painted, consumed coffee with friends, and marched in protests. Life was much better for him in Barcelona, he thought, because Madrid could be so monotonous. He loved the noise and rambunctious nature of Barcelona. However, to his consternation, it was about that time that he received a threatening letter from his belligerent lover in Madrid. Madrid, October 27, 1908 Diego María, When you left me, I was overtaken with fury. I can’t understand why you abandoned me. Even if you would’ve had good reason, you were a coward. Are you saying that your art, your politics, your Mexico, or your readings are more important than the tranquility that I give you when you mixed my blood with your hot semen? I am positive that you would be even more at ease with yourself if you would just accept the pleasures of my body and paint only for me. Accept the fact that you’re mine in the same way that I’m yours, which is the way I’ve remained ever since our last time together! I can envision you now like then—naked, your long arms and legs, standing tall—while you walked around my bedroom. You were a true white statue, alive, with a stiff cock lined with blue veins that were about to explode. More than a mortal being, I saw in you the image of Zeus, the god of inexhaustible power. Later, I remember, our bodies became so entwined on the bed that it was difficult to determine who was who. I

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Back in Madrid, only after hours of getting settled in front of a window in the studio and feeling sure of himself, due to the protection offered by his teacher Chicharro, he was approached by Rodrigón, who—seemingly more dead than alive—whispered something that was almost imperceptible. “What’s wrong, kid?” asked Diego. “It’s okay, you’re afraid of me, because I seem like a savage Mexican to you. But don’t be scared, I’m not hungry right now, I’m not going to eat you. Speak louder.” “Sir, a woman with a veil covering her face just stopped me on the street. She asked me to tell you that she’s waiting for you impatiently. The green curtains in her carriage, a quite luxurious carriage, are drawn shut, and it’s parked at the main door that the teacher uses. If Don Eduardo gets wind of this, there will be hell to pay.” “Does she have black eyes and a stern look about her?” “How would I know if she has everything hidden with a veil. She

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didn’t reveal a thing. She’s hiding behind the silk folds of the curtains.” “Of course, you’re right. Stay calm. I’ll go. I know who she is.” With a twinge of fear, Rivera decided to avoid the tempest occasioned by the intemperate passion of the noble woman; nor did he want to have any problems with Chicharro due to her feminine arrogance. He had barely approached the carriage, when he was barraged without discretion by improper and gross threats. Remaining calm, he only nodded, pretending not to hear them. After putting up with several minutes of her haranguing, the fury that he had contained within himself turned his face purple, at which time he became indignant. “You are surely a great lady, but at this moment you are acting like a common whore. Shut up or get out of here, if you don’t want me to show you who you really are.” With that resounding and unflinching counterthreat, the female aggressor felt wounded and decided to bring an end to her tirade by sticking her gloved hand outside the window of the carriage and throwing a card at him that swirled to the ground like a dying butterfly. “Driver, leave immediately. Let’s get out of here before this swaggering swain from the lower depths of Madrid ends up making things worse for me or explodes like a popped balloon.” The driver obeyed by taking his whip to the horses, one of which charged up and knocked the brawny, furious painter down into a mud puddle. Diego was covered in filth, and the fleeing dame let out a vulgar laugh. He stood up and read what was written on the card. “Diego María: I demand that you come to me. Without you, life has been intolerable. I miss your virility. I will be waiting for you every night. Be warned that my patience has limits.” After returning to his hostel and thinking about the situation, he felt sorry for himself and asked the porter for help. “I’m covered from head to foot with filth. I need a bath urgently.” “Of course, Señor Rivera. I will tell Carmela to prepare your bath immediately. She is a faithful, efficient woman.” “What are you referring to?” “Nothing. Excuse me. Forget it.”

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He let three days go by before responding to the furious, disdained lady. The contrast between this person and Carmela, who was full of youth and joy, was like night and day. As soon as he entered the Gran Dame’s luxurious bedroom, he realized the contrast was more real than he had ever imagined. “Well, aren’t you something, you who feigns to be a painter. I knew you were dumb, but not stupid. Why did you dump me as if I were a common servant? I told you from the beginning that I only wanted you as a lover, not as a pimp. How much do you want for your services?” “Me, your pimp? If I were, I could have any woman around for a few pennies, not a pretender like you. Your behavior and exuding ostentation are crap, unworthy of true nobility. If there’s anything I’ve learned from you, it’s to make distinctions, and I can tell you that you’re not worth shit. I give my love to a real servant who, believe it or not, is worth more than you’ll ever be.” Offended, the woman snapped back. “You filthy worm, take this!” As if he were expecting it, Diego quickly blocked her blow with his arm, while at the same time pushing her to the floor. Her unladylike splendor crashed down to the floor, and Diego fell on top of her. “That wasn’t any way to hit someone. Now you understand what it’s like, my Great Spanish Lady. You laughed at me when I fell into the mud, so now I’m going to hammer on you to make you understand that if I want to act like your pimp, I will.” Feeling battered and in pain, with her clothes barely covering her appetizing flesh, the lady surrendered to a sudden act of passion. The pleasures of the squabble meshed perfectly with her purring and affectedness. After they’d indulged their pleasure, they both got into bed to rest. Before falling off to sleep, the lady poked her face from under the covers. “Damn it, Diego María,” she dared to say, “I do detest you. I am sick from desiring you, and it’s made me begin to hate you.” “You hate me for giving you something no one else has? Orgasms that have no beginning or end?” “Yes, that’s right. No one has ever dominated me through the

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flesh, in which satisfaction and pain are one. Now I know: my body and soul are poisoned, and I will be liberated only if I get pregnant. My penance will be nine months of remorse and the pain caused by birth.” “You want to have a baby as a way to do penance? You hope to cure your remorse that way?” “Definitely. It will be my way of atoning for having permitted myself to liberate the femininity that I’ve repressed as punishment for my dark desires. Once I’m pregnant, I will leave Madrid, and you’ll never again see me, nor the fruit of this senseless love affair.” “And you think this is the way to put it behind you?” “I don’t want to ever forget it, but what I do want is to never see you again in my life. Don’t you see how you’ve destroyed who I am, how you’ve humiliated me to the point that I have to admit that I love you? I only ask that when you remember my failure, you won’t mention my name or talk about my pregnancy.” “What pregnancy?” “The one I hope you’ll produce. It’s a challenge that I put to you.” Such a challenge would have interested any man, but it was an even greater temptation for the Mexican from Guanajuato. “I accept the challenge. I need to prove myself as a man, and you have my word of honor that no one will ever know what happened between us.”

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Because of the frequent absences of his prize student, Professor Chicharro discretely made him aware of his concern. “Rivera, you don’t seem like you’re focusing on your work very much. I don’t want to meddle in your personal life, but the company you keep is not going to do any good for your creativity.” “Teacher, are you referring to my two friends Julio Antonio and Viladrich? All we talk about are theories of sculpture and painting.” “C’mon, Diego, three young dandies barely over twenty years old hardly talk about art with the women they’re with, much less

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you, with that Mexican temperament. I’m only asking you to discipline yourself a little more. You’ll be in training with me one more year. Then I’ll turn you loose to find your own way.”

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The winter months proved beneficial for the two lovers. Whenever they weren’t attending some cultural event or eating at restaurants, where they purposefully displayed an artistic and intellectual friendship and not their true amorous intentions, the regal bedroom of the now submissive lady always awaited them in the early evenings. It was an invitation for the two lovers to experience unlimited pleasure. The chimney was dutifully lit, emitting a delicious fragrance. The velvet curtains were hanging from the four-poster bed made of beautifully carved wood. And the silk, down-filled quilt was stretched out on top. It was in those surroundings that by the time spring had arrived, the woman had conceived, after which the two lovers separated as they had agreed.

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As time went by during his apprenticeship, Rivera, now experiencing total liberation, began once again to direct his life toward his art. Despite the inane conventions of academic art, he managed to develop his style even more, including his brush strokes. His work reached such a high level of sophistication that both he and his teacher jointly concluded that he had fully mastered the academic style of the Spanish school; hence, the Mexican painter decided to leave Spain in order to experience new adventures in painting and in life. He packed up his equipment and, although not forever, took leave of the intellectual life at the Pombo and Levante Bars, his classmates at the school, and his friends who, like Carmela, cared about him. “See you soon,” said Don Eduardo simply, but affectionately. Before departing for Paris, the painter received an anonymous letter. The driver of the carriage with the green curtains had given it to Rodrigón. With delicate handwriting, the mother announced the birth of a daughter.

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Years later, after the daughter had become a young woman as capricious and disdainful as her mother, she refused to have anything to do with either of them. In fact, she rejected the names of her progenitors. She became a great dancer, about whom the poet José Moreno Villa had written that “her sensuality, which was out of the ordinary, had received a strong dosage of purity, coldness, and arrogance.”

III he traveler had grown drowsy with the monotonous clicketyclack of the train’s wheels; yet, for the life of him, he could not go to sleep. As soon as he would close his eyes, he saw the scenes of a silent movie the violent relationship with his intemperate lover. Rivera was jealous of his fellow travelers—Don Ramón del Valle Inclán and Miguel Viladrich—who seemed oblivious to everything around them. Despite his revolutionary adventures and unbridled love affairs, Valle-Inclán slept like a child on a nearby seat, while the Catalonian Viladrich just sat next to him with his eyes closed, unaware of anything. When the train lurched to a sudden stop, the painter sat up and decided to shake off his stupor by looking out at the landscape. They had been crossing spectacular countryside; it seemed to be made out of petrified blood that had not lost its deep red color similar to when it dries. Not long afterward, splendid shades of green began to overtake the reds; then a bitter resistant yellow became prominent, along with other splotches of lascivious yellows. When Don Ramón woke up, Rivera’s nervousness had become even more noticeable, making it extremely difficult for him to strike up a conversation. “Excuse me, Don Ramón, but I’m extremely nervous. Between the love affair with a lady whose behavior destroyed me both physically and morally, and my subsequent trips back and forth across Spain, during which time I produced meaningless paintings, I’ve been living the life of a crazy person. Do you mind if I talk to you

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about my anxieties?” “Go right ahead, Rivera. I understand only too well: youth can make unbearable demands on us. Afterwards, when one has recovered and gives it some thought, we are deeply pained from what happened. The worst part is repeating those events that go against our own character. The damage is irreversible.” “For the first time in my life, I was involved in a harmful relationship. It was as if someone else, whose existence was unknown to me, had taken my place and used my name.” “It doesn’t surprise me. Now I know you better: you have a temperament that’s prone to those and even worse kinds of situations. If you don’t watch yourself, and even if you do, you’ll do the same thing all over again. You seem to be given to violence and contradictory passions.” “Now that I think about it, Don Ramón, you’re absolutely right. In Barcelona, I got caught up in the middle of violent political repression. If I had kept it up, they would have expelled me from Catalonia for being a foreign anarchist. Thanks to my friend Francisco Ferrer, I escaped from all that and went back to Madrid. I fled just the way I did from that side love affair.” “I can tell you right now, Rivera, that you’ll continue to flee throughout your life, even from yourself. When I was young, I also joined those anarchist groups, all of which led to political and later literary repression against me. I must confess that ever since my initiation into the National Carlist Movement that supported the Bourbon pretender to the throne, I have been a member of everything.” “Don Ramón, the same thing happened in my family. My grandfather was a Carlist, and my father tried to be a anarco-syndicalist. We have a lot in common.” “And that’s not all, my young friend. I heard your opinions about Porfirio Díaz, the Mexican dictator, and I found them interesting. You may not know it, but I was in Mexico for a year in 1892. I had enrolled in an army that this notable military man, Díaz, had consolidated; however, it wasn’t long afterward that Díaz let his dictatorial side be known. That was when I changed my thinking and suddenly disappeared. I returned to Spain to begin writing chronicles

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and articles against Latin American dictators. Ah, this trip is becoming boring,” he said in the middle of the conversation. “Let’s walk through the train cars to get some fresh air and then continue talking. Miguel can catch up with us when he wakes up.” They arrived in the smoking car and sat down in some comfortable seats. “Don Ramón,” said Rivera, picking up on their conversation again, “why do they say you’re a literary anarchist?” “Precisely because I distanced myself from corrupt political leaders. Never again would I defend them with arms or my writings. Now I fight against them with a passion. In my latest novel, Romance de lobos, A Romance of Wolves, which is a part of my Barbaric Comedies series, I denounce the aberrations of Juan Montenegro, a tyrant whose shameless acts can occur anywhere in Latin America. They result from the mix of Indian blood and the base instincts of Spanish colonization.” “Is this the same attitude, contrary to colonial arrogance and privilege, that in your own country isolates writers like yourself?” “Correct. By the way, in terms of politics, it’s curious that despite our mutual understanding, I know very little about the way you see things. For instance, Diego, on the one hand, you’ll say things with a definite socialist twist to them; on the other hand, your friends have no idea about your political ideals. We admire your enormous knowledge of art and experience as a painter, but what political mumbo-jumbo you have in your head! We can’t figure out if you’re a socialist, anarchist, or anarco-syndicalist. I have heard you use language from Proudhon, Bakunin, Kropotkin, and even Karl Marx. I wouldn’t doubt that you’re an admirer of Lenin, the great provocateur. Tell me truthfully, do you think Communism is possible in the twentieth century?” “I can answer that, Don Ramón. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been trying to figure out what politics means. I haven’t managed to make a distinction between anarco-syndicalist, socialist, anarchist, or communist. Do you see what my problem is? If Communism means the extinction of private property, it’ll take more than half a century to do it. Now then, socialism has been tried, and it could eas-

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ily become a way of life for workers in countries where capitalism has been destroyed. As far as I know, the anarco-syndicalists don’t believe in any form of government, right?” “Diego, why do you mix everything up, if you are so knowledgeable?” “For some years now, I’ve been rereading certain books, but instead of clarifying ideological differences, they confuse me more than ever. Each writer, while pretending to provide the definitive answer, only ends up contradicting someone else, as in the case of Bakunin and Kropotkin, Sorel and Fabbri, and Lenin and Kautsky. . . .” “But, young man, you’ve only been reading about politics. You’ve been wasting your time.” “Not necessarily. I’ve read some science, too. Darwin, Huxley, Freud . . . Most of us can barely grasp their theories. Nevertheless, thanks to them, I’ve been able to answer some of my questions about human beings and their way of life, or about the way the world and the universe are put together. But what I fail to grasp are the economic contradictions that exist in everyday life. While it’s possible to count the number of multimillionaires on the fingers of your hand and the toes of your feet, there are tens of millions of proletarians dying of hunger on this planet.” “About that you’re absolutely right, my young friend. It’s difficult to understand why divine justice and human justice are at opposite ends of the spectrum. As of now, the three political positions that you’ve mentioned are indeed opposed to continuing the world as it presently stands, but their plans for action have been insufficiently combative in order to change things.” “It’s true. There has to be more of us who are committed to the fight for equality. The similarity of our ideas will one day bring us together again.” Viladrich appeared, trying to shake off sleep. At that point in the conversation, they turned to telling stories about their adventures.

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Upon reaching Bayona, they changed trains and took the night express across France to Paris. Once at the train station, they found themselves enveloped in fog, as well as noticing the unusually cold temperatures for the month of May. A group of Valle Inclán’s friends were waiting for them on the railway platform, ready to take them to the Hotel Boul Mich in the Latin Quarter, where the insurgent painters lived. Among them were Mexican painters Julio Ruelas, Angel Zárraga, and Enrique Freymann—all ex-students of the San Carlos Academy. Paris was a disappointment to them. The city seemed small, confining, dirty, and old. The monuments were smaller than what they had imagined. Nevertheless, the possibility of expressing himself in the good French that he had learned in his childhood was all Diego needed to feel at home in a worldly capital city of art and good living. His Mexican friends, who were gregarious but defensive, had formed their own little click. They had become accustomed to spending the day at a writers’ meeting place, Luxemburg Park, or along the banks of the Seine River. They would place their painting easels under the aspen and willow trees, or under the shade of the long-standing ash trees that lined the Quais. Rivera became excellent friends with Enrique Freymann and Angel Zárraga, with whom he agreed on most things. They would meet and carry their painting materials down to the Quai des Grands Augustins, where they would paint scenes of their summer surroundings. One morning near the end of July, when the heat had become unbearable, Enrique and Diego discussed taking a trip. “The way I see it, Diego, the summer’s going to be a scorcher. I say we go on a trip, find some places where we can paint, and see more of the world. I’m pretty sure we have enough money to buy some cheap train tickets,” suggested Enrique. “That’s a magnificent idea! Let’s start in Italy. I would really like to see their Renaissance murals. Ever since I was in Don José Guadalupe Posada’s workshop, I’ve admired Michelangelo, and this would be a great opportunity to see his work in the Sistine Chapel.” “Listen, my friend, apparently you don’t know your geography. Don’t you know that it’s even hotter in Italy, because it lies farther south?”

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“Ah, you’re right, Freymann. We can see the great muralists some other time.” “Diego, what would you think about going up to see the Flemish painters? Belgium and Holland won’t be as hot, and things are cheaper there. In fact, we’ll even save money!” “The truth is, my friend, more than saving money, we’ll get to see up close Van Dyck, Memling, and Van der Weyden. But, truth be told, I’m more interested in the possibility of studying the work of Heironymous Bosch and the splendid paintings of the Bruegel School.” “There’s so much to see, my friend. And to think we still have the rest of Europe to visit!” Before departing, they outfitted themselves with several sets of folding easels that had become popular at the time, mainly due to the rise in Post-Impressionist landscape painting. They were able to carry them on their backs wherever they went. That pair of Mexicans was acting just like modern Parisians!

IV ruges was an especially interesting place for artists who were visiting the Netherlands. Its landscape seemed to have been created solely for the purpose of satisfying the good taste of the Impressionist painters. The unending eddies of the sea and the extensive meadows that were crisscrossed with streams and canals gave an unequaled sensual quality to the environment that made it all the more attractive for painting. At the beginning of summer, the earth had a varied assortment of colors, from the different hues of green to the multi-colored fields of tulips and oleander. After dark, the flickering reflection of candles and lanterns through the windows behind imposing embroidered curtains revealed the outline of strange dancing. “I find Bruges fascinating,” commented Freymann upon their arrival. “Look, Diego, how the feeling of mystery is accentuated by the lights reflected in the water from the houses on the bridges and on the edges of the canals.”

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“Of course, Freymann! I would like to paint that house over there. It looks like a den of nasty sorcerers. But look over there. Tomorrow night I’m going to paint that one near the bridge. It looks abandoned and gloomy. The title of my first painting will be “Windows over the Canal,” and the second one will be, “The House on the Bridge.” This entire place inspires poetry. Even its name alludes to its ghostly condition, don’t you think?” “It’s true, everything’s spooky.” They found lodging at a small, run-down hotel with a restaurant next door. Since it was located directly in front of the fish market, the wife of the hotel owner had become famous for her seafood soups and platters. After walking around for a while, the travelers returned to the hotel for dinner. They sat down at a table near the entrance and immediately ordered beers and large bowls of seafood soup. “Enrique, this soup is much more delicious than the bouillabaisse that we had in Paris.” “You’re right, Diego. Even though France has the reputation, Belgium has better food. Here in Bruges they prepare the ‘fruits of the sea’ like no other place in Europe. After this, let’s order spaghetti and shellfish. Hey, why are you laughing?” “Pal, I like the way you order food—’fruits of the sea’—because before I came to Europe, I knew that fruit trees and the prickly pear of our country produce delicious mameys, sapodillas, and tunas, but here I’ve discovered an ocean of fruit—clams, mussels, and other shellfish. Seriously, you can’t imagine how much I appreciate your having convinced me to make this trip. The food is out of this world, but more than anything, what unbelievable works of art we’ve seen here!” “Diego, I’m in my element. I feel enriched. Tomorrow I’m going to paint some portraits of the lady fish mongers. Their faces have a character all to themselves, and their rustic clothing and white caps make them ideal models for working in the style of the great Rembrandt: those illuminating brush strokes on semi-light backgrounds tell the whole story.” “Right again, Enrique, those caps are so white they’ve taken on a bluish tinge to them, and their petticoats seem to be made of cloth ‘as delicate as a Jesuit priest’s frock,’ as they say back in my hometown of

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Guanajuato. I’m going to do a portrait of a woman, who from here I can see is cleaning out old crock pots. She’s so typically Flemish!” “You miss back home, don’t you, Diego?” “Of course! A lot. You don’t?” “Very much! But with all the work that awaits us, we’ll be fine.” Someone tried to push open the door. The two friends turned to look with curiosity, just as two strangely dressed figures entered. At first blush, they could have passed for a mother and her daughter, but after staring at them intently they could make out who they were. The taller woman struck a surprising pose: she was beautiful, fairskinned, had light brown hair and deep, clear blue eyes. However, the shorter person had a hardened, weathered look about her, with dark hair and eyes that revealed her intelligence, although they were partially hidden by a large, dark velvet hat and a veil that allowed her to see but not be seen. She wore a flowing Spanish cape that covered a protruding humpback. Somewhat startled, Rivera couldn’t take his eyes off her. “María, what are you doing here? Weren’t you going to stay in Paris?” exclaimed Rivera. “Like you, Diego, I couldn’t stand the heat either, so I convinced my friend, Angelina Beloff, who is an engraver, to come with me to Bruges. And to think that we no more than arrive and we run into your imposing figure. Such a pleasant surprise!” “Enrique, you’ve met María Blanchard, our talented halfFrench-half-Spanish friend.” “Of course, we met in Madrid. How are you, María?” asked Freymann after standing up to greet the women. Diego turned to the painter Blanchard’s discrete, silent friend. “And you, Señorita, are you a Spanish painter as well?” he asked impertinently, hoping to create a negative reaction in the beautifully mysterious woman. Before she could respond, Blanchard spoke on her behalf. “My friend Angelina can’t understand what you’re saying for the simple reason that she’s Russian. From now on we have to speak either French or Russian. Under the circumstances, it might be better to use Balzac’s language, even if your mistakes make the French Language Academy cringe.”

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“So, María, you say that your friend is Russian? Is she wearing red boots under her dress? I’m in luck, because I’ve always admired her country. No doubt about it, I’ll have to learn Russian.” In the days that followed, a Polish friend of the two women joined the group, and so the five of them went about discovering the secrets of Bruges and environs. Given their different backgrounds, each one discovered distinct themes to paint on their canvases with varying colors, or with chisels to etch into wood. They drew and painted everything, from the women’s white caps to the coarse expressions of the millers and the fishermen, from the constant rotating of the windmill blades to the cloisters in the convents. Rivera was the most adept. He was able to capture the bluish tinge of the simple countryside as a backdrop to two portraits he did of Angelina. That particular shade was perfect for reproducing the color of her eyes that had already begun to reveal feelings of love. Having tired of the scenery in Belgium and Holland, the group decided to head for London. If Rivera was interested in going for artistic reasons and a growing love affair, Freymann was going for social and political reasons. “You don’t mean Lenin has been in London?” asked Enrique. “That’s what they say.” “I would love to run into him, or at least find out a little more about what he’s doing there. I’m interested in studying not only English painting, but also socialism.” “And what else would you like to accomplish on this trip?” “As you know, Diego, I’m originally from Germany. I’m interested in going to London in order to compare the politics in England and Germany. My father says there will probably be another world war. And I just found out that the English socialists have become even more active, ever since some of their Russian counterparts visited them, namely, Leon Trotsky. That lion must be as ferocious as his name implies.” “I find it strange that you haven’t read anything he’s written. He became friends with Lenin in Paris. Together, they’re working toward building Russian socialism.”

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“How fascinating! Well, as for me, in addition to learning more about politics and art, this trip will allow me to demonstrate my love for Angelina and to make her mine. She’s as beautiful as she is distant. I think she’d make an excellent traveling companion.” “You like her that much?” “Enrique, that woman is invincible. Maybe she doubts my seriousness. If it’s meant to be, we will have an easygoing relationship together. That’s what I need most.” But Angelina did not take him seriously. Whenever he would broach the subject, she would only look at him with disdain. “Diego,” she would say to him, “I’m older than you are and much more responsible. All I see in you is a poor kid who is in love with an imaginary being. You’ve demonstrated your fantasies in the faces of the portraits you did of me. You have idealized me. Wake up and look at reality as it really is.” Seemingly resigned to his fate, Diego would counter with other arguments. “Look here, Angelina, my love for you is much greater than your indifference toward me. Some day you’ll understand, and then you’ll regret not having believed me and taken advantage of my love for you on this exceptional trip.” “Please stop, Rivera, this is pure folly, and you’re being overly melodramatic. This is not supposed to be typical of a Mexican conqueror.” Disillusioned by her concluding arguments, the painter tried to resign himself to her way of thinking. In that state of mind, he convinced his colleagues to rent a boat that navigated the canals and followed the inlets of Holland to the point where they could embark on a ship to England in search of other ways to create art and to understand the intricate political environment of Europe at the time.

V iming to go to London in order to visit the Tate Gallery, the British Museum, and Hyde Park, the entourage of painters boarded a ship at Amberes. They would study their English counterparts and see treasures seized from around the world by the British Crown

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throughout the era of colonial expansion. At the same time, they expected to hear something about democracy and one of the oldest parliamentary system in the world. Since they weren’t traveling with much money, they took passage on an old, slow-moving cargo ship that crossed the English Channel. The sluggish crossing allowed them to observe with some detail from the deck the barren coastal islands that seemed to drop abruptly into the sea. As they steamed past the rivers that emptied into the sea, they were able to study the way English laborers and fishermen lived and worked in the coastal villages. In admiration, Freymann and Rivera made drawing after drawing of what they saw. However, when they were able to observe those workers up close and seeing that they weren’t dressed or fed any better than their counterparts on the “continent,” everything they thought about that country became relative. “Freymann, those people are only a sampling, but the poverty in this country is next to the worst I’ve ever seen.” “Diego, that’s what I think, too. It seems like a bad sign for a country that pretends to be a major, industrialized nation in these times.” Growing tired of their conversation, Angelina decided to find another spot on the ship. “María, I’m going to look for a spot up front. I think I’ll be more comfortable there. I want to put some distance between my fervent lover and me. His ‘passionate Mexican’ attitude bothers me. He’s illmannered and impertinent.” “You’re right. I’ve never known this part of Diego’s character. He’s truly bothersome. He acts like a teenager who’s fallen in love for the first time. By the way, do you think he’s a virgin? He behaves like he’s never made love. Let me do some investigating. I wouldn’t want you to have an unpleasant surprise.” The sweet but condescending lady headed for the bridge. After situating herself on some worn-out stairs, she took paper and pen from her purse with the intent to write. Despite wrapping herself in a finely woven black wool scarf, embroidered with white, red, and yellow flowers—undoubtedly something she had brought from her homeland—the cold, early autumn winds still beat against her face.

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Guadalupe Rivera Marín On board the cargo ship “Constantinopla” September 15, 1909 My dear sister Lidia: As I write this letter, it’s becoming irritatingly cold. I hope everyone there is doing well. As for me, I just left Bruges and I’m about to embark on a strange adventure. Until a couple of months ago, I had been spending most of my time studying painting, and now I find myself learning more about painting than I ever would in Saint Petersburg or Paris and even in a different way. I have seen more of the world, my little sister, and I now understand that Russia will never be able to modernize until it becomes industrialized. Our country is so backward! Each day we will continue to disappear, unless something urgent is done. Concerning my personal life, as I told you in my last letter, ever since I met this Mexican painter Diego Diegovich Rivera, my life has changed. I seem to do the most unexpected things you could ever imagine. For instance, I’m writing to you from this cargo ship that’s taking me to London, along with María, Vladislava, Diego, and his friend Freymann. The Mexicans want to see the work of the classical English painters, such as Hogarth, Turner, and Blake. Right now, we’re crossing the English Channel, and we’re about to land at London Bridge. And it’s really cold! Rivera knows a lot about art, but he’s a stubborn student, all of which makes him an interesting person. However, his insistence on having an affair with me is bothersome, and it could be that because he’s immature, his sincerity isn’t genuine. His brashness, typical of the Mexicans, frightens me. I could continue telling you about my concerns, but given that I have so many, I think it’s better to stop here. For now, all I want to do is express my love to our family and especially you, my dear Lidia Beloffvna. My best to our parents, brothers and sisters, and the rest of my loving family. Yours, Angelina.

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P.S. I miss the cold Russian weather and the early snows, but I miss all of you even more. I’ll see you soon.

In the late afternoon, the group of painters—having put on every last stitch of clothing they had—regrouped on the bow of the ship. Although they had entered a fog bank and were unable to determine if it was emerging from the river or falling from the sky, they could finally see the great British metropolis looming in front of them. “This is an impressive way to arrive in England,” said Freymann, “because we’ve seen up close the toiling workers and fishermen, while at the same time we’ve been made aware of the economic difficulties of this country. Frankly, it seems like English hegemony is based more on fiction than fact.” “You’re right,” concluded Rivera. “I’m amazed at the amount of paralyzed industry we’ve seen.” “While you two were observing the country’s material condition,” added María, “I’ve been growing concerned about the poverty of the workers. I drew a sketch of a man dressed in rags who was operating a tractor in this freezing cold weather. The contrast between that powerful machine and that poor defenseless human being is almost incomprehensible.” The sad groan of the ship’s horn announced their arrival at the London docks. While fishermen were taking advantage of the dim evening light to cast their nets, hoping to catch whatever they could for their own meager consumption, the dockworkers gathered about, waiting to unload the less than full cargo ship Constantinopla.

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Having already agreed on a plan, the group of painters decided to spend the first few days in London visiting museums and galleries. They were especially impressed with the Tate Gallery that housed some of the greatest works by well-known painters of the Classical English Period. They thought that the Turner and Blake collections were not only well cared for, but also spectacular for their eighteenth-century innovations. Afterward, Rivera confessed to

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Freymann his deep admiration for Hogarth, whose great drawings he had largely ignored. The British Museum was equally if not more impressive, given the boldness with which the English government had brought together the best art of Asia, Egypt, and the ancient world, the accumulation of which was much more refined than the booty the French kings and emperors had collected. But, more than anything, they were astounded by the pieces of art from the Americas. At that point, Diego was able to show off his erudition concerning ancient Mexico. He went about explaining to the group of amazed friends the beauty and meaning of the collection of Mayan artifacts and monuments, gold and silver work, and pieces of onyx, obsidian, and alabaster that had been carved by Toltec and Teohuacan artisans. The collection itself, whose marvelous artistic creation allowed him to reveal to them a world that they had only known through books and photographs, far outweighed anything they had ever imagined. Rivera himself had become deeply interested in the creative production of pre-Hispanic Mexico through his studies that now stimulated him to search in earnest for remnants of this civilization throughout Europe. He thought deeply about what they had found. “Enrique,” he commented to Freymann, “I don’t understand why the English Crown was bent on seizing the rich treasures of civilizations that no longer exist. Just look at that crystal rock skull that was carved by the expert hands of the Mayans.” “I agree with you. For us, it’s an admirable piece of work from the pre-Hispanic period; for this English civilization, it’s nothing more than some curiosity among the hundreds of objects that they brought back from their colonial pillaging.” “But, do you know what, Freymann? The results of their greed are incalculable. I’ll explain why.” Reeling from the aesthetic emotions produced by the art they had seen, the five painters left the British Museum and sought the first pub they could find in order to continue their conversation. And there was nothing like a tepid beer or a hot cup of tea to tempt them to forge back out into the London fog. Once they were seated at the bar and about to partake of the traditional kidney pie along with their

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drinks, the men in the group continued talking. “So, Freymann, with reference to my commentary about English greediness, I would like to invite you tomorrow to visit a typical industrial area, where I have been searching to find an answer to the inequalities of the capitalist world. There, you’ll see how the snooty ladies and gentlemen of nobility live alongside the proletarians.” “You’ve really seen that, Diego? Is that strange relationship that you’ve told me about between different social classes real or just one of your fantasies?” “I’ve seen it. Nobles and the bourgeoisie who were once extremely rich now stand around in rags waiting in back of restaurants and hotels to scavenge through the garbage. And I have seen proletarian men and women at strike meetings, wearing the expensive clothes that they acquired from the rich people who went bust. Enrique, if you want to see for yourself, I’ll take you there.” “But is that really true?” “Absolutely. The whole thing is almost sinister. Down below, in the tidelands, you have the powerful flotilla that dominates the high seas. Up above, in the heart of London, you have the dramatic aftermath of industrialization.” “Diego, it’s clear that the social condition of this country has had a profound effect on you.” “So much so, Freymann, that I’ve just bought a copy of Marx’s Das Kapital that I’m going to read from beginning to end. I want to see if I really understand the book and if Marx can effectively explain this phenomenon. The owner of the bookstore told me that Lenin was indeed here last year. He organized the Russian Social Democratic Party, which was well received. And others participated, including Rosa Luxemburg and Leon Trotsky. I wish I could have heard them speak.” “And now you’re going to read up on the socialists at the expense of your painting?” “Absolutely! For now, I’ll just do sketches.” Early the next morning, Rivera and Freymann left for the industrial areas. At the first factory they came to, they saw many workers walking in formation through the gate toward the main entrance. The

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way they were dressed was exactly as Rivera had described it. One worker, who was dressed in a tuxedo and top hat, asked the guard at the gate if he liked his work uniform; as a result, the guard jerked him out of the line. “Now I understand,” said Freymann. “Germany, my father’s homeland, is about to face the same contradictions. The situation frightens me. My painting will allow me to denounce this perniciousness.” “I agree with you. It’s necessary for people to have before their eyes the very poverty lived by the industrial proletariat who have been exploited by the capitalist bourgeoisie.” “But, Diego, the situation doesn’t stop there. Did you see the expression of hatred of the man in the tuxedo toward the police? Both of them are proletarians, but one of them has the power of the stick and the other simply receives the blows. Who do you think the tuxedo and the top hat belonged to?” “I would hope the Lord Chancellor, Diego.”

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Stimulated by a new reading of Das Kapital, Diego became more interested in listening to the speakers at Hyde Park than sketch and paint the strange characters, trees, meadows, fountains, and flowers in the park. Freymann became swayed by Rivera’s sudden interest in politics, and the two of them spent their last days in London walking through the park and discussing European and Mexican politics. Coincidentally, they received a letter detailing the revolutionary activities of the anarchists in the Free Workers’ Movement. As they returned to their hotel one afternoon, they walked in silence through some parks, taking in the fragrant air of the flowers. When they were about to cross the street in front of Buckingham Palace, they heard a newspaper boy announcing the headlines in a loud voice. They suddenly stopped in their tracks. “Did you hear what he said, Diego?” “Yes, I thought he said something about Barcelona, although I’m not really sure. I wasn’t paying attention. Let’s buy a newspaper.” Moments later they were reading the bold print on the front page

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of the London Times: “Rebellion in Barcelona.” The story outlined the events surrounding a revolt led by anarco-syndicalists in Barcelona, including the jailing of Francisco Ferrer, which happened during the insurrection. Diego turned pale. “Bastards! They’re nothing but a bunch of faggots. Instead of confronting the workers in an open political arena, they send in forces to assassinate them. Let the sons of bitches go fuck themselves.” “Hey, take it easy, Diego. I can understand that your friendship with Ferrer makes you angry, but your experience with these things should tell you that social change is always countered with repression.” “But, just think about it: Ferrer is in jail, and you and I are living like parasites from our art that has no social value whatsoever. Ferrer invited me to join him, and I backed off. It was the same in Orizaba, the time when I should have stayed and fought with the workers. I’m as much a coward as any bourgeois pimp around!” “Listen here, Diego, you can’t let these things drive you up the wall. This attitude could lead to serious consequences. You should calm down, because you won’t resolve anything in your present state of fury.” “Not being able to take action exasperates me. Hey, please forgive me! Perhaps I do exaggerate things when it comes to understanding the preponderance of injustice in the world.” “Let’s go back to Bruges, then to Paris. That’s where we belong right now. It’s time to go back and continue our work as apprentice painters.” “You’re right, Enrique. If we abandon our work, the end will come all too soon. Restless or not, we’ll continue to express our political feelings through our best work, which will also represent who we really are—that is, through art that will be seen decorating walls everywhere in the world. Now that we’ve become progressive artists, we’ll be the precursors of the change occurring in the artistic imagery that’s inherent in Lenin’s concept of social democracy. Let’s go back to Paris. There’s much to do. This is the best way to achieve solidarity with the cause.”

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VI rom a distance, as Rivera leaned against a banister at the Quai des Grands Agustins, he could see how the fog had blurred the outline of the buildings, giving them a feeling of frailness and instability, while at the same time, he could contemplate the towers of Notre Dame. The cathedral had become a human torso seen through an X-ray machine, he pondered. It was an empty, fragile, melancholic skeleton that, while shifting with the fog, dissolved into the opaqueness of the streets and avenues. At the time, he felt himself feeling the same way, like a skeleton, because he lacked direction in both his art and his own life. The grey environment captured not only the emptiness he felt inside, but also a sense of mediocrity. Damn it, he thought, Paris didn’t do it for him, nor did he do anything for that city and its people either. Suddenly, a wind came up and started to blow the fog away. The large mass of timeless stone slowly started to reappear as if it were a specter rising from the grave. Then he realized that he had missed the point. Of course, he would paint the cathedral. He needed desperately to change his state of mind. It would be a way to practice getting rid of that soft spot for fighting social ills. He still could not understand the critical differences in the concept of social class in England, and even less the political savagery. And due to ideological conflicts in Barcelona, there had been a bloodbath; as a result, Ferrer was assassinated. He couldn’t believe it! And he still didn’t understand Marx. His language was impenetrable. So, he concluded that he was still facing that same dilemma—art or politics. But now, however, everything had become even more complicated because of love. He wondered if it had been his infatuation with Angelina that had left him so stupidly indecisive. He started out by painting the front façade of that notable Gothic church, a virtual monument, withstanding time, that had been erected with intricately carved stone, similar to the fine lace and embroidered designs of stars and medieval mandalas made by the

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artisans in Brussels. His effort to capture it all with the penetrating eye of a painter was a real challenge. In order to reproduce it, Diego employed blurred tones, undoubtedly a reflection of his state of mind. However, his attempt to produce pure art failed. Typical of his recurring attitude to seek some form of retribution, before finishing the painting of that massive architectural manifestation of ecclesiastical power, now depicted with a layer of white on top, he had added two hunchbacked workers who were shoveling snow in the bitter cold. But he didn’t stop there. As if it were jumping out of the painting like an ugly bird from the Jurassic period, a crane was unloading barrels of wine. The symbolism of the painting was obvious: the noble class, sacred or otherwise, demanded—no matter the circumstances—its daily supply of wine. The proletarian workers, whose destiny it was to serve the privileged classes, accepted their station in life, as seen in their hunchbacked figures. The painter had captured with impact the dominance of the bourgeoisie over the humble stevedores.

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Around that time, Diego moved to his new studio in El Colmenar, a decadent building in the Montmartre neighborhood. Avantgarde painters had been vacating that area in preference for studios in Montparnasse. One day, when Angelina went to see him and saw the finished painting of Notre Dame, she understood the ideological shift that had taken place in the painter. He was now completely dedicated to revolutionary theories. There was no going back. He had decided on his future. “Diego,” commented Angelina, “for the time being, I prefer to stay in Paris. I’ll go back to Russia next summer. That way, you and I can get to know each other better and find out if we should continue with our courtship. Nevertheless, I understand your political inclinations, and I foresee certain complications in our lives.” “What are you referring to? You mean you don’t like Our Lady behind that fog.”

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“I like it, but the change in your painting style is disconcerting. Is it a realist work or not?” “Of course it is.” “It seems exaggerated to me. Having included that crane and the workers unloading the barrels of wine goes beyond a simple scenic composition. It seems more like political commentary that points out social and philosophical contradictions in society.” “For instance?” “The classical and the vernacular, the sacred and the profane, abundance and scarcity. Do you have to be so explicit and repetitive?” Upon hearing her say those things, the painter laughed like a wounded hyena, feeling indignant and sad. “Damn, Angelina, you got it! That was my goal. You don’t like it?” “Diego, you don’t have to attack me. I was only asking you if it was necessary to be so obvious.” “I’m sorry, but let me remind you that in terms of the way I see the world, I have decided to express myself in whatever way it takes to do it.” “That’s the way I’ve understood it, and that’s the reason why I’ve decided to take a closer look at our relationship,” answered Angelina, with her beautiful but piercing blue eyes. Bitterness and doubt were written all over her face. “Who knows, Diego, how long it may take me to decide if we are a match or not.”

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During the winter, artists in Paris typically seek refuge in the cafes and bistros of their neighborhoods in search of human company and physical warmth in order to survive the long hours of semidarkness and poverty. In Montparnasse, the group called “La Rue de la Gait,” composed of Pablo Picasso, Max Jacob, Amadeo Modigliani, and Diego Rivera, often met in places such as Le Dome or La Cuppole. Angelina and her friends, the “Banished Russians,” would usually go to Closerie des Lilles.

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One night, Diego and Angelina went out in search of a place that would not only shelter them from the cold but also allow them to share their loneliness. They went into La Cuppole and took a seat at a table in a dark corner. Coincidentally, Enrique Freymann arrived with a distinguished, well-dressed, young woman. Her presence proclaimed the firmness of her character. Diego and Angelina were notably surprised when Enrique introduced them to Lilí Herman Dreyfus, a descendent of Alfred Dreyfus, who was a military man accused of high treason in 1894, only to be vindicated later by Émile Zola. “It’s nice to meet you, Lilí,” said Angelina. “I’m glad you’ve come.” “You’ve brought great company with you, Enrique,” exclaimed Diego, who was noticeably enthused by her presence. “Diego, we went looking for you at your studio, but then I figured you were here. I need to talk to you right now. Please excuse us, ladies, we’ll be right back. I need your advice on something, Diego. Let’s go to the bar and have a Calvados; it will help ward off the cold.” “But, Enrique, is this so important that we have to abandon those two beautiful ladies? Although Angelina and I have started to talk about some things that we had left in the air, she still doesn’t believe I love her. And now that I’ve finished one of my paintings, she doesn’t like the scene’s theme of protest that I had conceived for it back in London.” “She must have some reason for it. For only a moment, Angelina, let me free you of this monster’s repeated and tiring siege on you. Believe me, Diego, I need to talk to you now.” “Fine, fine. Let’s go. And you, my fine ladies, please excuse the lack of education of this pair of ungentlemanly Mexicans.” Sitting at the bar with their favorite drinks in front of them, Freymann implored Diego to make a decision. “Listen, Rivera, there’s an article in a Zurich newspaper saying that one of the people we admire the most, Rosa Luxemburg, is going to give a lecture in the economics department at the university. In just three days from now.”

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“Don’t make up stories about things that are so important to me!” “It’s absolutely true. It’s next Friday. We could take a direct train on Thursday night. It’s a great opportunity to meet her, Vladirmir Ilich Lenin, and Karl Kautsky as well. According to the article, the three of them will talk about revolutionary theory.” “If they speak in German, I’m done for. I wouldn’t understand a word they’re saying.” “Don’t worry about that. I’ll translate the most important concepts and ideas of their presentations for you. The event promises to be interesting, because they’re planning to debate Luxemburg’s article, ‘What Comes Next?’ Lenin and Kautsky don’t agree with the article’s ideological position in terms of the future of socialism.” “I’m definitely interested in the event. It’s worth going in order to meet the three great Socialist theoreticians, even if I have to leave Angelina behind and face even colder weather. So, just you and I will go, right? Angelina is a white Russian, and the color red still repulses her.” “I understand. Lilí is a Socialist, and she would be interested in going, but, you’re right, we can’t include them in our plans. They don’t lose out on anything, and we gain everything: freedom!”

VII hey left for Switzerland and, given their foreign status, which was impossible to disguise, they were stopped along the way and at the border to explain why they were traveling in winter in an inhospitable land. In the interrogations, they explained that as students with government scholarships, they were required to visit certain museums in Europe, including the one in Zurich. After listening to their reasoning, the guards repeatedly tended to believe Freymann more than Rivera, mainly due to the strange way the latter was dressed, which made him look more like a vagabond than a real painter. “Enrique, you know I like to be taken for a ragtag undesirable. It gives me a way to identify with interesting people in society, yet I

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still can’t understand why it’s a reflection of my own insecurities. I still haven’t found myself.” “Your argument is well taken, Diego, but if you arrive in Zurich looking like that, not even the most radical revolutionary will believe you’re a painter. They will confuse you with the last fugitive to leave the secret prisons of the Russian Tzar.” The University of Zurich was the final destination for all roads leading to freedom for those who had left Central Europe in order to escape political repression and wars of fratricide. Young revolutionaries, who had emigrated from Russia, Poland, and Germany, had congregated there. The exiles studied revolutionary theory at the university. The diverse factions and languages that were spoken there in order to demonstrate their agreements or disagreements had created a modern international Tower of Babel, which would have been difficult to find anywhere else in the world. The basic tenant of the program was the complex analysis of socialism. The students attending classes there were unique in their own right. The teachers were also the students, all of whom had a profound knowledge in theory and practice of “subversive” doctrines. Rosa Luxemburg, Vladimir Ilich Lenin, and Karl Kautsky were invited to a special forum in order to discuss the students’ proposals concerning revolutionary practice. Rivera and Freymann decided to introduce themselves at the forum as painters from Mexico, where pre-revolutionary effervescence had provoked acts of repression, now known throughout the world. In separate notes written by Enrique, they requested from the corresponding authorities the necessary permission to attend the meetings as observers. They took seats in a row designated for visitors. When the presenters took their places, they ended up sitting directly in front of the Mexican painters. Rosa Luxemburg, whose small stature contained an enormous talent and inner strength, left the Mexicans disconcerted. “General strikes are enough in themselves to incite revolution for the proletariat,” declared Luxemburg. “The economic struggle brought about by strikes is adequate for moving rebellion from the political center to another. Finally, as a part of my criterion, I believe

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that political struggle is the periodic fertilization of the ground necessary to prepare for economic struggle. These three stages lead directly to revolutionary insurrection.” Her presentation triggered total silence in the room. Everyone present was astonished at her audacity, given that no one until then had dared to question orthodox Marxist theory on revolutionary methodology, which was traditionally based on four stages. Lenin, who was obviously perturbed by what had been said, insisted that revolutions had to continue to follow the strategy of the four traditional steps: fomenting clandestine activities; repeated daily preparation based on theory; organizing separate, independent cells; and creating a socialist mentality in the leaders of the proletarian masses. General strikes, he insisted categorically, could not be considered the only method for precipitating world revolution. Freymann, who was translating for Diego, made some comments. “Diego, something gravely serious is occurring here: The ‘Red Rose’ and Lenin are proposing very controversial—and opposing— positions and criteria. Things are getting hot and they may get worse when Kautsky speaks. “As far as I’m concerned, I hope this lady gets even more heated up and passes some of it to me, because I’m just about frozen to death,” answered Diego maliciously. “Get serious, Diego, even in special circumstances like these you still have to say something with sexual innuendo.” It was Kautsky’s turn. As a way to challenge the others, he presented his theory called “Two Strategies,” considered an adequate method for creating revolution ever since it was used during the Roman Republic. The process consisted of leading the enemy to complete exhaustion before applying the definitive strategy of total annihilation: “First exhaustion, then death.” Once again, the audience was left disconcerted, this time by Kautsky’s presentation. Rosa Luxemburg saw it as a personal attack on her, because Kautsky’s tactics meant an erosion of the agreements that had been made after the Russian Revolution of 1905, a time when her arguments were deemed correct in that general strikes were an acceptable strategy for promoting the struggle, not only in Russia but also in other parts of the world. Kautsky clearly wanted

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to replace her notions with classical Roman tactics, but to return to classical times seemed completely anachronistic. At that point, Lenin stepped into the foray. He agreed that Kautsky’s rejection of Luxemburg’s methodology had created personal conflict between the two of them. After several hours of debate, the room was filled with cigarette smoke and the odor of excited, sweating people. When the presenters at the meeting called for the audience to leave the room, Freymann took advantage of the confusion to approach Rosa Luxemburg. “Comrade, I’m Enrique Freymann. My friend, Diego Rivera, and I are Mexican painters who want to initiate a program of revolutionary art for the masses. We came to hear you with the hope of clearing up some ideas and reaffirming our convictions. We understand why you and Kautsky disagree. They way we see it, his position represents a movement away from our revolutionary tactics. Return to Rome in order to create strategy for socialist revolution? How crazy is that?” “You’re both Mexican? Like the ones who are always fighting among themselves?” answered Luxemburg. “It would be interesting to talk to you young painters.” Diego, who didn’t understand a word they were saying to each other, became impatient and audaciously approached Lenin, who was surrounded by a group of students. The “internationalists” questioned him in French about the way to create political cells for terrorist activities as a revolutionary tactic, which would be a way to substitute general strikes for more drastic measures. Once Diego was next to Lenin, he spoke to him much in the same way Freymann had spoken to Luxemburg. “Comrade Lenin, at your service. My name is Diego Rivera. I’m a Mexican painter. Like other friends, such as Freymann who is over there talking to Luxemburg, we have come from Paris in search of guidance. It is our goal to work in the pictorial arts whose ideological content would be made accessible to the revolutionary sectors of society.” “Young man, your presence here is important. It’s true that in order to create art for the masses you must become steeped in Marx-

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ist theory. You were correct in coming here, because you’ll have the opportunity to hear many ideological discussions.” The audience that had been milling around began to disband. Students walked under the tenuous lights of the university toward the city. It was obvious that the topics discussed that evening greatly interested them. Everyone was chattering away, wanting to have the last word as they were leaving. Diego and Enrique were now convinced that revolutionary theory, even with its different nuances, was the point of real convergence for young Socialists throughout the world. “This was an excellent idea, Enrique. I will never forget having the opportunity to meet these famous people. By just listening to them we have learned much more than hours of reading. I never imagined that I would meet Rosa Luxemburg one day, much less Lenin and Kautsky. This trip has been very important! And we still have tomorrow to listen and talk to them.” “Well, of course, Diego. That’s what I tried telling you, but you wouldn’t listen. Sometimes I think that love is corrupting you.” The following night, after Rosa Luxemburg had made her presentation, Diego said to Freymann, “You’re right about that woman’s talent. The clarity of her thoughts has allowed me to understand Marx with respect to the contradictions inherent in the evolving stages of capitalism and the subsequent world war.” “For me, an important part of her talk was her affirmation of the need for the working class to emerge on its own with the necessary energy to bring about its liberation. From her position as an economist, ‘Red Rose’ has correctly foreseen that if it doesn’t happen that way, European society and its workers will succumb to anarchism. However, her statement at the end had the greatest impact on me. She said that humanity has two choices: socialism or barbarism. The next war will involve workers against workers. And after that . . . ?” “That was an incredible statement, but most likely true,” added Freymann. “And we did see barbarism in England: the nobility was eating shit!” During the next day, the two friends had a second opportunity to speak with Lenin and Luxemburg. The experts on Marxism asked

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the two Mexicans if socialism was possible in Mexico. “If a revolution were to erupt in Mexico,” answered Diego emphatically, “it wouldn’t be socialist in nature, but rather a mix of agrarian, democratic, and bourgeois elements. The working class has had little time to study anarco-syndicalist theory. There is much work to do before a Marxist culture can be created. For now, a good number of the Mexican people and a few politicians would be happy with overthrowing the dictator, Porfirio Díaz.” Diego Rivera’s statement was enough to get an invitation from the Russian leader to continue conversations in Paris.

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Soon after their return to Paris, Rivera had the opportunity to recount his experiences in Zurich for his socialist friends in Montparnasse. In re-living his encounter with Lenin and Luxemburg, his revolutionary zeal would become inflamed, he would repeat his desire to return to Mexico. He became more adamant about returning when he learned from friends’ letters about the expected electoral fraud against the presidential candidate Francisco I. Madero, guaranteeing Porfirio Díaz’s re-election. Mexicans were taking up arms. Everywhere throughout the country, people were demanding “Genuine Elections, No Re-election!” In May 1910, when Rivera received a letter from Murillo in which he commented on Madero’s decision to demand that Díaz conduct free and open elections, Rivera was on the verge of returning to Mexico. He almost had his bags packed, when he read another part of the letter: “Diego, you must return home. Now that you have acquired great prestige in Europe, your return to this country is urgent in order to give direction to the new, burgeoning movement of Mexican painting.” A post-script at the end of the letter said it all: “Come home, revolution is at our doorstep. You need to become a part of the movement. Madero is preparing a revolt.” Three years had passed since he had left Mexico. For some time, he had been feeling the pull of his homeland. Now he had two responsibilities to his nation: one, political, and the other, artistic.

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His desire to master other painting styles had kept him in Paris, where he had spent time in museums and galleries avidly studying contemporary French artists and the Cubists, who had introduced vast changes in painting. He had begun to work with large canvases that accepted his large brush strokes of varying colors without really losing his own style of realism. While painting canvas after canvas that he would one day take back to Mexico, he received authorization from Dehesa, the governor of Veracruz, to return to Mexico and to present an exhibition of his work during the festivities celebrating Mexico’s first one hundred years of independence, an extremely important social and political event. Because the finances for his return trip were delayed in Mexico, he had to keep postponing his return. The entire summer went by, and it wasn’t until October that the resources he requested from Don Teodoro Dehesa finally arrived. Just hours before he was to leave Paris, Diego went down to the Closerie des Lilles, where his teacher Lenin and his followers would frequently meet. With his usual daring, upon arriving he asked if Lenin was already there. “Comrade, excuse me, I’m Diego Rivera, a Mexican painter. I met Comrade Lenin in Zurich and I would very much like to speak to him. Actually, I want to say good-bye. I’m going back to Mexico.” “I’ve heard of you. I’m Anatole Lunacharsky, and I’ll be happy to give the message to our friend. He told me about having met you. I’ve seen some of your work, and I think it’s interesting.” “Thank you, but that’s precisely the reason for my return. I need to go back in order to make my work more consistent in a political sense. Back in Mexico, I will be able to take the pulse of the Mexican people, many of whom are tired of dictatorship and are now threatening to start a revolution.” “Lenin believes that it’s important for you to return and immerse yourself in what’s happening. Then, at some point, you must return to Paris and give us your opinion about the situation. I can assure you that your information will be useful for those of us who are preparing other revolutions.” “Comrade Lunacharsky, you have my promise that I will return.

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What Lenin feels is important to him become orders for me.”

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Angelina had recently departed for Saint Petersburg. She andDiego had fallen deeply in love and had promised each other a future together. Now Paris was empty for Diego; her presence turned out to be more important than he thought. He went by her studio to pick up some paintings she had stored there, which gave him a last opportunity to gaze fondly on his lover’s work. Among her engravings, he found a painting that she had done while they were in Bruges. It was an idealized portrait of him, the way she wanted to see him. If he were to change, would Angelina still love him? In their last meeting Angelina had said, “Diego, I have a strong premonition that we’ll never see each other again. Even until today, I have continuing doubts about the sincerity of your love. Despite our common material and spiritual interests, this trip will create great distances that will draw us apart. Our separation will be definitive.” “You’re frightened by the way I am, aren’t you, Angelina? Regardless, for your own satisfaction, I must tell you now that you’re wrong. I will return to marry you. You can consider yourself my fiancée. I have your picture and I will show it to my mother who, despite her strong ways, will see your beauty and the tenderness that’s reflected in your sleepy blue eyes. The rest of my family will accept you, too.” “Are you telling the truth? Frankly, I never expected you to say something like that. Once I go back to my homeland and we manage to see each other again, I will know for sure how I feel. As far as you should be concerned, I will wait for you.” When Rivera was about to depart, he said good-bye to his friend Freymann, who only had one thing to say to him. “Diego, deep down inside, who will win? The red of Lenin or the whiteness of Angelina?” “Freymann, my friend, I will make every effort to create a ménage á trois. Diego got on the next train to Madrid. There were other works

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in storage at Chicharro’s studio that he had painted when traveling around Spain, the same ones that his other teacher, Sorolla, liked so much. They would probably satisfy the Mexicans who admire Spanish Classicism. After saying good-bye to Don Eduardo and packing up his things, he finally departed for San Sebastián, where he boarded a ship to Havana and, finally, Veracruz.

VIII strange person as old and emaciated as the ship itself was standing near the railing of the steamship as Diego boarded. Despite a similarity to the mute phantom from the legend of The Flying Dutchman, when the sailor saw the painter start up the gangplank, he screamed at the top of his lungs, “No matter how stupid you are, get on board quickly or the storm will carry you out to sea!” “I’m a passenger. Rivera’s my name. I need your help. These rolls of paintings that I’m carrying won’t let me get up the gangplank! I might lose all my work! Please, come and help me!” “So I see. I’ll give you a hand. Be right there!” Once they were under cover and out of the storm, Rivera almost choked from the water he had swallowed. He could barely talk. “My friend, it all happened so fast. I owe you for saving my personal possessions. Thank you!” Moments later, the storm unleashed its fury. Both sailor and passenger stood in awe, watching the spectacle of the clouds growing darker and ominously sliding across the tops of the waves. The rain and the waves banged against the ship, causing an insufferable din. After the storm had passed, the gruff sailor seemed to be more friendly toward Rivera. “Sir, I’m pleased to have you with us! I was worried you might get left behind, ’cause you’re the last passenger to board the ship. I’m Captain José Encarnación Ventura, an old salt in the Merchant Marine.” “Captain Ventura, I appreciate your kind words. Even though I was about to miss the ship, it was worth witnessing that spectacular show of Mother Nature.”

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“A storm like that’s a privilege to see,” said the captain. “During this time of year, we’ll get more of that, which may make you and others uncomfortable during the trip. We’ll start off by following the coasts of Spain and Portugal. If necessary, we’ll follow the coastline of Africa, too, after which we’ll strike out toward the Americas, passing near the Azores.” “Is it always so stormy this time of year?” “Clearly. I recommend that you stay in your cabin as much as you can. There, you’ll find a package of books, a gift from our mutual friend Don Ramón del Valle Inclán. He thinks very highly of you. He wrote me to let me know you were taking my ship.” “Don Ramón did that? He’s such a good friend.” Rivera spent several days shut away in his cabin, where he spent most of his time reading about Valle Inclán’s dashing here, the Marques of Bradomín. One morning, the painter saw some light filter through the skylight, and his mood improved immediately. His depression dissipated, and he decided to take a walk on the deck, carrying his portable easel and box of paints with him. It was marvelous, he thought to himself, to be able to see the light of day again. Those clouds had been as dark as some of his thoughts. Suffering from cabin fever and day after day of darkness had brought back memories of Mexico that he thought had been forgotten. He wondered why he had related the darkness to his father and mother. All the while couped up he had feared getting another migraine headache. Fortunately, the sun had come out now and he was in better spirits! Positioned on the bow of the ship, standing in front of his easel, he drew a smile on the canvas. The captain went over to greet him. Once he could inspect the “old salt” in the sunlight, Diego saw there was nothing so ghostly about him. He was slender and, in his old sailor uniform looked quite elegant. His trimmed beard and captain’s hat gave him that seafaring charm that women who like uniforms find attractive. In fact, Diego found out he had already been married several times. “If you don’t mind, I’ll call you by your first name, Diego, in honor of your youth and admiration for our friend the Marquis. What

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a great day for you to be out painting!” “Captain Ventura, you’re right! I’m going to paint a seascape, which will be a good way to pass the time. Quite frankly, I couldn’t stand being couped up anymore. Don Ramón’s stories of that Don Juan-type marquis filled me with erotic fantasies and made me feel a little closer to my homeland. I’ve enjoyed having the chance to read, but damn it, enough is enough!” At that moment the artist turned his gaze toward the horizon. Out in the middle of nowhere, suddenly a group of islands came into view, like small mountains emerging from the surface of the water. They were the Azores. As they approached the islands, Diego said, “Captain, what an extraordinary vision we have in front of us! The landscape seems at once both real and unreal. Look at the crystalline-clear waterfalls gushing down the crevices of the mountains, while the mist sparkles in the crisp air. You can barely see the slant-roofed houses, the forests, and the fertile green hills. And over there are sheepherders tending their flocks just like in biblical times.” “Rivera, are you really that impressed with what you see? They’re just the Azores.” “But it’s a magnificent landscape. Look at how the waves beat against the rocks, creating different formations—arches and columns—in front of the cliffs. They give the impression that they’ve been created by some mythological Cyclops. Some of the rocks look like winged gods.” “Say, you’ve described this landscape only as a true artist can! Your description reminds me of those books I used to read when I was young about the old adventurers, the Argonauts, who described the lost Atlantis.” “Yes, and I also perceive in these islands the origins of Olympian culture. Those carved escarpments could very well be the work of the inhabitants of Atlantis.” “You’re so right, Diego.” Rivera spent the rest of the journey painting during the day and at night, listening to the captain recount his adventures in remote places of the world, where the Cyclops and giants were not only

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carved in stone but also made of flesh and bone. When it was Diego’s turn, he would describe landscapes from his infancy in Guanajuato. He would also find Cyclopean formations, like the frogs about which his nanny would tell stories, or flights through the air and doing battle with immense ugly birds, not unlike the one that Ventura described in his legends. Of course, among the real and unreal stories that were told, there were always the amorous experiences that caused pain and suffering. Like a chorus line dancing before Ventura’s eyes, Rivera described all the women he had known: Carmela, other refined ladies, the Great Lady of Spain, and two or three intellectual friends, painters, or artists. Diego made special mention of Angelina, remembering fondly her fine skin and faithful heart. Their arrival at the port of Veracruz was announced for one o’clock the following afternoon. Unable to sleep that night, Rivera was up before daybreak. As he gazed into the mirror, he was amazed to see how old and emaciated he looked. How stupid is this, he said to himself, the last leg of his journey had turned into a nightmare. On the one hand, he was anxious to get home, but on the other, he was terrified to return to the miserable life he had led in El Carmen neighborhood. He truly hoped things had changed there. Outside, standing next to the railing, he heard Ventura approaching. “Good morning, Diego. I’m glad to see you up so early. We’ve just left Havana and in a few hours we’ll be able to see the Mexican coastline. I imagine you’re happy.” “Captain, you ask me if I’m happy to be returning? I don’t know how to answer you. Frankly, I couldn’t sleep because a bunch of stupid things were going through my mind. I was in Europe for three years, going from here to there, and believe me, I did manage at times to forget about how mediocre my life was back here. But I can never erase my origins. Long absences leave one unsure of who he is . . .” “You’re quite right. I’ve gone through the same thing. Suddenly, I forget who I am. This usually happens when a person leaves his country for a long time. After a while, you’ve lost contact with your past.”

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“That’s just the way it is, my friend. At this very moment, for instance, I have no idea who I am or where I am.” “Get some rest, young man. Then you’ll be ready to disembark. We’ll be arriving at one o’clock. It’s early October and a beautiful day outside.” Taking the captain’s advice, Rivera sat his voluminous, tired body down in a rickety old chair that seemed like it was going to fall apart. The rhythmic sound of the waves and the soft rolling of the ship almost hypnotized him. He half-closed his eyes and began to count the waves slapping against the bow of the ship. As they approached Veracruz, a coastline that he knew all too well, a strange-looking bay appeared before his eyes. At the outer point of the rocky inlet, he could see the tenuous, rotating beacon of the lighthouse. Large rocks had created an uneven shoreline. The sea would find its way into caverns and disappear into the sandy inlets, or it would pound its way into window-like perforations in the rocks, leaving giant spurts of foamy liquid to flow back out toward the horizon. He fixed his attention on two enormous rocky overhangs next to the craggy point on top of which sat the lighthouse: the first one looked like an enormous shell out of which a tortoise had protruded its head looking west; the other one looked like a large flabby walrus smiling at the passengers who were about to land on the beach. The painter looked at the innumerable megaliths with curiosity, realizing that together they created a strange sanctuary. Here and there, it seemed like human figures were dashing in and out of the craggy crevices. They were dressed all in black, and their robes were made of some light, transparent material. They gathered in front of the walrus, undoubtedly a marine goddess for those who lived along that coast. Then they began dancing, raising arms and legs in graceful patterns reminiscent of some sacred ritual. They moved about as if they had wings, and at a precise moment, they took flight. As they rose into the air, they scattered yellow flowers over the deity. Squinting to get a closer look at the flying apparitions, the painter immediately recognized his family: his father Diego, his mother María, his aunts Totota and Cesarita, his sister María del Pilar, his nanny Antonia, his uncles Rafael, Carlos and Ramón, his

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aunt Adela. They were participating in a special ceremony. He could hear their screaming way above him, which sounded like they were desperately cackling. They were thankful to the goddess for having kept the ocean waters calm, so that their dearly beloved Dieguito could return home safely. But why were they dressed all in black? Why was he constantly accompanied by ghosts and death? Damnation! If his family were truly happy that he was returning to Mexico, they should have been dressed in white clothes embroidered with colorful birds and flowers to show their happy nature, like the other inhabitants of those lush, tropical climes. At that moment, it felt as if the waves had enveloped him and were pulling him along toward the sanctuary. If he were to crash into the rocks, he would die. Now completely terrified, he opened his eyes. He immediately looked around. On the horizon, which wasn’t far away, he could see the coastline of Veracruz. The silhouette of the feared San Juan de Ulúa fortress loomed menacingly over the tropical landscape. He had just had a nightmare, replete with omens and repressed memories.

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Don Diego, María del Pilar, and his uncle Carlos were waiting for him at the dock. They were dressed in black. He hurried down the gangplank to the security of his father’s embrace. Don Diego looked more sad than happy that his son was back; the same was true for his uncle, to whom he owed a great deal and even María del Pilar, who he would tire out from giving her so many kisses. Once his uncle Carlos took care of the customs formalities, they stood together and shared recent information about the sad happenings in the family. They were in mourning for his aunt Totota, who had died some days earlier. Doña María was sick and could not travel. She did request that they return that evening on the train, she was so anxious to see her beloved son. Upon their arrival in Mexico City, the Rivera family made their way to the poor neighborhood of La Merced. Everything was exactly the same; nothing had changed during his three-year absence. His

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family was living on the top floor of a large house that at one time had been someone’s mansion. Oddly, it looked much like their house on Pocitos Street, in Guanajuato. As they climbed the stairs, he heard his mother call out. “My dear son, I’m so glad that you’re back!” Then he heard Antonia’s voice behind him, so he turned around, and with disbelief, he saw his nanny standing there, waiting patiently, although partially hidden in the vestibule. “Dieguito, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” she said overcome by emotion. At that very moment, the old duality crossed his mind: nanny and mother; father and mother; love and hate; rich and poor; art and politics; conformity and rebellion. He was tormented by the anguish he suddenly felt. “I’ve come back to the same old thing,” he mumbled with bitterness, “black birds awaiting my death in order to consume my rotting flesh.” Diego slept for a few hours, but the anger over seeing the way his parents continued to live made him tremble all over again. He took off walking down the empty streets in the downtown area and decided to search for his friend Murillo, who still knew nothing about his return to Mexico. He’ll be surprised to see me, said Diego to himself. And that’s the way it turned out. Upon seeing him, Atl was warm and expressive. “Diego, when did you get back? You’re a real S.O.B. You didn’t even bother to answer my letters. Was it your little white angelical Angelina, whose name carries her fame, who made you cut off our friendship? If that’s what happened, may the Russian lady go straight to hell. I hope you haven’t brought her back with you, or even worse, married her.” “Atl, how can you say such stupid things? Angelina didn’t have a thing to do with our relationship. She stayed in Paris in order to get ready for her trip back to Russia. When I received your letter telling me that something big was going on, I used my time to travel in order to learn more about public art. Then I worked on some paint-

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ings to sell so I could put some money together for the trip back. And here I am.” “What are you going to do now? The monumental exhibition that us graduates of the academy put together was a total success, but you didn’t even show up.” “It was impossible to get here before now. I’ll put on my own exhibition. I have enough canvases. But one thing for sure, I’ll need your help to convince Rivas Mercado and Dehesa that it will be worth it to hang my paintings in the austere salons of San Carlos. By the way, what were you referring to when you said something big was about to happen?” “Francisco I. Madero put the old bastard who’s running this country on the hot seat. Madero refused to accept the fraud committed during the scandalous elections in May—giving Porfirio his eighth re-election—announced in June his “San Luis Plan” calling for the people to take up arms to guarantee compliance with the motto of his campaign: “Effective Suffrage, No Re-election.” “Is this true?” “Of course, it is. He announced it by calling for a national uprising on November 20.” “How’s that? A pre-announced revolution with a date and everything? That sounds incredible. That Madero is either a naïve dreamer or an authentic hero.” “Well, he’s the latter, and the most amazing thing is that already there are groups, even entire towns, that support him. Up north, as you know, Ricardo Flores Magón has led his Anti-Reelection Party in revolt since 1908. In the south, there’s Emiliano Zapata, who has been demanding water, land, and liberty for the state of Morelos. Even people in Guerrero, Puebla, and in the southern hills of the valley of Mexico are ready for guerrilla warfare against the Federalist army.” “And what about the outcome of the uprising in Río Blanco and my friends, those anarchists with whom I fought before I left on my scholarship?” “The ones who were spared being assassinated like Jara continue to operate underground. They’re all ready to start the battle on the 20th.”

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“Good, and what about us?” “At the academy, we’re working secretly to get rid of this tyrant, now that he’s cut us off. Listen, it just occurred to me that our attempt to bring an end to this regime could coincide with your exhibition.” “Of course! What better moment to bring down the tyrant ourselves!” “Exactly! Starting right now we’ll begin to prepare two coup d’etats simultaneously: your success as a repatriated painter to Mexico and the final expatriation to Hell of this eternally reelected tyrant.”

IX fter setting up his exhibition of paintings in the principal galleries of San Carlos Academy for the night of November 19, 1910, Diego said good-night to his friends—Gerardo Murillo, Francisco de la Torre, Gonzalo Argüelles, and Alfonso and Alberto Garduño. Hand in hand, they had worked together to hang every last painting. The next day, Porfirio Díaz was to appear in person to inaugurate what “promised to be one of the most important artistic events of the year,” according to an article in El Mundo Ilustrado. “My friends, we’re all done. Thanks for your help. I’m going to stick around a while. I want to talk to Antonio Rivas Mercado. But I’ll meet you guys here in the morning, the earlier the better, eh,” reiterated Diego as he said good-bye. “Why, of course, we’ll be back here at the break of dawn,” answered Murillo, “right, you bunch of lazy bastards? That’s what we agreed on.” “Yes, sir, there’s no way we can’t be here,” answered Alfonso. “Don Porfirio and his entourage arrive at ten o’clock, so it behooves us to be here long before that. On the way, we’ll have some atole, cornmeal gruel to warm us up. In the early morning hours, Doña Librada’s chocolate-flavored atole, really hits the spot. It’s really famous around here, and Diego, you’ve never tried it. Are you so Frenchified now that you’re above all that?” “Ah, Alfonso, if you only knew what it’s like to be cold, as in

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Europe,” added Murillo. “Over there, one freezes both on the outside and the inside. There’s nothing like the warm climate of our country. It doesn’t matter where you come from, but it’s always better to have recently come from the warmth of a woman. Your idea is a good one: to get going in the morning, we’ll go and have some atole. In the meantime, don’t screw around and point your finger at us. It’s all good.” Rivera went to the main office of the academy, where his friends Gonzalo Argüelles, Francisco Jáuregui, and Eduardo Hay, the first a painter and the latter two architects, were waiting for him. They were all bitter enemies of the dictatorship. “Diego, you didn’t forget to get what we need, did you?” asked Jáuregui. “Hell no. The explosives that Murillo gave me are well hidden. That bearded anarchist will never change. He offered to be here early, but I’ll get here first with the explosives. Gonzalo was with me when we decided to do it that way. He’s my witness.” The news spread quickly throughout the country: Thousands of rebels supported Madero and his San Luis Plan. In Puebla the day before, the Serdán brothers were assassinated for having followed Madero’s orders to proclaim November 20th as the day of the Mexican Revolution. Since the threats against the dictator’s life were growing daily, the president’s security guards showed up at the academy at midnight before his appearance in order to occupy certain strategic places the next day. “Diego, the secret police have arrived. They took me by surprise,” said Alberto Garduño, entering the office where they were hatching the conspiracy. “Stay calm, Garduño. And so now what do we do?” asked Diego. “It’s true. I just heard them marching in,” added Eduardo Hay. “They’ll most likely inspect the whole place. They’ve been warned about something, because it’s rumored that Don Antonio protects rebels, above all, those who belong to the ‘advanced schools,’ as the government likes to call the academy and other schools. Let’s get out of here before they find us!” “We’ll have to use the secret door that Rivas Mercado uses,” volunteered Jáuregui, “otherwise those bastards are going to catch us in

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the act. Let’s leave now, and as soon as the danger’s past, we’ll come back and continue preparing for the president’s big reception.” Jáuregui led his friends to a bathroom next to the offices. Behind a stained-glass enclosure, there was a security door that went down some stairs and out into the street. As they were sneaking out, they realized that the fearsome groups of thugs, known as security, had surrounded the entire building. If they were to leave now, they’d have to return immediately in order not to be discovered. They couldn’t take any chances now, given that they had to take time to arm the apparatus with the explosives that Murillo would toss at Díaz the next morning.

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According to plan, Rivera showed up at the academy at 4:00 A.M. Several groups of policemen had blocked the doors. A corporal and a sergeant stopped Rivera. “You! You’re not allowed inside! Stop right there, young man!” said a sergeant with a menacing face. “But I’m Diego Rivera. I just arrived from Europe and I’m the one who’s exhibiting the paintings inside for the president to see today. I hope the hell he buys all of them. I really need the money.” “Hey, hold your tongue! Be more respectful! Watch what you say, eh! Let’s see some identification.” “Sergeant, here’s my passport. I don’t have anything else to show you.” “Corporal! Make sure this document is legitimate.” The corporal grabbed the document and pretended to read it. “Yeah, it looks like him, except the one in the picture has a beard,” he added. “Yes, you’re right. I had a beard, but I shaved it off. It’s too hot to run around with a beard in Mexico.” “Don’t take it wrong, young man,” said the corporal, “but you look much better without the beard. In the picture, you even look like one of those anarchists who goes around causing problems. Perhaps you wanted to hide from someone with that getup?”

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“Look here, you might be a corporal or whatever, but that doesn’t authorize you to get personal. Besides, why would I be just an anarchist? If I wanted to do it up right, I’d be something better, like a socialist anarco-syndicalist. Don’t you think?” “Ah, this is ridiculous. Shut up and stop farting around,” ordered the sergeant. “Otherwise, I won’t let you in, no matter who you are.” Diego started to get nervous. Seeing that things were getting complicated, he softened his attitude. “Okay, Sergeant. Enough joking. Please let me in, because there is still a lot to do. Tell your colleague to let me through.” “Before I do that, what do you have with you there?” “It’s my box of paints. I need it to touch up some of the paintings. Some of the canvases were damaged in the trip.” “You’re going to touch them up now?” “Yes, because last night there wasn’t enough light to do it. So, damn it, are you going to let me in or not?” The corporal began to notice how quickly the painter became more and more nervous. “Do you want to let him go in?” he asked the sergeant. “Let him in. After all, he’s just a pansy-ass painter. He ain’t anyone who’ll cause problems.” Diego acted like he didn’t hear what was said. All he wanted to do was get inside. “See here, Sergeant, if you’d like, come inside and see my work. In fact, if you’re interested, I’ll show you how I touch up paintings.” “Nah, I’m not interested. Corporal, let him in!” The subordinate obeyed, raising his rifle and letting Rivera enter the school. “Go ahead!” “Thanks, Comrade,” answered Rivera, as he hurried inside sweating profusely. He didn’t hear anything else that was said. “Hey, dummy, did you hear what he said? Calling us comrades? He sounds like a commie. What if that supposed painter is some revolutionary in disguise? “Nah, he has a valid passport and it said clearly: Occupation: Painter. Or maybe he isn’t. Still, that’s a decent profession.”

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Meanwhile, Rivera went straight to the main office of the academy and closed the door, completely covering it with his voluminous body. “Diego, you’re late!” said Eduardo. “Yes, I am. I forgot about the secret entrance. I was stopped at the front door by Díaz’s henchmen. They almost made me open my box of paints. I’ve broken out in a cold sweat.” “Don’t tell me! So what happened?” “They wouldn’t let me through. Fortunately, I bluffed my way in. It wasn’t a big deal. I made it, that’s the important thing.” “Did you bring the explosives?” “Of course. That’s why I almost peed in my pants. If they had kept me any longer, I would’ve started shaking all over. Here they are,” he said, taking the sticks of dynamite out of his paint box. “We’ll put them in the director’s safe,” explained Jáuregui. “When it’s time, we’ll put them in a special box, which I have right here. Take a look!” “Jáuregui, you’re so particular,” exclaimed Hay. “But thanks to you we were wise to come back early through the secret door. If we hadn’t spent the night here, they would have detained us too. Some kind of conspiracy this is!” “Anyway,” Jáuregui interjected, “it’s my understanding that when Díaz comes in, I’m supposed to take the explosives out of the safe and down the hallway to the exit door of the academy. Who do I give them to then?” “Me,” affirmed Hay emphatically, “and I’ll pass them along to Murillo. He’s the one who is responsible for lighting the fuse and throwing the explosives just as the president leaves the academy and heads for his carriage. That way, we can eliminate the tyrant without hurting innocent bystanders.” “Right, exactly as Murillo suggested,” commented Rivera. “In 1905, we got involved in a similar incident and we barely got out of going to prison for it. For Murillo, revolutions are a piece of cake. He’s got a good eye, he knows how to perfect the plan, and he’s good at organizing people, time, and dynamite. He said he learned all of this when he was a youngster in Guadalajara and played around with firecrackers, bottle rockets, and cherry bombs.”

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To the insurgents’ chagrin, President Díaz changed his mind and, instead of attending the exhibition, decided to attend to other government matters. His wife, Doña Carmen Romero Rubio de Díaz, showed up instead, arriving at ten o’clock sharp along with Teodoro Dehesa, the proud organizer of the event, and other dignitaries. The group viewed Rivera’s paintings; several of the visitors had favorable comments, especially about the paints from Bruges and the one from Paris, “Our Lady of Paris.” “I just love the way he’s painted that Parisian cathedral! It seems so real! It’s a colossal monument!” exclaimed Señora Díaz. “You’ve right, Carmelita,” agreed Doña María Luján. “It’s a true masterpiece. Too bad about that pair of ruffians obstructing the front of the cathedral. They take away from the religious sentiment in the work.” “You’re right, Malú,” added Don Frederico Robles Gil. “If it weren’t for those two characters, I’d buy it for my collection of European paintings, but as it is the work has lost its pious nature.” With an attitude not unlike those who supposedly possessed a true knowledge of art, the entire group took pleasure in the event. Following Señora Díaz’s lead, the visitors, whose artistic tastes were dictated by the characteristics of the Spanish academic school, purchased the works that had most impressed the teacher Sorolla and paid handsomely for them. Just as Diego María Rivera had imagined, the vain Mexicans were greatly pleased with the European flavor of his works, especially because he was an authentic Mexican painter. Given the success of the exhibition, Señor Dehesa was more satisfied than Rivera himself. “Doña Carmelita, don’t you think that the work by my friend Rivera is excellent.” “Don Teodoro, I like his work so much that I’m going to buy several of his paintings.” Despite the success of the art sale, the projected political conspiracy was a flop. The fact that the First Lady had showed up at the exhibition instead of the old president was enough to destroy the

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intent of Murillo and his rebellious friends. Their work was in vain. Hence, there was no need for Jáuregui to retrieve the explosives and put them in a special container. Eduardo Hay did not need to carry them to the door of the building. Murillo wouldn’t be lighting the wick. They never did find out the true reason for Don Porfirio not attending the show. It could have been that the president wasn’t much of an art person, or perhaps it was a cautionary measure, given that he probably remembered the revolutionary activities against him and his government that had been carried out by the students at the academy some years before. On the other hand, Rivera’s artistic triumph allowed him to raise some needed funds from the sale of his paintings. It was enough money for him to return to Paris and make good on two promises. One was to marry Angelina and the other was to inform Lenin about the political situation in Mexico. Nevertheless, he was constantly reminded of something that his teacher Félix Parra had told him. What he had brought back with him, he had said, were only tentative technical achievements, even if some were quite impressive. Something was still lacking in his painting: a visible yet personal internal force. Parra thought that the most important objective was to begin retelling not only the great moments of a man or a hero, but also the great feats of mankind, that is, the epic struggle of people for freedom. Rivera understood what Parra was saying and why. Get out there and go to work in rural Mexico, he added, and find out what’s happening in the real Mexico. You won’t be wasting your time.

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One afternoon, after gathering up his courage, Diego decided to speak to his father about some of his major concerns. “You know, Dad, Don Félix Parra gave me some important advice. For one thing, I need to acquire more contact with the people and the countryside. According to him, I came back from Europe with a superficial painting style quite distant from reality. He found my work to be void of any content. He added that I had sold well because they like the aristocratic-style painters.”

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“And, so, what do you think, Diego?” questioned Don Diego. “The most important thing is how you feel and how you see yourself.” “I think he’s right. I’ve been painting in order to please my Spanish teachers and some mediocre tastes that lack personality. I learned the turn-of-the-century, pure academic style from Sorolla and Chicharro. Now I have to do something for our people, that is, get closer to the Mexican people and their feelings, the same way you taught me as a youngster. I need to create art that has the roots and the sentiments of our people, identify myself with my first great teachers: Parra, Velasco, and Posada. They’re the ones who’ve truly learned how to recreate the authentic Mexico. In addition, Posada is the greatest artist to capture the Mexican country folk and the industrial workers.” “And how do you expect to achieve all this?” “For the time being, I’ll do the same as my friends Saturino Herrán and Francisco de la Torre. I’ll paint country scenes that include real people who use ponchos, sandals, and straw hats.” “Have you always cared about the peasants?” “Yes, and I’ll start by painting them. Then I’ll paint the miners and factory workers to whom you introduced me.” “I agree with you, Son.” “You know, Dad, the best place to begin is in Amecameca. My friend Francisco de la Torre has family there. He’s already painted some excellent peasant portraits. He’s invited me to spend some time at his house, and I’ve accepted. When I get back, I hope to return to work with Gerardo Murillo in his studio and with my friends from the Ateneo de la Juventud: Alfonso Reyes and Rafael López from Guanajuato.” “Very well, Diego, I support you and what you’re proposing,” answered Don Diego. But “you’ve got to be very attentive to what’s going on around you. Just on the other side of Amecameca, in the State of Morelos, there’s a guerrilla movement underway led by Emiliano Zapata, and he tends to jump around from one place to another in that mountainous region, all the way from the volcanoes to Ajusco. Don’t cross his path. He’s a powerful man and he’s capable of anything.”

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“Don’t worry, Dad, if I run into him, I’ll just be friendly, explain what I’m doing and head out in another direction, away from his carbines and machetes. I need to have peace and quiet to continue with my experiment, that is, mixing a small amount of white oil color with the seven colors of the rainbow in order to reproduce the color of snow or the clouds. I tried it years ago when I was in Orizaba, painting a canvas of the Citlaltépetl Volcano. I wanted to reproduce the luminous perfection of the basic colors without using their absolute purity, but through a chromatic mixture of that luminous specter.” “Whoa, slow down there, Diego. You’ve come back with some complicated ideas, worse than when you left here. Neither your afflicted mother nor I understand you anymore. We only wish that you find your way. She’s going to be sad about your leaving again. She only wants you with us, but I’ll explain your reasons. She’ll understand.”

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Once again Diego left home in search of the appropriate environment and circumstances to prove his ideas concerning not only pictorial aspects and the intrinsic nature of the color white, but also to delve into the political world and meet those individuals who had formed the nucleus of the revolutionary peasant movement. Above all, he wanted to find Zapata and determine if the accusation was true that he was a “Red.” Diego wanted to understand Zapata’s reasons for instigating a peasant insurrection. Once he had learned about Zapata’s tactics and results, he would report to the revolutionary leader Vladimir Ilich Lenin.

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“Hey, Atl! I’ve decided to join Emiliano Zapata’s revolutionary movement. I’ll stay with them long enough to learn how they’re doing. Afterward, I’ll return to Paris and inform Lenin that I was right all along. So far, I’ve seen or heard of nothing that suggests a socialist movement, neither in the Zapata agrarian movement, nor in Madero’s group. The only thing that I can see happening is a bourgeois revolution from the north,” he told Murillo some days later.

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“You’re so naïve, Diego! Your scientific socialists have failed to produce anything. Only us anarco-syndicalists have made any headway. And it hasn’t been easy.”

X earing a thick, wool poncho and a large, wide-brimmed straw hat, typical of the Morelos region, Francisco de la Torre opened the immense wooden door that sealed off the house from the street. He had already heard the clop-clop of the horse’s hooves pulling the carriage that was bringing the rotund Rivera, after being picked up by foreman Julio Centeno from the train station. Next to Francisco, another curious character awaited Diego’s arrival. His grey overalls gave him the look of a factory worker or a train engineer, but instead of the typical cap worn by those people, this person was sporting a black felt hat with a wide falling brim, similar to the ones worn by the young students at the San Carlos Academy. “Diego, it’s a distinct pleasure to have you here with us in our house. I would like you to meet a longtime, childhood friend, Pedro Perniorroja. He’s a mechanic, but he would like to be a painter like you and me.” “It’s great seeing you again, Francisco, and to meet your friend. You—the expert in two professions—I’m pleased to meet you. Hey, it’s colder than hell here! Julio lent me his poncho; otherwise, I’d be done for.” “Do you know what, Diego? I never imagined in my life that you would be our guest one day! But don’t worry: even though you’ve come in the middle of winter, the change in climate will do you some good. My family loves you. Given all the stories I’ve told them about you, welcome home. My mother has prepared some typical dishes of the region, and there’s already a fire roaring in the chimney in your bedroom. With the fire and some heavy blankets, you’ll be just fine.” “And don’t you see, my friend, no sooner said than done. When we saw each other at my exhibition and you suggested that I come to visit you in Amecameca, who could imagine that I’m already here.” “I’m so happy you’re here, but frankly, tell me, does the sud-

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denness of your visit have something to do with a problem in your family?” “That’s not really the problem, but I have found it impossible to paint at home. So I decided to look for open spaces and more freedom. In addition, our teacher Parra advised me to go out and discover what’s going on in the countryside. But I also wanted to find out about the insurrections . . .” “In that case, you did well in choosing this place. From here, you’ll be able to witness everything, that is, not only the prodigious, wild landscape, but also the painful political battles.” “I’m looking forward to climbing those hills, with their dense forests, and to seeing Totolapan, where supposedly the armies are positioned. Spirited horses and brave men wearing the customary ponchos, wide-brimmed straw hats, and cartridge belts strapped across their chests. They’re in the middle of maneuvers.” “That’s right, Diego,” interjected Pedro. “According to rumors coming from Doña Remigia and other people who work at the market, the leader Zapata has been ready to go to war for years now.” “Has it been that serious?” “Yes, Señor Rivera, this isn’t a recent thing,” added Perniorroja. “For a long time now, the peasants in the countryside have been threatening to take up arms in order to regain their lands. And it looks like finally they’re going to do it.” “True,” agreed Francisco. “For years now, the large landowners have been stripping the communities of everything: water, forests, land, and even the soul of the inhabitants. Around here, the worst enemy of the peasants is Ignacio de la Torre, the owner of large sugar cane plantations in Morelos, and son-in-law of Don Porfirio.” “Of course, I remember,” answered Diego, “that de la Torre became famous when he built that palace on Paseo de la Reforma and hosted the event of the year for the most famous forty-one homosexuals in the entire country. I even heard about the scandal in Paris.” “Bear this in mind, Rivera: the peasants’ demand for the return of their lands is so serious to them that I, Pedro Perniorroja, have invented a special war instrument for blowing up freight trains. Of course, my idea is to negotiate something with the guerrillas in the region.”

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“My friend, did you really invent something like that?” “Yes, I did,” said Rivera’s host. “It consists of a small, simple bomb that’s designed to blow up train cars without damaging the train engines, which can be confiscated immediately by those who need them. The bomb is about the size of our painting boxes, and it’s easy to transport.” “So, Francisco, it’s really true that things here in Morelos have gone to the dogs?” “I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but in September Zapata reconvened the Assembly of Anenecuilco in order to defend the communal lands from being usurped by that same Ignacio de la Torre. Zapata joined forces with Patricio Leyva in order to wrest the power from the eternal governor, Pablo Escandón. Leyva lost and the people of Anenecuilco lost their lands. It’s been said that Zapata will support Madero when he becomes president in exchange for everything that has been stolen from the people of Morelos. Meanwhile, he’s been recruiting rebels everywhere.” “Francisco, of course, I’m aware of what’s going on. I’m interested in Zapata’s ideology. He took his slogan—“Water, Land, and Freedom”—from Ricardo Flores Magón, the one person I consider to be the great philosopher of the rights of the people. The goals of Flores Magón inspired the community’s heroic efforts at the battle of Río Blanco, in which I participated, as you know. In fact, I’ve come to look for Zapata. I want to join forces with the growing movement that he’s created. I admire him for his leadership of the peasants. His revolutionary fight is based on real facts.” “And, Diego, did you think you were fooling me with those reasons you gave me for coming here? Since when do you need fresh air in order to live and paint, especially since your life has unfolded and continues to unfold in places where there’s nothing that grows that would serve as any kind of remedy?” “You didn’t believe me?” “How can I believe you? But I’ll let you keep pretending that you’ve the sincerest person in the world. I know how you are, and that’s why I care so much about you.” “Okay, and now what? I think Pedro Perniorroja’s celebrated

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war invention and my box of paints will match up perfectly to create an extraordinarily effective device.” “You’re right. That’s what Pedro has in mind.” “Francisco, don’t you think the three of us should seek out the insurgents and join forces with them?” “I’m all for it. But you know what, Diego? I’ll join you for a few days until you and Perniorroja have completed negotiations with Ignacio Maya, the general who’s leading an army encamped in Yecapixtla. Afterward, I have to return to the capital. I don’t feel well. My lungs are giving up on me.” “Are you serious?” “I’m pretty sure I have tuberculosis. I’m not sure how serious it is. That’s why I’m going to Mexico City to see a specialist.” “If that’s the way it has to be, don’t worry. Let’s contact Maya and talk to him. Then you can leave us to our own devices.” “That sounds fine to me. That way, I can be back in the capital in a few days. I really appreciate it, because I feel rotten.” “Señor Rivera, this is a great opportunity for me to try out my invention. If you agree, I’ll round up some horses and other necessary equipment for the trip. As soon as I have everything together, we’ll head into Morelos.” “That sounds fine to me, Comrade, and now that we’re going to become ‘train bombers,’ we should drop the formalities and call each other by whatever the hell appeals to us.” “Okay, I’ll call you Diego. I know you’ll be a great comrade: Speaking man to man, I feel strong, now that we have become guerrilla fighters in the Freedom Army of the Sons of the State of Morelos.”

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Early one morning, their trio was finally on its way to General Maya’s encampment. Maya was Zapata’s right-hand man. Given his boldness and bravery, he was in charge of the maneuvers taking place in the region of Morelos that butted up against the Amecameca Mountains, an area known as the “Horn of the Volcanos.” After several hours of going up and down mountainsides on

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horseback and through areas covered with thick vegetation, they came to a valley that had been put to fallow. By late afternoon, they drew close to the army encampment, where Maya awaited their arrival. Lookout posts had spotted them as they came down the mountain. “Hey, city slickers,” said the rebel leader, “Colonel Nava told me that someone overheard you talking about some kind of special weapon that you’ve brought with you. Let’s take a look at it and see if it’s of any use to me.” “First, General, my name is Francisco de la Torre, a neighbor from Amecameca. I came with these two friends, because I’d like to be of some help to you. This isn’t my area of expertise, and now, having had the pleasure of meeting you, I’ll be heading back.” “What? You’re leaving just like that?” “Yes, I’m going back, but I’m leaving this pair of insurgents in your hands.” “But, first, let’s see what kind of deal we can make.” “General, your wish is my command.” “General,” said Perniorroja, saluting him military-style with his right hand, “I’m the one with the invention. My bomb will blow up train cars but leave the engines intact.” “Correct, General Maya,” seconded Rivera, “my friend here is a great inventor, and to make a long story short, he’s like me. We’re no city slickers. We work hard and can fight a good battle; in fact, we don’t take shit from anybody. His invention is something special. Just imagine, it can destroy a military convoy with federal soldiers on board, but not kill the engineer. Is that not in itself a damn good example of what we’re capable of doing?” “Let’s see here, Rivera—you’re a painter, right? Well, if what you say about this thing is true, you’re right. But I don’t believe it. I’m nobody’s fool. Show me this bomb, and if by chance you’re bullshitting me, you’re on your own, because I’ll finish you off myself. It’s getting late, so let’s see it.” Diego removed the bomb from his box of paints and gave it to Pedro. “This little thing can do that much damage? As far as I’m concerned, you’re both nuts.”

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“I’ll bet my life on it, General.” “And I do too. I’m not a De la Torre for nothing. Believe me, it works.” “And what do you propose to do?” “Well, I’m going back home,” said Francisco. “We will stay,” added Perniorroja. “Pedro will be able to keep you supplied,” added Rivera, “and, given that people from around here are used to seeing me paint in the countryside, I can hide the bombs or bring you more whenever you deem it necessary.” “That sounds reasonable to me, but you’re still city slickers. Okay, let’s go. And you, Francisco, may God be with you!” The next day, reveille was blaring throughout the encampment before daybreak. They were drinking coffee around a roaring fire, when Maya ordered his lieutenant—an unsociable person by the name of One-Eye—to start the maneuvers. “Listen, you damn one-eyed jerk, go and wait for the train that’s coming from Cuautla on its way to Atatlahucán; when it stops to fill up with water, place the bomb where Pedro here told you to put it. If the famous invention works and passes muster, come back and let me know so I won’t end up executing them and sending them off to another life.” Well beyond noon, the sound of galloping horses could be heard. One-Eye, who was in the lead, came to a thundering halt and reported the results of the experiment to General Maya. “Boss, that apparatus is incredible. It blew up several train cars loaded with supplies and armaments, but the passengers—most of whom were poor people like you and me—were not hurt at all. What’s more, we used the train engine to haul the frigging munitions of the Federalists back to Cuautla. The poor soldiers were killed off like flies, even though they put up a fight like you would’ve never imagined, the S.O.B’s.” “Now we can strike up a deal,” said Maya, happily. “Perniorroja, when will you have another bomb ready to go?” “Just between you and me, I have a complete arsenal hidden away. If One-Eye will come with us to get it and bring enough

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money with him, I can give you as many as you want. And if you, Diego, want them, too, they’re there for the taking, one by one or in big quantities.” Three days later, Diego was standing in front of his easel in the entryway to the Sacromonte Church, where he was mixing colors, but mainly white with the other seven rainbow colors: red, yellow, orange, green, blue, fuchsia, violet, and purple. He had hoped to blend the multicolor softness of the clouds that covered the nude in his “Mujer dormida,” or Sleeping Woman. Out of curiosity, a young boy pushing a round metal ring along the street approached Diego. “Hey, do you happen to be that painter Rivera?” “Yes, my friend, it’s me in real life.” “Well, the famous One-Eye fell down along a backstreet called El Cuete. He slipped me some money to come and find you. He has a secret message for you. I stuffed it into a hole where some of my toys are. Please come get it, because if it gets lost, One-Eye will kill me!” “He can’t hurt a flea. Let’s go see what you’ve got.” The well-guarded message read as follows: “Everything is ready for the night after tomorrow. I trust you’ll bring your famous box. Could you start with a portrait of our great leader? He really wants to see himself surrounded with color. In exchange for horses, tickets to take the train!” The signature was illegible. Rivera left immediately to look for Perniorroja. “Look what I have, Pedro,” said his friend, holding up the piece of paper with scribbling on it. “We have an order from the noisemakers.” “I thought that would happen. It’s time to become rich and famous. Loan me your box so I can load it up with the right jewelry.” “You’ll be rich, and I’ll be famous. Let’s drop this nonsense and prepare our gift. I’m taking the first train that passes through here to Yecapixtla. Think about how we can load up three more bombs. That way the trip we’ll be more efficient.”

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The night was unusually dark by the time Rivera heard the Mexico-Cuautla train in the distance. With his easel strapped to his back

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and the small box of paints stuck between the slats of the easel, he waited for the locomotive to slow down and the train to come to a halt. He chose a freight car full of crates filled with chickens, hens, and the odd rooster. He looked for a corner where he could curl up and get some sleep, even if for a little while. Just as soon as he lied down to rest, the conductor pointed his flashlight in his direction, started running around him, and then pulled him up from the straw spread about on the floor of the freight car. “Hey, you hobo, what are you doing in here?” “Are you blind? I’m traveling. I’m a painter, and I’m going to Cuautla. My name is Diego María Rivera.” “Well, I could care less about painting. And you mean you don’t even sell enough to buy a ticket, even in third class?” “That’s the way it is, Comrade. Not even enough for third class.” “Don’t be sassy! I’m not your comrade. Okay, you bum, stand up!” “Just a minute, sir, I’m no hobo. I’m the son of Doña María Barrientos, a midwife.” “Shut up and answer me! Who are you? And what are you doing here?” “I’ve already told you. I’m the painter Diego María Rivera Barrientos, and I’m going to Cuautla. From there, I’m headed for Tetela del Volcán in order to paint landscapes. I’ve been offered a decent job in Cuautla.” “Doing what?” “Painting the portrait of someone important. I don’t know who it is, but it pays well.” “Well, I think they were pulling your leg.” “Nah, don’t believe it. Maybe I’ll pull someone’s leg . . . the person for whom I’m doing the portrait, of course.” “You’re lucky you clarified your statement, you jerk. Okay, stay there, where you were stretched out. I hope all those caged birds let you sleep. They tend to cackle too much, but in the end, not as much as women do. Listen, you dumb-ass painter, maybe I’ll see you around sometime.” “You listen. Stop insulting me, okay? Given the way I have to

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travel, I can’t answer you back. And talking about women, you mean you don’t like them? As for me, I like all of them, no matter what they look like.” The train lunged forward just as the threatening train conductor raised his arm to grab Diego and throw him off the train. At daybreak, the painter was standing in front of Nacho Maya, sizing a canvas before beginning to paint the man’s portrait. He was fidgeting nervously due to the flea bites he had gotten while sleeping the night before. “Calm down, Rivera, you’re going to make me dizzy.” “It’s the fleas, General.” “What do you mean, fleas! You must have mange. Where’s the bomb?” “It’s right here, and I’ve brought two more with me. But we need to find a better way for me to get here, that is, if you want me to continue helping you. Don’t make me travel in freight cars and sleep with animals.” “Ah, so the pansy painter can’t rough it, eh? You mean you got mixed up with all those soft, little pigs?” “Look here, General, show some respect. All I would like is a horse. I’ll return it when my subversive activities are over.” “Your what activities? Don’t use such fancy language with me!” “It’s not fancy language, but in macho lingo, I mean to say when we finish off every last damn federal soldier.” “Ah, that I can understand. For now, though, we’re going to Cuautla to put this invention to a test. The first one worked like a charm and, as for the extra ones you brought with you, I’ll find a use for them. Look here, Mr. Painter,” continued Maya, “it’s better for you to come with us to see if everything works like it’s supposed to. If that’s the case, we’ll give you a horse to ride and my men will escort you. We’ll be your friends and clients of Piernas Rojas, Mr. Red Legs. Is that a deal?” “That’s fine with me.” “Okay, let’s shake on it,” he said, extending his rough hand toward the painter’s small hand.

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The light of the moon was filtering through the abundant branches of the tamarind trees that surrounded the main barracks, when Maya gave orders to saddle the horses. It was a clear, almost translucent evening, which made it easier to find their way along unfamiliar paths. Given that the general was notoriously insecure, he left One-Eye to watch Rivera while he took the lead. Since Rivera had never been around those parts, he had no idea which path to take either. As dawn came around, they saw a small hamlet up ahead, and wisps of smoke could be seen coming from bonfires in the corrals. “General,” said Vicente Munguía, his lieutenant, “they’re telling us that the road is open.” “Let’s git it on, why trot when we can make an entrance at full gallop? They’re waiting for us, anyway. Rivera, you gotta have balls. Now we’ll find out if you know how to ride.” “Ah, General, you’re always trying to test me. I’ll be right behind you, even though you don’t believe me.” They got off their horses in front of an adobe house with a red tile roof, burned from the sun. A fairly tall man stood in the doorway, surrounded by potted geraniums that were growing up the sides of the walls. He was dark-skinned with grey-blue eyes that would change color according to the weather or his state of mind. Thin and elegant, he was wearing a vest made of fine homespun cloth, and finely cut, tight-fitting suede pants, both of which were adorned with silver buttons, not to mention a wide-brimmed, brown felt hat, also trimmed in silver. Finally, his lips were barely visible through his thick, finely trimmed moustache, the ends of which had grown downward toward the sides of his rounded chin. “He would make a great portrait,” said Diego to General Maya, as they were getting down from their horses. “I believe you’re right, Mr. Artist. Who would be so lucky to paint someone like Zapata. But don’t lose faith, young man.” “What? Did I hear what you’re saying?” answered Diego in disbelief. As they approached the austere character, Maya and his follow-

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ers reverently removed their hats. Maya stepped forward to shake his hand. “General Zapata, at your service. I have here with me this youngster, the painter Rivera, who will tell you what he’s brought with him.” Rivera was astounded by it all. The last person he expected to meet under those circumstances was General Emiliano Zapata, whom he admired so much. Timidly, he stuck out his hand, upon which he was given in return a strong handshake by the famous leader. “I know all about you, Painter. The hills, the trees, and the wind have told me everything. I have learned about your deeds and misdeeds: that you paint and meet with socialists and insurgents. I like that. Please, come in. You’re welcome here. Señora Refugio has prepared something to eat for us.” When lunch was over, the general invited the painter to climb the stairs of the steeple of the town’s small church. The view was surprising: for miles around one could see field after field of sugar cane, corn, and rice. Dotting the countryside as well were all kinds of semi-tropical trees. Along the horizon stood the large mansions of the land-owners. However, this apparent lushness was blighted by the presence of the strong, well-built chimneys of the furnaces for processing the sugar cane, an obtrusive reminder that tons and tons of sugar were produced there for export. “Look out there, Rivera, these vast fields of sugar cane are but seas of long leaves that sway with the wind and sing for their freedom. Off in the distance, beyond Cuautla, is Anenecuilco, which is where I’m from. Señor Ignacio de la Torre, my old boss, seized every last rice, sugar cane, and corn field that belonged to us. Now we’re fighting to recuperate what is ours. When this war is won, my slogan will be ‘Land and Freedom,’ which I have borrowed from the Flores Magón brothers.” “General, for some time now I’ve been aware of the laudable and just goals that you hope to achieve. I’m in complete agreement with your ideology and reasoning. That’s why I will fight for the same causes however I can. You can consider me a true Zapatista.”

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“I’m aware of that, and if we continue as friends, my forces will be grateful to you. In the meantime, you should be aware that I have news from the border: Señor Madero and his compatriots Pascual Orozco, Lucio Blanco, and Francisco Villa are about to triumph. With their victory, I will ask the new president for several things: the return of our lands to us with proper titles of ownership; the free use of our carbines and machetes; to have our rifles at hand at all times in order to defend our lands, acre by acre; and, finally, to allow us to seek justice against those despicable landowners until they learn to respect us. Do not the original inhabitants everywhere deserve to be treated with respect? Everything you see here was ours, and it had always been passed down from one generation to another until those foreigners came and took it all away from us. That’s the way I see it, and this has become my mission. In other words, we are demanding justice and freedom, and we’ll defend ourselves to the death.” “General Zapata, your demands are my demands. Wherever I may be and whatever I do, I will always support them, both as a painter and a political socialist.” At that very moment, trumpets called for the troops to fall into ranks. “Rivera, let’s go, they’re waiting for me down below.”

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After two months of working alongside Maya and Perniorroja, Diego María Rivera had become an expert in handling arms and horses. He went back and forth between Amecameca and Yecapixtla as if he had grown up there. He was also providing excellent help to One-Eye in derailing trains. One morning, as he was set in front of the Sacromonte chapel with his easel, he was perfecting his technique of creating different shades of white without using pure white. While he was painting two volcanos—Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhual—his friend Francisco de la Torre showed up suddenly, having returned from Mexico City. “Diego, before giving you the proper greeting you deserve, I’ve brought you this message from your teacher Rivas Mercado. It’s an

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extremely urgent telegram that they gave me at the train station before I got off.” “Francisco, what a nice surprise! What did the doctor say? I appreciate your having come here. Let’s see what the urgency is. Can you open the envelope? My hands are covered with paint.” “First, I’m happy to tell you that the doctor said I’m doing fine, no problems. Now I’ll read the telegram: ‘Rivera must return immediately. Take first train possible. Rivas Mercado.’ This looks bad, Diego. Something serious must have happened. I hope it has nothing to do with your family,” added De la Torre. “I don’t think so. It probably has something to do with the work that Pedro and I were doing. Perhaps some jerk has informed on me to the government, or maybe Don Antonio has learned about my meeting with Zapata. Can you believe it! I met him, and we talked a good while. He’s quite a man, both in his looks and the way he behaves. It was really interesting to hear him talk about their struggle for justice, their fight for freedom, and the recovery of their lands. But he never mentioned getting rid of private ownership, like the socialists want, nothing about that.” “You got to meet Emiliano Zapata? Diego, what a magnificent opportunity!” “It was a great moment! Very important! And totally unexpected! Now I have to abandon you and leave Pedro hanging and confused. As you know, I fully trust Don Antonio, and if he needs me, it must be important.” “I am sorry you have to just get up and leave. I have gotten as close to you as if you were my own brother, and I’m sorry to say that I have this feeling that we probably won’t see each other for a long time.” “Even if you’re right, Francisco, when I do come back we’ll still be buddies. You’re like a brother to me, too. I like your paintings, and I think you’re one of the best of our class. Besides, both you and I are revolutionaries. And we believe in our people. We have the same destiny. You’ll see, De la Torre! I guarantee you that someday we’ll be together again and remember this conversation.”

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XI t was one o’clock in the morning when the train going to Mexico City finally arrived. It was the only train that had shown up after hours of waiting. With ticket in hand, Diego climbed the steps into the last passenger car, carrying everything he owned—paintings, easels, box of paints, luggage. He was barely visible underneath it all. He tried to set everything down, but was bunched up against a crowd fleeing from the combat zones. Zapata was creating havoc in the region, and people not committed to his cause felt unsafe. It was still dark outside when they reached the San Lázaro train station. Diego left the station, walked hurriedly down Santa Inés, and headed directly toward his old school. At one corner, which was piled with garbage, he stopped to look at the stars above the horizon. When he got to his destination, he banged on the door with the door knocker. Trini Macario, the old caretaker, identified Diego despite the beard that covered part of the artist’s face. He not only invited Diego inside, but took him to his modest room. “You should rest, Señor Rivera, and here’s everything you need to wash up. Return to looking like a distinguished painter and stop playing with guns and bombs. All of your friends here already know that you were involved in blowing up trains. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” At that moment, the school director called out to Diego, who went bounding up the stairs to Don Antonio’s office. The director, with a stern face, had been anxiously waiting for him. “I’m glad you’re here, Diego. It was hard to track you down. What have you been doing so secretly that you all but disappeared?” “What’s wrong, sir? It was no secret that I went to paint in Amecameca, invited by Francisco de la Torre’s family. By the way, he painted a magnificent triptych with a peasant theme that anticipates the revolution.” “Get off it, Rivera. Don’t try to fool me. Painting isn’t the issue. There’s an order for your arrest and immediate execution, signed by the president. According to some high-ranking official, the chief of

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police has sufficient proof of your subversive activities, and what’s worse, that you participated in a plot to assassinate the president.” “Once again they’re accusing me of attacking the government? This is the third time! Ridiculous!” “Please be serious about this, Rivera. What do you mean the third time, anyway?” “It’s true. The first time they accused me was in Guanajuato, when I was seven years old. That was for being a heretic, and a backslider. The second time I was barely thirteen years old when I left military school, unable to bear it any longer than fifteen days. And now, the third time, for unknown reasons. Obviously, history repeats itself. It’s a vicious circle.” “Diego, forget about those stories concerning your age and the unknown causes. You’re incorrigible, if not cynical.” “Seriously, Don Antonio, have the authorities been informed of my friendship with the Zapatista forces?” “Undoubtedly. According to reports that we’ve received here at the school, they know about your relationship with Ignacio Maya and General Zapata, but what is even more serious is your participation in blowing up trains along the Mexico-Cuautla route. They even know about the plot that you, Jáuregui, Hay, and Murillo had organized on the day of your painting exhibition. I can’t believe it! My students, all of whom I considered true friends, playing anarchists right under my nose. This has gone too far, Rivera!” “Sir, you have every right to be indignant. However, you must believe me, according to what I saw there, the government is going to fall any time now. It won’t last more than a few weeks at most. Zapata was informed about the battles the Madero troops have won in Chihuahua, and he will take Cuautla. They’ve got the idiots surrounded both in the north and in the south.” “Are you referring to the Díaz government and the defeat of the federal forces?” “Of course, who else? And it’s not redundant to say again that Díaz is about to be thrown out.” “Let’s talk seriously here. Don’t be foolish, Rivera. You’re facing grave danger, and you still don’t take things seriously.”

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“But, Don Antonio, I don’t understand. What danger?” “I’ve just told you! Don’t act so dumb! There is an order to have you executed. That’s why I started looking for you, in order to help you, but only if and when you start acting reasonably.” “Are you really telling the truth, sir? Are you sure about an immediate execution? Damn it! So, what do I have to do?” “You must leave the city immediately, before those government henchmen discover your whereabouts. I have friends who will drive you to Apizaco in my car. From there, Governor Dehesa will make sure you get safely to Xalapa. Go and get your things right now, say good-bye to your parents without telling them what’s going on. Return within the hour, before the sun comes up.” “Does Don Teodoro Dehesa know what’s going on?” “Of course. He not only knows about it, he’s also going to help you get out of this mess.” His parents’ house was totally dark, but he managed to make his way to their room. Surprised to hear his mother crying inside, he knocked on the door. “Mother, it’s me, Diego.” “But, Dieguito, what are you doing here at home at this hour of the night? We didn’t know you were coming. According to your last letter, you were doing well in Amecameca. Turn on the light so I can see you.” “Mother, I’m sorry that I’ve come back so suddenly. I received a telegram from Rivas Mercado saying that my scholarship had been extended and that I’m supposed to travel immediately to Veracruz and take a ship back to Europe. In just a few days, the steamship Marqués de Comillas will be leaving for Havana. If I don’t get on it, I’ll have to wait an entire month and potentially lose a lot of valuable time.” “Son, you can’t leave just like that. Your father hasn’t come home yet. It will be horrible if I have to tell him that you left without saying good-bye to him. On the other hand, he deserves it for the way he’s been behaving lately.” “He doesn’t come home at night?” “No, he doesn’t, and I believe he’s taken up with some other woman. He acts strange and treats me coldly.”

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“Mother, I’m so sorry, but I hope your intuition is mistaken! There’s no way I can wait for him. Don Antonio’s driver is waiting for me downstairs. He’s taking me directly to the train station. I must leave immediately.” “But, Dieguito, why do you have to go back to Europe? I don’t understand it, because you’ve already achieved success there. What with the fame you’ve acquired, you’re already destined to become a wealthy painter.” “Mother, even though you won’t agree with me, I can tell you that my work still seems empty and void. My teacher Félix Parra is right: I need to work on more profound things and stop being so mediocre. I’ll go to Italy and study the great muralists. I don’t know much about them, so I’ll delve deeply into their work. You’ll see, one day I’ll be a muralist as well. Besides, as you already know, I am committed to marrying Angelina, who is waiting for me. I can’t throw away this opportunity. Come with me to the door. While you put something on, I’ll pack whatever I need. I also want to wake up aunt Cesárea and my sister. I can only imagine how upset they’ll be about me leaving again.”

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As planned, Diego María Rivera traveled incognito in Rivas Mercado’s car to the small town of Apizaco. There, he waited for the night train to Veracruz, which he boarded, hoping to get to Xalapa by daybreak. When he arrived, Xalapa was enveloped in its typical wet mist, so he was not seen getting off the train. Don Teodoro Dehesa was waiting for him at the front door of State of Veracruz governor’s mansion. “So, young man, you’ve got yourself in a real predicament!” commented the influential patron of the arts, as they drank down a cup of aromatic coffee made from recently toasted coffee beans. “Some months back, I attended your successful exhibition and I was proud of you. And now they want to execute you.” “I can explain, Don Teodoro. During the last part of my stay in Europe, in addition to painting, I lived and felt deep down inside the

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terrible contradictions of capitalism. According to what I learned from illustrious revolutionary theoreticians, such as Lenin and Rosa Luxemburg, the crisis in Mexico is getting worse because we’re a country totally dependent upon foreign empires, no matter which ones they might be. The peasants, the workers, and my true friends, the miners, are the ones who’ve suffered from the continual invasion of the North American investors. All you have to do is remember the strike at the Cananea mines and what’s happening with our oil. The English, Spanish, and Germans promise everything, but they’ve taken over Mexico’s industries and agriculture, not to mention our mines—everywhere.” “Is it true that Lenin has brain-washed you? Well, well, Rivera, you’ve become a dangerous person. Now I understand: that’s what pushed you to become allies with Zapata and his army.” “Yes, it’s true. According to my mentors, with whom I met and talked in Switzerland, it’s important to expand world revolution by joining sides with the proletariat, be they workers or peasants. I decided to join the latter, because they’re the worst off, and because Zapata is an authentic leader.” “Diego, from your perspective, that’s right. Those who join the guerrilla forces do so to regain their lands and property, and to demand respect for their work. Those who defend the barricades are seeking social justice. Liberalism at any cost has created grave social differences and a worsening of poverty among not only the peasants but also the workers and those of the lower middle class who work for the large foreign companies. Let’s not forget what happened in Río Blanco, because there, without distinction, men and women of different social classes were collectively assassinated.” “Amazing, Mr. Governor, you and I think alike. I’ve always believed in the way you think, and I respect your love for the common people.” “Look here, Diego, it’s true that we think alike, and I do understand what you’re saying. But why have you gotten yourself into this mess and, along the way, gotten me involved? Did you forget that I’m a personal friend of the president?” “No, sir, I haven’t forgotten, but in my opinion you’re a true revolutionary. Otherwise, you would’ve suspended my scholarship in

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Europe. Even though I have worked daily on my artistic endeavors, you’re probably more aware of my political activities.” “To tell you the truth, and given the difficulty of the situation at this point, we may as well be upfront with each other. I’m totally aware of your activities and your participation in socialist and anarchist movements. But I’m also in favor of social change in this country. By the way, some guerrilla activities right now would probably favor me greatly, and perhaps you can help.” “I would love to help you, Don Teodoro. I’ll do whatever you want me to, and if it has anything that has to do with guerrilla movements, the people will most likely benefit, anyway.” The governor took him by the shoulders and pointed him toward the main balcony of the government palace. “My young friend, look off in the distance at the Cofre de Perote volcano. A group of insurgents is camped out up there. With these binoculars, we can see their various flags. Tomorrow morning, your friend Gonzalo Argüelles, who also has a scholarship, will come by here on his way to France. You will embark together, but before you do, I want the two of you to take a secret message to that group. My secretary Eleazar Espinosa will give you all the necessary details.” “Don Teodoro, I’m aware of this group and who they are, and I’m sure I can help you. In fact, in Perote some of the people from that group are being led by my uncle and good friend, Carlos Barrientos, and Heriberto Jara, a longtime comrade from the fight at Río Blanco. According to them, the rest of the insurgents are ready and waiting for the order to march on Xalapa. I understand their tactics. I know the way they think. They’re totally dedicated to the workers in the textile mills.” “You’re absolutely right. I was informed that our friends Barrientos and Jara are up on top of the volcano, serving as leaders. Rivera, we’re cut from the same cloth. My message only speaks of my desire to seek peace. I’m asking the guerrillas to respect the city, and if it turns out to be necessary, I’ll give safe passage to the president and his entourage down to the port of Veracruz. In exchange, I’m offering to help prevent an armed encounter that would only lead to bloodshed and pain for all.”

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“I agree with you, Don Teodoro. The people of Xalapa, or anywhere, for that matter, shouldn’t suffer the consequences of political crisis. If Porfirio Díaz falls, Madero will resolve the crisis.” The following night, Argüelles and Rivera got dressed in military uniforms that were unique to the northern forces. Rivera looked at himself wearing khaki colors from head to foot. “Gonzalo,” he exclaimed with excitement, “when I was still in grade school, one day I was feeling desperate about deciding on my future, so I went to Alameda Park, where I ran into a dumb security guard. In order to get rid of him, I showed him some of my self-portraits in which I was wearing different outfits, from a priest’s to a general’s. So then the guard said, ‘Hey, Mr. Artist, the priest’s clothing looks better on you; with that robe, you don’t look so chubby.’ Frankly, the guard was wrong, because look at me: everything fits just right: the boots, the riding pants, the safari jacket, the cartridge belt, and the pistol, not to mention the red scarf and the stiff, black felt hat, which is what they wear up north.” “But don’t you feel strange? This getup doesn’t feel like me.” “No way! For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m not wearing a costume. Finally, I’m a true battle-ready revolutionary.” “Yes, I believe you are. You’re the spitting image of Pancho Villa, the courageous northerner who’s fighting alongside Madero in Chihuahua. The northern leaders are the best. Starting today, you can stay right here and spend your time blowing up trains and seizing federal supplies.” “Hey, buddy, how did you know? That’s exactly how I’ve spent the last few months!” “You’ve always had a fertile imagination, my friend.” “No, really, it’s true. I was in Morelos with one of Zapata’s generals, Ignacio Maya, and I really did learn how to blow up entire train cars, but without damaging the train engines. I got rid of those damn federal troops all by myself. Maya took me to meet Emiliano Zapata, which gave me the opportunity to hear what he thinks. He’s convinced that it’s necessary to go to war in order for the peasants to regain their lands. He’s drawn up a plan to achieve this goal—either

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peacefully or through war—as he himself has said, ‘to the death.’” “True, Zapata knows what he’s doing. Congratulations on getting to meet him. Now, with the favor you’re going to do for the governor, I hope you get to show off your newly acquired war tactics. We’ll certainly be out of luck if those insurgents don’t recognize us, or your uncle isn’t there waiting for us.”

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They ran into considerable difficulties while trying to reach the revolutionary leaders. The two friends, who were being led by a guide, scurried up and down canyons that surrounded the base of the volcano that further up was covered with dense vegetation consisting of enormous pine trees. Those areas provided good protection for the rebels. By way of messengers, Diego got word to his uncle Carlos that they were on their way to the encampment and asked to be given safe passage in order to talk to him as mediators. When they finally received word to proceed forward, Gonzalo and Diego still did not find it easy to reach the top of the volcano. They would stop along the way to admire the splendid views of the Sierra Madre Mountains and the beauty of the Pico de Orizaba that off in the distance proudly displayed its cap of eternal snow. “Look, Gustavo, from here everything seems so peaceful. But it was so difficult to paint the famous Citlaltépetl! I can still remember it!” His uncle Carlos and Jara met them with big hugs, after which the two visitors were introduced to the rest of the guerrilla leaders. “Well, young men, what a pleasant surprise,” commented Don Carlos. “And you, Dieguito, I didn’t expect to see you back here so soon. I last put you on a train looking like any normal passenger, and suddenly you show up here like a true revolutionary fighter.” “Uncle, we find ourselves together again under very unusual circumstances. Gonzalo Argüelles and I are here on an extremely delicate mission. We have brought with us a letter from the state governor and our friend, Don Teodoro Dehesa. Read it. We’ll wait for your

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kind response.” Don Carlos read the letter and told them to take a message back to the governor. “Accept our sincere promise as revolutionaries that we will guarantee safe passage to President Díaz and his entourage on their way to exile, and we’ll give respectful consideration to the city of Xalapa. If the federal troops don’t attack us, we won’t attack them. In addition, we deeply respect the governor’s patriotism and national pride. And you two young men may return now, satisfied that you have more than fulfilled your mission. My friend Dehesa’s wish is my command. Are you in agreement, Heriberto?” “I am, Barrientos. Let’s make it happen.” After that initial conversation, the rest of the time they spent there was upbeat and festive. Uncle and nephew treated each other as comrades, which they had already achieved when they fought together for the cause at Río Blanco. Three days later, the duo returned to Xalapa. Governor Dehesa was more than satisfied with the results achieved by his disciples. “Thanks to both of you, now I can offer safe passage to Señor Díaz through the State of Veracruz, if it’s necessary. In addition to renewing your scholarships, I will always be deeply and eternally grateful for your help.” On their way to the port of Veracruz, Diego suddenly felt a kind of premontion. “Gonzalo, I think this stage of the battle is about over. Madero and Zapata are anxious to achieve their goals, even though in time I can almost assure you that the local caudillos and oligarchs will quickly rebuild a national bourgeoisie. Foreign interests are so closely tied to that sector that they won’t accept losing; consequently, the peasants and the workers will once again find themselves screwed.” “Don’t be so pessimistic, Diego. Otherwise, what’s the use of this uprising?” “It’s one small step along the road leading to a socialist revolution, which is the only way to liberate the people from oppression.” While Rivera was talking, the train conductor had been listening

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nearby. “Listen, my friend, I knew I was right that time I found you in that freight car headed for Cuautla: you’re no painter. I could smell a rat right off. I could tell you were a revolutionary in disguise. By looking at your northern army outfit now, I know I was right. You should make a good captain.”

PART III

Fantasies of Revolution I s soon as Argüelles and Rivera disembarked in Santander, Spain, they quickly found out about a spectacular artistic event that was going to take place in Barcelona: the opening of the International Painting Exposition, which was important enough to make them change their travel plans. “Gonzalo, before we go to Madrid and then on to Paris, we should really go to Barcelona first. We don’t want to miss that showing, and we’ll be able to see the latest in Spanish vanguard art, if it even exists.” “Why, of course! I agree. Let’s go to Barcelona! We can hang out at the cabarets and the Concert Café on the Ramblas and in the port area. All kinds of things happen down there.” “You’re right. We can pay our respects to several of my enchanting, fun-loving female friends. It will be my bachelor’s party, because my fiancée Angelina Beloff is waiting to marry me, and I always keep my promises. I sent her a cable advising her of our coming, but I didn’t tell her when exactly. She’s probably become very impatient. For a woman, a wedding is a wedding.” “And for men, a wedding means marrying one large pain . . . instead of a bunch of little ones. So, if you’re going to get married, even more reason to spread your wings before you tie the knot. I suppose you haven’t forgotten the pact that we made in the academy, when our class promised not to get married before age thirty.” “I remember perfectly well, but I’m in love. Angelina is slender,

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very pretty, easygoing, and elegant; there’s nothing negative about her behavior. You’ll be surprised when you meet her. As you know, she’s Russian, and even though she is a ‘white,’ she has introduced me to other Russians, who unlike our Mexican guerrillas or even ourselves, are true revolutionaries, fighters to the end.” “Now I understand your desire to return so quickly. In Paris you found art, politics, and love. What luck!” “True enough, Gonzalo, but I also found its counterpart: lack of understanding and distancing from my art, as well as the need to do all I can to make my work understood.”

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Meanwhile, in the City of Light, the friendship between María Blanchard and Angelina continued uninterrupted. María would spend entire afternoons in Angelina’s etching workshop, unrolling and then rolling up again the painted canvases that her Mexican friend left as a guarantee of his return. One afternoon, after examining a drawing that Angelina’s fiancée had started in London, she complained bitterly about his absence. “María, what could have happened to Diego? He sent me a telegram after arriving in the port of Santander. He said he was heading for Paris. Weeks have passed, and he hasn’t come yet. I can only imagine that he went to Barcelona for the International Painting Exhibition. If he cared about me, as he says he does, he could have at least let me know that he would be coming at a later date.” “You shouldn’t worry. That’s exactly what’s happened. But you know how he is: totally unpredictable. He’s probably there visiting with his anarco-syndicalist friends who live in Cataluña. That’s the center of a true revolutionary movement based on the most hard-line political factions in Spain.” “María, I’m concerned that Diego can never be at peace with himself and dedicate time just to his painting. As far as I’m concerned, he wastes his time fiddling with politics, and what’s worse, it appears in his art. Just imagine! Going around defending the most sought after anarchists from the police of the world.”

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“But, listen, my friend, if you hope he’s going to change, you’re mistaken! That will be impossible! For Diego, politics is as important as art. The way I see it, he’s juxtaposing two concerns in his life: painting and social justice. In the end, for him they’re one and the same.” “I don’t know. No matter how you look at it, I’m dying of anxiety and sadness.” “Stop worrying. He’ll return and you’ll marry him. Afterward, who knows what will happen. I don’t necessarily see a bright future.”

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When Diego got to Paris, he went straight to Angelina. Their meeting was stirring, because the two of them had agreed to wait until this moment in order to prove that their love was strong enough to withstand the test of being separated. Realizing that they were truly in love, they decided to live together. They agreed to a nonconventional marriage due to Rivera’s ideology and Angelina’s background in the Russian Orthodox Church. Nevertheless, they were formally united, despite the fact that he had declared himself an enemy of any religious persuasion. They found a perfect place to live: a loft near the Gare de Montparnasse, on the Ruè de Depart, so named because the people who walked that street were usually on their way to the train station, hoping to leave the city forever. Like its name, it was a sad, narrow street. Diego and Angelina’s apartment had a large window that looked out the back of the building that, in turn, was next to the train station. Being so close, the lights of the station and the noise of the trains would fill the entire apartment and the studio. As soon as the newlyweds were comfortably settled in that stylish neighborhood composed of artists and intellectuals, Diego María Rivera directed his energies once again toward the study of and experimentation with a new painting style. Among other things, he built Le Chosse, an optical instrument consisting of a box with different pieces of glass stuck to the insides that would reflect light and different forms according to the angle of the sun’s rays or the hue of a light-bulb. Basically, it was a kind of complicated kaleidoscope,

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and the figures that he would see reflected inside inspired him to experiment with Cubism. One day, while he was experimenting with his strange apparatus, his friend Anatole Lunacharsky came to visit him. “Comrade Rivera, it’s good to see that you have returned to France. All of us are anxious to receive the latest information that you promised about the situation in Mexico. We know how you became a revolutionary fighter, and we heard about your participation in the peasant revolt with the great Zapata.” “You already knew about that? And did you know that my sudden return to Europe was due to my political activities?” “Of course, we do. The intelligence service of our clandestine socialist movement is relentless.” “Well, if you already know about all that, I can tell you now, Comrade Lunacharsky, that I am fully experienced in the fine tactics of guerrilla warfare. On the other hand, I am indebted to your group and especially to Lenin. I have a partially written report, but my return to Parisian life hasn’t been easy for me. I left the country in the middle of a war; the economy is on the brink of disaster, and the interim government hasn’t been able to create the social stability it promised. As you probably know, the ousted president of our country, Porfirio Díaz, lives here in Paris, which has provoked a serious division among the Mexicans who live here. The rich ones don’t buy my paintings anymore. And to make things worse, I just got married.” “I understand perfectly. Political and personal changes bring a lot of pressure to bear on one’s life; nevertheless, I want you to come with me now. I would like to invite you for an excellent cup of coffee. Some friends we have in common are waiting for us on Orleáns Avenue, and they’re excited to hear your impressions of Mexico and the revolution.” They walked quite a ways down Boulevard de Montparnasse. It felt fresh outside after the first rain of the Fall. They went into a small bar just beyond La Rotonde Café that had already become a hangout for groups of students and workers, including recognizable Slavic political refugees who spoke correct French. The youngest one of the group, sporting long hair, a black cap, and a red scarf tied

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around his neck, stood up and walked over to greet the newcomers. “Comrades, I’m Ilya Ehremburg. Our great teacher Lenin charged me with taking you to where he is right now.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Lunacharsky, and my friend here is Diego Rivera, a Mexican painter, friend, and revolutionary comrade.” “I’m pleased to meet you,” he answered, while looking up and down at the painter. “Tell me, is it true what they say about you, Diego?” “What they say about me is only a small part of it, Comrade,” expressed Diego with irony and jest. “Wait until you get to know me,” he said, laughing out loud, “you’ll see how I won’t let you down.” They went to the café next door. Inside there was a large group of people sitting around a table. The smoke from the pungent cigarettes served to make the weak lightbulbs even dimmer as they hung from the ceiling and gave an unreal tinge to the people seated there, creating a scene not unlike those painted by the great Impressionists. “Lunacharsky, is the great teacher Lenin the person leaning his chin on his hand? I can’t see everyone’s faces very well. The dim light turns everyone into shadowy figures.” “Correct, Rivera, the man with the red beard is Lenin. He was the one who asked me to bring you here. Go ahead and sit down discreetly in that empty seat in front of him—it’s reserved for you.” Without moving his head either way or making any kind of gesture, the leader’s piercing eyes seemingly looked straight through Rivera. Once he had identified who Rivera was, he felt more at ease with the presence of the new arrival. “My Mexican friend, I’m pleased that you have returned. I have been duly informed about the political complications in which your country is immersed. Was it so sudden or not? Tell me about it. And I have several questions for you.” From that moment on, Lenin interrogated Rivera with in-depth precision. At the same time, Lenin questioned Diego about different aspects of the Mexican Revolution. All the while, he was examining a pile of documents on the table. “Well, young man, the information I have received coincides

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with almost everything you’ve told me. Your firsthand experiences are invaluable, because you were a guerrilla, and what you saw confirms what our agents have sent us.” Diego concluded his report, after which Lenin had one last query. “What are your conclusions? Give us your final opinion. Be specific.” Diego, who was sitting in front of this already famous man, seemed doubtful, but he finally decided to respond. “Okay, sir, I’ll give you my opinion. Based on what I saw in Mexico, the Mexican Revolution is developing within an agrariandemocratic-bourgeois framework, a format for which the Mexican people have fought since the War of Independence in 1810, with a continuous ebb of liberal, democratic, bourgeois forces on the one hand, and a reactionary flow of conservative, semi-feudal, and semiclerial forces on the other. “Even today, Mexico is still a semi-colonial country that is economically and politically dependent on foreign colonial powers. First, it was Spain, and now it’s France, England, and the United States. Under these circumstances, it is more than one hundred years behind the times in comparison to Europe and the United States. You could say that if the latter’s historical-dialectical development has made the bourgeoisie victorious, just the opposite has occurred in Mexico and Latin America. In my country, at the end of the past century, you could identify two groups: one, a feudal, secondhand, Creole sub-aristocracy; and two, a social class that couldn’t even be called the lesser bourgeoisie, but a group of classless nouveau riche, to wit: the Spaniards, who dominate commerce and a part of the textile exportation; the French, who also dominate textiles and the sale of cloth and buttons, in the same way the Spaniards used to dominate food products; the Germans, who dominate the hardware stores, drugs, and other chemical products; the English, who control a good part of the mining operations and some of the petroleum industry; and the Yankees who began to compete for the petroleum and mining industries, which has been the beginning of global monopolies.” By the time Diego María Rivera got to that point, he felt like he was in complete control of his old convictions. Facing the impassive expression of Lenin, Diego raised his head, looked straight at him,

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and continued his analysis of the political scene in Mexico. “So, in my opinion, Mexico, which is lacking a social class capable of exercising such power because there is no national industrial bourgeoisie in either the urban or rural areas, and consequently, since there is not a proletarian class sufficiently strong enough, it will go the way of Bonapartism, that is, a government of army-police coming out of the popular revolutionary forces and centralized by military caudillos with weak civilians, and dictated by a foreign imperialist bourgeoisie. After a long process, a new national bourgeoisie will emerge, and having to consolidate nationally against the dominate foreign imperialist bourgeoisie, it will have to seek support, more or less demagogically, from the masses of peons and workers, acquiring in that way a progressive character. Given Mexico’s retarded condition within the historical process of the rest of the world, the country will follow this path.” Those conclusions were contrary to Lenin’s perspective, so he immediately countered Rivera’s argument. “Your reasoning isn’t consistent and it reveals a certain dialectical element to it. But this material here,” and he lightly banged his hand on top of the documents about the Mexican Revolution, “possesses some positive aspects. Still, you’re thinking is conventional; you’re a typical product of a French anarco-syndicalism that takes you toward the revolutionary Left of our social democracy. You only believe in the industrial proletariat, in the most sectarian way. You believe that anything outside the basic political cell and the factory committees, the unions, and the great industrial federations, including the general confederations of workers, gives no hope. “It doesn’t seem possible that having been born in a country of peons, you distrust the potential revolutionary force of the rural people. And yet, you say, ‘with them, we’ll start a revolution!’ Soon you’ll see, and all the others who think like you, that it is indeed possible. Nevertheless, you have strong convictions, and ironically because of them, you’ll probably do more harm in your country than good. You must stay here and keep studying; then you’ll understand how we’ll achieve what we’re proposing for your country. It won’t be long before this comes to pass. . . .”

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“I understand what you’re saying, sir. I’ll work toward those ends,” answered Rivera, upon which he shook hands with Lenin. The Russian leader stood up, bringing an end to the meeting. Since night had fallen by then, the persons gathered there were able to slip away anonymously. Lenin abandoned the café without saying good-bye to anyone else. Once out on the street, he quickly blended into the few passersby who were walking along the large boulevards and avenues of Paris, with all the impunity permitted by the fog and dim streetlights. Rivera stood up from his chair, feeling somewhat steamrolled. Lunacharsky felt equally distressed. They left the café and walked down the street in total silence. When they finally arrived at 26 Rue de Dèpart, Diego spoke first. “Lenin is undoubtedly correct concerning Russia. Perhaps if he understood the Mexican situation a little better, like he understands his own country, his opinion might be different.” Lunacharsky did not respond. Instead, he approached the painter and patted him on the back, which effectively demonstrated his solidarity and affection for him. “The leader,” he finally said, “wasn’t in agreement with you, Rivera, but there’s no doubt that he was interested in your thoughts and the way you expressed yourself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even taken the time to give you some ideas that you can work on. If you want my opinion, he was very specific: you must stay here.” “That I did understand. I will keep it in mind, and every time I get the itch to return to Mexico, I will remember what he said.” “Get what?” “Ah, sorry. That’s a Mexican saying to indicate that when I feel the pull to go back to Mexico, I will remember the advice given to me by our great teacher.”

II few days after Rivera’s presentation on the future of the Mexican Revolution, a compatriot and frustrated “terrorist,” Gerardo Murillo, went to Diego’s studio. As soon as he sat down with Diego

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and Angelina at a table by the apartment’s large window, he began commenting on the complicated political situation that he had just left in Mexico. According to him, President Madero’s weak government made it possible for multiple revolutionary movements to flourish throughout the country. No one, not even Emiliano Zapata nor Ricardo Flores Magón and his group of intellectuals, was very happy with the situation. Their goal was to demand Díaz’s ouster and for Madero to make good on his promises when these intellectuals supported Madero’s “no re-election” movement. Their forces began yelling the old anarco-syndicalist slogan, “Land and Liberty.” Hoping to drink a toast to Mexico, Guadalajara, and Guanajuato with Rivera, Murillo extracted a bottle of tequila from his knapsack. Being together again was enough cause for them to share some drinks and enjoy their reunion. “Angelina and Diego, given our close friendship, let’s drink a toast. Because I’m lucky to have shed who I was and, now, I’ll simply be ‘Dr. Atl.’ As you may remember, some years back the poet Leopoldo Lugones gave me that name because, according to him, I was as shifty as water ‘atl’ being Nahuatl for water. I liked the nickname, and I continue to use it because I’m as transparent and pure as ‘the principal liquid of the universe.’” “Don’t exaggerate, Murillo. Your purity and transparency are yet to be seen. But watery and slippery, yes, you still are. But if you changed your name,” Diego added, making a play on words, “what are you going to do now that you’re not who you were, and yet will be someone that you weren’t and that you want to be?” “For the time being, given the new me that I want to be, I’m a political agent, commonly called a spy. The name Atl sounds exotic and perfect for the job.” “It can serve as a cover for you. But a spy for whom?” “For whomever. Madero’s government will be formally recognized by several European nations that are presently discussing its legitimacy. Reliable, up-to-date information will be important to Madero, and if it all works out well, I’ll become a part of his administration and get back to painting murals. I haven’t forgotten that, first of all, I’m a painter and I always will be. I’ve got a hard head,”

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affirmed Murillo, slapping his hand on the table. “I think it’s excellent that you’ll be continuing with the mural project. Without a doubt, you’ll be successful,” responded Diego politely, hoping to set his wife at ease, who had begun to see in Atl a possible enemy because his smooth talking could convince her politically fragile husband to join some exotic adventure, such as returning to Mexico and, consequently, abandoning her again. “Instead of hoping that I’ll be successful, come back to Mexico with me. There’s an opportunity right now to set into motion a movement for true revolutionary painting. Political reform is in the air, and a part of that will be the flowering of the visual arts as weapon for educating the masses.” Upon hearing Atl’s proposal, Angelina turned pale, thinking that her husband would succumb to his comrade’s tempting invitation. So as not to provoke an argument, she left the room. “The desire is there, but I have another important task at hand. I talked to Lenin and I’ve made a promise to him!” “To Vladimir Ilich himself?” “Correct. To the man with the red beard, who has even redder ideas.” “Ah, now I see,” shot back Atl, for whom the tequila had distorted his reasoning and left him almost cross-eyed. “Now I see everything clearly. So, Diego, while you’ve lost the Mexican Revolution, you’ve won the Russian one.” “You’re absolutely right, my friend. And I love my mate, who is, like her name, truly angelic. Our friendship with her compatriots allows me to keep abreast of what’s going on with the group directed by the great leader. For instance, I’ve been able to meet and talk with an interesting painter, Kasimir Malevich, who is an expert on modern art and who is known as an ‘integral revolutionary.’ In addition, I’ve become friends with Anatole Lunacharsky and the young Bolshevik Ilya Ehremburg. The three of them represent the intellectual vanguard of Paris. The first one is known for his books on pictorial imagery, Lunacharsky is Lenin’s culture advisor, and young Ilya writes poetry and other erudite texts.” “Wow, Diego! You’ve gone right to the top. You’ve become so

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formal that I don’t even recognize you. Even the way you talk has changed. It seems like you’ve forgotten all the good swear words. Not once have you told me to go to hell,” rebuked Atl. “Your wife has educated you well, or badly, I’m not sure what, but your behavior disconcerts me.” “Have I disappointed you, Murillo? Believe me, life here isn’t easy at all, and being a Mexican, as well as a red Bolshevik, makes it even more difficult too. As you said, I’ve lost my accent as well. Sorry, buddy, I would have preferred to go out for a walk and have the freedom to swear up and down about my life here. Above all, I don’t want to upset Angelina. She gets the shakes every time she thinks about me returning home.” Once he had completed his mission in Paris some days later, Atl packed his bags and stopped by to say adiós. With his leaving, the short-lived Mexican atmosphere that had been created by his presence in the Rivera household quickly evaporated, and the couple returned to their daily routine, as well as frequently visiting cafés. Winter was on its way, and those places were great for taking refuge from the cold.

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Months later, during the summer, Malevich went into La Rotonde Café, where Diego and Angelina were talking with Amadeo Modigliani, André Lothe, and his wife. He sat down at their table, where an animated conversation was talking place. “Comrades, now that summer is here, a group of us is organizing a lunch out in the country next Sunday. It’ll be near Longjumeau in the same house where Lenin created a painting school. While we’re there, the topic for discussion will be the relationship between art and politics.” The group graciously accepted the invitation, which would give them something to do the following weekend.

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It was cool in the shade under the grape arbors, which made for

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pleasant conversations. The diverse opinions became a lesson in politics and art. Malevich introduced Rivera to Francisco Cossío del Pomar, a young Peruvian who was traveling around Europe in order to learn enough to become an art critic. In time, Diego and Francisco became good friends; their Latin American identity breached all other differences. In one of Cossío’s visits to Rivera’s studio, while the painter was applying newly acquired Cubist ideas to a new canvas, they started talking about Mexico and its painting traditions. The Peruvian was surprised that the painter was more interested in the political opposition to Madero than pictorial theory. He had become initiated in the new Mexican art form, but not in an orthodox way, rather against the grain, as if he were a guerrilla painter. “By the way, Diego, what is the significance of the revolution in Mexico? Since you talk about it so much, I don’t understand why you haven’t returned home? “Well, the revolution is more than a battle to establish social order; it’s something a lot more profound than that. It’s about trying to recuperate our roots, a part of which is our art as it was understood by the ancient Anáhuac cultures in the remote past, when painting, music, and dance helped to promote freedom and collective morality. If I were to return to fight, I would make every attempt to impose these criteria, and instead of helping the revolution, I would only create problems. They wouldn’t understand me, because I would create an anarchistic art movement that wouldn’t be in accordance with the sense of revolutionary militarism that is presently in style.” “But Diego, your comments about freedom as a form of public behavior smacks of Proudhon and his brand of anarchism.” “It could be, but for me art is a bare necessity that produces the most primeval pleasure and recreates the original purpose of our species. With the exercise of the imagination and reason, art is the medium that leads mankind away from any kind of exploitation and opprobrium. Can you imagine the caudillos letting me express myself the way I want to?”

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Another summer came and went. Diego and Angelina decided to go to Toledo and once more share a house with Angel Zárraga and his wife. One could see the ancient part of the city—the old bridge and the walls surrounding the city—from their windows. Beyond the walls lay the harsh red earth planted with olive and almond trees. Their green foliage was characteristic of the fine biblical olive oils, and white flowers of the almond trees had been the subject of classical Arab poets. The Tajo River, which flowed along next to the painters’ refuge, would find itself trapped by the narrow gulleys, the jagged sides of which provoked Rivera to imagine strange apparitions, in the same way he had discovered shapes in the cliffs of the Azores. Zoomorphic figures began to populate the steep, rugged rock that, in turn, became thematic material for his paintings, similar to the seemingly cubist organization of the city. Toledo reminded him of the unmistakable squarish design of of his native, Guanajuato. “Angelina, in addition to having finished my painting, in which Toledo looks like a replica of my Guanajuato, I’m about to put the final touches on the one that you, with your good Christian spirit, call Adoración de los pastores, the Adoration of the Sheepherders. I can’t believe how much time the size and composition of this work has cost me!” “Diego Diegovich, I think it is an extraordinarily beautiful painting. I think I see the influence of your friend Picasso, who has become your mentor. Right?” “True! But I believe I’ve painted this one with absolute freedom. Here, though, freedom is based on the coloring—the intense blues and brilliant greens found repeatedly in the physiognomy of the Mexican environment. When we go back to my country, you’ll see what I mean.” “Are you taking this painting back to Paris, or will you leave it here?” “If I can finish it, I’ll hang it at that gallery, Salón de Independientes, next to the two paintings you like so much: La joven de las alcachofas, The Young Woman with the Artichokes, and La joven del abanico, The Young Woman with the Fan, all of which fall stylistically in between realist and cubist painting, the latter of which

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inhibits me. I’m still not ready to dive in headfirst.” “I think the painting of the woman selling artichokes in the market is excellent. For me, it’s absolutely perfect. I’m sure they’ll accept it at the gallery, and you’ll be a great success.”

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Back in Paris, as planned, Rivera exhibited his paintings at the Salón. The critics noted a lack of definition in his work, and they classified it as the beginnings of a painter who will eventually stand out for his cubist persuasion, without becoming superficial. Nevertheless, Marchand Berthe Weill, the owner of a gallery by the same name, offered to exhibit his paintings the next time, but even she did not like the Mexican’s anarchist stance. For instance, he wrote the following for the exhibit’s catalogue: “Come everyone to see the young man, the freeman, the independent, and you will find in his work limitless negligence, the enchanting lure of springtime youth, the lack of any desire to please, but you will be pleased!” Ideology had created a wall between the painter and success. The critics were infuriated with him, and once again the feeling of failure brought on depression and physical deterioration. Several months later, he was still fighting to find a way to cure his sickness. One afternoon, Francisco Cossío del Pomar appeared unannounced at his studio. Over a plate of fruit, they had a friendly conversation. “Diego, when you force art to be the only instrument of liberation, you become a romantic anarchist.” “You’re right, Francisco. I should wait to see the end of the Revolution and the results of the political struggle. My return to Mexico will depend on who triumphs and his position as a nationalist or not.” “But, on the other hand, Diego, you’re a universal painter who can master any existing painting technique. Yet, you’re so Mexican! Look at that painting on your easel. It’s a perfect example of Cubism, but the guerrilla themes undoubtedly present a portrait of your country. You’re producing a different kind of Cubism, which fits you and your personality.”

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“You understand me, Francisco. I’m painting in order to satisfy the international canon, so I rebel and reject it. I prefer to paint with a nationalist perspective, profoundly rooted in our origins. When all is said and done, that’s why they call me the Mexican Barbarian, or simply, the Revolutionary . . . and for that reason, I’m a complete failure.” “And does it matter if they pan you?” “No, not really, but it has provoked problems with Marchand Berthe, the woman who has deeply criticized my work. And now the same thing is happening to my friends Pablo Picasso and Max Jacob, the two intellectuals of art whose lives are removed from everyday life, politics, and social problems.” “Ah, now I understand! As far as Cubism and its creators, Braque and Picasso, are concerned, you’re a rebel due to your political, nationalist, and revolutionary stance. You rejected the cubist orthodoxy of black, grey, and drab colors—that I myself consider a return to Obscurantism—in favor of bright Mexican colors. That’s why they’ve rejected you?” “Yes, but not everyone in Paris thinks that way. Come over here and look out the window. Those people down there believe in me!” They walked to the other end of the painter’s studio and looked out at the Montparnasse station platform. The workers in the roundhouse were driving machines, repositioning locomotives, and attentively repairing boilers and box cars. Their emaciated faces, however, revealed anguish and frustration. “The work of the railroad men,” said Rivera, “continues not only to interest me, but also to create aesthetic emotions. Ever since I was a child, I’ve always had great respect for them. In fact, I even befriended a locomotive engineer in Guanajuato, after which they nicknamed me ‘Engineer.’ They taught me to drive not only the miniature engines, but also the gigantic locomotives, which always seemed like beautiful but mysterious monsters to me.” Francisco, who had been watching what was going on down below in the train yard, interrupted Diego’s memories. “Hey, Diego, look down there! Something’s going on!” “Let me see! You’re right! My comrades are planning something.” Little by little, the workers began to form a circle around one of

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their fellow workers, who was animated, raising his arm straight up with a tight fist and giving a communist salute. Soon the others raised a large banner that said, “Painter, we need you here. Come down from your ivory tower.” “Look, Diego, they’re calling for you. What are you going to do?” Their chanting had brought him back to reality. “I’m going down there,” he exclaimed. “Come with me! The leader, Jean Marchand, is a friend of mine. Through them, I initiated an effective program of political militancy. It’s an interesting group. They’re all followers of Jean Jaurés, and ever since the founding of the French Socialist Party, they’ve been promoting the cause of peace. They’re lobbying for France to stay disengaged from the conflict between Germany and Russia.” “And what’s your opinion?” “I agree with their position. The socialists and Jaurés believe that peace must prevail in the world, which is the only way to protect the lives of the workers and the proletariat in general, whose basic objective is to bring about a socialist revolution.”

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It was not long after that when a tragic event brought the French Socialist Movement to a standstill. A young man, driven by intense patriotism, like others who wanted to recuperate for France lands taken by the Prussian enemy in previous wars, fired a pistol pointblank at Jaurés. The great speaker, who had incited the people to demand peace, fell dead while he was eating lunch on a summer day in Paris. News of the incident spread quickly throughout France. The death of an honest man was a bad omen. It seemed to signify the triumph of the warmongers. When the ill-fated news reached the railroad workers at the Montparnasse station, they began shouting indignantly, calling for Rivera. “Rivera, come down here, painter, we’re waiting for you!” Rivera left his apartment, went down to the roundhouse, and listened to the painful testimony of the workers through the words of Marchand.

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“Monsieur Rivera, this afternoon, at least, you will leave your ivory tower and come with us. We’re going to march through the streets of Paris, demanding peace and socialism. You need to address us, and your speech today will resonate loud and clear in the place where you’ll speak.” “Comrade Marchand, I’m a willing participant. Your wish is my command. I will respond to the tragedy with the indignation it merits. As the true socialist that I am, I will shout to the top of my lungs against war. As a revolutionary, I’m deeply saddened by Jaurés’ death. And as a worker like the others, I will walk arm in arm with you in order to drive away my feelings of hatred and impotence.” His words coincided with those of Leon Trotsky, whose political works he had begun to read on his trip to London. Trotsky, who lived only a part of the year in Paris, was indignant over the sacrifice of “model pacifists.” He also had voiced his comments about Jaurés to the thousands of people present on his behalf. “That man could throw rocks into an abysm, he could echo into a canyon with force, he could flash with lightening, he could create an earthquake, but he never deafened anyone. At times he could sweep aside any type of resistance that was in his way; at other times, he was generous and genteel, like a tutor or an older brother.”

III fter traveling throughout Italy and visiting Maxim Gorki in Capri, not far from where it’s written, “See Naples and Then Die,” Ilya Ehremburg returned to Paris. He was pleased with the trip, but after learning about the assassination of Jean Jaurés, he turned bitterly angry. Pulling on his lank but prim hair, he swore up and down. One day, Ehremburg ran into Rivera and his comrades, who were still sad about the death of the philosopher. “Ilya, the death of our comrade is not the worst of it,” said Rivera. “I smell gunpowder! From my own studio, I’ve been watching regiment after regiment load up, and I’m surprised by the amount of vigilance the officers of the army are providing the trains. I’m positive those French troops are headed for the border.”

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The poet Max Jacob gave his opinion with the firmness of one who comments on the world and the cosmos by studying the daily horoscope. “As usual, Rivera, you’re exaggerating. Europe isn’t thinking about war. Only the savages of the Americas are prone to it, countries like yours. Stop having nightmares and get real. We’re civilized over here.” “Max is right, Diego. Let’s not think negative thoughts,” suggested Ehremburg. “You tend to go overboard with your fantasies. You imagine phantoms and monstrosities that threaten to undermine our way of life. Why don’t you wash away all that foolishness that bothers you by going to Italy or the Balearic Isles and taking a swim in the healing and tranquilizing waters of the Mediterranean Sea?” “In a way, you’re right,” answered Rivera. “Jaurés’ death really shook me up, and I’m thinking that if I don’t get out of Paris for a while, I’ll go crazy.” “Before you actually set out to do that,” added Max, “get together with a group of your friends. We’re pretty creative, and with a little bit of money, we can work it out to survive just about anywhere.”

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The idea of taking a trip had become the topic of conversation at La Rotonde Café. The cosmopolitan group of friends decided to go to Barcelona, and from there to Majorca, and eventually Cala de San Vicente. The friendly fishermen/smugglers would put them up and feed them for just pennies a day. It was along those beaches, where life was simple, that Rivera spent some time painting. It seemed like his mental crisis had been left behind in Paris. The wives of the fishermen, in addition to serving as models for his paintings and etchings, prepared abundant plates of fried fish and shellfish, and rice prepared in a thousand different ways. That environment, in addition to the landscape of the islands and the excellent climate, made Rivera feel like he was finally in a paradise on Earth. However, after three months of serenity, the declaration of war between Russia and Austria threatened to become a world war.

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Rivera’s earlier comment to Ehremburg about a generalized war came true. Through news that they received days later, they learned that France had decided to go to war against Germany. The grudges between the two countries had not been resolved, not even after the Prussian triumph. Before anything else, it was necessary for the French to recover what had been lost. The first problem that confronted the group of friends at that moment was their passports: in war, things could get sticky. Some of them were Russian, including Angelina and the two sculptors Lipchitz and Luviencin. The Deluneys were English, and the rest of the group was ready to join the French forces. Diego, who was a declared pacifist, discussed the opinions with Angelina. “You’re a Russian and I’m a Mexican. Seeing that France is a democratic nation, the government isn’t going to create any problems for us. Nevertheless, it’s in that country where I’ve established myself as a painter, and I think it’s my duty to join the French army.” “But, Diego, why, oh why, do you want to do that?” “In order to defend freedom. Austria is a nation of oppressors. I will never forget Professor Ledoyen’s classes, when he described the French people’s fight against Prussia, when they raised the flag of Concordia Place. Nor will I forget the villainy of Napoleon II when he sent us a blond Austrian, Maximilian, an invading monarch.” “You haven’t asked for my opinion, but I think you’re acting immaturely. You’re simply pretending to avenge the offenses committed against your country. Have your airs of greatness taken you to such extremes? Do you consider yourself so indispensable on the battleground, when all that will happen is you’ll die like any other unknown soldier? As far as I’m concerned, you’re becoming selfdestructive. It’s not a matter of courage, much less ideology. You are either a socialist pacifist or a war-mongering like militarist. Which one are you?” Amid discussions and moments of sadness, the group of friends decided finally to leave the Balearic Isles, their paradise, and return to their homes and confront the bitter reality of war.

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The Rivera’s quandery was no different from that of other couples’ fleeing in search of their own survival, going from one border to another, from one port to another port hoping to find a refuge from enemy forces. The nucleus of friends that had vacationed together in Majorca began to disperse to their respective countries. As for Diego and Angelina, they decided to return to the European continent without really knowing where to go. After disembarking in Barcelona and realizing that they were extremely low on money, they agreed that the best thing to do was to stay on the coast, where the cost of living was lower than in Paris. They rented a small, dark, gloomy apartment, whose windows looked out onto the blackened walls of another building. The lack of maintenance had almost left their building in shambles. At the Russian consulate, Angelina found a job that paid enough to cover food and rent. “Angelina,” commented Diego bitterly, “now we’re living the same way we were in Paris. Despite the fact that Barcelona is the most modern city in Spain, there’s still no one to buy my paintings. Poverty has hit here, too.” One evening, someone knocked at their door. Not expecting a visit from anyone, they looked at each other questioningly. When Angelina opened the door, Diego thought he heard a familiar voice. “You’re Angelina! I can recognize you! And you’re more beautiful than I ever imagined!” The tone of her voice suggested to Diego that it could be his mother. What the hell? If it weren’t for the fact that it was damn near impossible, he thought to himself, he would have sworn that it was his mother’s voice. And at that very moment, his inseparable, now excited, wife entered the room that had been improvised as a studio. “Diego, your mother and your sister are here! When I opened the door, they introduced themselves to me. I recognized them immediately and welcomed them. They’re anxious to see you. They’re waiting in the vestibule. I don’t know what to do next.”

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“I just knew it! So, I wasn’t wrong when I thought I heard the voice of my eternal enemy.” In preparation for the family gathering, he quickly abandoned his paints and tried to straighten his jacket. “Mother! María del Pilar! But, what are you doing here? What a surprise! How did you get here? No, I’m not stupid. Of course, you came on a ship, but I mean to ask how is it that you came to Spain and found us? Has something happened? Is my father okay?” “Diego, if you don’t stop talking, neither of us will ever be able to explain anything to you. Be quiet, please. I’m already sick of your babbling. You don’t know anything else but to ask bothersome questions.” Diego and Angelina were surprised by the directness of his mother’s rebuttal, but as they looked at each other, they understood. Diego reconsidered what he had been saying. “Mother, I had forgotten how you were. You’re right, I’ll shut up. I’d like to do it forever as well.” Doña María immediately understood her lack of tact and tried to make amends. She changed her gruff voice to something more cordial, but still false. “Please forgive me, especially you, beautiful Angelina. The trip has been tiring. My daughter can explain everything, including the hardships we suffered in Madrid. I’m completely worn out, about to have a nervous breakdown, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to lie down for a while. Where can I do that?” “In our bedroom. You’ll be comfortable there,” said Angelina. “That’s the only bed in the house, and you can have it. Let me show you the way . . . actually, this place is very small! Let me help you get settled so you can rest.” Meanwhile, the painter couldn’t stop staring at his attractive sister, now a grown woman. “Hey, María, first things first. Give me a big hug. You’ve become so pretty. No doubt about it, you’re a real jewel. Come over here and sit down. This vestibule serves as just about everything. As you can see, this place is dark inside. It reminds me of those places where we lived in Mexico City.”

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“You know what, brother? I still can’t believe that you live in a place like this. That’s why I’m speechless. In Mexico, we imagined everything different here. We just assumed you were living like a king. But look at this! We’ve found you living in a hovel, much worse than our place back home.” Right then, Angelina came back into the room. Since Diego had inquired about their father, María del Pilar was updating Diego. “Dieguito, I don’t know if you’re aware of our father’s behavior. He doesn’t live with us anymore. He’s abandoned us to fend for ourselves. It’s all due to the fact that he got into a love affair with a woman by the name of Rosario de la Parra, whom he met at his job at the Health Council.” “María, no one coming from Mexico ever said anything to me about this, not even my cousins, the Macías. They came through Paris not too long ago.” “Well, anyway, one good day our father decided to go and live with that woman. At first, we were able to manage all right, but when Mom got tired of it and demanded support and protection, she decided to come looking for you, in hopes you would take over as head of the household. She thought that we would find you on top of the world and that you had forgotten about us. She also wondered if you had joined the French army. She’s been so desperate to find out about you.” “So, that was the reason to come here? Not just to see me, but to see if I can take care of you financially?” “No, don’t take it that way. We also wanted to meet Angelina and see how married life was treating you.” “Well, sis, with respect to the first question, Mom was right. I tried to join the army, but they rejected me because of my flat feet. As for the second one, it’s better not to have an answer, because she’ll never get over having discovered how poor we are. I hope to sell a painting soon, but with this war, no one is buying anything in France, and in Spain they don’t like anything that’s not their own decadent, gaudy painting.” “See how you are! Can you imagine how much our mother would have suffered had you gone to war?”

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“I have no idea, but why doesn’t the good Señora Barrientos realize how much time has passed and that I’m an adult now? What the hell would’ve happened had I become a soldier and fought for my ideals? According to the way she looks at things, all that is a waste of time. She’ll never understand anything! And she doesn’t have any respect for me!” “Don’t get mad, Diego. Don’t take it so personally. She’s like that because she loves you very much.” “What a valiant way to love someone—by smothering him.” “Forgive her. We’re already here. And we need your support. Help us find work and get established. Actually, we can all help each other out.” “Well, well, if that isn’t the ticket! Look at us! We don’t even have money to return to Paris. Angelina’s job keeps food on the table and pays the rent. I don’t have a red cent to my name. And as for you getting a job and making some money, it’s going to be very difficult. Spain doesn’t accept foreigners just like that.” “Okay, Brother, just let us stay a while. We’ll look for jobs ourselves. We’re both professionals. Let us stay with you for a few days! Please! Do it for Mom.” “In these narrow quarters?” answered the painter. “Nothing good is going to come of this. To the contrary, we’ll all be at each other’s throats. But, as you say, the situation is bad for my mother’s health. You can stay here—we’ll find some cots. I don’t want to be responsible for the death of a famous Guanajuato midwife.” During the entire conversation, Angelina did not say a word. She simply could not believe what she was hearing. “But where,” she finally dared to ask, “will we put the cots? I don’t see any extra space.” “Here, at the front door. Besides, no one comes to visit us at night. During the day, we’ll stack them in the corner. In fact, if my mother agrees to it, we’ll give them our room, and you and I can sleep on the cots in the hallway.”

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Just as Diego had expected, the two ladies had no luck finding work. Among the reasons for denying them work were: they didn’t have licenses to practice, and women were not accepted as typists. Once they were convinced that they had failed, the two women decided that it was useless to remain in Spain. They returned to Mexico harboring more bitterness and sadness than when they arrived.

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The family “reunion” had left Diego María Rivera depressed. He was incapable of painting. “Angelina, we need to get out of this trap. My mother has left us more in debt than ever. Our sinking condition is greater than the possibility of achieving something in Barcelona.” “What can we do, Diego Diegovich? I can’t take it any longer either.” “My friend Ramón Gómez de la Serna has suggested that we move to Madrid. He’s going to organize an exhibition of modern art, including painters who are considered to be ‘integral,’ and he considers me to be among them. I’ll use the paintings that I did in Cala de San Vicente, and maybe I can sell some of them. Let’s go to Madrid in search of art and some good food.” “That’s an excellent idea. I hope that with your friends our luck will change.”

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Madrid’s rejection of avant-garde painting became evident when the prolific writer Gómez de la Serna organized an exhibition using the works of Blanchard, Lipchitz, Laurencin, Rivera, and the Delaunays. Paintings had been shipped from Majorca, Madrid, and Paris. The exhibition, “The Integral Painters,” was held at an art gallery downtown on El Carmen Street. “These painters,” pronounced Gómez de la Serna at the opening, “want to express not only a concept of space, but also an integral space, not just one aspect of an object, but the integral nature of the object.”

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He launched the exhibition without having any idea as to its outcome. He had placed his own portrait by Rivera on an easel at the front door of the gallery. It all began when the first passerby stopped to take a look at the painting. He examined it with great curiosity, trying to understand what he was seeing, which was explained by its label: “Portrait of the Writer Ramón Gómez de la Serna. Artist: Diego M. Rivera. 1915.” “But this is ridiculous! The more I lean over and look from side to side, the less I see any resemblance to that Ramón guy. I can’t see a resemblance, not in his hands nor in his feet.” Other pedestrians looked at this upstart art critic with surprise. Gómez de la Serna started shouting out in the street, people started to stop and ask why he was acting so crazy. The reaction of the growing audience was unbelievable: within minutes, a crowd of furious people had gathered around the building, demanding that the painter explain such a wild distortion. They wanted to know why it was a portrait, because there was nothing in the painting to identify the subject. Fortunately for them, neither Diego nor any other painter in the exhibition was present, which infuriated the mob even more. The custodian of the building, who seemed to be more dead than alive, was about to lock up when he heard the people on the street breaking the windows of the gallery. Pieces of glass were flying about as if it were raining. He turned just at the moment a window pane disappeared, leaving a gaping hole and exposing the painting and the easel that now lay on the floor covered by a blanket of broken glass. Later, after Diego had been informed of the near riot, he commented to Don Ramón, “So far, Cubism hasn’t worked for me, but because of it, I now belong to a group of avant-garde painters, and that makes me very proud. They’re leading the charge, even in art. Picasso, Braque, and Juan Gris consider me to be one of their own.” “But it’s obvious, Diego, that in Madrid you’re not accepted by either the public nor by your academic Spanish mentors. When your teacher Chicharro saw your latest work, he advised you to return to the academic style, and Sorolla thought that Cubism had destroyed your brush strokes. But if you consider yourself a Cubist and Picasso your mentor, you should be successful in Paris. Things will go

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well for you there.” “But that’s not the way it is, Ramón. Last year I sold very few paintings. Cubism is not as widespread as you think.” Diego and Angelina remained in Madrid, but made repeated trips to Toledo. Diego María seemed to have distanced himself from politics in general. Deeply involved in his painting now, he received an invitation from several socialist friends in Paris to participate in the First Congress of Progressive Writers and Artists, in which he would discuss his ideas about reaching out to the masses through modern art. Putting aside his brushes and paints, he went to Paris and addressed the general assembly. “From pre-Colombian times to the present, the pictorial tradition in Mexico has continued to create a style that today the socialists are trying to emulate. The public art that had been created in ancient times on the walls of buildings in almost all pre-Hispanic cities, and later in temples and convents, not to mention in this century on the walls of small restaurants, bars, and liquor stores, was a type of painting that was supposed to elicit strong reactions from the masses.” “After Diego’s return to Madrid and Angelina had a chance to read his presentation, she suggested to Diego, “Even though you don’t believe it, the answer to your concerns is in Mexico, whereas here, in Europe, your ideas are nothing but mere illusions.”

IV t was 1915, and the long months of fall and winter in the City of Light were intensely cold weather, auguring death and human misery. The lack of food, firewood, and coal, which were basic for survival, was nothing in comparison to the loss of love, due to the war, that people felt for each other. Diego and Angelina were almost the last ones left from the group. Their friends had already returned to their countries, some having had to skirt the tight borders. Some joined the army; others, who were more audacious, yet no less irrational, took steamships to the Americas, once despised, but now a desired continent.

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The cubist painters, having received support from Leonci Rosemberg’s gallery, l’Effort Moderne, and Berthe Weill’s gallery, managed from time to time to sell a few of their works, which allowed them to live in relative peace, despite the inherent scarcities during the time of war. About that time, the Mexican writer Martín Luis Guzmán, who was Francisco Villa’s secretary, arrived in Paris. He had become a political refugee when the famous “Golden” forces under Villa lost to the troops led by another rebel chieftain, Álvaro Obregón. Almost immediately, Diego set out to paint Guzmán’s portrait, which would give Diego the opportunity to hear firsthand about the Revolution in Mexico from an actual protagonist in the events. The more Diego listened to Guzmán’s tales the battles won and political maneuvering of the new government leaders and the guerrilla forces of Villa and Zapata, the fond memories of his native Mexico began to dissolve the exterior layer of French culture that he thought he had acquired. Diego began adding traces of Mexican culture to his paintings. In Guzman’s portrait, Diego included a brightly colored Saltillo sarape next to a saddle. Influenced by Guzmán’s “revolutionary tales,” Rivera developed a much more daring canvas that included images he had retained in his memory from the time when he had lived in Francisco de la Torre’s house in Amecameca. “Diego, this painting could very well be the one to inaugurate a series. We’ll call it ‘Cubist Interpretation of the Mexican Revolution.’ The idea came to me based on compositional elements in the painting.” “Is that what you see, Martín?” “Of course. To begin with, you painted the Popocatépetl volcano and accompanying hills in the Cubist style. The cubes, cylinders, and cones, which are the basic elements of composition, dominate the landscape. The other important aspects that immediately come into view are those handwoven, striped pullovers worn by the peasants in Morelos, the pointed, high-topped straw hats worn by Zapata’s soldiers, and the carbine leaning against the cart. It’s impossible to be more typical, yet revolutionary, than that painting. I presume I was

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correct in thinking they’re supposed to be Zapatistas.” “You presumed right, my friend. The pine trees are from Amecameca. The brilliant blue color is found on the houses in Yecapixtla. And the pullovers are worn by those under Igancio Maya’s leadership, who we called One-Eye, due to the obvious.” “So, Diego, what title will you give the painting?” “I’m toying with something between “The Guerrilla” and “Zapata Landscape.” “Well, well, I’m not wrong! This painting is Mexico, the very evocation of our land and its people. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a true work of art.” “Thank you, Martín Luis. The painting is in honor of Ignacio Maya, the general I worked for in Amecameca. Those were the best days of my life.” “When do you think you’ll return? You seem awfully homesick.” “I don’t know yet. I still don’t feel I’ve accomplished what I had originally proposed: my own painting style. I still need to make an extensive trip through Italy in order to learn the techniques of preRenaissance muralism. That damn Atl is responsible for these feelings of nostalgia. I want to return to Mexico to paint murals, but, for the time being, it’s impossible to return, mainly because of the war and also because I have no money for the trip. That really pains me.” The conversation had taken on a note of sadness. “Martín Luis, what do you say we liven things up a bit by going out for some coffee at a place that’s in style among artists and intellectuals?” “Sounds good to me, Diego. We can drown our sorrows.” “I have a meeting with Ilya Ehremburg at the Cremerie de Rosalíe, a small café. Its owner is an excellent chef who accepts our paintings in exchange for great food. I may as well be a stockholder in the place. We can continue talking as we walk there. I’ll get Angelina.” “Very good, Diego. I would like to meet Ehremburg, about whom I’ve heard a lot. He’s a solid writer, but as an individual and given his adventures, I can’t tell if he’s crazy or dust sensitive. I’ve heard that Lenin is fond of him. Is that true?”

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“Very much so. Actually, it was Ilya who introduced me one night to the man with the red beard, who has even redder ideas. He was already a friend of Lenin’s.” “You can tell me some more about him later. What a great opportunity for you!” “It was incredible! It’s hard to imagine that when we were young kids at the Jesuit school that I would meet the leader of ‘the personal enemies of God.’ Just to hear him speak was another milestone event of my life.”

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In the café that afternoon, destiny prepared a fatal trap for Angelina and Diego. Just when they were about to take a sip of coffee, Marievna Stebelska, a young, likeable, and adept Russian Caucasian, approached their table. The woman pretended to be a writer, only because she had shared the same bed with Maxim Gorki, who had called her Marievna, meaning “princess of the sea” in Russian. Next, she met the great Picasso and dreamed about being cared for by bedding down in his linen sheets; naturally, her literary talents gave way to her painting expertise. Ilya Ehremburg introduced her to the group at the table, after which she spoke in a low voice with seeming naiveté. “Ah! So you are Rivera, the so-called ‘Affectionate Cannibal.’ Here, before my eyes, you seem like a giant, both in size and fame. And Picasso has told me about you, Angelina, and your friendliness, and the excellent way you attend to your friends. It’s a pleasure to have met you, and you, too, Señor Guzmán.” Rivera was immediately infatuated with the princess’. “You’ve done well, Ilya, to have introduced her to us. By the way, Señorita Stebelska, I have only heard good things about you from some friends who we have in common. I’ve heard about your inclination toward painting. In my wife Angelina here, you have a friendly compatriot and an excellent teacher . . . so pay us a visit.” “As for me,” intervened Guzmán, “I’m sad that you’re not a writer, so’s I can interest you in the Mexican Revolution. I would’ve

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loved to tell you stories that could easily become the subject of several books.” “What a coincidence, Señor Guzmán, because I did something similar in Capri with Maxim Gorki. I’m interested, of course, in revolutions. But to tell you the truth, I’m more interested in the revolutionaries themselves. I really hope to visit the Riveras and meet with you there. I accept your gracious offer. Your stories must be fascinating. Besides, you’re French is music to my ears.” “See, Marievna! Your life is falling into place,” commented Ehremburg. “I’m sure you’ll find a cordial and affectionate ambience on Rue de Départ. Besides, interesting politicians of all types, from European Social Democrats to Russian anarchists, also visit the Riveras frequently.” “Angelina and Diego, everything seems so promising. You can be sure that we’ll meet again,” she exclaimed.

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Aside from the vicissitudes of the war and his pacifist belligerence causing discord with his friends, Diego was exceedingly happy. Angelina was pregnant, and her sweet, simple, dignified personality created a special atmosphere in which not only her Russian compatriots, all of whom were extremely different from each other, but also avant-garde sculptors and painters would frequent their apartment.

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Marievna managed to become little less than a permanent fixture, a “habitu de chez Rivera,” and, given her great sense of humor and talent, she managed to become a member of the Rue de la Gaité group which included Modigliani, Soutine, Rivera, Voloskin, Ehremburg, Picasso, and Max Jacob. At first, she was treated like any other artist; however, her natural seductive powers had captivated the “Affectionate Cannibal,” who was deeply taken by her radiance. Diego wrote a brief but revealing letter about her to his friend Ramón Gómez de la Serna.

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Guadalupe Rivera Marín Paris, 15 May 1916 Dear Ramón: With this, my warmest greetings and my desire to tell you about my latest trials and tribulations. The artistic environment here has deteriorated; my competitors are creating problems for me right and left. What’s worse, my emotional state has become more complicated. On the one hand, Angelina’s pregnancy is progressing with all normalcy; on the other, the presence in our house of a young painting student, Marievna Stebelska, has completely changed everything. In fact, she has helped eliminate the feeling of severity that my wife had created. Marievna has transformed it into a happy home, where we frequently listen to Russian songs. Now I see light everywhere; her physical presence has given the environment a heretofore unknown luminosity. I will describe her to you: she has blond hair that covers her forehead, almost down to her eyebrows, which makes her look like a medieval king’s page. She’s strong, agile, with a beautifully constructed body. She’s Caucasian. She carries herself gracefully, but she’s also arrogant. Her intriguing eyes that sparkle like glitter can leave a mortal spellbound. In effect, she maintains a constant appeal and even works at it, because the long list of her lovers is the talk of the town. Just imagine, Ramón, Marievna’s beauty has made me delirious ever since I first met her. You can only imagine how her joyousness has captivated us, and Angelina has discovered a good friend in her compatriot, a person with whom she can talk about Russia, her childhood memories, and painting as well. Ramón, the only other thing I can say is that I hope her attractive nature doesn’t lead me one day to regret my behavior. Yours, Diego María Rivera

The friendship between the Riveras and the princess continued as if it were a truly idyllic relationship. Angelina would fuss over

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her, happy when her compatriot was with them, peppering everything with humor. Diego would approach her easel, where she was attempting to paint, and give her instructions on how to better her brush strokes or choose other colors. The two women would prepare delicious Russian dishes that Diego enjoyed and praised. With only days to go before giving birth, the anxious wife confided in the young princess her fears that her husband might abandon her. “Angelina,” said Marievna, with impartiality, “I think it would be best if I came to stay here while you’re in the hospital. That way, your dear Diego Diegovich will have someone to occupy his time.” “Of course, you know him well. My husband can’t stand to be alone. It’s impossible for him to take care of himself, and he gets depressed if no one’s around to solve simple everyday problems. He can’t even button himself up; it’s almost necessary to dress him. I’m worried about leaving him alone. I don’t know what he’ll do without me.” “Don’t worry about it. I’ll watch over him, and I’ll take care of the house.” “It’s true, the cavernous and abandoned studio needs flowers and warmth.” “Angelina, you have everything in order: the easels, the canvases, brushes; in the kitchen, each little thing has its place. Even I have some space behind the screen, where you’ve put me up. But look, there’s something strange.” “Where?” “It’s as if each of you have parallel professions dedicated to your own art work, with your own interests. Your work divides you, but at the same time, you’re always together, one in front of the other.” “Marievna, be frank. What’s your opinion about Diego? I’m really worried about him.” “It seems to me totally absurd how he spends day after day painting, yet continues to live on the brink of absolute poverty.” “It’s not just the poverty,” emphasized Angelina, “he’s depressed over the absence of his socialist friends, who have formed the Vladirmir Ilich Ulianov group. And Diego is envious of your friend

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Ehremburg, because he has concrete responsibilities in preparing for the socialist revolution.” “I understand, Angelina. Diego is a revolutionary, but don’t worry, he won’t join up with Ehremburg. I’ll give him sufficient peace, and he’ll be right here waiting for you and your baby.”

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With Angelina gone, Rivera’s passion for Marievna had no limits. One afternoon, Marievna was sitting in front of her easel, entranced by the sunset as viewed through the window of the studio. Diego Diegovich, slowly and quietly, moved his large body closer to her. Without trying to make a sound, he raised her hair up from her shoulders and kissed her neck, which was an unusual gesture of affection coming from someone like him, who was living a moment of his life immersed in anguish in search of himself. She pretended not to hear or feel his presence. Although feeling rebuffed, he continued. He took her by the shoulders and forced her to stand up. “You’re a strange young girl,” he admonished her, after she was finally standing in front of him. “You look like a child, but when you look at me, I see a seductive woman, not the ‘Princess of the Sea,’ but a stalking animal. Your fangs have pierced my resistance, and now you feign indifference.” Marievna maintained her serene composure. “But Diego Diegovich, how can this be? You have a perfect relationship with Angelina. You surprise me. There isn’t room for three in your marriage. Or is there?” “My behavior shouldn’t seem strange to you. I don’t think I’ve caused you any surprise. You already know how attractive you are. You set up this arrangement in my house in order to have me fall into your trap. Well, you’ve done it. I will gladly be another victim of your enormous talent. I’m just one more on a long list of not so unsuccessful lovers.” “Well, my brave savage, I’ll tell you the truth. It’s true, I arranged for this to happen. Your fame as a Mexican barbarian made me think about you as a fabulous lover, and I came here to see if it were true.”

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“So, it’s my degree of barbarism that interests you so much? I’ve already heard that story before, and the results were disastrous for the challenger.” “The legends surrounding your name were like an invitation to meet you, but now that I know you, I’m more attracted to your cultivated sense of kindness and intelligence. Besides, you’ve infected me with your devotion to painting. For me, your passion for art is exemplary. I, too, will live to the fullest in order to become a painter. I’ll become famous on my own, not as your protege, I swear!” “But, is that all you’ve found in me? Barbarism and savagery, kindness and devotion to art?” “Well, aren’t we vain! So, you want to know what else it is about you that attracts me? I dream about making love to you. I can only imagine that you can satisfy me completely. I need all the orgasms in the world to thaw me from the frozen spiritual and physical poverty in which I find myself.”

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Days and nights, like the paddle wheel of a generator that incessantly churns turbulent waters into electricity, came and went. Paradise was interrupted when mother and newborn returned home. Intruders, Angelina and baby Diego Miguel Angel cut short the illusions of the two lovers. Marievna, cuddling the tiny creature in her arms, suddenly discovered that the studio was inhospitable and inadequate for raising a defenseless being. There was no way that the place could accommodate a baby and three adult protagonists embroiled in a overs triangle. The continual crying of the baby, the incessant screaming of the women over just about any incident of daily life, and the furious bellowing of the painter made life miserable in that house. Diego started pulling his hair out, throwing the container of brushes against the canvases, and in moments of total mental disarray, layering enormous brush strokes of black paint on white canvases, totally ruining them. When it was determined how much everything cost that he had ruined, he became even more furious and threatened not only destroying whatever was in reach, but also the members of his small family.

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“If I do not have some peace and quiet, I will get rid of you, I will kick all of you out of here,” he screamed, his eyes turning red from ire. Exasperated over what was going on, Angelina found the courage to confront the wild, impulsive man. “Diego, when you get crazy like this, I despise you. I cannot continue like this. I’m taking my baby to María Blanchard’s house. Once and for all, I’ve decided: it’s either Marievna or us.” As a result of her threats, the Princess of the Sea was forced to abandon the love nest. She was last seen standing at the large front door of the building. “This is not the way it will end! You’ll never take advantage of me like this, you bourgeois pigs. Shitheads. And you, Angelina, you call yourself a woman and a mother? You’ll pay for this!” A few days later, there was indeed hell to pay. The Caucasian created a scandal wherever she went. Whenever they ran into each other, she would provoke Diego by recalling their love affair. “Mexican barbarian, I need you. I can’t make love with anyone else anymore. It would be useless. I wouldn’t ever achieve the ecstasies that I achieved with you. I dream about you. I deserve and demand your love, and why not say it, your sadistic excesses. You have shamed me, but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.” “You had already been defiled. I only made you remember how you were treated by your previous lovers,” the artist countered. “Diego, although you think I’m a wanton woman, please don’t offend me that way. Because I love you. I hope we can see each other again.” Under those circumstances, the two lovers would meet periodically. Neither of them had any idea of the consequences their encounters would bring.

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One afternoon, Marievna waited for Angelina to return home. Partially hidden behind the large door at 26 Rue de Départ, she saw her rival enter the building with her child. She lurched Angelina and tried

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to wrest the baby from her mother’s arms. The mother managed to ward off her attacker. Seeing that she had been foiled, like some fairytale witch, Marievna shouted, placing a malevolent curse on Angelina. “That child will die before it grows up. I, Marievna Stebelska, so demand it, and it will come to pass!” Shaken to the bone, later Angelina bitterly rebuked her husband. “Diego, I can’t take your infidelities anymore! I’m positive that you’re still seeing Marievna! Her arrogance makes me sick! Her insults and curses against our little baby are intolerable! She’s hurt me deeply, and I was her only friend and supporter. I fear for Miguel Angel, because that bitch is capable of anything.” “You’re absolutely right. I can plainly see now that her physical and mental poisoning could end in tragedy. We have to find a solution immediately.” “If you had only seen her when she tried to attack us. She had the look of a crazy woman. All of a sudden, she seems to have turned into a witch. At the moment I was completely terrorized, but thanks to my quick thinking, I was able to keep our child out of harm’s way. And you have to admit that all of this has happened because of your perverse infidelities.” “I understand what you’re saying, and I admit that I have not behaved well. I have no excuse other than my sordid wretchedness as a man.” “It hurts me to recognize that you admit it only now. You are as repugnant to me as your vulgar lover. The only solution for us at this point is separation.” “You’re right. I’ve created an untenable situation. I’m disgusting, an outright repulsive person.” “Your very presence makes me nauseous. Get out! I don’t want to see you again!” screamed Angelina, raising her tiny fists as if she were David against Goliath. When Angelina went to open the door to throw him out, she managed to slap him in the face. The noise echoed all the way down the stairwell to the bottom step. In shame, Rivera abandoned the family home with unusual speed, only to find refuge in the Princess’ arms. For him, she had been transformed into a mythological siren.

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Once again, the woman enveloped him in her mysterious attraction, the tormented, sadomasochistic passion turning into abuse and insults that had seemed to have neither a beginning nor an end. The painter, after finally reaching the nadir of degradation, had lost all desire to continue living, but he reached out in a letter for moral support from his friend and mentor Gómez de la Serna. From all of this, I can conclude, my good friend Ramón, that my life is a storm of excessive passion. Marievna has discovered in me the darkest and most ancient sadistic tendencies, not to mention the most entangled sexual complications, similar to what I’ve already told you about, that I had with that mysterious lady from Madrid. I urgently need your help, so please come to Paris immediately and help me flee from this most horrible dive where she and I have ended up: that dirty, little Hotel de Dôme, on the opposite side of the street from the Rotonde. I must escape from this situation, but I don’t even have the wherewithal to get up and walk out the door of this pigsty and take off running down the stairs and out into the light. Yours, Diego María Rivera

A few days later, Gómez de la Serna, who decided to liberate Rivera once again from his self-destructive tendencies, arrived from Madrid, along with Miguel Viladrich. The two old friends went straight to the dumpy little hotel, where Diego was suffering the consequences of another star-crossed love affair. They knocked on the door. The painter who opened it looked emaciated and smelled to high heaven. He was downright repulsive. Ramón Gómez de la Serna could barely say anything, he was so thoroughly disgusted. “Viladrich, my good friend, I am unable to believe that this country bumpkin, disfigured from pain and hunger, is our friend Rivera.” “I hope no one hears us, but this place is a hell-hole. Look in the room, Ramón, there’s excrement all over the walls and the floor.” “Well, well, Diego María Rivera, what has happened here?” “Ramón, Miguel, I can’t believe that you’ve come! Take me

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home to Angelina. If I stay here another minute, I’ll go crazy. I got an unbelievable migraine headache again, and due to the way I was suffering, Marievna took off. I haven’t eaten in days and I’m about to die.” “No need to say it twice—we’ll get you out of here and back to your studio. But before that, you need to take a bath and get something to eat,” ordered Gómez de la Serna. “Yes,” echoed Viladrich, “the first thing to do is get out of this pestilent room and get cleaned up from your own filth. We’ll do whatever’s necessary to get you ready to go back to Angelina. Your wife is desolate. María Blanchard has told me all about what’s happened, and no one can explain why you’ve done this. Marievna cast a spell on you?” “I have to confess, with great pain, Miguel, that I let myself fall under her spell, but the worst part is to admit the exhilaration I get from these poisonous amorous concoctions.”

V he dramatic results of his lusty passion had submerged Rivera into a state of inertia and desperation. Separated from his explosive lover and his Bolshevik friends, who had all left Paris in order to join up with Karensky in Russia, he sank even lower. He would never go outside; he only remained in his house, isolating himself within his own misery. That’s the way his friend Amadeo Modigliani found him when he went to visit him one day after Diego had returned to Angelina. “Wake up, my Mexican friend,” Amadeo said with affection. “I’ve just heard that Lenin, who’s in Zurich, has made contact with subversive groups in Petrograd. Thousands of workers have died at the hands of the Cossacks. It seems like Gregory Karensky has proposed a change in the political situation. What would you say to us going to Russia and joining our friends?” “If we can pull it off, Modi, I think I could rejoin the living again. I feel trapped, unable to move. My hands and legs are tied, as in one of those dreams.

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Suddenly, Diego hoped to make a drastic change in his life. “Angelina,” he said to her that night, “Modi and I are going to request visas to go to Russia. If I haven’t been able to participate the way I wanted to in the Mexican Revolution, I’ll do it now with Lenin. I can’t watch from the sidelines—here in the grimness of Montparnasse, crippled and impotent—in what will be once again a great social revolution. This neighborhood has become nothing more than another cemetery where, along with the dead from the war, you only see the shadows of those who have left.” “What sad thoughts you have, Diego Diegovich!” “It’s true, my angel, the frustration that I feel has made me lose the meaning of life.” “I understand, my love.” “Look, Angelina, the thing that has kept me going during these war years has been the politics. As for my art, I have been rebuffed time and time again. I’m sick and tired of my failures and our poverty. I can’t stand it that you’re the one who maintains this mockery of a home, while I, on the other hand, am unable to earn a red cent or do anything, really, to help support our child. I’m more dead than alive.” “In some ways, you’re right,” answered Angelina, “although I attribute your unhappiness to your own rejection of your painting. I think you’ve been facing three issues: one is artistic, another is political, and the third is financial, in addition to the emotional problems that led to your unstableness. You haven’t even had time to give any love to our child.” “Angelina, your observations are too generous, but correct, nonetheless. I’ve acted like a jerk with the little kid. On the other hand, you’ve given him everything. You’re a wonderful partner. Besides sharing your great intelligence, you know how to make life easier for me. All of these reasons infuriate me, but more than anything, it’s not being a good father and husband that shames me deeply.” “Diego, I haven’t behaved the way I should have either. Sometimes, I do stupid things, too. I hope I haven’t made a mistake by let-

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ting you back into our house or letting my good friends, the Zettlin’s, take care of our child. That has separated us even more.” “But, Angelina, we don’t have any money to take care of him. We can’t even buy coal to heat the house. Besides, our friends are giving our child lots of care and love. When our circumstances improve, I’ll do whatever I can to bring him back with us.” “Do you know what, Diego, your rejection of our little boy isn’t normal. But I understand. You’ve already told me about how your mother had an aversion to you. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of revenge for the way she abandoned you?” “I hadn’t thought about it that way, but it’s entirely possible.” “Then too, our poverty only serves to remind you of how your family suffered in Mexico City, so that now you’re reliving your childhood bitterness.” “If you put it that way, Angelina, you’re right. The Zettlin’s are substituting for my parents during these difficult times. Can you imagine? I’m thirty-one years old and incapable of supporting my small family. I’m a total failure!” “Don’t be so pessimistic! I’m sure that if we work hard, things will get better.” “You really do care about me! And here I haven’t been able to give you the same tenderness and love. You’re right, I should find the courage to stay in this unsettling country. Going to Russia right now would only be a reason to continue fleeing from the enormous load on my shoulders: my parents, my aunts, and my sister. On the contrary, I need to rethink everything that’s happened and change my behavior and my life. See what’s happening? I’m not even painting anymore, just anything to earn a few cents, which is never enough. I couldn’t even earn enough to eat doing some carpentry work.” “My dear, let’s stop lamenting the past. It’s a bright day outside this morning. Why don’t we go for a walk? The fresh air will help us think more clearly.” “Good idea, my angel. Let’s go by the gallery where they just opened an exhibition of “Los Constructores” group. They’re friends of the art historian Elie Faure, who I haven’t met, but who asked Kasimir Malevich to take some of my works.”

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That exhibition promised to be a great success. Malevich met with them and told them that some of Rivera’s works would sell. “Diego, very few cubist painters brought in their work, and there are even less realist paintings of the style that you’re doing these days. I hope they sell. I’ll let you know.” “Frankly, that still life with lemons that I just finished, in a style not unlike Cézanne’s, looks pretty good over there on that wall. I’m thinking that someone will like it. Kasimir, you don’t know how much I appreciate your support. You can’t even imagine how badly I need the money. I’m completely broke.”

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Upon leaving the gallery, husband and wife, now feeling better about the future, made their way toward the narrow little streets near their favorite market, which was located outdoors in an open plaza where farmers sold their produce directly to the consumers. They came into Paris every day from nearby farms. The picturesque nature of the place and the varying colors of the produce had always impressed the painter. The display of the fruit, vegetables, meats, fish, and birds reminded him of his neighborhood in Mexico City. “Angelina, look at that, it’s marvelous. This place is just like La Merced market, where I first began to paint. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I’ve totally forgotten how to paint reality—its colors, its shapes—that had taught me to appreciate nature, there in the mountains of Guanajuato and Xichú.” “Diego, we’ve already talked about the detours in your painting and the harm that they’ve caused, taking you away from your Mexican background, whose tones and hues don’t even exist here.” “It’s true, I’ve tried to become a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a European, while at the same time negating my genuine Mexican personality. That’s why I’m so messed up. Listen, Angelina, I’ve had enough of comparing the beauty of what’s authentic to the superficial intellectual stupidities of the cubists.” “Of course, your work has lost all its warmth. If no one can

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understand or appreciate geometric shapes, the scenes you paint will always be distant and cold.” “You’re right, it can’t be considered art if it has to be interpreted. Art is reality that’s been transformed into an aesthetic experience.” Diego walked over to the stand where they were selling peaches, plums, pears, and recently packed pears and apples, and he began to caress them in a most voluptuous way. “I’m going to buy some peaches. Their velvety skin has awakened my feelings, and their aroma and colors are an incentive to paint them.” Back at the studio, he carefully placed the peaches on a plate and then meticulously arranged the rest of the fruit that he had purchased around them, thus creating a harmonious composition. Once again, he caressed the texture of the fruits and studied their shapes. Their colors fascinated him. With determination, he began to paint. Over and over, he repeated the same brush strokes. He became frustrated. “Damn it, Angelina,” he said, now furious, “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can’t seem to recreate what I’m seeing and what is stimulating to me. Cubism has corrupted the way I see reality. Just as my teacher Posada had said, I need to paint what I know, what you can touch and feel, not something imaginary and abstract. That’s it! The cold, geometric shapes that the brain creates has nothing to do with reality; they’re only false derivations. Everything I’ve been doing is fake.” “Take it easy, Diego. Little by little you’re going to regain your original style. You haven’t lost it, you’ve been keeping it safe, waiting for the right moment for it to reappear with even greater force and strength.”

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He had just finished painting a realist scene—a large storeroom at the back of which was the window in his studio—when Soutine and Modigliani showed up unexpectedly. Those days, the two friends had been spending some time with Rivera, sharing their art and free time, despite Amadeo’s difficult character.

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“So, Mexicano, I see that you’re trying to dump Braque and company. Looks like you’re going the way of Paul Cézanne, or not?” asked Modigliani, sarcastically. “You’ve dropped Cubism?” added Soutine, in an attack of jest. “That’s right, comrades. I’ve decided to put the Paris avantgarde to rest and pursue my own style again. And even though I feel like I’m unable to control form and color anymore, that’s the price one pays for having painted those superficial cubistic planes for some years. But, emulating Marcel Proust, I’ll begin by recuperating time lost.” “You should do it before Rosemberg begins to sabotage your art. According to what I’ve heard, Juan Gris told him about your criticism of your own work and your intent to abandon Cubism. Angrily, the ‘marchand’ responded with threats to the effect that if you change styles, he’ll break your contract.” “I’ve already heard about what that rotten son of a bitch has had to say. But Modi, I’m ready to take a chance. Frankly, I can’t continue painting in this fake cubist environment; this style is not the one for reaching common people. On the contrary, it’s bourgeois art.” “You think so?” questioned Soutine. “Of course, my friend. Anybody can from an opinion and receive certain aesthetic sensations from this plate of fruit here. On the other hand, look at that painting, “Fusilero marino,” on the wall over there; the only people who like it are the pompie art lovers and the snobs, all of whom practically ejaculate when they see a cubist work by Picasso, Gris, or Braque.” “I agree with you, Diego. The anxiety that you felt while trying to paint in the cubist mode was absurd,” added Modigliani. “I swear you must have done it so as not to have a fight with the painter from Malaga, who you deeply admire, right?” “Right. He’s my mentor, but why should I have to continue painting like he does? Soon, I’ll be myself again. In a nutshell, I’m free, so much so that I’ve broken away from Pierre Reverdy and his group of pedantic friends, Guillermo Apollinaire, André Bretón, and Luis Aragón. The only one I still talk to is the Russian, Max Jacob.” “Now that you’ve achieved your independence,” added Amadeo,

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“you’ll become the leader of a new realist style of painting that will have social content and respond to the needs of people in revolutionary situations. Geometric Cubism will fall out of style in the world of vanguard art.” “By the way, some days ago I read Reverdy’s article, ‘A night on the plain.’ It was strange,” commented Soutine, “and he didn’t say anything nice about you.” “I wasn’t aware of it. Where did it come out?” asked Modigliani, with curiosity. “In Nord-Sud, that rag for intellectuals and ladies of culture,” responded Diego. “They just started publishing. Everyone in Paris has heard that he compared me to savage Indians, jungle cats, and those big but agile African baboons, in addition to calling me a shameful anthropoid lacking an appetite and virility.” “He was that mad at you?” “Apparently so. He’s detested me ever since I made him look stupid at Zettlin’s place. We got into a fight, and I jerked his toupee off his head. We argued over Renoir and Cézanne, who the ‘exquisite’ people now consider old hat.” “That vain poet will never forgive you. He doesn’t like anyone to contradict him, you can be sure of that,” added Modigliani. “Yes, reverdy will continue to get revenge. Be careful!” advised Soutine as well.

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His friends’ prediction came true. Diego was quickly ostracized, and his only defenders were Metzinger, Lothe, and María Blanchard. The change in his style also changed his relationship with the gallery owners. Rosemberg, who himself was furious, asked the poet André Salomón to take revenge, publishing an article entitled, “The Rivera Affair,” in which he attributed Rivera’s return to more figurative painting to his failure to dominate the cubist style. The critic considered Rivera’s new work to be a bad copy of Cézanne’s work. By then, the French conservatives had turned the Bolsheviks into the enemies of civilization, including the one who, due to his Mexi-

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can origin, was called the “savage.” The tenacious circle of cubists compared Rivera to the image of a man on a billboard, who with a bloody knife in his mouth symbolized Communism. “How could you vote for the Bolsheviks?” was the incriminating label on the billboard. Regardless, the Mexican painter paid no attention to them. His faithful supporters warned that something was in the air. Alarmed, his friend Leopold Gottlieb, with whom Rivera had shared a small studio, came to see him. “Diego, look how far they’ve gone with your political ideas! They say your enemies, who are responsible for that sign, put it up not only to finish you off here, but also force to you to go back to your country of dirty revolutionaries.” “I figured as much, but they’re not going to win. I know that Juan Gris and George Braque, who were provoked by Picasso, became furious when I abandoned the Orthodox cubist colors and shapes. They’re in cahoots with the anti-communists led by Cartier Saint Denis, who was the one promoting this rubbish.” “Well, no matter who did it, this is a serious attack on you. Their not signing their attack is cowardly, but what are you going to do?” “Continue down the path I’ve chosen. Do my work. My decisions have given me a new energy. When all is said and done, the most important thing is to remain free and independent.” “You’ve achieved that, but you’re going to have some tough times ahead. It’s not easy to break from those who pretty well monopolize the art world in Paris.”

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During the following days, the conservative boycott produced overwhelming results. Not one of Rivera’s paintings was sold. One afternoon, when the Mexican painter was on the verge of a financial crisis, Malevich bounded up the stairs to Rivera’s studio, apparently in a hurry to see Rivera. “My dear Mexican friend,” he announced on entering, “I’m so happy to find you here! Something incredible has happened. If I hadn’t been there myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. Yesterday, Pro-

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fessor Faure, with whom I spent the afternoon learning about GrecoRoman art, asked me out of the clear blue if I knew you. When I told him that I did, he asked to meet you, because he liked the paintings you exhibited in “The Constructors” show. Also, he’s heard some anecdotes from your childhood and wants to talk to you about them. He wouldn’t say anymore about it.” “Elie Faure wants to meet me? And he knows something about my childhood? I can’t believe it!” “It’s true, Diego. As you know, in addition to being one of the best art critics and a renowned university professor, the doctor has achieved much acclaim for attending to the wounded on the frontlines. He’s invited us for tea tomorrow, if you can go.” “This will be an exceptional moment for me. Of course, I’ll go, if only to thank him for considering me among ‘Los Contructores.’” As agreed, the next day the two friends went to Elie Faure’s house. Preparing the second volume of “The History of Art,” the writer was immersed in a world of books and papers when they arrived. Paintings by Matisse and Cézanne hung on the walls, giving the room a touch of light and color and highlighting the fine furniture and setting off the sobriety of the walls and curtains. Finding himself surrounded by original works of his favorite painters, Rivera felt as if he had been transported to the promised land. “Doctor Faure, your art collection is fabulous!” They discussed the latest happenings in the Paris art world and the exhibition that the historian had sponsored. “Doctor, I’m pleasantly surprised by your knowledge of modern painting. You have a deep knowledge of the vanguard movements throughout Europe, and especially of today’s artists, including my comrades.” “Rivera, that’s all well and good: it’s my daily task, if not my professional obligation. What interests me here, in addition to your art of social commitment, is to find out if you remember Ernesto Ledoyen.” The painter turned pale and could barely speak. “Are you referring to my dear Professor Ernesto Ledoyen?” “In effect, I’m referring to the same Ernesto Ledoyen. I suppose

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that he’s the same person who taught you to speak French correctly back in your faraway country.” “But, Professor, how did you know about that?” “Very simple, my friend! Ledoyen fought alongside my uncle, the geographer Elisée Reclus, during the time of the commune. The two of them ran into each other when Ernesto returned to France. Back then, he talked about the time he spent in Mexico and about his student Rivera who he was sure was to become a great painter and politician. Hence, when you came to Paris, my uncle recognized your paintings and he connected it to the young boy who Ledoyen had mentioned. Later on, he told me about other strange incidents, and so I developed an interest in your work. I’m telling you all this so that you’ll know how much your professor cared about you.” “But I can’t believe it! Professor Ledoyen was the person who influenced me the most in my life. He taught me about politics, literature, and art. And now it all comes back to me!” “Given that much appreciated relationship, Diego María Rivera, you can count on me now, just as you relied on him back then. I am sufficiently old enough to be able to request it of you. Just accept me. I’m positive that we’ll be the greatest of friends! I also learned from my uncle and Professor Ledoyen about socialist politics and anarchism, and I’m not sorry for it. To the contrary, that background has been definitive in my becoming a humanist.” Malevich was astounded. Diego had never told him about his political formation, and he wanted to participate in the conversation. “I’m surprised, Dr. Faure. I would have never imagined that such an erudite and respected Frenchman would befriend Diego, who for us is simply the ‘Mexican Barbarian.’” “Don’t be surprised, Malevich,” answered Faure, “barbarism is not a characteristic of someone like Rivera. The fraternity of thinking, sensitive beings is what makes the world go around, and our families and friends of the previous generation did it together. Now Rivera and I will repeat the same adventure, but in art.” The conversation was interrupted by an elegantly uniformed servant, who brought in refreshments. Samovar was served in a brushed-silver tea set, cups and saucers, teapot, cream and sugar

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containers made of fine Sevres porcelain, and an assortment of dessert cakes filled with chocolate and cream, all to the delight of the demanding intellectuals. “Doctor Faure, you’re an aesthese even in the way you serve tea. I’m not surprised by the correct critical analysis of art that Kasimir writes, having learned from the best. Before finding out about the close academic relationship between the two of you, I was already taken by his profound knowledge of aesthetics and art. Now I know why.” “It’s not just our closeness. Malevich has always confided in me, the same way I hope you will.” “Not only will I do it, but I also feel that from this day forward our friendship will last throughout our lives.”

VI he winter weather wasn’t getting any better, neither has Rivera’s state of mind. According to Dr. Faure, who also gave him medical advice, it was going to be necessary for the painter to spend some time on the sea coast, where he could eat healthy, fresh food. He needed to recover both mentally and physically; otherwise, he was not going to be able to overcome the deep depression in which he found himself. “Angelina, we need to go to the coast. Elie Faure has prescribed a way to get well that includes seafood, especially mussels and oysters. According to him, I sorely need salt and minerals. But I don’t see how we can do it, if we don’t even have a penny to spare, much less for travel.” “By the way, Diego, Margarita Lothe came looking for us. She and André have invited us to spend the summer with them. Jean Cocteau is also sick, like you are, and he’s supposed to go down to the sea as well, not only to write poetry, but also to rest and regain his strength. Margarita and André have rented a beautiful place, and Margot asked me to invite our friends Eleine and Adam Fisher. This is what you need, my dear. You can get well there, and you’ll be able to paint in a new environment, one that suits your new realist style.”

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“Let’s do it. I would like to see how Adam works. His sculptures are so contemporary that they motivate me, as does Eleine’s classical perfection. Angelina, doesn’t she remind you of one of those young models who posed for the Italian Renaissance painters?” “You’re right, Diego Diegovich. Eleine could easily have been the model for Boticelli’s “The Birth of Venus” or “The Spring.” She also reminds me of the beautiful Simonetta and her tormented love affair with young Sandro.” “It’s true, women like that can awaken serious passion. That blond is so enchanting that any man would go crazy for her, especially a painter who seeks perfect beauty!”

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Upon their arrival to Le Piquey in southern France, Diego and Angelina realized they had found a wonderful place to stay. The house where they would stay was located on top of a hill covered with pine trees, just a short distance from the coast that was craggy and dropped sharply into the sea. The rocky shore, half covered by the waves, changed color according to the amount of water covering them. At times, the rocks looked like emeralds floating in continual movement; at others, they became dark garnets when the rays of the sun illuminated them. For Diego, this new natural environment offered him infinite possibilities for testing new pictorial styles and mixing other colors on his palette in order to capture the unusual landscape. On the night of their arrival, after having dinner, Diego and André sat down on the terrace overlooking the ocean. The weather was perfect, and the bright moon illuminated the small houses of the nearby village. “André, thanks so much for inviting us. Already, I feel very comfortable here.” “That’s excellent, my dear Mexican friend. Frankly, your friends are worried about you. Angelina has shown so much courage during the course of your problems that she has won over our deepest respect. We think she’s an exceptional person, but we won’t reproach you either. Your young age has allowed you to drift aimlessly in life

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without having to demonstrate any maturity in your personal affairs. But now is the time to reflect upon your life. You should put aside the image of “enfant terrible” with which you took Paris by storm. Now is the time to give some seriousness to your art. After ten years of unending work, you should be able to maintain an equilibrium between Rivera the artist and Diego María the man.” “You’re absolutely right, my dear André. Not only my physician Faure but also my friends have the same opinion.”

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Within a few weeks, the benign climate, the proper food, the tranquility of the landscape, and the relaxing effect of the sun’s rays contributed to curing the painter’s battered soul. But his recovery was accelerated even more with the profound admiration and love that he began to feel for Eleine Fisher. At first, it was his admiration of her beauty and personality; later it was his growing passion. Once again, the immature Rivera began to cherish the poisoned impossibility of falling in love outright. The repressive situation tormented his spirit. Margarita Lothe, who was extremely sensitive, began to perceive the entanglement in which her friend the painter, for whom she acted as benefactor, was becoming involved. Feeling confident in their deep friendship, one morning she approached Diego while he was painting. “Diego María, once again you’re falling into Cupid’s trap. Your ability to torment yourself has no limits.” “My dear friend, have I really managed to put aside the enchanting spell of that impassive Eleine?” “Diego, your naiveté doesn’t surprise me. In the area of love, you haven’t stopped being the Affectionate Cannibal—even though there’s nothing cannibal about you. Instead of eating human flesh, you let women devour you.” “Margarita, you’re a true friend who knows my weaknesses.”

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Rivera dedicated himself once again to painting landscapes and portraits, each one of which reflected his nostalgia for something else. By means of certain colors and brush strokes, he made the surrounding forests and villages look deathly grey and poorly drawn, as if they were afraid to shine brightly in the summer sun. He drew a portrait of Jean Cocteau, whose face reflected a similar sadness. And so it would seem that Rivera’s temporary love interest brought back to life those past unfortunate loves, beginning with his feelings for the young English teacher and ending with the anguish provoked by Marievna. It wasn’t a coincidence that Eleine was the third blond to cross his path, even if she had been just a flash of light.

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With their vacation about over, the Riveras began to confront the reality of returning to Paris. They tried to resolve any problems stemming from their emotional lives, with an eye to creating a better understanding between them. With that goal in mind, they finally retrieved their child, Diego Miguel Angel; but the presence of the little boy only contributed to a heightened sense of failure on the part of his tormented father. “Angelina, during your pregnancy, I had great illusions about being a father. Now, however, I feel like a poor devil, because I have neither been able nor known how to take responsibility for fatherhood. All I’ve done is spend my time cultivating destructive passions instead of letting a natural love develop for our Chiquito, as you call Dieguito with affection. By repressing my love, in a way I’ve been castrating him.” “I’ve been doing the same thing, Diego Diegovich. I developed a hatred for Marievna, and it also limited my affection and love for the child. I haven’t been a true mother, which makes me feel terribly guilty. Both of us need to change our attitudes. There’s still time to love and take care of our son.” “My angel, you’re right, but you’re also wrong. The lack of love between us prevents us from doing that. How are we going to give something to him that we ourselves don’t even have? Not even inside

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these four walls is there any material or spiritual warmth. There’s no coal, no firewood, no affection—only coldness and loneliness. Can’t you see how disastrous our lives have been?” “Diegovich, don’t take things to such extremes. Are we or are we not his parents? We’ll find whatever it takes to protect him. We’ll find the strength, no matter how hard, to take responsibility for him. We can’t give up just like that.”

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The days that followed were even more severe. The prolonged cold spell in Europe during the fall of 1918, and sickness stemming from poverty, played havoc on the child’s already stunted health. First he came down with pneumonia and then he got meningitis, which attacked Paris like a biblical plague. On one freezing day in November, the child died. For the parents, the death of their child signified the culmination of two truncated lives that had followed an untimely destiny. The day of the funeral was especially cruel. In addition to their suffering, Diego and Angelina should have repressed their hatred when they saw Marievna partially hidden by some trees in the Pére Lachaise cemetery. The young woman, hatred disfiguring her redpainted mouth, stood vigilantly beneath a tree, trying to ward off the incessant rain. When the service was over, she walked directly over to her old friends and cursed them again. “Angelina, your damn God will hear me out! Your lack of love toward your son will one day be avenged by the fruits of what my womb will produce. My son will always be there to remind you of your son. And you, Diego Diegovich, you will have a successor! It’s my responsibility now, even if you don’t want it. I will give you the heir that you were incapable of preserving. My femininity will conquer your lack of manliness!” The afflicted Angelina stood to one side. However, Diego violently took Marievna by both shoulders and shook her with fury. “I’ve already told you, but I’ll repeat it again: as far as I’m concerned, you’re nothing but a two-bit whore. Your deception and

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drama are over. I will never have anything to do with you again. Get out of here!” Marievna, who wasn’t expecting that kind of response, just stood there astonished. Then she quickly wrapped her arms around her belly and said, “Something that’s yours will come out of here, you dirty scum. That I can promise you.” Once back in their freezing apartment, the weight of complete desolation could be felt as they ate the last of some leftovers. Diego sat at the table with his head in his hands. “My dear affectionate Angelina, I’m suffering as never before. Only one other death has affected me like the death of our son—our Miguel Angel, my Dieguito—and that was Jean Jaurés’s death, the socialist. I can remember how upon listening to the incendiary vigor of his speeches, I, too, became enflamed. As with his death, today I feel like another part of me has been destroyed.”

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Feeling fainthearted, Diego looked down at the Montparnasse train station from his window. He could feel the quivering lights in the departing train cars lurching forward toward the death of war, some sped northward, others to the south, the west, and the east. The luminous reflections produced a spectacle not unlike one of the best fireworks displays. Then there was deafening noise. Diego felt as if hundreds of canons were firing directly at him. He passed out on the floor. With difficulty, Angelina propped him up and then dragged him to the couch in what they had called their living room. Startled by it all, Angelina was about to faint herself. Meanwhile, Marievna sat in her lair preparing her last song. Like the sirens from the Odyssey, she surfaced again among the waves of the sea in search of Rivera, intent on enveloping him once again in her spells. One day, she found him with Modigliani in La Rotonde Café. “Diego, I need to see you privately one more time.” “I don’t know why you keep looking for me, my whoring princess, because I totally despise you. Your perversity has no limits.”

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“It has whatever limit you want to give it. Look here, Modi, this ruffian, your friend, is unable to admit that he still has passionate feelings for me. I can see it in his eyes.” “Leave him alone. You’re only making things worse for him and Angelina.” “You know nothing about this, Amadeo. They’re just damned bourgeois. So, Diego, listen to me: we won’t make love. I only want to end our relationship on good terms.” “Don’t you see, Princess, how ridiculous you are and how ridiculous you make me look. Don’t make yourself look so foolish in front of friends. So that you won’t, I accept, but I’m letting you know right here that this is the last time.” “Okay, agreed. Afterward, I’ll disappear from your life. I’ll meet you in my room at the Dôme, where you left me without any consideration or love. Now, I have your word on it.” That night, Diego showed up at her room in order to show her that he was still a man of his word. “So, what do you want from me?” “I need you to find a way to help me. I have no money, and I can’t continue living like this.” “Is that why you wanted to see me? To beg me for a few lousy pennies? I truly thought that you still felt some affection for me. Marievna, don’t you understand? Our relationship has ended. Angelina and I are equally poor, and we continue to grieve for our dead son. I can give you neither money nor love. I can’t give you anything. I’m barely able to survive myself.” Rivera’s outright rejection did not restrain the Princess of the Sea. It only stimulated her amorous play. She purposely gave the Affectionate Cannibal a push, making him fall back onto the rickety cot, where they used to satisfy their erotic needs. While Marievna was getting ready to initiate a session of lovemaking, Diego discovered to his surprise streams of menstrual blood flowing down her inner thighs. He, nevertheless, let her continue her seduction. An orgasm ensued and then rejection. “You’re disgusting. You’re never satisfied. Besides being a whore, you’re unstable, both mentally and physically.”

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“You think so, eh?” answered Marievna. “Well, you’re a mangy dog and I’m going to kill you right now! Your enemy Picasso gave me this present without realizing the favor he was doing for me. She quickly retrieved a knife with a shiny blade from under her pillow and screamed as she plunged the weapon into the painter’s neck. “Die, you dirty Mexican barbarian!”

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Dr. Elie Faure found Rivera at an emergency clinic in a Paris slum. When the painter came to, he had become totally unraveled, feeling guilty and murmuring that once again he had fallen prey to diabolical temptation. His doctor and friend transferred him to the best psychiatric hospital in Paris. When they had finished with his treatment, the doctor asked Rivera, “Had Marievna given you any clue as to her intention?” “Doctor, she attacked me to kill me. But something strange occurred. When she stabbed me, I didn’t feel any pain. At first, there was a pleasant feeling of the cold steel blade entering my neck. Then there was warm blood running down my back.” “But, Diego, didn’t you feel the cold grip of death? It was very close to you, and it almost took you.” “Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure I did feel it. I immediately heard the jingling sound of a multitude of small bells, then the slow toll of a large bell. It seemed like they were calling me to begin my trip to hell. I think I even saw a devil lurking in the background.” “More than likely, your friends had taken you away, because I found out later that you were burning up with fever, as if they had dumped you into a boiling cauldron.” “But that’s not all, doctor. The attendants at the emergency room later told me something else: that Caucasian traitor, after having stabbed me, tried to cut her own throat so that I would be blamed for it and declared a murderer after she died. Just realizing the level of evil and hatred that she felt for me was what more than likely made me faint.”

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“Do you know what, Diego? Every last resident in Montparnasse already knew what your little friend was planning for you. It’s thought that Marievna truly went crazy after you broke off the relationship with her.” “Elie, the whole thing seems incredible. As for your part in this mess, you have been like a father to me. It’s not only because of what you’ve done for me here, but also because of your teachings and the way you have treated me. Our friendship will outlast our lives.” “That’s the way I see it, too, Diego. I’m sure it will always be that way. In the meantime, as soon as you’re strong enough, I’ll take you to my place in the country. The fresh air will undoubtedly bring back your strength.”

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For her part, Angelina, amid the loneliness of the studio, had lost her courage and inner strength, yet she was still able to substantiate the truth of the forebodings she had when they lived in London. Reality had finally overtaken her imagination. Although they still lived together, their love for each other had all but disappeared. “Diego, let’s get away from the phantoms of our pasts. Here, between these four walls, they will continue to haunt us. Let’s find another place to live, where we won’t continually have to face our memories. We can start a new life.” “We should do it right away. If we leave this place where we’ve suffered so much pain, we should be able to find ourselves again. We need a change of environment, something else in Paris that is less painful. Go ahead, look for another place where we can live in peace.”

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That afternoon, Angelina, along with another intimate friend of hers, Valevna, a talented exponent of Art Deco, went to visit María Blanchard at her flat. “I feel so depressed. I suggested to Diego that we make some changes in our lives, so I found a pleasant studio, although it’s not quite as big as our present place on Rue de Dèpart. But instead of

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finally beginning to live in harmony together, he accepted an invitation from Doctor Faure to go to his summer residence in the South. The tragic adventure with my despicable compatriot has triggered another spiraling depression, and he’s not getting any better.” “Diego deserves it, and more!” clamored María. “I’m sure his wounds have given him something to think about, but I know he’s incorrigible.” “And what are you going to do, Angelina?” asked Valevna affectionately. “To begin with, I’ll wait for him to return to our new home, where I’ll neither see Marievna’s shadow nor hear my son crying. At least this will give me some relief in my sad life.” “I think you’ve done right by finding a new place to live. You’ve made a good decision. As for Diego, you should send him straight to hell,” insisted María adamantly. Angelina began fixing up the new apartment that was located in a typical nineteenth-century building out by Champ de Marte, 6 Rue Dupleix. It was a tiny place that lacked any space for intrusive guests or a crib for a substitute for Diego Miguel Angel Rivera Beloff.

VII nce he was situated in Dordogne, Diego’s illness got worse, and with the summer heat and all, he came down with double pneumonia. Once again, Dr. Faure attended to his needs. One morning, to protect against the suffocating heat, the good doctor lowered the deteriorated awning that covered the balcony of the master bedroom of the large house. Generation after generation of his illustrious family had performed the same ritual in order to prevent the midday sun from penetrating the room. His friend Diego María Rivera was resting there, suffering as he was from intermittent fever, deliriums, and other strange symptoms. That morning, however, Rivera managed to sleep peacefully. Given the serenity that he displayed on his face, Dr. Faure figured that the patient was dreaming about his childhood and the angels about which his grandmothers would tell stories. Actually, the doctor thought that he should be

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suffering from nightmares, especially due to the adventure that he had had with Marievna. Dr. Faure decided to write a letter to Angelina and give her an update on Diego’s condition. He sat down at a desk nearby and began to write. Dordogne, Southern France 23 June 1919 My Dear Friend Angelina, It pains me to have to inform you at this time that Diego is gravely ill, probably as much spiritually as he is physically. Once I cure him of his physical ailments, I will work on his moral deficiencies, or perhaps the other way around: by curing him first of those love affairs as if they were the last ones in his life, I will help him get rid of his migraine headaches and frequent depression. As for you, I can only imagine that with the death of your child and Diego’s absence you find yourself deeply alone. Believe me, Diego is not any better off than you. When he arrived here, he was on a downhill turn. Only recently has he mentioned a desire to get back to painting. His latest painting, which I like, is heavily influenced by Cézanne. Now, in the midst of his dreams, he constantly repeats that the master from Provence is the one person who has helped him escape from Cubism. Some days ago, before becoming bedridden again, he tried painting the nearby landscape with exuberant colors. That attempt revealed the Mexican influence that he will always carry with him. But, when he became sick again with the excessive fever, he became delirious and started to doubt his mental stability. Semiconscious, he has questioned everything, to wit: Elie, could it be that I carry the devil inside me? Is that why my son’s death has caused me so much pain? Did he die because I separated from Angelina and had a vicious argument with Marievna? Is that why I fell hopelessly in love with Mrs. X? But, he himself, answered his questions: I’m sure of it, these are all traps set by the devil to make me abandon my responsibilities. It’s the punishment I get for my infinite arrogance! My dear Angelina, I have no answers to your questions. At one point I was about to believe that bad

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He stopped writing. With a gesture of dismay, he tore up the letter and covered his face with his hands. He thought it unnecessary to put more obstacles in the couple’s way. The doctor reaffirmed to himself that the purpose of Diego’s visit was to put distance between him and those sick relationships in which he had found himself immersed. And after the sinister relationship with Marievna, he turned around and fell in love with none other than the wife of a friend.

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During the following weeks, the painter’s physical and mental condition began to get better, thanks to the kind doctor’s care. One afternoon, the two friends met in the arbor situated in front of the garden; the perfume of the climbing vines that ringed the beams across the top mixed with the aroma of the fruit that was about to mature. The environment that was almost lyrical anesthetized the senses. In order to enjoy it, they decided to sit in two old wicker rocking chairs that were disintegrating next to a small pond, in which the white water lilies suggested the unmistakable art of Claude Monet. “Thanks, Elie. You have brought me back to life and surrounded me with what I should never have abandoned. Your place is full of art. The house and gardens are an aesthetic delight. Now I understand why the impressionist masters insisted that painting reproduce scenes of nature and daily life on the canvas. Besides, thanks to your advice, I’ve decided to take a trip to Italy, where I will learn the techniques of all the great painters that are found in the palaces and churches, not to mention museums and art galleries.” “I totally agree with your opinion about the impressionists and your decision to travel around that magnificent country to the south. You should steep yourself in the muralist painters from Venice and

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Florence, who also knew how to capture political life at crucial moments of history.” “Indeed, I would like to learn from them about the art of public painting. Some years ago, I spoke with Atl and Montenegro, whom you already know, about the responsibility to recreate muralist art in Mexico. In fact, Atl and Jorge Enciso have been considering the possibility of reintroducing this traditional art form in Mexico. In addition, in Paris I talked to the Guatemalan Carlos Mérida, who is a true precursor of the movement to recreate native art in his country.” “Very good, Diego, I like the way the Latin American artists understand their possibilities of creating art. I have great respect for the Mexicans, and especially you, because your crisis has given you the courage that’s necessary to move beyond your indecisions, trials, and tests. Is your break from Picasso definitive? Or am I wrong?” Rivera didn’t answer right away. He stood up and walked back and forth with long strides along the side of the pond, as if he were fleeing from himself and the need to give an answer, or as if he were in a hurry to begin his trip to the promised land. He soon became fatigued and returned to his chair. “Elie,” he exclaimed, “the cubist movement is worthless to me. Our work must serve the Mexican Revolution; it will educate the people about a new ideology. It seems like it may be a long time before I can begin, so I must leave immediately.” “Whoa, slow down, Diego! I know that this is your greatest ambition. If you haven’t made the attempt until now, it’s because of the connections with your cubist friends and your fear of the art critics upon whom your life depended. Now you have broken with them, and here you are, as alive and lucid as can be. Now you can do what you have to do.” “It’s true: now that I’m free, I can do it.” “Fantastic! Let’s have something to eat and drink. It will do you good. And we’ll drink a toast to your decision to change from Picasso to Cézanne, and from Cézanne to Giotto and Mantegna.” Once they were in the dining room, Faure went over to the china cabinet, which was crafted in the Provenzal style of the region. He removed two wine glasses and a crystal decanter of fresh wine.

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“Diego, take a glass. Try our house wine. I think it’s excellent. Tell me what you think.” “Thank you, Elie. Yes, it’s delicious,” responded the painter after taking a sip. Unexpectedly, Diego began running his finger around the lip of the thin, transparent glass, which produced a strange sounding melody. “Diego, what music is that?” “It’s a tune from the “Gregorias” by Erik Satie, a good friend of mine.” “I’m so happy for you. Not only is your health back, but also you’re demonstrating a desire to live and play a tune from Satie on a crystal glass. Now I’m convinced of your enormous capacity for physical and moral recuperation. You were born with those qualities.” “Thank you, Elie, although I’m not entirely happy. To play with music or painting is nothing. I need to create and rescue what’s profound in life, the part that isn’t talked about in Mexico, that is, what we’ve inherited from the ancient indigenous cultures.” “By the way, I’ve just seen reproductions of the paintings that were recently discovered in Teotihuacan, the Great City of the Gods. I hope to see the originals some day. They must be something spectacular.” “I promise you that we’ll see them together one day soon. I must study them when I return to Mexico. Doctor, I believe that in order to become a true muralist painter, that is, a creator of public art, I must become familiar not only with the work of the Italian masters, but also pre-Hispanic mural painting, or at least what remains of it. But, to tell you the truth, there are murals that decorate admirable colonial churches as well. Mexico has a brilliant artistic past.” “So true. I’ve never doubted it for a moment.”

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The next day was completely sunny, absolutely perfect for painting. As Diego passed through the old kitchen, he filled his thermos with coffee from the copper coffeepot sitting next to the smoldering

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fire, grabbed some apples from the fruit basket, and started out with his equipment under tow. For several hours, he worked on a painting that he had outlined before he got sick. As he finished, he applied some yellow and orange tones to the scene, which not only reminded him of the sunny colors of the tropical regions but also incited him to analyze the harmony that he had achieved. Wow! What have I done here, he said to himself. He had been painting the vegetation found in the landscape in Le Piquey, but using shapes and tones that were similar to the plants in Orizaba, near Veracruz, such as those found along the trails leading to Río Blanco, where—he would never forget—he came upon those damn Generals Rosalío Martínez and Joaquín Maas. Such powerful memories! And now he was painting the French countryside with the colors from the coast of Veracruz in Mexico. While he waited for the paint to dry on the canvas before he removed it from the easel, he started playing a game he had invented to distract himself from the boredom of waiting. With precision, he began to smell the tubes of paint he had used during that session. Hmm, he thought, if I were to tell someone, they’d never believe me. For him, each color, in reality, emitted a particular smell. One tube smelled like red, another smelled of . . . well, green, and a third tube . . . nothing . . . it must be black, total negativity. He was about to prove his strange theory when he saw his mentor Faure approaching with his dog, an enormous mastiff following behind that was as black as the blackest night. “Doctor, your panther is astonishing. He’s darker than the black paint in this tube. I should paint him, as a challenge to prove what I’ve said since I was a child that “black on black is nothing.” “Do it, Diego, but he’s not a panther, just a dog, whose name coincidentally is “Blackie”! And if you manage to keep this dog still, you will have proved that he is, in effect, nothing, because he will have lost his character as a rebel. But, conversely, if the animal rebels and takes off, he’ll not be here anymore, meaning that he will have become nothing as well. In conclusion, you will be right, Diego: his blackness will tend to disappear, and Blackie will become nothing.” “Elie, my friend, you understand all too well and can play my

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games, too. But let’s talk reality. I finally finished this painting. Look at it and give me your opinion.” “It’s wonderful that you’ve overcome your depression! That’s great, young man! You’re on your way! The colors and the shapes are magnificent—firm, bold, outstanding. The brush strokes fill the composition perfectly. I congratulate you. Put it aside while it dries, and we can take a walk in the vineyards. I’m sure you’ll find other interesting scenes that will keep you working.” “Yes, let’s go, it’ll be a pleasure to see some views near the sea.” “Blackie wants to go with us; he’s docile when it’s a matter of going on a walk with friends. Let’s take this path. At the end there’s a marvelous lookout, where we’ll be able to see the coastal plains off in the distance filled with vineyards and fruit orchards. And the other way we’ll be able to see the cliffs that drop off into the Mediterranean Sea.” He continued describing the environment while they walked along. Their laughter sounded like the screeching of wild birds in the nearby trees. But they quickly hushed up and returned to their prior discussion, because the topic of art was of vital importance to both of them. At times they talked out loud, or they would continue walking while they meditated. “The way I see it, Rivera,” said Faure, with typical circumspection, “art must integrate itself; it must be a part of architecture, painting, and sculpture within the same space. Just the way it was done in ancient Mexico; that’s the way revolutionary Mexico should be.” “You’re so right,” answered Diego. “I believe the same thing: there’s no need to paint more colors and shapes than the ones that already exist throughout our country. In fact, some years ago my classmates at the San Carlos Academy initiated a true movement to recuperate national themes. As for me, I need to recuperate my infancy, and from my youth, my realist painting and its themes that I had learned with my mentors José María Velasco and Félix Parra. Otherwise, I’ll never get well.” “But let me insist a little more. You, Diego, must take a leading role in the recuperation of that marvelous artistic past of pre-Hispanic culture. I’m sure that your friends—Atl, Montenegro, Enciso,

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and Mérida—not to mention other Mexican painters whom I know, will also join you.” Suddenly, the painter stopped and stood absolutely still, demonstrating a will to assume the challenge. “I can assure you of it, Professor! Upon my return to Mexico, I will work to achieve it . . . with or without my friends. As far as I’m concerned, artistic creation is not a matter of genius but discipline. And in this process of rediscovering myself, thanks to you, I have learned what discipline means. Maybe I should divest myself from politics, but above all, I must control my amorous passions. They have only served to drag me down into degrading situations, not unlike the worst macró in Montmartre, who would go around collecting payments in Pigalle.” After saying such ignominious words, Rivera decided to stop talking. “Rivera,” said Faure, picking up where the painter had left off, “after listening to you talk, I’m wondering if you could explain what love and politics mean to you. You seem confused by the two words, and then you don’t know anything about anything! Sometimes, my friend, you seem to paint yourself black.” “I should be the first to admit it, yes, you’re right. Okay, I’ll try to explain my way of thinking. To me, politics means not only the daily battle against the abuses of power by those who throughout the world subjugate the masses, but also the application of justice to those who have nothing. To love is a form of vital commitment to something about which I’ve been totally blind. Everything seems to turn dark, and my passionate excesses have come to provoke mortal wounds! If that’s not true, all you have to do is ask the Great Lady of Spain or Marievna!” “Diego, so much the better. At least you can recognize what’s happened to you, and fortunately, you’re sufficiently intelligent to be able to deal with your emotional problems, as well as the results of your political wrongdoings.” Amid questions and answers, they continued walking down paths that flanked the vineyards and the fruit orchards, with hedges of colorful flowers that encircled eucalyptus and cypress trees along

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the way. They came to the end of the beaten, red-dirt trail, which was on the edge of a cliff overlooking a valley in which the earth had been transformed into sand, stone, and jagged rock. “Elie, I feel just the way this landscape looks. Nature is constantly transforming and changing in an instant, only to continue existing in a different texture and shape. The pine trees on top of the hills give way to orchards and vineyards that, in turn, give way to the small, spiny bushes growing next to the sea. The red earth leaves space for the pale yellows and orangeish-stained rocks and sand. Well, look at that! This path has opened up to convert itself into an infinite horizon! And to think that human beings as well can change at the snap of the fingers, from a state of pride and loftiness to pure garbage. It’s happened to me several times!” “Rivera, you have an exceptional ability to interpret your surroundings. Now I understand how you can paint realist scenes with such force and energy. As for your personal life, I think your selfanalysis is correct. You’re an extremely human person, but because of your weaknesses, I wouldn’t say that you were converted into garbage; better yet, excrement. Don’t the experiences you had with Marievna seem totally and absolutely degrading? And then you turn around again, fall in love with a woman, and end up destroying her. That’s outright despicable, it’s not the work of a real man.” “Elie, you’re absolutely right! I deserve to be talked to this way, but putting aside my human depravity, I do recognize that thanks to your help my mental state is better. Once again, I can appreciate the beauty of the earth’s formation that’s been converted into sand and the way it penetrates the water, converted into foam. I can see how the light sparkles to produce infinite reflections on the water that together create luminous waves. Nothing is static, everything is dynamic, because it’s all alive. And me? Haven’t I been transformed from excrement into garbage? Am I not trying to become a man again? Haven’t I just been fooling myself? Hadn’t I stopped being a real person in order to pretend to be someone else who has nothing to do with who I am? Have I not had to look in a mirror to see who I was and now who I am?” “It’s true, Diego! You’ve been living a lie. You pretend to live

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your loves as if they were real, when, on the other hand, you feel that they remove you from nothingness. You materialize them without them having a palpable existence. Your perception of this situation is different from a doctor’s opinion or an art critic’s point of view, which I am both. I find it somewhat hard to understand your way of life and, above all, your relationships with other human beings. To deny what exists is to affirm unreality; conversely, to affirm the unreal is to negate existence.” “I know, and at times I paint these contradictions into my canvases. The same thing happens with the colors on my palette—they become confused with each other, like the water and the foam. At one moment they’re a pure blue, but in an instant, they can become mixed and turn yellow or green. They stopped being blue, without stopping to be that color in its sediment. To me, that’s just the way life is. I get it confused, I mix it up, after which I can’t distinguish between who I am and where I’m at. You’ve seen how difficult it has been during these ominous days to fill a canvas with primary colors. Nevertheless, I believe that little by little I’m gaining ground.” “Diego, after listening to you describe the way you conceive things, I think you’re making a great effort to mend your ways in terms of your physical and emotional states. To want to meld art and politics and to join love with painting are the touchstones of your very being. Somehow, you must resolve these issues. Only then will you be able to live with the daily events of your existence. The authentic artist is a product of his times, his people, the surrounding geography, and his environment. Art has been said to be a ‘calling to the instinct of communion among men and women, it’s the path that permits recognition between one and another, without losing the notion of the limits of that relationship.’ The artist that endures is not the one, who like you, lets himself become trapped in the complications of a harmful love affair, only to destroy himself and fall into ill repute. Look at yourself through the mirror of our cherished and admired Modigliani. Soon, he won’t be with us anymore; he’s on a clear path of self-destruction.” “I understand you, Dr. Faure,” answered Rivera. “Unfortunately, Modi has not been able to live only for his art, and those who care

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about him are suffering the consequences. As for me, I’m making an effort to fuse life, ideology, and art. I’m not going to hide behind passionate individualism in order to avoid my creative responsibilities; for instance, painters today should use walls everywhere to denounce the horrors of war, make their work a permanent lesson for humanity. Instead of fighting among ourselves, we should band together and create a permanent campaign for world peace and an awareness of the role of art in promoting a peaceful future for humanity.” “We must insist on the importance of love, although it has been a painful aspect of your own life. One has to choose between the heartache of promiscuity or the loneliness shared with a woman who one might not understand but still respects. And you must be careful of the ease with which you fall into illusory and repulsive love affairs, or how so easily you confuse, in the area of love, water with foam, mud with sand.” “It’s true,” answered the painter. “I had found a real woman and I exchanged her for two others who were both unreal and equally destructive, one totally diabolic and the other outright infuriating.” “Yes, Diego, I understand perfectly. You exchanged firm ground for quicksand.” Walking slowly now, teacher and student continued talking as they approached a vast open plain that was surrounded by small hills covered with grapes. They sat down underneath a vine arbor. Almost immediately, a robust, young peasant girl approached them carrying a wicker basket with a carafe of wine and bunches of grapes that were so red they seemed to be carved out of garnet. Her face, which was partially covered by a large straw hat, was as fresh and full of color as the peaches and apples peeking through the foliage on the trees nearby. “She’s a beautiful young girl, Elie. Her face exudes the feeling of placidness that exists here. If you don’t mind, I’d like to paint a portrait of her.” “You’ll have to ask her. She’s the daughter of the most respected winemaker in the region, the one who produced the wine that we drank yesterday and that she’s offering to us now. I have a great affection for Artur Bonet and his daughter Veronica.”

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“It will be a pleasure to do it! If she will pose for me, I can guarantee magnificent results!” “But, Diego, don’t be led astray. Let’s continue our conversation. What can you tell me about how you’ve been managing to live during the recent political events and the war itself? When I first met you, the Mexican Revolution meant everything to you. Then you tried to join the French army that was going to war for nationalist reasons. And now you’re involved in the socialist revolution in Russia. I hope neither Trotsky nor Lenin invite you to commit your painting to an art movement that will undoubtedly surface from their famous insurgency.” “You see, Elie, Lenin and Trotsky have already defeated their enemies and established a Soviet government. If they were to call upon me to join them, I would go only on the condition that they support the concept of art for the masses. That I can assure you! Modigliani and I have looked at the possibility of joining their movement, but they rejected us. So, I’m not so interested in Moscow anymore. What I want more than anything right now is to return to my previous style of figurative realism, but with a social content; that is, to understand Cézanne for his use of color and shapes, and then revisit my ability to create my own style that will be accessible to revolutionaries everywhere.” “What did I tell you, Diego! You go from one revolution to another, just like you go from one woman to another, or from one painting style to another. Dedicate your art to your own country. You play around with your own life just like the devil goes around hiding from himself. Don’t get upset, but it seems like your illusory fantasies always come back to Amadeo. I managed to save you from your sexual alienation, but now I’m worried that your real alienation is due to your current political confusion. It’s clear to me that Ledoyen’s teachings struck a deep cord with you and that Lenin and his group have extracted a commitment from you. Which way are you headed? To Mexico or to Russia?” “As I’ve always repeated, Elie, my true calling is this one. I’ve never known who I am or what I want. Ever since I was a child, it’s been like that. Within my family, for instance, while some of them

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thought that my artistic aptitudes were some kind of divine talent, others judged my political, social, and religious opinions to be the work of the devil.” “It’s true. That duality will always bear its mark on your soul.” “What do you mean, Doctor?” “Well, it’s this way, Diego: while you were delirious during your last bout with death, you kept repeating that you were wicked, you kept yelling with fear that you were a repugnant being possessed by the devil. You must be carrying a sense of infinite guilt.” “Was I really that sick?” “I was not only worried about your life, but also fearful that once you got better you’d go crazy. As we’ve agreed, take that long trip to Italy, where you can observe and study innumerable marvelous works of art. When you return, you’ll be rejuvenated and spiritually stable. I can assure you that while you’re there, you will finally find yourself.” “Yes, of course, as soon as I can save enough money, I’ll go to Italy, and upon my return, perhaps directly to Mexico. At least this is what I intend to do.”

VIII ne day, near the end of winter, Angelina was sorting out her husband’s mail, which had accumulated into a big pile during his absence. “Look, Diego, here’s a letter from Barcelona. The remitter is David Alfaro Siqueiros. Isn’t he the Mexican painter your friends have mentioned?” “Yes. David is a young painter and friend of Martín Luis Guzmán. I’ve been told that he fought in the Mexican Revolution. Cossío del Pomar met with him recently in Barcelona, and he was favorably impressed. He thought he was a good painter, but a better political activist. He’s joined the anarchists and the Latin American artists who live in Catalonia. Would you please open the letter and read it? I want to know what he says.” “He says that during the time he was a member of the revolu-

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tionary army under a General Diéguez, he lived in Guadalajara and was a part of the Centro Bohemio group that had been founded by José Guadalupe Zuno and Amado de la Cueva, and included friends of yours, Montenegro and Enciso.” “Of course, José Guadalupe Zuno, a classmate of mine at San Carlos, wrote me about Siqueiros’s participation, even if it was a little late.” “And why did they form a group?” “In order to create a national art style using elements of purely Mexican origin. They’re in agreement with what Elie Faure and I have been discussing for hours on end.” “He goes on to say that it’s necessary to create a progressive pictorial art style in Barcelona, with the participation of Hispanic American artists who live in Europe. To that end, he’s proposing that they create a magazine that would be called “Vida Americana.” Finally, he says that he is coming to Paris and would like to meet with you as soon as he arrives. He wants to invite you to lend your support to the creation of this new art form based on indigenous roots and a strong political and social content.” “Is that all he says?” “No. He also requests your opinion about the possibility of publishing a co-authored manifesto directed to all Latin American artists. When you meet, he’ll go over the general ideas with you. Ah! At the end he says that he’ll be here no later than next week.” “Fantastic! I hope he looks us up as soon as he gets here.”

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Just as he had said he would, Siqueiros showed up a few days later. Around that time, the Riveras were once again on the verge of extreme poverty, and in order to save money, they had purchased the cheapest food items they could find in the market. In order to avoid embarrassment, Rivera made things perfectly clear. “David, it’s great to meet you. My friends Guzmán and Cossío have told me about your talents.”

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“Thank you, sir, but I would have to say that more than possessing talent, I’m by audacious.” “Well, whatever it might be, let’s talk about your interests. You’re welcome to spend the day with us, but I have to advise you that Angelina and I are on a rigorous diet. We eat only strawberries for breakfast, and if you’re still here for dinner, we’ll also eat strawberries.” “I accept. Your offer confirms what everyone’s said: coming from you, who knows what might happen.” They spent the day talking about the project to coordinate Latin American art production in Europe. They read and corrected over and over again the content of their document. That night, after they had finished off the last strawberry, Siqueiros told Rivera about his revolutionary and political adventures, and Rivera talked about his experiences in the world of European art. As they were saying goodbye, they went through a litany of memories. “Sir, I’m sure you remember Zuno.” “Of course, we were close friends in the academy when he had recently arrived from Guadalajara in order to work as a caricaturist for the opposition newspaper. I still write to him, and he tells me about his life, more from a political than an artistic standpoint.” “The Centro Bohemio’s last ditch effort, which was directed by Zuno, was to give President Venustiano Carranza a document that contained our thesis concerning the meaning of art. In short, we requested his help in recuperating our national art, based on autochthonous and independent elements of our culture. I have to add that Carranza never answered our petitions.” “I’m not surprised. Between 1914 and when he died, Carranza was just another conservative. I would say that he was more of a pope than the pope himself; in fact, with the constitutionalist government, we went from bad to worse. Maybe that’s why De la Huerta brought him down.” “Apart from the unfortunate situation that faces our country, do you think my proposal is a good one?” “Of course. I agree with your ideas, and I’ll be happy to work with you.” “Sir, we’ll see this to the end.”

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“Look here, David, I’m positive that once Alvaro Obregón from Sonora wins the elections and the presidency, he’ll support us. According to José Vasconcelos and others who keep me informed, Obregón has progressive and nationalist ideas. Until he wins and I can return to Mexico, I’m going to take a trip to Italy. You should take charge of putting everything in order.” “I will do it, and if you manage to get to Italy, we can meet in Rome. I’m hoping to show up there at some point. I’m interested in the new social movements in Italy, especially the national socialist group under Benito Mussolini.” “Me, too, David. I’ll be there waiting for you. I hope you’re as red inside as you are on the outside.” “Of course I am, even though I look redder on the outside. You’ve made me eat more strawberries for the last twelve hours than I’ve ever eaten in my life, Comrade Rivera. To tell you the truth . . . what the hell . . . I’m dying of hunger. By the way, when and where can we meet in order to have a good meal in Rome?” “If Alberto Pani, the ambassador here in Paris, and Vasconcelos come through for me, since they’ll see to it that the government pays for my trip, I will be in Rome by midyear. There, you can find me at the Spanish academy. My teacher Chicharro is the director, and he’s offered to put me up. As far as eating well, we can go to the Trattoria del Grillo, where they say the food is excellent. It’s located in a tower, with a marvelous view of Monte Palatino.” “Very good, Rivera, I’ll climb the stairs to the Spanish Plaza to meet you, and on our way back down we’ll have the opportunity to view some superb art by Michaelangelo, learn about the achievements of the Italian socialists, and devour a plate of the famous fetucchini a la putanesca, which is so coveted by the Romans themselves, but in Spanish carries a different connotation.” “David, that’s right, so be careful with your selection of Italian culinary delights: some of them could get you into trouble, especially when you find out that you haven’t ordered pasta but a pretty young escort.”

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While Rivera was finishing up a portrait of Minister Pani, he told the politician about his plans to return to Mexico, given the new changes in the political and social arenas. He outlined his plans with the utmost sincerity and directness. “Frankly, Alberto, the presidential change in Mexico inspires me not only to take a trip to Italy, but to request your assistance with my return to home. Álvaro Obregón, in my view, is a true revolutionary. My goal is to paint murals for the people who fought in the Mexican Revolution. He’s one who will understand my mission.” “I think your plans are excellent, Diego. It’s true that my friend Alvaro has very progressive ideas. He’s always been that way. If you like, I’ll write to him, outlining your interest in repatriating yourself and collaborating with your friends Atl, Enciso, and Montenegro, who are already painting murals with a nationalist perspective.” “I’ll work with them, although I would like to paint murals according to the postulates created by Zapata and Flores Magón. I’ve always admired them, and now that Zapata was betrayed and assassinated, his cause needs to be painted on murals. The land issue for which he fought so hard is a great foundation for the new government.” “Exactly, the victim of assassination deserves such honors, above all, since he was such a great leader. This incident, without a doubt, was a stain on the constitutional movement. President Obregón would like to rectify everything. As for me, you have my support. You’ll return to Mexico to paint murals dedicated to the memory of Emiliano Zapata.”

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Some weeks later, with the promise that he would soon be returning to Mexico, Diego María Rivera had stepped to his window to take notice of the serenity that enveloped the plaza below, when the doorbell sounded. Angelina, fearing the worst, went to the door. The postman handed her a telegram. “Diego Diegovich, what you had told me about has come. It’s from Mexico.”

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“It’s got to be what I’ve been waiting for. What does it say?” “I imagine it’s the response from your friend Vasconcelos.” DIEGO PERIOD SENDING TWO THOUSAND PESOS TOTAL PERIOD REPRESENTS TRIP ITALY MEXICAN MURAL PREPARATION PERIOD TICKET RETURN MEXICO. JOSE VASCONCELOS SECRETARY OF EDUCATION

“But, my love, according to this, your success represents our separation. The money they’re sending isn’t enough for a trip to Italy and two tickets to Mexico. They’ve given you just enough for one person, without taking me into consideration. Is this the way you wanted it?” “Don’t take it that way. Vasconcelos has no reason to know anything about my personal life—whether or not I’m married, for instance.” “But, Diego, don’t you get it? Our separation begins as of now. Tomorrow, or the next day, you’re going to Italy. And then what?” “Well, I’ll come back here, and then leave for Mexico. But don’t worry: the first bit of money that I earn I’ll send you to come and join me. We’ll create a studio-school, where you can teach engraving. And I know you’ll be very happy there.” “See here, Diego, the proposal is nice but illusory. Our relationship is over. The death of our son finished us for good. Come over here to the window. These will be the last few days that we’ll ever spend together. Look at the steeple of the Invalids, the Eiffel Tower, and, off in the distance, the profile of Notre Dame. You’ve painted those landscapes. In years to come, they’ll be little more than a memory, but they’re also proof of the times during which our suffering was the cause of our death in life and, now, our separation.”

IX he bright stars that had lighted the nocturnal firmament had begun to grow dim, while at the same time sporadic rays of light were starting to appear from behind the undulating Tuscany land-

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scape. The sky lighted up with the colors of the rainbow, the same ones that are frequently mixed on the painter’s palette to obtain that pristine whiteness, the deep reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and indigos and violets. Even the most beautiful vain flames were nothing against this creation. The painter Rivera, in search of the Plaza Michaelangelo, carefully climbed the stairs located near the shores of the Arno River. He wanted to watch Florence come to life, with its steeples and domes, from above. He wanted to relive, little by little, the provocation of new light, not unlike the woman in love who stretches in bed upon feeling the warm body of her lover. He leaned against the stone banister that encircled the exuberant Renaissance plaza and lost himself in thought. He had managed to do it, he pondered, he had beaten the sun. Every day that he had spent in that city he had repeatedly discovered some new marvelous secret. By getting up before daybreak, the public works of art stood out differently to him, sometimes hidden behind the bell towers or tucked away near vaulted niches that populate the walls along the tiny, narrow streets. Florence reminded him of the impenetrableness of Eleine. Oh, how he would have liked to have seen her again and touched the smoothness of her drowsy skin! Without lingering, Diego began drawing the beauty of the river, the magestic Ponte Vecchio, the Renaissance mansions, palaces, and elegant country houses, whose carved-rock facades were outright jewels. He suddenly realized that those landscapes were an intimate part of his self. Nevertheless, he was especially attracted to the luminous dome and marble bell tower of the Santa María dei Fiori Church. When the gracefulness of Giotto’s steeple appeared among the rays of morning light, Rivera reeled from the spectacle and squealed in joy like a small child receiving a present. He could not believe it! The steeple was like a gigantic kaleidoscope! Thousands of tiny pieces of glass on the inside of the magic object had become luminous sparks that ricocheted off the marble surfaces. According to one’s position, the small luminescent lights constantly created new images, not unlike those produced by the triangular mirrors inside those kaleidoscopes—paradise in carton tubes—that he had collect-

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ed as a youngster in Guanajuato. In order to capture the steeple, he took out his drawing pad and began feverishly recreating the changes of light taking place with the rising sun on the graceful monument. Distracted by its beauty, he failed to see a short little man who had been watching him from a distance. After some time had passed, Diego realized that the small person was approaching him. Without a doubt, he thought to himself, this guy wants to talk to me, because he’s coming my way. Wow! If Elie could only see this guy, he’d change his mind about the way the devil really looks. He was a truncated version of a man, a deformed dwarf. Diego was hoping that the apparition wasn’t going to waste his time. The look of amazement on Diego’s face encouraged the elf to introduce himself and offer an explanation of who he was. He began speaking in a twisted combination of Spanish and Italian. “Good day to you, Señor Rivera, I’ve heard that you’ve come from far away, from a certain country called Mexico, where a revolution has occurred in which hundreds of thousands have died.” “Correct,” answered the painter, but he wanted to throw a little fear into him as well. “Many of those who died were pernicious foreigners. Other than that, how can I help you? If you would prefer to speak Italian, it might be easier for you. I understand it, but I can’t speak it much.” “Very well. Ever since you arrived in Florence, I’ve been looking for the possibility of introducing myself, and only today have I managed to do it. I live in the back part of the building where you live, and I also dedicate myself to art, except that I do sculptures. My name is Taddeo Gaddi.” “Nice to meet you,” answered Diego, hiding his growing irritability. “Forgive me if I haven’t paid attention to you. I’ve been totally absorbed in my work. I’m even busy right now. I’ve spent several days studying and drawing the contrast of light and dark on the Giotto bell tower and the dome of that marvelous church. I’ve been taken by the variations of colors that are at play here. This perspective permits me to appreciate these marvels of Tuscany architecture that right now are partially illuminated by daybreak.”

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Taddeo took a few steps forward in order to observe the perspective to which Diego was so attracted. With certain impertinence, he bent over and peered closely at the painter’s work. “Well, sir, I see that you’re making drawings of my city. Its changeable nature is inherited by those who have acquired a notion of beauty that God gives only to the blessed ones, and it looks like you’ve acquired all that he had to give,” commented Gaddi, raising his arms on high. “This is truly remarkable!” “Señor Gaddi, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve exaggerated a little too much. To tell you the truth, I’ve never considered myself to be blessed. On the contrary, I’m very distant from the Church, or any church for that matter, and even more so from God or gods that are venerated by churchgoers. But Florence has completely seduced me with great passion, not only for its architecture but also for its beautiful women, who are extremely captivating.” Gaddi, who was a fervent Catholic and believed that his work was inspired by God, did not reveal his true feelings so as to be able to continue carrying on a conversation with the Mexican painter. “I find your sincerity very gratifying, sir. I also live in a world of fantasy, and I sculpt imaginary flowers, given that for me Florence is an extensive meadow covered with hundreds of intertwined branches of a plant most revered by the alchemists.” “You don’t mean the mandrake, do you? The plant that people here call ‘The Hand of Glory’? According to a medieval legend, it’s the one that gives everything and also takes away everything.” “Exactly,” answered the short, little man. “So, you have been reading up on the local culture, eh? Well, this plant—The Great Magician—has magic powers for me. It grows underneath the budding stems of exotic flowers of gold and silver, or terra cotta or stone of varying colors; but there are others, too, like fine crystal glass that can easily be confused with precious stones. When the sun is about to come up, I also come here, rummage around among the leaves, and find those flower buds. Back in my studio, God helps me to recreate them and give them the shape of real flowers.” “Ah! So you must be the famous Taddeo Gaddi, a member of the ancient family that was friends with Giotto? I have admired your

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beautiful carvings in the galleries, in which you use refined as well as strange materials. Frankly, I was really taken by them. You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to meet you!” “Yes, that’s me, Gaddi, but I’m not so famous. Really, you like my work?” “Not only do I like it, but in my opinion you are one of the geniuses of Florentine gold and silver work.” “C’mon, Rivera, you’re embarrassing me. Now, tell me, according to what you’ve seen, what is the most impressive aspect of Florence? I love my city, and I’m interested in knowing if there are defects that can be corrected.” “I wouldn’t know what to tell you, because I’m interested in learning about everything. Each day I run into something new, and every time I think that what I’m seeing can’t be beat, just the opposite occurs; the next day, this marvelous object that we have in front of us, like every illusive woman, reveals something totally new about itself. Given the impact of being invaded by feverish creativity and trying to draw or paint, I can’t sleep at night. However, my work is lacking in force, it lacks sensitivity and artistic content. In other words, it’s lacking in every aspect imaginable.” “May I see your drawing pad?” Distrustful, the painter handed his drawing pad to the nosey person, who scrutinized every last drawing. “But, sir, these sketches are marvelous; your lines are bold and clean, a sign of a true artist.” “Do you really think so? To me, they seem empty; they don’t say a thing,” argued Diego, with pessimism and disdain. “My friend, why do you talk about your work that way? As far as I’m concerned, as I’ve just told you, you’re one of the Almighty’s chosen few. Although your behavior may be negative, the beauty of your art makes up for it! That’s not all: I don’t believe you have an evil bone in your body, especially after looking at your excellent work. Here’s your drawing pad back. Don’t lose it. It’s extremely, extremely valuable!” “Gaddi, supposing if what you say is true, I’d have to respond by saying that there’ll always be someone to say just the opposite.”

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“But I must insist, Rivera, it’s true what I say!” “Gaddi, thank you so much for your opinions. I will take them to heart. Shall we go down by the river? The sun is already so hot. I would like to invite you to a glass of wine.” The small creature of a man accepted his invitation, and they took the shortest path down to the heart of the city. The physical differences between the two made them look like some legendary pair from that famous short story by the Brothers Grimm: whereas Diego was tall, rotund, corpulent, and slow, Taddeo was short, thin, agile, and swift. As they walked down the street, wherever they went, the disparity between them provoked guffaws and laughter. With each large stride that Diego took, the little gnome ran along jumping up and down in order to catch up with him, but by the time he had caught up with Diego, the giant was already gone again. “Rivera, you’re truly a Mexican barbarian!” said Taddeo, desperately pulling at the painter’s coattails from behind. “I’m worn out! Let’s stop at the first restaurant we see!” “Agreed. I also want to eat, and believe me, you look attractive to me. I could swallow you up in one gulp.” “But, Rivera, you’re only joking, right?” “You haven’t heard about my fame as a cannibal? In Paris, they call me the Affectionate Cannibal, because of my bad habits.” “Well, even if it were true, I’m so old and rickety that I don’t think I would be very appetizing to you. But, no matter, let’s go into the Trattoria Sasso di Dante right here in front of us.” “Sounds good to me. Frankly, you don’t look so appetizing— you’re all bones and no flesh.” They went into the restaurant. The tables were all set, ready to receive customers. They looked for the table that was the farthest away from the door, in a corner where no one could comprehend them. A basket of fresh, Italian wheat bread was already on the table. They immediately ordered an appetizer of marinated vegetables with smoked shellfish. They continued to talk. “Tell me, Diego, besides drawing scenes from in and around Florence from up above, what else are you working on?” “I’m studying the work of Benozzo Gozzoli, one of the pre-Ren-

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aissance Florentine painters whose works interest me. After we finish eating, I’m going the Médicis Palace to continue analyzing in great detail his wonderful fresco The Royal Procession.” “If you’re interested in Benozzo, I imagine you’ve already seen his extraordinary frescos at the Pisa Cemetery.” “I haven’t gone there yet. I came to Florence directly from Rome, via Lazio. I’ve made much of the trip on foot, because I love to meet people from different regions and discuss politics and theories of art. But, more than anything, I enjoy trying out the different foods from here and there. Italian cooking is as good as its muralists. When I head back to Paris, I’m going to pass through Verona and Ravena, among other places. Perhaps I’ll even go as far as Milan to see Leonardo’s work. Frankly, I like Italian painting from every time period. Then, some weeks thereafter, I’ll begin my journey back to Mexico. That’s why I would like to see as much of Italy as possible.” “Diego, it’s a shame that we just met today. You’re a likeable guy, even funny. Are all Mexicans like you? I would have never thought about comparing grilled ribs, no matter how good they are, to Leonardo Da Vinci’s ‘The Last Supper.’” “That’s the way I see it. Both are manifestations of good taste and excellent Italian creativity.” “Listen, my friend,” said Taddeo, meditatively, “you ought to take the rest of the week and go see Benozzo’s great works, especially if, as I think, you’re interested in politics. Those murals are a true lesson on ‘real politik.’ For instance, in his fresco dedicated to the Old Testament, when they’re about to sacrifice Abraham’s son, you can detect more hatred toward the severe regulations of Judaism than the overriding pain of a father in such dramatic circumstances. Benozzo’s strong criticism of biblical history can become interesting for you, because he makes Abraham another rebel, who could very well belong to that corrupted Communist Party led by Lenin.” “I understand what you’re saying,” said the painter, “but I don’t agree with your opinion of Lenin. I consider that revolutionary to be my mentor, and I profoundly admire him. Given our disagreement, perhaps we should change the subject.” The two men seemingly talked gibberish while they mixed lan-

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guages. Due to the effects of the Chianti wine, Gaddi tried speaking some Spanish again, and Rivera felt emboldened to answer in the local argot. They sounded like two youngsters telling witty anecdotes, bantering back and forth without understanding each other. The environment was pleasantly warm, and the afternoon exuded the aroma of the abundant flowers climbing the walls and the roses lining the promenades and surrounding the fountains. Late afternoon, soon turning to night, gave way to a star-studded sky. Having finished their sumptuous meal and imbibed an abundant amount of wine, both characters started walking down the lighted streets to their respective abodes. Taddeo was the first to attempt to open the large door from the street. “Señor Rivera, this lock doesn’t seem to work. I can’t even find the keyhole.” “Let me have a try. Well, I can’t find it either. Let’s call the owner. Señora Pescatti, open the door! Did you change the lock on us?” Furious, the landlady, who looked like a plump chicken, opened the door. “You drunken scoundrels. That’s all I needed: for you two to become friends and get drunk together. And you, Taddeo, you don’t even drink, and look how you’ve brought back this Mexican who says he’s a painter. I’ve never seen him work, day or night. He just walks up and down the streets. What a profession he’s got! Go on upstairs and get to your rooms. Don’t be a bad example for the rest of the tenants.”

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Still dressed, Rivera woke up close to midday. When he finally sat up in bed, he realized that he hadn’t even taken off his boots. He cupped his head in his hands, as if trying to hold it up. He made his way to the bathroom, and although he felt nauseated, he was unable to vomit. He moaned that his stomach was hurting and his head was spinning around. Still, he thought, if he were to stay in Florence, he’d go to that restaurant every day. Taddeo—who would have guessed it?—drank more than he did. Where did he store the wine, bread, and

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cheese in that tiny body? It was truly astounding: such a big eater and such a small body! He decided to go out and look for a beer. That was the best medicine for a hangover. Then he would return to his room, take a shower, and change clothes. But first things first. Looking and feeling like a dirty farm laborer, he left his studio apartment; unfortunately, he ran into the landlady on the stairway. “Well, well, what do we have here? Just look at you, Mr. Painter. If you go out looking like that, everyone will confuse you with the street sweeper,” after which she guffawed loudly. Diego didn’t pay any attention to her and continued down the stairs. The woman, who watched him descend, yelled at him, “If you don’t watch yourself, you shameless Mexican troublemaker, the police will take you away.” “Señora Pescatti, keep your nose out of my business, you might end up being sorry,” and before slamming the door shut behind him, “because I’ll get my gun out and kill you.” The landlady, making the sign of the cross, was in total disbelief. “Santa Madonna, we even have assassins here!” To his dismay, instead of drinking a beer in the bar at the corner, which would have been the best antidote in the world, Diego came upon a tumultuous protest marching. Large red flags were waving in unison, and images of the bright yellow hammer and sickle filled the Florentine streets. Banners and symbols were making their way toward a nearby plaza dedicated to young women. Young and old participants, men and women were yelling socialist slogans and cheering for their heroes. He estimated that thousands of pro-socialists were gathered there together for the purpose of creating the Italian Communist Party. Moments later he felt goose bumps on his skin, because he was hearing—for the first time in that sacred place of art and beauty— the names of Marxist ideologues and those of some of his old political friends in Paris. The voices of the masses applauded each name—Karl Marx, Leon Trotsky, Vladirmir Ilich Lenin—in addition to the Italian Communists, such as Gramsci, Tasca, and Terrcini. By that time, the painter was terribly confused, but he was truly

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happy at the same time. Damn, he muttered to himself, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Here in Florence, they truly combine art and politics. He had learned something truly important. Suddenly, he found himself caught up in the flow of the crowd of protesters, carrying a red flag in one hand, and singing the song of war of the Italian Communists, “Red Flag,” at the top of his lungs. The entire incident had cleared up his hangover, and he had totally forgotten about Taddeo Gaddi and Benozzo Gozzoli. A beautiful, young, intellectual-looking woman who was walking next to him started up a conversation. At first, he couldn’t understand her, because she was speaking in the local Piamonte dialect, but then she switched to Italian. “You haven’t been living in Turin? I live there, and I thought I had seen you on the night train. That’s why I didn’t talk to you in Italian.” “I’m sorry, I don’t hail from such an imposing, dignified city. I also don’t speak Italian very well. I speak Spanish, but I’m sure we will be able to understand each other.” To his surprise, the young woman extended a sudden invitation to him. “Comrade, it doesn’t matter where you’re from, I would like to invite you to join our cell, Red October—there’s room for everyone. All that’s needed is a commitment to Communism, and I see that you are.” “Why do you think so?” asked Diego, somewhat confused. “Because in addition to looking like you’re unemployed and dying of hunger, you’ve come to join this protest in favor of socialism. When was the last time you ate something?” asked the young activist, laughing with certain irony. “Comrade, are all communists so repulsive to you? You’ve got strange ideas!” “Oh, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to offend you. You sure look poor, but you’re not disgusting. You’re probably a good militant, despite your natty, dirty appearance.” Instead of answering with some inoffensive gallantry, Rivera launched a loud laugh that sounded like a wounded hyena; it was so

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loud that it scared off everyone around him who thought he was some kind of monstrous animal, including the young woman who ran off into the crowd. After that unfortunate experience, Diego returned to his room in a meditative mood. He looked for Taddeo and invited him to go out and eat something. They went back to the Trattoria Sasso di Dante, and Diego told him in detail about his recent failure. “Gaddi, I can’t figure out what happened. Had she made me feel stupid? Why couldn’t I have told her that I was the famous Mexican painter Diego Rivera and in that way defend my pride? But, of course, I reacted in an absurd way. I’m sorry to have lost the opportunity to establish a relationship with such a seductive member of the communist youth of Italy. I feel like I’ve been defeated.” “Tell me, Diego, what was the girl like? Is it worth continuing to lament your failure as a conqueror and the subsequent depression that you’re in now?” “Of course, the beautiful Turin girl was worth it. She was wearing a simple flowered dress with a low neckline that revealed her rounded, perfectly shaped shoulders. Her breasts seemed like they were going to burst through the silk cloth that covered them. I would have given anything to be able to caress them. Now I can only imagine that in order to get revenge for my lewd glances, she took me for a dirty, starving monster. For my part, instead of explaining that I was a revolutionary painter, I demonstrated my idiotic arrogance by belting out one of those strange laughs that only proves I’m still some Mexican barbarian.” “And then what happened?” “The girl took off running. She must have confused me with that terrible cannibal that I carry inside me. Gaddi, my friend, if I weren’t as convinced as I am about what I want in life, I would stay right here in Italy. I need to learn how to be a politician and a painter, but more than that, I must learn how to respond to a woman without letting my bad habits scare them away.” “I understand, my friend. Anywhere in this country you could find what you most want to find in life. But you’re right, you’re a walking emblem of Mexico.”

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“That’s not all, and I’ll say it again: I want to become a muralist painter. What most interests me is public art, just the way the Italian painters did it. That’s why they’re my mentors now. As for me, nothing compares to the works of Rafael o Mantegna, Piero de la Francesca, Paolo Ucello, or Benozzo Gozzoli.”

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Once the heat had subsided in the late afternoon, Rivera went to the chapel of the Médicis and began sketching. Unexpectedly, he tripped and hit his head against a mural that contained the dark, stern face of the legendary King Gaspar. Not only did he instantly begin to feel a pulsating throbbing at the back of his head, but also in the midst of a roaring flame, he saw the face of the Moor begin to fade and transform itself into the face of his nanny Antonia. Damn it, he thought, he didn’t know if it was because of the headache that he had, but once again his obsessive memories kept coming back to him. He could not ever forget not only how his nanny would give him solace, but also how his Aunt Totota unleashed her fury against him when she would scream at him that he was possessed by the devil. According to Gaddi, who knew that Diego could reproduce the pictorial quality of the masters, this was a matter of capturing the shiny, transparent aspect of the painting style of the muralists. He figured that if he could get pleasure from the existing beauty that was found in every nook and cranny of Florence, it was because he was someone capable of appreciating the work of the true creators and not the ones condemned to infamy. So powerful were his thoughts and murmurings that the image on Fra Filippo Lippi’s altar piece seemed to quiver out of fear. Almost jumping for joy, he knew then that he had driven the devil from his body. He had won the battle! It was as if this new awareness had put an end to earlier emotional problems. Peace and tranquility overtook his anxieties. Nevertheless, as he took a last look at the prodigious mural, his gaze fell upon the cape of the young arts patron, Julián de Médicis. That scarlet red piece of clothing produced the same visceral emotion that he

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had experienced that morning in the Piazza de la Signoria. Once again, he shivered from head to foot, similar to the time when he saw the red flags of international Communism flutter in the wind next to Michaelangelo statue of David. But, suddenly, he realized that he was equally in trouble. He had rid himself of the devil, but what about Communism? It was in him right down to the marrow of his bones. Some days later, he said good-bye to Gaddi. He started out toward Pisa for the purpose of examining Gozzoli’s murals in the chapel of the cemetery. He also wanted to convince himself that Abraham was just another rebel like himself. After that, he went to Ravena, where he was completely astounded by the large Byzantine mosaics that decorated the Romanesque church of San Apolinar. Mystified by the magnificence of the murals decorated with gold and cobalt-blue colors, he wrote a long and substantive letter to Angelina. More than expressing his feelings of love, Diego conveyed his admiration for what he had learned and appreciated about Italian art.

X till impressed with everything that he had seen in Italy, the painter got off the train in Paris and noticed that his perception of the City of Light had changed drastically. He decided to walk, because he wanted to compare Paris with Rome, Florence, or at least Ravena. It took him several hours to walk the distance between the southern train station and his new domicile on Rue Dupleix, which was about the same amount of time it had taken the fog to lift in the morning. The aspect that most caught his eye was the fact that the murals in Paris seemed greatly reduced in size in comparison to the immense Italian paintings. Everything in Paris seemed smaller in scale. He walked slowly toward his destination, stopping at buildings and monuments that he would never have seen otherwise, while at the same time remembering—as an artist—everything he had seen and lived in Italy and the world in which he had lived for some years. He was anxious to retain all that he was seeing at that moment,

S

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knowing that soon he would be leaving it behind. As he walked up his street—Rue Dupleix—he looked up one side and down the other, searching for the building that he had left some time back. Without much difficulty, he spotted it in the long row of similar-looking buildings that lined the street. No sooner had he walked through the doorway of Number 6 when he mumbled some words to the effect that he knew the place well, and cold shivers began to run up and down his spine. It was due to fear, the fear of the uncertainty of what was to come when he had to leave everything behind, even his afflicted Angelina. He had made the decision to return to Mexico, and he wanted to free himself of all that guilt. Unfortunately for him, she would always be an unyielding and constant reminder of the past and, as a consequence, he would never forget the memories, the reprimands, and the lamenting. He knew, because not even the change of domicile helped her to forget the death of their son. There was also the affair with Marievna and the apparent birth of their daughter, Marika, who, according to the mother, was conceived in one of their encounters in Chatillon. As far as Diego was concerned, Marievna had an affair with someone else. At least Angelina had ignored his love for Eleine! To him, Angelina’s incriminations were typically feminine, but even looking at it objectively, the intellectualized blocking out of his memory of those who had been his friends, the story of Marievna and her daughter Marika, and now the distance created between him and Angelina, along with the deaths of his son Diego and Jaurés, had now become new crosses to bear, not to mention the constant presence of his inseparable family that had been converted into authentic shadows. It was impossible for him to detach himself from all that personal baggage!

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As he climbed each step of the stairs, his body began to tremble to the point that he was unable to insert the key into the lock. After hearing the rattling of the key, someone opened the small shutter in the door, behind which Diego saw the cynical face of none other than David Alfaro Siqueiros.

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“Diego, you look like a corpse. I’ll open the door for you. You’re as pale as death itself.” “David, I’m happy to see you. I thought it would be Angelina who would open the door. Now, then, how was it that you left Italy before I did? You’ve become the equivalent of my shadow.” “I’m someone who’s down and out just like you. You look tired and nervous.” “That I am. The trip throughout the rest of that marvelous country was truly exceptional. When we separated in Rome, I first went down south, after which I went up to the northern part of the peninsula. I think I know more about Italian muralist painting than just about anyone around. I studied from the Etruscans to the religious movements at the end of the nineteenth century.” “If you say so, I believe it. As for me, after our meal in the Trattoria del Grillo, I traveled about, from here to there, and finally ended up in Barcelona, where I worked and painted. Not long ago, I received a letter from Alfonso Reyes, in which he told me about your decision to return to Mexico. So, I came to Paris to see if I could convince you to support my project, which has consumed a lot of my time.” “You should say a lot of time growing your hair. Why have you let it get so long?” “Diego, I don’t understand you. You don’t take me seriously, do you?” “Don’t get me wrong. You’re still a young revolutionary. Actually, I’m jealous. Your youth and freedom drive me mad. Excuse me, please make yourself at home, but first I will say hello to my wife. By the way, I’m truly indebted to Reyes. He and Pani convinced Secretary Vasconcelos to subsidize my trip to Italy and my return to Mexico.” “He was right in doing it, Diego. Our friend thinks highly of you and he recognizes the quality of your work. As for your enchanting wife, you won’t find her here. She asked me to house-sit for her.” “Thanks for telling me. Damn it! Well, at least I’ll put my things away and take a leak. I can’t even do that alone.” “Diego, you don’t have to turn nasty like you’ve done before. If you prefer, I’ll leave before you end up calling me every name in the

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book.” “What the hell do you mean? Just stay put! I’ll be right back!” Diego stared at the easel where he had once worked. He noticed a letter sitting on it. He grabbed it and hurried to the bathroom. He recognized Marievna’s handwriting. As he began to open it, he suddenly had a premonition that it contained bad news. Just looking at it, he could tell something was wrong. To return to Paris, he thought to himself, was to return to his ghosts, but he felt he had to continue to flee. Chatillon, Paris, May, 1921 Diego Rivera: I’ve tried getting some letters to you through Dr. Faure and other friends. Your friends—a bunch of pigs— protect you in such a way that I wouldn’t be surprised if none of my letters have reached you. On the other hand, I’m surprised that you haven’t been told about the extreme poverty in which your daughter and I live every day. When I found out that you were returning, I wrote this letter to you, and then I found the courage to take it to where that hypocrite Angelina lives and stick it under the door, hoping that the maliciousness of your little bourgeois lady wouldn’t incite her to tear it up. If, before leaving for Mexico, you would like to see your little child—she’s already a year and a half old and you’ve only seen her twice—take the time to find out the address of the place where I live with Picasso. Any one of our artist friends has the information. By the way, do you remember the hex that I placed on you and Angelina at your son’s funeral? My omen has come to fruition: my daughter will show the world who and what her father was like. And she will never let you forget our relationship that you deny and try to erase. Until when? Marievna

In a state of fury, Rivera wadded up the letter and threw it into the toilet. Shit goes down with shit, he thought, before flushing it. Meanwhile, Siqueiros had sat down to go over some of the doc-

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uments he had placed in his art folder. “Diego, here’s my article, ‘Llamamiento a los artistas de América,’ a manifesto to the artists of America. Once we’re in agreement, I’ll publish it in Arte Americana, the journal that some of my friends and I plan on publishing in Barcelona. We have a chance to get it up and running soon.” “What idiot is going to support these ideas?” “The Mexican Consul, Arcadio Zentella, an influential person from Tabasco.” “Then it should work, and by the way, did you stick to your original ideas, or did you change your criteria in terms of what we talked about in Rome?” “No. My understanding is that art must be nationalistic but universal and cosmic at the same time. I eliminated any direct references to the postulates of our celebrated Mexican Revolution. I’m convinced that any social and artistic movement, however you might call it, is more worldly in nature and will always continue to be, no matter which school or nation in which it might materialize.” “Hey, David, what have you been eating? You seem so erudite, it’s as if you’ve been living in Madrid, just down the street from the Spanish Royal Academy, and it sounds like the Spanish language has given you indigestion. Let me see what you have there; between the two of us, we’ll come up with something interesting. After all, it’s going to be a declaration about American art, not about Mexican politics, which is something I haven’t been able to follow much. You actually fought in the Revolution, and you know a lot about its history. As one might imagine, if we want to support art with social and revolutionary content, I would like to know your opinion about what happened among the differing revolutionary factions. Outside of meeting Emiliano Zapata and fighting alongside Ignacio Maya, everything else I’ve heard has come from informants, friends who came to Europe with their own versions, letters, and newspaper articles. Don’t forget that I left Mexico at about the same time that Don Porfirio was forced out!” “Diego, you shouldn’t worry about that. I’ll get you up to speed about all the in-fighting and the other positive results that led to bringing Obregón to power. But before that, take a look at my arti-

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cle. It’s all done.” At the same time that Rivera was carefully reading the document, he also indicated what he liked and certain discrepancies. They erased and corrected phrases until they were satisfied with their declarations. By the time they had finally finished, it was well into the early morning hours. “Well, my friend, as you must have noticed, when Angelina’s not here, there’s nothing to eat, not even strawberries. I propose we go to the market and eat breakfast where all the truck farmers and merchants go at daybreak.” “That sounds great, I’m famished. And while we eat a delicious bowl of seafood soup, let’s continue talking. I’m planning on staying in Paris until the project is done. If I don’t, you’ll escape on me again.” “It very well might happen. You see, David, I’ve received the money I need for the trip back to Mexico. As I told you earlier, José Vasconcelos, a friend who goes back to my school days at the Ateneo de la Juventud, convinced President Alvaro Obregón that he should support public art through Mexican mural painting, and they want me to go back. I answered by thanking them. So, I’m leaving here as soon as I can book passage on a ship going to Havana and on to Mexico. I’m anxious to get back home and to those neighborhoods where I grew up. They have so much to offer, even poverty.” “What about Angelina?” “I will send for her later. That’s why I was trembling when you opened the door. Although we’ve talked about my return to Mexico, and now that I’m just about to leave, I don’t know how to bring it up.” When they returned from breakfast, Diego found a note from Angelina. My Dear Diegovich, my absent lover: I was working with María until the wee hours of the morning, and I read your note that you were going out with your friend Siqueiros for a while. Please don’t wake me up, because my nerves are shot and my body aches. We’ll talk when I wake up. I also want to say once again how much I love you. I yearn for your warmth.

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With unending love, Angelina P.S. I hope to spend many long hours with you, hearing about your impressions of Italy.

At the end of May, Diego received several copies of Vida Americana. Siqueiros had finally managed to publish his first—and only—issue of his journal. It contained vignettes that Diego had drawn, and others by Marius de Zayas, David himself, and the Uruguayans Joaquín Torres García and Rafael P. Barrados. The most important part of the journal was the lead article—“Tres llamamientos de orientación actual a los pintores y escultores de la nueva generación americana”—that proposed to provide a theoretical orientation for young artists from the Americas. Apparently, Siqueiros and Rivera had managed to agree on the content that was later re-written in good Spanish by some literary friends. “Angelina, copies of Vida Americana just came. Siqueiros didn’t do a bad job, after all. Take a look while I read you the principal ideas that he wrote for the declaration. It cost us one hell of a lot of time, but it turned out well.” “What declaration are you talking about? You haven’t told me anything, and don’t forget that I wasn’t here when your revolutionary friend arrived. I like him, but who knows what kind of ideas he put into your head.” “He didn’t brainwash me at all. In fact, he sees me as his teacher. That’s the way our relationship is, and we like it that way. We consider the last three paragraphs to be the meat of the article.” The first principle called for “pulling together the myriad of spiritual concerns related to ideas of renovation, starting with Paul Cézanne and coming forward to contemporary times.” The article went on to speak about “the substantial revitalization of Impressionism, the cleansing effect of Cubism, and the new emotive force of Futurism.” It raised the question of reintegrating lost values into painting and sculpture, while still creating new ones, with the caveat that “we avoid arcane, exotic influences.” In addition, it exhorted artists “to live to the fullest these marvelous, dynamic times.” It also stated that “we must embrace the modern dynamics that put us in

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contact with unexpected aesthetic emotions, the contemporary elements of our daily lives, and our cities that are under construction. The art of the future.” The second principle actually foresaw what was later to become a direct connection among contemporary artists, that is, the need “to create volume in our artistic spaces,” which referred to what would be in the future their most important goal: creating “substances that were either robust or fragile, coarse or smooth, opaque or transparent.” The third and last principle advised not only discarding “theories based on the relativity of national art,” but also admonished artists “to find inspiration in the works of the ancient inhabitants of our valleys, that is, the indigenous painters and sculptors.” “Don’t you think that our document gives a truly revolutionary perspective to art?” concluded Diego. “It seems to me, Diego,” suggested Angelina, “that during these few days you have left in Europe, you’ve been spending your time mixing politics with art. I’ve learned to accept it. If you’re a coauthor of this article, then it’s obvious that you’re dedicated to ‘national art,’ all of which implies your immediate return to Mexico. For me, your signature on that document signifies our final goodbye.” “It’s true, Angelina, soon we will say good-bye, but it’s only temporary. You’ve been a magnificent companion during ten years not only of poverty, but also fulfillment. As I’ve already said, you’ll be alongside me in this great change in my life. Trust me.” “I think I understand quite clearly. These years have left indelible marks on our lives. We need to forget about the bad times and the sadness. Perhaps our separation will make that happen. I hope to be with you again in the Mexico that you love so much. I now feel the same attraction for your country as you do. By the way, we haven’t talked about your parents. I imagine they’re waiting for both of us. Have you informed them that you’ll be returning without me? It will probably be painful for them.”

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hen they arrived at the docks at Saint-Claude, Angelina, Eleine, and Diego found themselves enveloped in completely dull grey surroundings that were as depressing as their own spirits. Some clouds bulged with moisture and became confused with others that seemed to evaporate into a foggy mist, all of which blocked any presence of the sun. The sea, while reflecting the nebulous rounded masses of clouds, had also been converted into an infinite opaque surface. In effect, it was impossible to determine where the sky met the sea, making it equally impossible to detect any kind of a horizon, because the land had lost its natural coloring as well. The nearby undergrowth of brush, sparse as it was, had all but disappeared into the background; its greenish tinge had taken on the color of the brown craggy rocks of the shoreline. Even the small decrepit cottages of the villagers who lived in the port had acquired the same color of the muddy streets. Only the docks, an imposing blue structure made of wood, stood out in the distance. The farewell, which never seemed to end, was peppered with promises to Angelina and assurances that soon they would be together again in Mexico, where they would re-establish their home-studio and a new life together. For Eleine, there were phrases of appreciation, a sad good-bye, and promises to see each other again. They had taken so long to accept their separation that when Diego made a precipitous dash toward the gangplank, the ship was already making preparations to embark, which could have left him behind on the dock. When the last screeching sound of the whistle was heard, he found himself separated from the ship, not by the salty sea, but by cables, rusty anchors, poles, and steel beams. Seemingly, with such an array of obstacles blocking his way, he was going to miss the ship. However, he was so anxious to flee from Paris, the port of Saint-Claude, and even France that afterward he had no idea where he found the strength and energy to run and jump on board, where, once he was safe, he turned away to stare out at the ocean. The waves slapped against the sides of the ship, making it sway from one side to the other, as if it were the clapper of a silver bell. Everything was in constant movement—lights, beacons, and rudders, and even the gangplank up which the last passenger scurried, fearing to lose his life or end up left on the dock. The passenger

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grasped the rope banister tightly and took carefully measured steps up to the ship. Diego sought the courage to turn around and take one last look toward the dock. He knew then that he had to walk over to the railing and look straight at the two abandoned women. They waved good-bye, with a slight movement of their hands. A last glance revealed the presence of a small, slender woman, whose blue eyes, now filled with tears, had turned the same color grey as the surrounding environment; the other woman, a beautiful, elegant blond, did not seem as upset. Rivera waved good-bye, convinced that he would never see them again, despite the promises he had made. Then he remembered how he had told David, and before that Dr. Faure, that his rupture with Europe and everything that it had meant to him was as definitive as it was to abandon his wife and his quixotic world. Angelina would suffer, he knew that very well. He lamented having left her behind, but he was convinced that it was impossible to continue living lies and feeling anguished all the time. He had been living in a permanent eclipse, in which she and other women, like the moon that Nietzche had alluded to, had simply crossed his path, producing an opaque light and blocking the rays of the sun.

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Diego interrupted his thoughts to pull up the collar of his coat and wrap his scarf around his head, as if to disappear inside his clothing and, thus, avoid the cold that he began to feel as the afternoon stretched into early evening. He decided to walk toward the bridge, where a sailor of a certain rank greeted Diego by his name and offered to direct him to his cabin that to his surprise was a cozy room, sporting certain luxuries within the limits dictated by that type of ship. “Officer, excuse me, but I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m not traveling in first class.” “Oh, Señor Rivera, please excuse us for not informing you that we received instructions from the high command to put you in this cabin, which belongs to the captain of the ship. In his name and that of the crew of the Morro Castle, the pride of the French merchant

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marine fleet, we wish you a wonderful trip. We hope that the twenty-one days we’ll spend crossing the Atlantic Ocean will be most pleasant for you. I’m Roger des Montreaux, chief petty officer, at your service.” The passenger knew that it would be imprudent to insist on other accommodations, so he immediately began to unpack and put his things away, all the while not being able to believe the special attention he was receiving. Even his hat, which had blown off his head and was left on the dock, had been retrieved and taken to his room. Without it, he could just see himself disembarking in Veracruz wearing a Red Army cap that Ehremburg had given to him as a joke. Diego remembered when he would tell him that he was more communist than the anarchists and more anarchist than the communists. In conclusion, an ideological conundrum. He was surprised by the good lighting in his cabin. The tiny lanterns that hung from the ceiling would sway back and forth, creating a unique play between light and dark across the room, as if each one had been especially hung in order to produce completely unreal effects. Of course, he thought, this cabin is too clean and well kept to be a first-class cabin. The proof is also in the type of furniture and other objects placed here and there, in addition to the aroma and colors that surrounded him. This is a different room, he concluded. The walls were covered with thick planks of mahogany wood that came from tropical jungles. On the far wall that supported the bunk there were two portal windows through which one could see the ocean and occasionally receive a breeze, something special on any steamer. But the most surprising aspect of the room was the contents of the austere English bookcase with doors made of shiny crystal glass. Inside were books by Lenin, Marx, and Darwin. This is unbelievable, he murmured to himself, many of the books that I read during my stay in Europe are all here. Although those books had helped him to reaffirm his political ideas, according to Don Ramón del Valle Inclán, Diego had not only made things more complicated than necessary, but also he wasn’t very precise about anything either, all of which made him ideologically inconsistent. But, now, Diego was

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insisting that he had changed, and he would demonstrate that in Mexico. He was going to be a revolutionary activist or nothing.

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The light streaming in from the two windows highlighted the sculpture that was sitting on one end of the bookshelf. It was a monkey that appeared somewhat astonished as he held the cranium of a human being in his hands, wondering if it could be possible that he could in some way be related to such a strange object. Diego could not believe that the captain who had given him his cabin was probably an admirer of Lenin, and nobody but Lenin would think to have such a ridiculous sculpture with those philosophical implications. He had seen some photographs of Lenin’s office in the Kremlin, where the same vulgar object was a principal adornment. Rivera continued inspecting the other walls of the cabin with some detail. On the one behind the desk were some postcards attached with some red and yellow pins. There were some newspaper clippings, pictures taken from magazines, and two or three letters written with such small handwriting that he could not make out what they said. Besides, he did not want to violate the private world of someone who had graciously given him his cabin. Nevertheless, he was surprised to see one newspaper clipping in which there was a photograph of his painting, Fusilero marino, that he had painted in 1914 when he was deeply immersed in Cubism. Could my host be none other than Marcel Spetellier, he thought to himself, the Frenchman of Mexican origin who posed for me when I did that painting?

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After waking up the next day, Diego decided to see if there was an answer to his query. The new day was sunny and bright. Feeling as if he had been in a trance, little by little he gained back his senses. Standing next to him, in effect, was Marcel Spetellier. “Are you Marcel or some damn phantom who just looks like my old friend?” “No ghosts here. It’s me and you’re my guest. Montreaux, my

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chief petty officer, had orders to put you up in my cabin. Rivera, you can’t imagine how happy I was when I saw your name on the list of passengers. I simply couldn’t believe it. This strange life has brought us together again.” “These last few days have been strange for me as well, Marcel. Believe me when I say that I have no idea how I either got on board or went to sleep here.” “That’s what happens when one’s tired and feeling tense. You would’ve missed the boat if it hadn’t been for another late passenger, a Mexican, by the way, whose name is Ciro Mendoza. From the looks of it, not even the Mexican Revolution has changed you guys. But Diego, get dressed and let’s go eat something. You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours.” “Did you say Ciro Mendoza? I’m pretty sure I met him in Orizaba during the Río Blanco strike. I wonder what he’s doing on board?” Rivera made an effort to remember those times and then he became aware of his current physical and mental state. He had gone to sleep completely dressed, and he had been sweating from head to foot. “My friend, ‘Fusilero marino’, let me take a shower so I can feel better. I was completely out of it. Then we can talk about our lives. It’s been seven years, and there’s a lot to talk about.” Only the two of them sat down at the captain’s table. Spetellier had given orders to leave them alone. They began by asking for a good aperitif. They needed a strong toast, like in the old days. “Diego Rivera, here’s a toast to our chance encounter.” “Captain Spetellier, and here’s one more for the twenty days that we’ll be together.” “So is it true that in addition to acquiring fame as a painter, you’ve also become a communist agitator?” “That’s an invention of the ex-cubist painters. To be frank, I don’t belong to any political party. I’ve always confused the difference between an anarco-syndicalist and an outright anarchist. Like I told you once in Paris, I became involved with a group of pretty violent factory workers in Barcelona. I was a sympathizer and friend of

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Francisco Ferrer, and I fought in the streets of the City of Light, alongside the railroad workers at the Montparnasse station. We were showing our support for Jaurés. “I know the story up to that point. But what happened after that?” “I had a lot of personal and artistic problems. Given my revolutionary nationalist ideology, I broke with the cubists and the gallery owners. In order to escape from emotional vertigo, I spent all of my time drawing and painting. I traveled throughout Italy with my drawing pad and pencils. The great Italian muralists brought back to memory Mexican popular art. Now that I’m well again, I’m going back to reaffirm my convictions. I plan to paint murals with strong political content. I will reproduce images of Madero and Zapata, among others, who have been victims of reactionary tyranny. Given my nationalist inclination, and the fact that I openly supported Lenin, everyone in Paris thought I was a communist. Paradoxically, when I tried to travel to Russia, they wouldn’t let me in the country. Due to my interest in Cézanne and Monet, I was looked upon as an insignificant bourgeois painter. And what have you been doing all these years?” “Two years after we met, which was the time when you painted my magnificent portrait, my ship that belongs to the French Navy was sent to the Baltic Sea. After we were attacked and lost to the Imperial Russian Navy, we were taken prisoners. In Saint Petersburg, I was tried, convicted, and sent to prison with political prisoners and Bolshevik militants, who indoctrinated me in Marxist-Leninist theories. And now, like you, I’m a revolutionary, a true communist, and an admirer of Lenin, although I don’t actively participate in any one political party.” “What do you know—two peas in a pod!” “Do you know what, Diego, the Mexican who embarked after you did, Ciro Mendoza, is coming from Moscow. He’s traveling with two or three colleagues. I haven’t been able to identify them, but I can only imagine that they attended the constitutional conference of the Socialist International. Lenin put out a call in early June, and delegates from more than forty countries participated.” “It might be interesting to talk to them.”

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“I will invite them to dine with us at the earliest opportunity.” Some nights later, four passengers walked separately into the large first-class dining room. Rivera was the first one to arrive. He was already familiar with the environment, so he went straight to the table of honor, which was located to the rear of the luxurious room. The other three guests were astounded by the splendor of the enormous cut-glass chandelier that hung from the ceiling, the special lights on the walls, and the delicately flickering candlesticks on each table covered with fine linen tablecloths. For them, the opulence was truly astonishing. Once they were seated at the captain’s table, they could do no more than simply thank the captain for the invitation. At first, Captain Spetellier and his four Mexican guests, to whom he gave a cordial welcome to the Morro Castle, started talking simultaneously; the resulting confusion would have never allowed guests at a nearby table to understand them, even if they had tried. “Friends, this dinner is to celebrate your presence aboard this ship and to toast our common ideological inclinations. We all know about Diego Rivera’s revolutionary efforts, and so, Señores Ciro Mendoza, Hipólito Flores, and Eduardo Camacho, I personally would like to know more about your political exploits.” “Captain,” said Mendoza, “I’m a factory worker in the textile industry, and my union sent me as an observer to the meeting in Moscow. This has been the first time that I’ve ever been outside of Mexico, and Russia was a marvelous experience, especially in reference to organizing the workers.” “I’m Eduardo Camacho, the director of the newspaper The Soviet, recently founded by the Mexican Communist Party; also, I’m the secretary for the Grupo de Hermanos Socialistas, the Socialist Brotherhood, to which the baker’s union belongs. In Moscow, I met several editors, and I was surprised by the high quality of the newspapers and journals they produce.” “I’m Hipólito Flores, the founder of the Mexican National Socialist Party; in addition, I’m in charge of international relations for the new Communist Party. Excuse me, Captain, but Diego, don’t you remember the night back when we were really young and your uncle Carlos Barrientos took you to one of our secret meetings in

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Río Blanco?” “How could I ever forget, Hipólito? I also remember you, Ciro Mendoza, defending yourself like a lion on that night of the massacre in front of the factory. I admired your courage.” “I also admired yours, Diego María Rivera.” “That’s right,” commented the host, “it was in that factory that my grandparents had part ownership, and I was so embarrassed when the strike was defeated by my rich relatives that I immediately left Mexico after what they did to the people!” “Captain, don’t tell us that you’re really one of us?” Afterward, the group of friends talked about the future of the Mexican Revolution, which was solidly in power by then. They all agreed that the best way to fight for the rights of the workers and the peasants was through the recently created Mexican Communist Party. “Diego María Rivera,” said Hipólito Flores, “those of us who participated in the strike at Río Blanco on January 6, 1906, were surprised by the speech you gave that night. From that moment on, we knew that one day you would become a great revolutionary leader, and so far your life has shown that. Now it’s possible for you to keep that promise you made to Lucrecia Toriz to recognize her as a hero of the workers’ movement in your paintings. But I also think that given your ideological convictions, you should join the Mexican Communist Party, and I will make sure of it.” “And you, Captain,” said Flores, turning to Marcel Spetellier, “if you ever come to stay in Mexico with an eye to reactivating your revolutionary zeal and participating in the revolution that we’re coordinating, you are also more than welcome to join us.”