Several characteristics of Carlos Fuentes' fiction vie for attention in any analytical consideration of his work. Stylistic virtuosity, the joining of past and present, what it means to be Mexican, his commentary on the human estate, all readily come to mind. On the other hand, if one thinks in terms of what actually happens to a reader during the experience of a Fuentes narrative, the desire to know how the story turns out is as important as any other facet of the act of reading. Most of Fuentes' short stories, individually analyzed, show how skillfully he uses the enigma code [a term from Roland Barthes's S/Z, 1974]. However, it is possible to reveal certain details of the narrative process, in separate stories, and still not describe adequately the experience of reading either Los días enmascarados or Cantar de ciegos as a total work, leaving the stories in the order of presentation. In other words, the experience of reading a volume of stories is different from reading the stories separately. It seems possible that, by combining analysis of individual stories with analysis of each volume as an entity in itself, one may illuminate some aspects of Fuentes' narrative technique and gain some insight into the success or failure of volumes of stories.

Fuentes' short fictions show him to be rather traditional in his penchant for resolution, even though the resolution may sometimes take for granted an element of unreality. Very often his stories end with an ironic twist reminiscent of de Maupassant or O. Henry. This resemblance is largely confined to the denouement, of course, since the story material into the narrative we read) is highly original, complicated, and variable from story to story with regard to details of technique. Manipulation of focus is probably the most important technical phenomenon in Fuentes' narration. The relationship of focus to denouement may be an important key to understanding how his fictions work or, one might say, how his narratives ensnare the reader and turn him around at the end. Four of the six stories in Los días enmascarados and five of the seven in Cantar de ciegos depend in some fashion on a first-person narrating voice; however, these voices function in very different ways, and they also relate to the denouement in different ways. In stories not dependent on a first-person voice, the focus of narration is still related, in important ways, to the resolutions of the narratives.

"Chac Mool," the first story in Los días enmascarados, has become a kind of Fuentes showcase because it combines the author's predilection for fantasy and his interest in joining two periods of time—or better, showing how the past continues to be a vital factor in the present. Another characteristic—the recurrence of first-person narration—may be added to this complex of typical attributes. The framing narration is by a first-person voice who reads the diary of a deceased friend, thereby conceding the focus of narration to the friend. However, the framing device acquires uncommon importance at the end of the story, when the first, apparently external, narrator reasserts his role and discovers (reveals) that his friend, who died by drowning, has been replaced in his own house, by a vitalized idol—Chac Mool, a pre-Hispanic deity associated with rain.

Unquestionably, readers who know something about Acapulco and the pre-Hispanic pantheon approach "Chac Mool" with a richer "repertory" (Wolfgang Iser's term [from The Act of Reading, 1978]) than those who do not. However, Fuentes employs several strategies (also Iser's term) that compensate for the possible deficiency in shared information, the most effective is identification with the first narrator, with whom the reader may experience the second narrator's diary account. By sharing the first narrator's experience, one may feel himself a participant in the narration, and is puzzled by the circumstance just as the first narrator is puzzled.

The story early poses the question of why Filiberto drowned. Once within the diary, a reader may expect to discover the explanation. In fact, the basic narrator takes an important step toward satisfying reader curiosity when, halfway through the story, Narrator One observes that, at a certain point in the diary, Filiberto's handwriting shows signs of nervousness or instability, although it has been normal up to this point. This advice is an essential communication between Narrator One and the text reader (really coreader of the diary, along with Narrator One), since the printed text cannot reflect such a change. Reader anticipation is heightened, but the diary itself never answers the question. It is the first narrator, to whom the reader is attached from the beginning, who resolves the enigma. Narrator One is no longer just the reader of a diary, no longer a simple carrier of the enigma; he becomes an essential actor in the narrative. When he arrives at his friend's house with the body of the deceased, he is greeted by a Chac Mool who has displaced his owner as master of the house. The resolution incorporates fantasy, but it is no less a resolution. According to Tzvetan Todorov's exposition [In his The Fantastic, 1975], the fantastic changes into the marvelous at the end of this narrative. At this point, the reader shares knowledge with Narrator One, but not experience.

It is commonplace—one might even say it is fashionable—to comment on Fuentes' theme of mexicanidad (Mexicanness). This theme is certainly apparent in "Chac Mool," since the story refers to both Mexican myth and contemporary Mexican life. Dauster makes an even more specific observation with reference to the appearance of Chac Mool at the end of the story. The former idol now seems not only to be a living person in charge of the house, he also uses some of the most vulgar symbols of contemporary society (lipstick, cheap lotion, etc.). Dauster takes this awkward contrast to be a commentary on modern Mexico [In "La transposición de la realidad en las obras cortas de Carlos Fuentes," Kentucky Romance Quarterly 19 1972]. A similar concern for mexicanidad characterizes two of the remaining five stories in Los días enmascarados, "Tlactocatzine, del Jardín de Flandes" and "Por boca de los dioses." Genevieve Mary Ramírez discusses the book as if it were divided into two parts, one consisting of three stories clearly referring to Mexico, and another of the remaining three stories that, for different reasons, seem almost generically distinct from the first group [in Evolution of Thought in The Prose Fiction of Carlos Fuentes, 1977]. Ramírez comments on the latter set and points out all the possible ways they may refer to Mexico. She also notes that the basically "Mexican" stories are the first, third, and fifth. In other words, the two sets are intercalated, not separated. As a result, the experience of reading Los días enmascarados as a total, logically arranged literary work is quite different from reading individual stories or one of the two sets.

"En defensa de la Trigolibia" comes as something of a shock, in sequence following "Chac Mool." It is a political allegory on the values cultivated and defended by two superpowers, presumably the United States and the Soviet Union. It has few characteristics of fiction or even of narrative. Its tone is that of commentary on world politics, with humor afforded by clever wordplay that satirizes bureaucratese but tends to negate its own effect by becoming tiresome before the end of the piece. Generically, it is more like satirical political journalism than a story. Ramírez says it is "written almost in an essay style." It has neither characterization nor story line; phenomena such as focus of narration or story-time versus narrative-time are not relevant to this allegorical sketch. Its final sentence-paragraph, "This is the defense of Trigolibia," actually constitutes a summary of what has gone before. It does signify, of course, that what has gone before is the writer's interpretation of the defense of Trigolibia; it is the way he sees the situation.

This disembodied voice confronts the reader at the outset: "Trigolibia is the supreme value of the Nusitanians." A reader just finishing "Chac Mool" has already been removed from the intimate association with Narrator One, in the first story. However, the exterior commentator of "En defensa de la Trigolibia" most likely jars one into a different mood altogether. In the first few moments of reading, the play on terminology may suggest the possibility of some kind of fantasy, but the allegory becomes apparent shortly thereafter. The repertory activated in the experience of this essay is totally different from that of "Chac Mool." "En defensa de la Trigolibia" calls for no knowledge at all of Mexico or of mythology; its referent is global politics. Furthermore, the commenting voice need make no effort to compensate for the lack of information on the part of the reader; he assumes the referent is familiar to all. His strategy, therefore, is to satirize by inventing a system of terms, and oversimplifying a complex situation. The reader must change his own strategy completely. Instead of using the procedures necessary for participation in a joining of reality and fantasy, he must now adapt to an interpretation of allegory, in a manner that is more intellectual than emotional. In the process, one becomes aware of Fuentes' commitment to political awareness, and this fact relates back to "Chac Mool" by emphasizing the aspects of the first story that suggest social commentary. The end of the second piece—that is, the final sentence quoted above—emphasizes its expository nature, for it is in no way a denouement. In one sense, it is typical of the author, an excellent essayist who frequently becomes discursive in his fiction. However, it is certainly not typical of Fuentes to terminate narratives on an anticlimactic note.

The nonfiction character of "En defensa de la Trigolibia" initiates the seesaw experience created by intercalating two sets of stories in Los días enmascarados. The third story, "Tlactocatzine, del Jardín de Flandes" belongs to the same group as "Chac Mool." Indeed, once the reader has adjusted to the second story, the third will be just as great a shock in its turn. A diary account is the form of the narration; however, unlike "Chac Mool," this story does not use a narrator intervening between the diary and the reader. Consequently, the effect is different; narrator and reader both conform to different strategies. To a considerable degree, the reader of "Tlactocatzine" is in a position corresponding to that of Narrator One in "Chac Mool." The difference between the two stories is especially important in the denouement because the story of the diarist is left incomplete (we do not know what happens to him). As a result, full emphasis falls upon the unusual circumstance that he narrates.

The narrator is given the opportunity to live in an old house in Mexico City. Within the house, closed off from the hubbub of contemporary city life, the diarist finds himself confronting a fantastic situation involving the presence of a ghostly woman. The denouement reveals that she is the Empress Cariota. A number of clues precede this revelation, but the practiced reader of Fuentes cannot be certain at what point he knows her identity, because the study naturally reminds one of Aura and of Fuentes' interest in the period of the French Intervention. What is absolutely certain is that the repertory makes requirements of the reader similar to those in the experience of "Chac Mool." Interestingly enough, the intercalcation of "En defensa de la Trigolibia" may well add a dimension to the reading of "Tlactocatzine." Since the political satire tends to point out the author's interest in the state of society—even with the reflective reference to "Chac Mool"—one is now tempted to look for similar significations in "Tlactocatzine." They are far from plentiful. It is possible to read the total situation as referring to the struggle between the persistence of the past and the willful destruction of it by modern Mexico, because the diarist speculates that the owner of the house may have bought it with demolition in mind. The strategies used in the narration do not encourage the search for such meanings. The focus of narration leaves one confronting the event that established the identity of the mysterious woman and, at the same time, asking if there is a rational explanation of her presence. The empress' name is apparent over a coat of arms; as for the rest of it, one must choose between the uncanny and the marvelous, as Todorov defines the alternatives. The diarist makes no choice; he just states the case. Obviously, this experience of fiction alters a reader's set of procedures for understanding, as contrasted with the political satire that immediately precedes.

The seesaw swings again with the reading of "Letama de la orquídea," though the change is not as abrupt. This fourth story begins with an unidentified voice speaking to an unidentified hearer: "Mira, vé: ya empezó el invierno" ("Hey, look: winter has already begun"). One surmises, on the basis of the language, that the speaker is not Mexican. The next sentence reveals that the scene is Panama. For the rest of the story, a voice outside the narrative relates events from the viewpoint of Muriel, a character based on the tropical prototype. Fuentes' prose style is mildly disconcerting because of its heavily rich imagery. No one would deny the author's lyricism, of course, but the richness in "Letanía" seems unusual: "Visceral light, yellow as rain when it mixes with dust. . . . The windows shook until sounding a reticent dactyl." Readers may well not know how to react to this stylistic procedure—could it be some kind of parody on intensely poetic prose? The portrait of Muriel develops schematically as he does typically tropical things. An allegory is taking shape, though one may not be immediately aware that such is the case. The stylization of Muriel crosses into fantasy when his coccyx sprouts an orchid. The clincher of the allegory comes when he decides to grow orchids for sale and the plant itself causes his death. So Muriel is Panama; the highly figurative language which may have been disconcerting early in the experience of "Letanía" now becomes part of the façade that disguises the Panamanian tragedy. As one finishes this story, a return to the beginning of it is almost inevitable because the interpretation comes to fruition only at the end, and one needs to reconsider the process of development. The referent is in fact not so much life in Panama as it is the Panamanian circumstance. The reader participates not by understanding Muriel as a human individual, but as the symbol of a political situation. Fuentes has avoided an essay, but the narrative clearly indicates the importance of social commentary in his work.

The element of fantasy is the most important similarity between "Letanía de la orquídea" and the story preceding it, as well as the one following it. For the reader of the volume Los días enmascarados, fantasy probably establishes itself, by the time these four stories are read, as the primary characteristic in common. Only "En defensa de la Trigolibia" requires accepting an entirely different referent and an equally different set of strategies. The fifth story, "Por boca de los dioses," reaffirms the importance of fantasy and returns to the referential complex of "Chac Mool" and "Tlactocatzine." It involves awareness of contemporary Mexico, of modern art as contrasted with the art of the colonial period, and the present-day influence of the pre-Hispanic past, in the person of Tlazol, a goddess who is associated with filth and also—in a way very important to this short story—with cleaning up and forgiveness or expiation. Suggestions of allegory abound—modern impatience with tradition; modern Mexico assassinates its colonial self and the pre-Hispanic component persists, even dominates the present; the protagonist descends into the nether regions. The actual experience of reading "Por boca de los dioses," however, does not exact quite so systematic an interpretation.

The narration is by a first-person voice who is the main character in the story but who tells it retrospectively. This time of narration is important because he appears to recount his own demise as the denouement: "Tlazol embraced me in a spasm devoid of sighs. The knife remained there, in my guts, like a pivot out of control, turning by itself while she was opening the door to the caravan of minute sounds of wings and snakes that were gathering in the hall, and twisted guitars and internal voices were singing". If one assumes the factual existence of the I-narrator, he must have survived this incident. Therefore, our strategy must be capable of dealing with fantasy on more than one level.

The narrator describes himself in a nightmarish situation at the beginning of the story—an introduction in parentheses. Then the narration appears to turn to real events occurring in a real world, related in the first person by Oliverio. However, this apparently real-life situation requires an adjustment on the reader's part when Oliverio removes a pair of lips from a Tamayo painting. They accompany him and speak; the narration becomes almost as if Oliverio were narrating the story of the lips. This phenomenon must be appreciated along with the intervention of Tlazol who, in the final scene, functions in an apparently definitive way; however, the scene ends in a kind of surrealistic suggestiveness that recalls the opening scene, which was parenthetical. Among other considerations, one must keep in mind the possibility of a Tamayo painting brought to life. "Por boca de los dioses" is the least resolved of all the stories in this volume, except insofar as resolution may take the form of dissolution.

The final story, "El que inventó la pólvora," returns to social commentary of the direct kind. It is a satire on consumerism—a society in which products are less and less durable and the motto is "use everything," until the cataclysm occurs. The narration is in first person by the only character, the survivor, who relates the process of deterioration retrospectively, then shifts to present tense as he tells how he sits on the shore of a newly made sea and starts a fire by friction. The impact of this denouement must have been considerably greater in 1954, when the volume was published, than it is today, since the possibility of such a return to primitivism has now become a commonplace. The commentary on consumerism, on the other hand, seems even more vital now.

As a work of fiction, "El que inventó la pólvora" is of little consequence. It is more of a satirical essay, lightly fictionalized—or one might better say "narrationized." Its referent is a widely recognized social phenomenon that requires no special strategy to compensate for a difference in repertory between author and reader. In this respect, it is probably the most effective communication, over a wide range of readership, of all the stories in this first volume. It certainly is not a typical Fuentes story, however, and it ends the book on a rather strange note. (One might, of course, note the intensification of destruction, followed by a new beginning, and so make an association with Terra Nostra.)

Any one of the stories in Los días enmascarados is noteworthy for the steadily increasing intensity that the narrators manage to achieve—even in those pieces that belong only marginally to the short story genre. The volume, experienced as a single work, does not share this characteristic with its six separate parts. Quite to the contrary, the volume destroys the possibility of increasing intensity by persistently changing the functions the reader has to perform, so creating a seesaw effect of reading two kinds of texts and moving back and forth from one kind of experience to another.

Since the effect of increasing intensity—concluding, in five of the six selections, with an ironic denouement—depends largely on the manipulation of narrating voice and focusing eye, it is interesting to speculate on how else the stories might have been arranged. If one were to take into account the active role of the reader (the extent to which the reader becomes an accomplice of the narrative strategy), "Chac Mool" would undoubtedly be the opening story if one wished to begin with the highest degree of involvement. "Por boca de los dioses" would follow, the "Tlactocatzine" would be third. This ordering would have the disadvantage of running counter to the increasing intensity of each individual story, since the reader of this proposed sequence would feel less and less involved. However, it would have the advantage of preparing the reader to go on to the other stories which might be arranged with "Letanía" first, followed by "El que inventó la pólvora" and then by "En defensa de la Trigolibia," so continuing to move toward less reader involvement by increasing the intensity of author commentary. There is a strong argument for omitting the last three stories in the above scheme—that is, for publishing them separately or for identifying them as a separate unit in the volume with the other three. In such a case, the three stories in the first group might be placed in the reverse order to allow reader involvement to increase during the experience of reading the unit of three. Placed in whatever order, in a separate section, the satirical pieces would still retain much of the chief effect of their presence: to emphasize certain social concerns and to needle reader consciousness with respect to the author's social awareness as communicated in the other three stories.

When Richard Reeve characterized Cantar de ciegos as "the mosaic world of modern Mexico," he clarified this allusion to the book's "Mexicanness" by saying that Fuentes had earlier dealt with the question of "what is Mexico?" and, in the new volume of short stories, turned to a consideration of "who are the Mexicans?" ["El mundo mosaico del mexicano moderno: Cantar de ciegos, de Carlos Fuentes," Nueva Narrativa Hispanoamericana 1, No. 2 (September 1967)]. This explanation sheds some light on the tendency to think of this book as a kind of turning point in Fuentes' work, even though his narratives from the first to the latest have much in common with each other. There does appear to be a shifting emphasis—a change somewhat less radical than a transition—in Fuentes' work, with regard to the extratextual reality that constitutes the referent. One might say that the persistence of the pre-Hispanic past in the present becomes a less important factor than it was in Los días enmascarados and La región más transparente; on the other hand, Cambio de piel alone is enough to prove that he has not totally given up his concern for "what is Mexico?" in spite of the obvious universality of that novel. The sense of difference between the first volume of short stories and Cantar de ciegos is created partially, of course, by some shift in emphasis; however, the difference is even more clearly the result of greater consistency in the author's act of communication, manifested especially in the intricate manipulation of narrating voice and focusing eye. While these strategies do vary in some ways from story to story, Cantar de ciegos does not challenge the reader, with respect to "accepted procedures," as frequently as Los días enmascarados does.

"Las dos Elenas," the first story in Cantar de ciegos, takes its title from the names of two women, mother and daughter, whose contrasting characters affect the actions of the first-person narrator. Elena Senior is an attractive, middle-aged, society matron. Her daughter, the wife of the narrator (Victor), is a caricature of "modern" woman, in her dress, her interest in art and her advanced ideas. She even proposes that she needs to live with two men in order to feel fulfilled. She insists on discussing this possibility when she and Victor have Sunday dinner with her parents.

The narrative actually begins with a commentary by Elena Senior on this particular point. Addressing herself to Victor, she lists her daughter's manias and pronounces all of them at least minimally acceptable up to, but not including, her explaining to her father that she wishes to live with two men. Although Victor is the first-person narrator, this fact does not become apparent until after his mother-in-law has stated her case. The procedure is a very important aspect of the narration because the negative attitude toward Elena Junior is established by her mother, not by Victor. The story develops then in the words of Victor, and it is mainly a characterization of Elena Junior through his reporting of what she said and did. The narration is in the past tense until the last paragraph when Victor, having taken leave of Elena Junior, who is going to spend the entire day painting, turns his MG toward Lomas de Chapultepec, where he knows Elena Senior and his own fulfillment are awaiting him. The irony of the denouement is greatly intensified by the fact that Victor never criticizes his wife. His mother-in-law's exposition, at the beginning of the narrative, establishes the base of Elena Junior's characterization and, incidentally, of her own. One may not notice immediately that her initial statement reveals her as very permissive, though there is a point beyond which she will not allow the façade to be further destroyed.

"La muñeca reina," the story that follows, is quite different in theme, but the strategies are largely the same. A first-person narrator tells the story and also sees what happens. A change of tense is important because it moves the narrative voice from a retrospective position outside the narrative to an actually present time within the narrative. Such a change has an important effect in the last paragraph of "Las dos Elenas," so it is hardly surprising in "La muñeca reina," except possibly because it is even more important.

The story tells of the narrator's wish to relive the time of a cherished memory—the friendship of a young girl. Taking advantage of a clue, he finds her (now after many years), but the discovery is grotesque. The change of tense makes the idealized memory a past reality; the actual discovery is in the present: "I ring the bell. The shower becomes heavier and insistent." The sense of actuality created by the use of present tense comes close to making the narrator a dual personage. In the years intervening between the memory and the present, he has become the seeker rather than the sought. "La muñeca reina" has some of the spectral quality that characterizes three of the stories in Los días enmascarados; however, the denouement does not depend in any way on fantasy. It is rather a case of irony created by reality asserting itself.

The exterior reality to which "Fortuna lo que ha querido" refers is notably similar to that of "Las dos Elenas." An artist successful in both painting and sexual conquest is characterized by inconstancy in both fields of endeavor. The subtlety of the narration is extremely attractive. The narrator does not refer to himself in a first-person form until the last paragraph of the narrative; however, his involvement with the protagonist may be felt earlier. The position of the narrator is outside the narrative, and the voice speaks in third person, but a tense change suggests a relationship that is not wholly omniscient. After providing the reader with a good deal of information about the painter—all in simple past tense—the narrator suggests a closer relationship with the artist by inserting a present perfect: "He left the hotel after the '63 exhibit. Alejandro has always suffered feverish collapses after presenting a new collection of paintings . . ." (my emphasis). Given this relationship between narrator and protagonist, it is appropriate that readers not know the reason for all of the latter's actions. At the end of the narrative, he turns away from a meeting with a possible conquest. The narrator does not explain why he makes this decision. It may be that he esteems this particular woman too highly to settle for just another affair; it may be that he fears rejection. Presumably the narrator does not know. He reaffirms the relationship already suggested by saying at the end of the narrative: "A while ago I reminded him that he was already thirty-three and that he should think of marrying someday. Alejandro just looked at me sadly."

With the exception of some place names, there is little to identify the first three stories in Cantar de ciegos as Mexican. The first and third have as their referents two internationally recognizable aspects of modern society; "La muñeca reina" may appear less familiar because of its grotesque denouement, but it could happen in many other countries as well as in Mexico. "Vieja moralidad," the story that follows "Fortuna lo que ha querido," is slightly more specific in its cultural reference, though not enough to require special preparation or compensation through particular strategies. The protagonist's grandfather is a republicano juarista, a clergy-baiter. The old man's heterodoxy allows him to maintain a female companion in his rural home. He is also the guardian of Alberto, his adolescent grandson, who narrates the story. A covey of sanctimonious aunts rescue Alberto from this morally reprehensible environment. They take him to the city (Morelia) and install him in the home of one of the good ladies, where he may be properly educated, both formally and informally. In the course of events, he becomes his aunt's youthful lover, with a second aunt somewhat less than figuratively waiting on the sidelines.

The first-person narrator functions in this story very nearly as he does in "Las dos Elenas." The narrative begins with the grandfather speaking, actually berating the seminarians who pass by his house. He reveals his anticlericalism and then the narrating role of Alberto becomes apparent. The boy tells what happened up to and including the amorous overtures of the second aunt. By this time, one is already appreciating the irony of the switch in moral rectitude. But still another irony is to come. Alberto reports that he wrote a letter to his grandfather, asking him to come to get him because Alberto thinks there is probably more morality in the country. Then switching to present tense—just as Victor does, in another intrafamily moral irony, at the end of "Las dos Elenas"—Alberto says, referring to the letter, "Pero todavía no me decido a mandarla." The ironic situation, therefore, is left intact—in progress, one might say—even though it functions as a resolution in the narration.

"El costo de la vida," the fifth story, presents the first real problem regarding the aesthetic consistency—or equanimity—of Cantar de ciegos. Both repertory and strategies are different from those of the preceding selections. The protagonist, a member of the lower middle class, economically speaking, has more problems than he has means of coping with them. A series of unpredictable circumstances leads to his death. The narrative offers no problem of credibility if one is reasonably aware of circumstances in contemporary Mexico; less informed readers may find much that seems strange (e.g., the deplorable economic condition of a school teacher), and may become so involved with this novel-of-customs aspect of the story that they may lose contact with its more general significance. The narrating voice uses third person, and though large parts of the story are focused from the point of view of Salvador, the protagonist, the effect is very different from the ironies produced by the first-person narrator position. In "El costo de la vida," the irony is created by outside reporting of contingent circumstance.

Analysts of Fuentes' short stories are generally not very kind to "El costo de la vida." Reeve says "being a chapter of the unpublished novel La patria de nadie, this story never achieves an identity or unity of its own"; Dauster considers it "the least successful story in the volume"; Ramirez calls it "the weakest story in the collection." When removed from the context of the volume in which it appears, "El costo de la vida" seems not to deserve such negative regard. The extratextual reality to which it refers recalls the author's La región más transparente. The narration accomplishes all that is normally required of a successful short story. The narrative begins at a point in the basic story where the character and circumstance of Salvador may be rapidly glimpsed. A basic conflict is established early—between the depressing demands of his struggle to survive and his desire to live with some degree of joy. The events that take place subsequently all intensify this conflict. He asks for assistance from his father; he brings back memories of his Golden Age; in conversation with his old buddies. He picks up a girl and goes with her to Chapultepec (a clear evasion of obligation to his sick wife). He gets a job as a taxi driver in order to meet his financial obligations. This careful intensification of the basic conflict adds impact to the denouement when, in an act of friendship, Salvador meets death unexpectedly. In the words of a less skillful writer, this story might indeed have become too diffuse. Fuentes employs several strategies that avoid this result. The principal one is unabashed control of the narration, even to the point of summarizing scene—in addition, of course, to the expected balancing of scene and summary. For example, a paragraph from the episode of reminiscing with friends takes this form:

And Alfred remembered that when he graduated the family gave him the old car and everyone went out to celebrate in a big way by club-hopping all over the city. They were very drunk and Raimundo said that Alfredo didn't know how to drive and he began to struggle with Alfredo to let him take the wheel and the car almost turned over at a traffic circle on the Reforma and Raimundo said that he wanted to throw up and the door opened and Raimundo fell out onto the street and broke his neck.

Given the impact of "El costo de la vida" when it is read and analyzed outside the context of Cantar de ciegos, one may reasonably conclude that the adverse reaction it creates when read as part of the volume is probably caused by the eccentricity of its strategies (as compared with the preceding stories).

The sixth story, "Una alma pura," recovers the equilibrium and appears to be universally admired. The narrating voice belongs to the protagonist's sister. He was a Mexican expatriate who went to Europe because the cultural ambience of his native country was not to his liking. The past tenses in the preceding sentence indicate the time situation in the narrative. The sister addresses her brother, now deceased. The present time of the story is the hours immediately preceding her departure by plane to accompany his remains on the return trip to Mexico. Her reminiscence, addressed to him, narrates the story of his chaotic and ultimately unsatisfying life abroad. Naturally, it happens in the past, and is so differentiated in her narration. She tells his story and characterizes herself. Leaving the reminiscence and focusing on the present, just before departing, she is granted the opportunity to know—via a letter handed her—the last words of her brother. Ironically, in spite of the relationship she claims, she destroys the letter without reading it. The narration again is resolved but, in a sense, unfinished.

The final work in Cantar de ciegos, "A la víbora de la mar," is really best thought of as an addendum to the volume. Its length sets it apart because it runs to seventy-three pages; the other six pieces average about twenty pages each. The repertory is somewhat different from the short stories, although its referent is a cosmopolitan society. The shipboard scene (a vacation cruise) suggests the ship-of-fools motif, and the dedication to Julio Cortázar recalls his Los premios. Fuentes' story is focused on the innocence of a Mexican woman tourist and the confidence men who deceive her and take her money. The story, carefully worked out by an external narrator using third person, is a tragicomedy. Riotously funny at times, the narrative ends with the woman's tragic realization that she has been exploited not only in terms of her money but, even worse, in terms of her affection. The fact that "A la víbora de la mar" functions as an addendum to the volume does not mean it is inferior to the rest. It stands separately, might well have been published separately, it is fortunate for the aesthetic consistency of Cantar de ciegos that it appears last.

Considering Cantar de ciegos as a total experience, one might argue reasonably that "El costo de la vida" is poorly placed. Using the same rationale that suggested the rearrangement of stories in Los días enmascarados, a preferable ordering of the later volume might be "Las dos Elenas," "Vieja moralidad," "Fortuna lo que ha querido," "Una alma pura," "La muñeca reina," "El costo de la vida," and "A la víbora de la mar" still in the place appropriate to a separate work. This ordering gives maximum importance to similarities among the first-person voice strategies. However, the rearrangement would not make as much difference as in Los días enmascarados, because the variations in repertory and in strategy are much less abrupt and less radical in Cantar de ciegos.

The suggested rearrangement of Los días enmascarados would make the book seem a mature work; the present ordering creates the impression of a series of exercises. By placing together the stories in which Fuentes' narrative ingenuity is most effective, the reader's aesthetic act in realizing the narratives is more complete. The remaining pieces could still establish the author's expository gift without distorting the experience of the first set. Since the stories depend on the author's use of first-person narration, ironic revelation, and a combination of the two, these strategies function most efficiently when the reader understands, throughout a series of stories, that he is expected to use the same procedures in appreciating the experience. To a very considerable extent, this purpose is accomplished in Cantar de ciegos. Indeed, the rearrangement of the second volume, suggested above, might be more beneficial to "El costo de la vida" as a separate unit than it would be to the volume as a whole (its merits would be freed from the restraints imposed by the use of strategies that are different from those in the selections preceding and following). The other selections (always excluding "A la víbora de la mar" because of its length as well as for the narrative procedures used) enjoy a common set of strategies, based on Fuentes' handling of the narrating voice and the focusing eye, that create consistency in the aesthetic experience. These stories are, for the same reasons, closely akin to the three selections in Los días enmascarados that can unquestionably be called short stories.