Christopher Unborn

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“Mexico is a country of sad men and happy children,” said my father, Angel (twenty-four years old), at the instant of my creation.

Before that, my mother, Angeles (under thirty), had sighed: “Ocean, origin of the gods.”

“But soon there shall be no time for happiness, and we shall all be sad, old and young alike,” my father went on, taking off his glasses — tinted violet, gold-framed, utterly John Lennonish.

“Why do you want a child, then?” my mother said, sighing again.

“Because soon there will be no time for happiness.”

“Was there ever such a time?”

“What did you say? Things turn out badly in Mexico.”

“Don’t be redundant. Mexico was made so things could turn out badly.”

So she insisted: “Why do you want a child, then?”

“Because I am happy,” my father bellowed. “I am happy!” he shouted even louder, turning to face the Pacific Ocean. “I am possessed of the most intimate, reactionary happiness!”

Ocean, origin of the gods! And she took her copy of Plato’s Dialogues, the edition published in the twenties by Don José Vasconcelos, when he was rector of the University of Mexico, and put it over her face. The green covers bearing the black seal of the university and its motto, THROUGH MY RACE SHALL SPEAK THE SPIRIT, were stained with Coppertonic sweat.

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