Diana by Carlos Fuentes Page A

She was the one who woke Diana up, brought her breakfast, and organized meals for all of us. She made the indispensable phone calls, got the plane tickets, made hotel reservations, answered telegrams, sent presigned photos of the star (how many requests, on average, came each month?), screened telephone calls, pertinent and impertinent requests. Secretary, lady’s maid, deluxe servant, accomplice, bodyguard? What to call her?
    Azucena. She wasn’t pretty. She had one of those Catalan faces that seem hacked out with an ax or born out of a mountain: hard, rocky, angular. Long, thin lips, long nose whose tip trembled, her stare veiled by her eyelids and thick bags, her eyes mere slits that nevertheless revealed an intelligent gleam. Everything depended on the eyebrows and the hairdo. The arc, the thickness of the eyebrow. The form, the color of the hair. Azucena had chosen a neutral hairstyle and a mahogany shade that proclaimed her message: I’ll grow old with this color and this hairdo. I’ll grow old and no one will notice, until everyone thinks I was always the age I was when I died.
    I could never forget that on this location, only she and I knew who Quevedo was. “Yesterday’s gone. Tomorrow hasn’t arrived…” But I was curious about the real shape of her eyebrows. The artificial shape was interrogative, not a neutral declaration like her hair but a questioning challenge, arched brows from which surprise was excluded and in which, always, only the question remained.
    She was Spanish, so it was easy for us to communicate. Not only because of language but because of a quality I first intuited in her and then verified. Seeing her move—agile and sinewy, always in a skirt, blouse, and cardigan, the professional city uniform of that period, but with two Spanish legs, muscular and strong, with thick ankles—I guessed there were many generations of peasants behind Azucena’s leathery figure. Above all, though, there was a tradition of work, not only honorable work but pride in work. In everything the woman did, the woman took pride. One day, she told me that her grandparents were peasants from the Lower Ebro, that they’d lived in Poblet for centuries. Her parents had gone to Barcelona and set up a small grocery store; they’d sent her to study shorthand, but times in Spain turned bad and young people had to work to support their parents and siblings. She became a waitress, was hired when the Americans began to shoot movies in Spain; she met the mistress’s husband—here she was …
    She had, as I say, that dignity in her work which we associate, however much we hate the idea, with the closed European class system. It might also be the result of the ancient medieval dignity ascribed to function, to trades. When we know, centuries before and centuries after, that we were and shall be carters, bricklayers, silversmiths, innkeepers, we lend spontaneous dignity to our place, our work. This certainty—this fatality? this pride?—contrasted with the modern cult of social mobility, the upward mobility that makes us eternally unsatisfied with the place we occupy, eternally envious of those who’ve reached a place superior to our own, who probably did so, of course, by usurping the place that was rightfully ours …
    Azucena didn’t talk about it, but there could be no doubt she’d passed through war and dictatorship, she’d seen prison and death, she knew about the hangman’s knot, and the Guardia Civil filled her with dread. But her work went on: sow, plow, sell lettuce, or wait tables. If she didn’t confer dignity on her work, no one else would. The perspective of that work was continuity, permanence. She was where she was to suit herself and no one else, and that’s where I saw the contrast, when I visited the set from time to time in the afternoon to meet with Diana, the hairdresser, and the stuntman. They and the other