“What about all the explanations you give me?” I asked. “Aren’t they the result of genuine reasonableness and desire to help me understand?”
“No,” he replied. “They are the result of my ruthlessness.”
I argued passionately that my own desire to understand was genuine. He patted me on the shoulder and explained that my desire to understand was genuine, but my generosity was not. He said that naguals masked their ruthlessness automatically, even against their will.
As I listened to his explanation, I had the peculiar sensation in the back of my mind that at some point we had covered the concept of ruthlessness extensively.
“I’m not a rational man,” he continued, looking into my eyes. “I only appear to be because my mask is so effective. What you perceive as reasonableness is my lack of pity, because that’s what ruthlessness is: a total lack of pity.
“In your case, since you mask your lack of pity with generosity, you appear at ease, open. But actually you are as generous as I am reasonable. We are both fakes. We have perfected the art of disguising the fact that we feel no pity.”
He said his benefactor’s total lack of pity was masked behind the facade of an easygoing, practical joker with an irresistible need to poke fun at anyone with whom he came into contact.
“My benefactor’s mask was that of a happy, unruffled man without a care in the world,” don Juan continued. “But underneath all that he was, like all the naguals, as cold as the arctic wind.”
“But you are not cold, don Juan,” I said sincerely.
“Of course I am,” he insisted. “The effectiveness of my mask is what gives you the impression of warmth.”
He went on to explain that the nagual Elías’s mask consisted of a maddening meticulousness about all details and accuracy, which created the false impression of attention and thoroughness.
He started to describe the nagual Elías’s behavior. As he talked, he kept watching me. And perhaps because he was observing me so intently, I was unable to concentrate at all on what he was saying. I made a supreme effort to gather my thoughts.
He watched me for an instant, then went back to explaining ruthlessness, but I no longer needed his explanation. I told him that I had recollected what he wanted me to recollect: the first time my eyes had shone. Very early in my apprenticeship I had achieved —by myself—a shift in my level of awareness. My assemblage point reached the position called the place of no pity.
THE PLACE OF NO PITY
Don Juan told me that there was no need to talk about the details of my recollection, at least not at that moment, because talk was used only to lead one to recollecting. Once the assemblage point moved, the total experience was relived. He also told me the best way to assure a complete recollection was to walk around. And so both of us stood up; walked very slowly and in silence, following a trail in those mountains, until I had recollected everything.
We were in the outskirts of Guaymas, in northern Mexico, on a drive from Nogales, Arizona, when it became evident to me that something was wrong with don Juan. For the last hour or so he had been unusually quiet and somber. I did not think anything of it, but then, abruptly, his body twitched out of control. His chin hit his chest as if his neck muscles could no longer support the weight of his head.
“Are you getting carsick, don Juan?” I asked, suddenly alarmed.
He did not answer. He was breathing through his mouth.
During the first part of our drive, which had taken several hours, he had been fine. We had talked a great deal about everything. When we had stopped in the city of Santa Ana to get gas, he was even doing push-outs against the roof of the car to loosen up the muscles of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong with you, don Juan?” I asked. I felt pangs of anxiety in my stomach. With his head down, he mumbled that he wanted to go to a particular restaurant and in a slow, faltering voice gave me precise directions on how to get there.
I parked my car on a side street, a block from the restaurant. As I opened the car door on my side, he held onto my arm with an iron grip. Painfully, and with my help, he dragged himself out of the car, over the driver’s seat. Once he was on the sidewalk, he held onto my shoulders with both hands to straighten his back. In ominous silence, we shuffled down the street toward the dilapidated building where the restaurant was.
Don Juan was hanging onto my arm with all his weight. His breathing was so accelerated and the tremor in his body so alarming that I panicked. I stumbled and had to brace myself against the wall to keep us both from falling to the sidewalk. My anxiety was so intense I could not think. I looked into his eyes. They were dull. They did not have their usual shine.
We clumsily entered the restaurant and a solicitous waiter rushed over, as if on cue, to help don Juan.
“How are you feeling today?” he yelled into don Juan’s ear.
He practically carried don Juan from the door to a table, seated him, and then disappeared.
“Does he know you, don Juan?” I asked when we were seated.
Without looking at me, he mumbled something unintelligible. I stood up and went to the kitchen to look for the busy waiter.
“Do you know the old man I am with?” I asked when I was able to corner him.
“Of course I know him,” he said with the attitude of someone who has just enough patience to answer one question. “He’s the old man who suffers from strokes.”
That statement settled things for me. I knew then that don Juan had suffered a mild stroke while we were driving. There was nothing I could have done to avoid it but I felt helpless and apprehensive. The feeling that the worst had not yet happened made me feel sick to my stomach.
I went back to the table and sat down in silence. Suddenly the same waiter arrived with two plates of fresh shrimp and two large bowls of sea-turtle soup. The thought occurred to me that either the restaurant served only shrimp and sea-turtle soup or don Juan ate the same thing every time he was here.
The waiter talked so loudly to don Juan he could be heard above the clatter of customers.
“Hope you like your food!” he yelled. “If you need me, just lift your arm. I’ll come right away.”
Don Juan nodded his head affirmatively and the waiter left, after patting don Juan affectionately on the
back. Don Juan ate voraciously, smiling to himself from time to time. I was so apprehensive that just the thought of food made me feel nauseous. But then I reached a familiar threshold of anxiety, and the more I worried the hungrier I became. I tried the food and found it incredibly good.
I felt somewhat better after having eaten, but the situation had not changed, nor had my anxiety diminished.
When don Juan was through eating, he shot his arm straight above his head. In a moment, the waiter came over and handed me the bill.
I paid him and he helped don Juan stand up. He guided him by the arm out of the restaurant. The waiter even helped him out to the street and said goodbye to him effusively.
We walked back to the car in the same laborious way, don Juan leaning heavily on my arm, panting and stopping to catch his breath every few steps. The waiter stood in the doorway, as if to make sure I was not going to let don Juan fall.
Don Juan took two or three full minutes to climb into the car.
“Tell me, what can I do for you, don Juan?” I pleaded.
“Turn the car around,” he ordered in a faltering, barely audible voice. “I want to go to the other side of town, to the store. They know me there, too. They are my friends.”
I told him I had no idea what store he was talking about. He mumbled incoherently and had a tantrum. He stamped on the floor of the car with both feet. He pouted and actually drooled on his shirt. Then he seemed to have an instant of lucidity. I got extremely nervous, watching him struggle to arrange his thoughts. He finally succeeded in telling me how to get to the store.
My discomfort was at its peak. I was afraid that the stroke don Juan had suffered was more serious than I thought. I wanted to be rid of him, to take him to his family or his friends, but I did not know who they were. I did not know what else to do. I made a U-turn and drove to the store which he said was on the other side of town.