The Empire of Yearning (10 page)

Á
NGELA LOOKED OLDER
, thinner, and frailer. More than a month after the shooting, she was still bedridden, lying supine on a narrow wooden cot in a dark room with stone walls and a single narrow window dissected by a pair of bars that formed an iron cross. Disparate sounds drifted up from the street below, the cries of vendors, the clip-clop of horse hooves, the sudden yapping of dogs.

Meanwhile, Ángela rested on her back, staring at the ceiling. She said she was not permitted to leave.

“It’s as if I were in a prison.”

Bags drooped beneath her eyes, and her dark hair lay dishevelled on the pillow. Her hands were clasped over her abdomen, her fingers as wizened as sticks. She said it had been more than four weeks since she had seen her son. They refused to tell her where he was. They refused to tell her anything.

Diego took a seat in the only chair, a wobbly piece of furniture with torn webbing. “Who won’t tell you?”

“The priests,” she said. “None of them will tell me anything. There’s one especially—”

“Padre Fischer?”

She nodded. “You’ve met him, I remember. Dear God. He wants me to give Agustín up for adoption. To become the son of the emperor … the Austrian … the …”

“I know.”

“You
know
?
What do you know
?”

“What you’re saying. Your son. Adoption. The emperor and his wife are without child, you see. They—”

“Whose concern is that? Not mine. Agustín is
my
son.”

“Of course. Yes.” He paused. “You knew they released Baldemar?”

“Yes. I saw him.”

“You
saw
him? When?”

“Just for a moment. A week ago. Maybe more. I lose track of the days. He managed to sneak in, disguised as a priest of all things. He wanted to take me out of here, but I couldn’t leave, not like this. I’m still too weak. And Baldemar—he looked dreadful. He’s so thin. I barely recognized him.” She paused, dampened her lips with her tongue. It was an effort for her to swallow. “Can you help me, Diego? Can you find my boy?”

Diego said he would try—and he meant it. He would. But first there was something he needed to know. “About your son,” he said. “The arrangement that this priest, this Padre Fischer, proposes … I wonder, is there any chance … any possibility at all … I mean—”

“What?”
She raised herself on one arm, her reedy voice suddenly resonant, strong, though she gasped at the pain this exertion cost her. “What are you saying? You cannot be serious. Diego, not you, of all people. Oh God.” She began to weep.

“No, no.” Diego extended his good arm, as if fending off some demon. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I meant at all.”

It was a feeble denial, but it seemed to calm her a little. He had promised to raise the matter, and now it was done—thank God. He felt like a traitor, for a traitor he was. Meanwhile, Ángela collapsed back on the bed, too weak to support herself any longer. She began to cough, then closed her eyes.

“Just help me,” she said in a hoarse whisper, she who possessed the most glorious voice in Mexico. “Just find my son.”

“Yes,” said Diego. “I will try.”

“Not ‘try.’ Find him. Bring him to me. As soon as you can. Not here, but … somewhere.”

She struggled to sit up. She turned and looked straight at him. From somewhere deep within, she seemed to summon a portion of her old strength.

“You know,” she said, “we can’t let them win, the conservatives. It was Márquez who shot me. I saw him. And now it’s Labastida and his thugs who are holding me here and who are after my son. They’ll do anything to get their way. You know that.”

Diego said he did. “But the emperor favours alliances.”

“
Alliances?
” She practically spat out the word. Again something of her old vigour welled up. “Alliances with whom? With conservatives? You can’t form alliances with them. The Mexican conservative will never be satisfied until he possesses every jot and tittle of wealth and power in this land. God in heaven, you would think the Enlightenment had never occurred. I don’t care that they’re stupid. What I cannot stomach is the pride they take in their stupidity. Do you think I would surrender my son to serve the interests of these vipers? Dear God, Diego. Find him. Find my son.”

She unleashed this diatribe in a steady, powerful voice that recalled the Ángela he knew. But the effort left her drained. Her voice trailed away, and she fell back onto her bed, too exhausted to speak another word.

Diego retrieved his hat, and he left her there.

Diego and the emperor were riding alongside the canals at Xochimilco. It was shortly past eight o’clock in the morning, another brilliant day, with only a slight chill left over from the highland night. Slackening the reins, Maximiliano rubbed his upper arms and torso to get the blood flowing. They were accompanied on this outing by Salm-Salm, who had hastened to join them at the last moment. It was essential, he said, to discuss the matter of Ángela Peralta and her son. The survival of the Second Mexican Empire depended upon it.

“An heir is imperative,” he said as they rode through the early sunshine. The subject seemed to be an obsession with him. “It is foolhardy to think otherwise. There is no telling what could befall Your Majesty. Forgive me for saying so, but you could suffer grievous injury at any moment. An attack of food poisoning. A fall from your horse. A wayward bullet. God forbid that any such thing should happen, but it could. You lead a perilous life, and precautions must be taken. I believe you should hold talks on this subject with Labastida.”

“What?” Maximilliano snorted. The archbishop wishes only to discuss the reform laws, to have them revoked. He would trade the boy to achieve this purpose, but I will not give in to his demands. This is the year 1864, for God’s sake. It’s the modern age. We must abide by modern notions. In this, I am in complete agreement with Juárez. The Church has no place meddling in the affairs of the state. In any case, I am in perfect health.”

“Pray God you remain so,” said Salm-Salm. “But the point is, you may not. Then what?”

“There’s Charlotte,” said the emperor. “She could govern, if it came to that.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. But what of the long term?”

Maximiliano was silent. To Diego, it was clear what Salm-Salm was up to. He meant to use the dilemma of the emperor’s childless state to manoeuvre himself back into the centre of the man’s confidence.

“I agree this is an important matter,” the emperor said. “But we must not act in haste.”

Diego broke in. “Our first goal must be to free Ángela. She is the child’s mother, after all. As long as Labastida holds her, he holds the upper hand. Besides, it is a breech of justice to detain an individual against his will.”

“Well said.” The emperor gave his horse an affectionate slap. “But what would you have me do? Order my hussars to storm the place?”

“Surely not,” said Salm-Salm, who appeared to take the remark literally. “Such an assault would poison the well for good.”

“And so will never take place,” said Diego. “That is not the point. The point is, the Church should have no part in this. The Church is no longer entitled to exercise control over hospitals, much less use them as prisons. Those powers were abolished by the reform laws. Labastida has no jurisdiction in this.”

The emperor halted his horse. For a time, he gazed out at the view. Presently, he nodded. “I’ll consult Bazaine. If he agrees with Serrano here, then we shall order the singer’s release. We shall see what cards Labastida holds then.”

He clucked his tongue several times and reined his horse around, aiming back toward Chapultepec.

“Come,” he said. “We have work to do.”

That afternoon, Maximiliano summoned Bazaine to appear before him at the Imperial Palace. After a rote exchange of pleasantries, the Frenchman offered his opinion that the Church was in no way entitled to hold Ángela Peralta against her will, despite her incriminating family ties.

The emperor shifted in his seat and whispered to Diego. “He means her brother, I take it.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Maximiliano frowned for a time and then looked up. He instructed the French marshal to arrange for the woman’s release, by any means necessary. She should be placed under proper medical care but far from the authority of the Church.

Bazaine said it would be done. With his cap tucked beneath one arm, he bowed, saluted, and withdrew.

The next day, the Frenchman returned to the Imperial Palace, this time with news that the singer was no longer to be found at the hospital in question. He was unable to say where she was. Someone had spirited her away before his men had found time to act.

“Someone in the Church, you mean?” said the emperor.

Bazaine shrugged. He assumed as much, but he was quite sure Labastida would deny it. “Somehow they got word,” he said. He hesitated. “I have other news.”

“Speak,” said the emperor. “Out with it. I haven’t got all day.” He was often short with Bazaine, wishing to make it clear that the sword served the crown, rather than the other way around. “What news?”

Bazaine said that General Márquez had not departed the country as expected. In fact, he had returned to Mexico City. He was here, now. It seemed that on their journey to Veracruz he and his
compadres
had come under attack by a large band of heavily armed men led by none other than Baldemar Peralta.

“I speak of the man Your Majesty pardoned only short weeks ago,” said Bazaine. “The—”

“Yes, yes,” said Maximiliano. He scribbled at the air with his cigarette. “I know who he is.”

“And now Márquez refuses to leave Mexico.”

“On what grounds?”

“This is a rough country, Your Majesty. They have their own codes, these Mexicans.”

The emperor nodded. “Yes, yes. But how dare he refuse a direct order? He is under instructions to proceed to Constantinople. Far from here.”

“Let me repeat,” said Bazaine. “The perpetrator of this attack was
Baldemar Peralta.” The Frenchman hesitated, ran his tongue across his upper teeth. “Baldemar Peralta—the very man Your Majesty pardoned that night at the Imperial Theatre, along with a dozen others.”

“I am aware of it,” said Maximiliano. “You don’t have to keep telling me.”

“Ah,” said Bazaine. “But surely that is the point, Your Majesty. It seems that I do.”

The room fell silent. Several guards and palace aides stopped what they were doing, stunned at this sudden impertinence. How would the emperor respond?

Maximiliano ground out his cigarette. He moved his lips from side to side, as if unsure whether to swallow something he’d just put in his mouth, something that didn’t seem quite right.

“Well,” he said at last. “I leave the matter in your hands then.”

“The matter of General Márquez?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And what of the singer?”

Maximiliano shrugged. “Find her,” he said. “If you can.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Frenchman gave the briefest imitation of a bow and withdrew.

The following morning, at the end of their customary ride, the emperor informed Diego that he planned to depart the capital in order pay a visit to Cuernavaca, a town located a day’s journey to the southwest. On Salm-Salm’s advice, he had lately purchased a house there, sight unseen, and was having the place restored.

At the palace stable, they handed their horses off to a team of grooms. Once again, Salm-Salm had joined them.

Cuernavaca? Diego knew the town. Once the favoured resort of Aztec nobles, it occupied a lower altitude than the capital and enjoyed a more equable climate. It seemed this prospect carried particular weight with the emperor, who disliked the nighttime coolness and early morning chill frequently experienced in Mexico City.

Maximiliano said he wished to see first-hand how work was proceeding. He also wanted to learn something of the town, where he hoped to spend substantial portions of his time in future. Salm-Salm was among those invited, of course, and Diego would be expected to make the trek as well. The mail would be delivered by special courier at least once a day, and the party would be absent from Mexico City for a week at most.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm. “You are too generous, too kind. And, ah, may I see you for a moment? In private?”

“Why, yes,” said the emperor. “Of course. Walk with me to my chambers.” He glanced at Diego. “
Hasta mañana
, then, Serrano.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Until tomorrow.”

There was a new distance in the emperor’s manner, which Diego attributed to Salm-Salm and his machinations. He wondered what calumnies the man was spreading, what gossip and lies. But, just now, Diego had other matters to consider and other places to be. They included the cockpit at San Antonio de las Cuevas. He had a suspicion that el Gordo might show himself there.

T
HE COCKPIT WAS AS
raucous as ever, as chaotic, as disreputable. Diego skulked about the place for nearly two hours, observing the bloodshed and mayhem, dodging the spittle and bile, but he did not set eyes upon Baldemar Peralta. Finally, he’d had enough. He drained the last of a watery beer and left.

Out on the street, in the cool darkness, a beggar accosted him, pleading for alms.

“
Por Dios
,” the man moaned, his hand outstretched. “
Por
Dios, señor.
”

Diego was about to turn away and continue on foot to the livery stable where he’d entrusted his horse but something about the beggar’s voice stopped him. He swung around.

Immediately, the wretch began to laugh. It was Baldemar, of course.

Before long, the two men slumped into their seats at Memorias del Futuro, and were soon quaffing pulque from large green-tinted jars. Baldemar still looked woebegone, his clothes hanging from him like washing on a line.

Diego recounted what he’d learned about Ángela, that she had
been spirited out of the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno and taken to some unknown location.

“Labastida,” said Baldemar. “But the good thing is, he’ll want to keep her safe.”

It was what Diego thought, too. With both the mother and her son under his power, the prelate was in a stronger position to dictate terms to the emperor, but his position would erode quickly if either Ángela or the child came to harm.

“You’re going to try to find her?” said Diego.

“Got to.”

“I’ll help you.”

Baldemar nodded, sipped from his glass of pulque. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you can help.”

Diego massaged the stump of his left arm. He said, “I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever I can.”

“All right then.”

Baldemar said there was a priest who could possibly be of assistance to them—a good man, a committed liberal. His name was Padre Buendía, and he was the rector in Taxco, a silver-mining town a couple of days’ ride southeast of the capital.

“He makes it his business to know things,” said Baldemar. “If we find Ángela—I mean,
when
we find her—Taxco will be a good place to send her, to keep her safe. Along with the boy. Buendía could help there, too.”

Diego said he would be riding out to Cuernavaca in a couple of days, along with the emperor and an entourage of courtiers. Taxco wasn’t so far away. He would try to find some excuse to make a side trip.

Baldemar clapped him on the back. “
Ándele, hombre
,” he said. “So you’re a confederate of emperors now. How does that make you feel?”

“Strange,” said Diego. “It makes me feel very strange.”

He didn’t say more, didn’t mention his changing sentiments about politics or about Mexico and the chance of unity. Nor did he say anything
about the succession of messengers—three of them so far—who had been dispatched to make contact with Juárez, to propose an alliance. There had been no response. As likely as not, the men had been murdered by thieves or assassinated by liberal partisans. He made no reference to his own position, how compromised he had become, beholden on all sides, caught between the emperor, Baldemar, and Salm-Salm, to say nothing of Ángela or her son. For now, he said only that he would keep his eyes and ears open. He would try to contact this Padre Buendía, and matters would proceed from there.

“Good for you.” Again Baldemar clapped him on the back. “Let me know what you learn. And, remember, the Austrian is your enemy, as much as Labastida or Márquez or any of these picaroons. Don’t ever forget it.” He shook his head. “That’s what’s wrong with this country. That’s what has always been Mexico’s greatest defect.”

“What?”

“The hope of a saviour. Some great man who will lead us from the wilderness. First, we endured all those Spanish viceroys, then Hidalgo, then Iturbide, then Santa Anna. Now this Austrian. The bloody country’s like an amphibian, flopping back and forth between water and the land, never making up its mind. You have to make a choice—that’s all. Will you be liberal or conservative? Will you live on water or on land? You can’t do both.”

Diego swallowed another draft of pulque. His friend was a changed man—not just thinner, but more sinewy, tougher, more determined. “And what about you?” he said. “What have you chosen? What are you going to do?”

“Kill conservatives. What else? Maybe you can help there, too.”

“Maybe.” Diego hesitated. “About Márquez …”

“The old snake. What about him?”

“I thought he would be dead by now, but they say he’s still alive. They say he’s here. In Mexico City.”

Baldemar rubbed his jaw, with its grizzle of whiskers, its patches of flaking, reddened skin, residue of a prison rash that had yet to fully heal.
“Is that what they say?”

“It is. They also say a bunch of bandits ambushed him on the way to Veracruz, but he managed to escape. Either that, or they let him go. Why would that be?”

“You want to know?”

“What do you think?”

Baldemar nodded. He swallowed the dregs of his jar and wiped his lips. He raised a hand to indicate another round. “We hanged him,” he said. “Right after we captured him. We roped him from an almond tree, not far from Soledad de Doblado.”

“By his ankles? Just like your uncle?”

“Right. By his ankles. Just like my uncle.”

“What about his men?”

“We killed one of them in the ambush. The rest dropped their guns and gave up. We tied their thumbs together behind their backs. A bunch of worms. Not men. They didn’t trouble us after that.”

“And Márquez?”

“We left him overnight, swinging upside down. Let him see what it’s like. Find out how much he enjoyed it. At first, he didn’t say a word. I went to check on him in the morning, and he wasn’t so tough then. He begged me to cut him down. He’d do anything. Anything I wanted.”

“And?”

“I cut him down. That was it. I didn’t want anything else.”

“You spared his life.”

Baldemar nodded.

“Why?”

“Couldn’t let him die like that. Couldn’t let anyone. Not even him.”

“You could have shot him. You could have hanged him in the regular way.”

“Could have.”

Diego drummed his fingers on the rough wooden surface of the counter.

A slender man refilled their jars, and Baldemar took a mouthful, nodded pensively before he swallowed. He said he had done a good deal
of thinking while mouldering away in the Martinica. “I came to some conclusions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as there are better things to do to a man than kill him.”

“You don’t say.”

“Worse things, too.”

“You think?”

“I’m serious. Instead of killing a man, you can let him live.”

Diego saw what he was getting at. He repeated a phrase. “Spare his life.”

“That’s right.”

It was a law in Mexico—not a written-down law, but the other kind—that he who saves another man’s life has a claim on his soul forever. If Baldemar had simply killed Márquez out near Soledad de Doblado, that would have been the end of it—vengeance sought and won. But this way, it would be different. This way, Márquez would go to his grave knowing he owed his life to none other than Baldemar Peralta, the man whose uncle he’d killed, whose sister he’d shot.

Diego shook his head. “The mind reels.”

“It does.”

“He’ll have to kill you now. If he doesn’t, he’ll go mad.”

“Probably.”

“But he can’t kill you, not after you saved his life.”

“I guess not.”

“Christ almighty. You’ve got him by the tail. This will drive him mad.” Baldemar nodded once, then nodded again, and then he smiled.