The Eagle's Throne Read Free

States’ occupation forces in Colombia and on top of it all a ban on the export of Mexican oil to the United States, unless Washington agreed to pay the prices established by OPEC. To make matters worse, we announced these decisions at a meeting of the United Nations Security Council. The response, as you can see, was not long in coming. We woke up on January 2 with our oil, our gas, and our principles intact, but with our communications systems cut off from the rest of the world. The United States, alleging a glitch in the satellite communications system that they so kindly allow us to use, has left us with no faxes, no e-mail, no grid, and no telephone service. We have but two forms of communication available to us now, oral and epistolary—as is exemplified by this letter I write to you now, though I fight to suppress the urge to eat it and swallow it whole. Why the hell did the president pay attention to me and put his principles ahead of damn reality this time? Oh, if you could only see me now—I’m banging my head against the wall, I can’t stop asking myself, over and over again:
    “Seneca, who ever told you to be a man of principle?”
    “Seneca, what is so terrible about being a little more pragmatic?”
    “Seneca, why do you have to go against the majority of the presidential cabinet?”
    Here you have me, my dear María del Rosario, here you have pigheaded old Seneca banging his head against the walls of the republic— Mexico’s eternal wailing wall.
    At least, my dear friend, the wall isn’t made of stone. It’s padded, just like in a mental hospital, which is where your good friend Xavier Zaragoza—known as “Seneca” for reasons both marvelous and miserable—should be committed. Born in Córdoba, Seneca was the Stoic philosopher (pay attention if you don’t know this, and bear with me if you do and if you still love me nevertheless) who committed suicide at Nero’s court. His principles were irreconcilable with those of the empire. And yet to this day, in his native land of Andalucía, the word “Seneca” is synonymous with “sage,” or “philosopher.”
    What shall be my destiny at the presidential court of Mexico, my dear María del Rosario? An enchanted life or death by disenchantment? At the dawn of the year 2020, we certainly have reasons for disenchantment. A communications system that’s completely cut off from the rest of the world, riots breaking out here and there, signs of social and geographical fragmentation . . . and a president who is good, well-intentioned, weak, and passive.
    Don’t blame me, María del Rosario. You know that my advice is sincere and, at times, even brutal. Nobody speaks to the president as honestly as I do, you know that. And I fervently believe that this country needs at least one disinterested voice whispering into the ear of President Lorenzo Terán. Such is our agreement, my dear friend, yours and mine. I’m there to say, “Mr. President, you know I’m your totally impartial friend.”
    Which is not entirely true. I’m primarily interested in getting the president to shake off that reputation for inaction he’s earned during his time in office—almost three years guided by the mistaken conviction that all our problems will just sort themselves out, that an intrusive government creates more problems than it solves, and that civil society should always be the first to act. In his view, the government should always be the last resort. For once, we must admit he’s right. What on earth got into him, starting off the new year by invoking principles of sovereignty and nonintervention, instead of just letting the apples fall from the tree, since they were already rotten? What do we care about Colombia? And why not just let Venezuela and the Arabs deal with the dirty business of the oil markets instead of taking sides with a gang of corrupt sheikhs? We’ve always been good at making the most of others’ conflicts without having to take sides. But