In the breathless solitude of the first years of the Zapatista
uprising, a peculiar fellow appeared at our camp; a little smoking
beetle, very well read and an ever better talker, who gave himself
the task of giving his company to a soldier, El Sup.
Legally named Nebuchadnezzar, this beetle, traveling incognito,
goes under the nom de guerre Durito, because of his hard shell.
Mexico City. Durito wanders through the streets adjoining the Zocalo.
small trench coat and a hat angled like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca,
Durito pretends to pass unnoticed. His outfit and slow crawl are unnecessary,
as he sticks to the shadows that escape the bright display windows.
Shadow of the shadow, silent walk, angled hat, a dragging trench coat,
Durito walks at dawn through Mexico City. No one notices him. They
do not see him, not because he is well disguised or because of that
tiny, quixotic detective outfit from the '50s, or because he is barely
distinguishable from the mounds of garbage. Durito walks amid papers
being dragged here and there by a whisk of the unpredictable winds
that populate the dawns of Mexico City. No one sees Durito, for the
simple reason that in this city no one sees anyone.
"This city is sick," Durito writes to me. "It is sick from loneliness
and fear. It is a great collective of solitudes. It is a collection
of cities, one for each resident. It's not about sums of anguish
(do you know of a loneliness without anguish?), but about a potency;
each loneliness is multiplied by the number of lonely people that
surround it. It is as though each person's solitude entered a House
of Mirrors, like those you see in the country fairs. Each solitude
is a mirror that reflects another solitude, and like a mirror, bounces
off more solitudes."
Durito has begun to discover that he is in foreign territory, that
the city is not his place. In his heart and in this dawn, Durito
packs his bag. He walks this road as though taking inventory, a
last caress, like a lover who knows this is good-bye. At certain
moments, the sound of footsteps diminishes and the cry of the sirens,
which frightens outsiders, increases. And Durito is one of those
outsiders, so he stops on the corner each time the red-and-blue
blinking lights crisscross the street. Durito takes advantage of
the complicity of a doorway in order to light a pipe guerrilla-style:
a tiny spark, a deep breath, and the smoke engulfing his gaze and
face. Durito stops. He looks and sees. In front of him, a display
window catches his eye. Durito comes near and looks through the
great glass pane to what exists beyond it. Mirrors of all shapes
and sizes, porcelain and glass figurines, cut crystal, tiny music
boxes. "These are no talking boxes," Durito says to himself, without
forgetting the long years spent in the jungle of the Mexican Southeast.
Durito has come to say good-bye to Mexico City and has decided
to give a gift to this city, about which everyone complains and
no one abandons. A gift. This is Durito, a beetle of the Lacandon
Jungle in the center of Mexico City.
Durito says good-bye with a gift.
He makes an elegant magician's gesture. Everything stops. The lights
go out like a candle extinguished by a gentle lick of wind on its
face. Another gesture and a reflecting light illuminates a music
box in the display window. A ballerina in a fine lilac costume holds
an endless stillness, hands crossed overhead, legs held together,
balanced on tiptoes. Durito tries to imitate the position, but promptly
gets his many arms entangled. Another magic gesture, and a piano,
the size of a cigarette box, appears. Durito sits in front of the
piano and puts a jug of beer on top--who knows where he got it from,
but it's already half empty. He cracks and flexes his fingers, doing
digital gymnastics just like the pianists in the movies. Then he
turns toward the ballerina and nods his head. The ballerina begins
to stir and makes a bow. Durito hums an unknown tune, beats a rhythm
with his little legs, closes his eyes.
The first notes begin. Durito plays the piano with four hands.
On the other side of the glass pane, the ballerina begins to twirl
and gently lifts her right thigh. Durito leans on the keyboard and
plays furiously. The ballerina performs her best steps within the
prison of the little music box. The city disappears. There is nothing
but Durito at his piano and the ballerina in her music box. Durito
plays, and the ballerina dances. The city is surprised; its cheeks
blush as when one receives an unexpected gift, a pleasant surprise,
good news. Durito gives his best gift: an unbreakable and eternal
mirror, a good-bye that is harmless, that heals, that cleanses.
The spectacle lasts only a few instants. The last notes fade as
the cities that populate this city take shape again. The ballerina
returns to her uncomfortable immobility; Durito turns up the collar
of his trench coat and makes a slight bow toward the display window.
"Will you always be behind the glass pane?" Durito asks her, and
asks himself. "Will you always be on the other side of my over here,
and will I always be on this side of your over there?"
Durito crosses the street, arranges his hat and continues to walk.
Before going around the corner, he turns toward the display window:
He notices a star-shaped hole in the glass. The alarms are ringing
uselessly. Behind the window, the ballerina is no longer in the
"This city is sick," Durito writes to me. "When its illness becomes
a crisis, it will be cured. This collective loneliness, multiplied
by millions and empowered, will end by finding itself and finding
the reason for its powerlessness. Then, and only then, will this
city shed its gray dress and adorn itself with brightly colored
ribbons, which are so abundant in the provinces.
"This city lives a cruel game of mirrors, but the game of the mirrors
is useless and sterile if finding the transparency of glass is not
a goal. It is enough to understand this and, as who-knows-who said,
struggle and begin to be happy.
"I'm coming back. Prepare the tobacco and the insomnia. I have
a lot to tell you, Sancho." Durito signs off.
Adapted from Our Word Is Our Weapon, selected writings
of Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos, recently published by Seven