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the French Enlightenment to his court. In our case, the roles of Voltaire and Diderot are played by our good friend Xavier Zaragoza, our very own Seneca. Even so, Frederick still had his valet Fredersdorf to lick his boots, and Catherine still had Potemkin to lick something else entirely. And Lorenzo Terán has Tácito de la Canal.
    I’m not satisfied, my friend. Time is ticking away, and in politics timing is at least half the battle. If we can’t eliminate Tácito within six months, he’ll use his position as a springboard for a presidential bid. And you know what? The idea of running against Tácito de la Canal not only disgusts me. It humiliates me. If I win the 2024 elections against a worm like Tácito, my victory will be as grand as that of a man who has squashed a cockroach underfoot. It will be a hollow victory. And if he were to beat me thanks to his influence with the president, it would mean the end of my political career.
    María del Rosario, you know that I’m not a coward and that I assume my own responsibility in this. But life has made us more than just friends: You and I are allies. Our destinies are inextricable. I need you because you’re a woman—but not just because of your female instincts. I need you because in addition to instinct you have exceptional political skill. You know how to see what’s invisible. You know how to read between the lines. You notice things that escape me. I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know (or that I haven’t already told you). Without you I can never get ahead. You’re the person who helps me endure the unpalatable aggression of politics. You’ve taught me something indispensable in politics: the ability to manage groups of insecure men. You know how to do it, and I’ve seen it for myself. Somehow you’re able to make the most inept cabinet member (and there are several) feel like Aristotle and Bonaparte wrapped up in one. And with the confidence you instill in them, you let them know that you represent me, that you follow my instructions. You are a magnificently talented woman, but you’re not a free agent. You are forever tied to Bernal Herrera.
    What I mean is that everyone knows you give them all that support and advice because I’ve asked you to. The agriculture secretary, Epifanio Alatorre, came in to thank me personally for informing him about the imminent decline in sugar prices that he, stupidly stockpiling sugar as if it were gold, never would have predicted. Secretary Alatorre doesn’t realize that the United States’ and the European Union’s agricultural policies will ultimately shut out agricultural exports from the poorer countries: We sell little and cheaply, and we don’t gain anything by hoarding our stash in the hopes that prices will eventually go up. There will never be a dearth of anything in the developed world. There will only be munificence toward the beggars, that’s all. Handouts. The secretary for public works, Antonio Bejarano, owes me his life because you told him about the contractor Bruno Levi and his ties with the company that was Bejarano’s competition during his days as a private businessman—which, by the way, are not quite over yet since he still owns shares through a bunch of false proxies. How I wish we could discover that Tácito is involved in a sleazy deal like that. But Bejarano is irrelevant, politically speaking. He can be as corrupt as he wants. And yet we’re the ones who’ll exert power over him when the opportunity arises. Without me—without you, that is—his downfall is only a matter of time.
    I could go on and on, my dearest lady. But the biggest fish of all, my only visible rival in the 2024 elections, doesn’t owe either of us a thing. That’s our huge weakness. I don’t believe in Tácito’s great intelligence, but I know that when it comes to politics he’s a sly dog, a Mexican Machiavelli whose capacity for manipulation and cunning is as inexhaustible, my dear