The Empire of Yearning (3 page)

S
TILL WEAK AND UNSTEADY
, Diego returned to the Hotel Universal near the
plaza de armas
of Veracruz. Immediately, the manager informed him that Salm-Salm and his wife had departed in a hurry. They’d taken all their baggage and ridden away in a hired cart bound for the harbour. The manager cleared his throat. It was his understanding, he said, that Señor Serrano would be settling the account on Salm-Salm’s behalf.

“He told you this?”

“Sí.”

“And you believed him?”

The man gave Diego a sorrowful look. “The gentleman is a European,” he said. He narrowed his gaze for a moment before raising his eyelids again and slightly rolling his eyes. He reached beneath the desk. “Here. He left you this.”

He produced a grimy flax-paper envelope. Diego reached inside and withdrew a single leaf of paper. The letter bore no seal but was evidently from Salm-Salm, who conveyed his greetings and begged his new friend to indulge him by underwriting certain expenses he and his wife
had incurred while in Veracruz. Owing to the unavoidable haste of their departure, it had been impossible for Salm-Salm to locate the funds on his own. But there was no cause for alarm—he could be trusted implicitly to settle the matter once they both found themselves in Mexico City. Meanwhile, he assured his esteemed acquaintance that he remained determined to promote Baldemar Peralta’s cause with His Imperial Majesty.

Diego released a long, tired sigh. What choice did he have? He settled the prince’s account. That done, he retired to his room and collapsed onto the bed, dog-tired and sore in every fibre, every bone.

The following morning, the imperial party—a group that numbered more than a hundred—finally made a proper landfall. A French military band and a small honour guard were mustered for the occasion, along with a smattering of curious city folk. Diego was not among them. He learned what had happened only later, from the manager of the hotel. Instead of hurrying out to confront the newcomers, he lay prone on his bed, barely able to move. His head felt as if hammers were pounding through his skull, and his entire body ached, alternating between burning heat and shivering cold.

Eventually, he managed to rouse himself, dress, and find his way to the railway station, where the Austrian had by now been conveyed, along with his wife and the members of their considerable entourage. The newcomers milled about the station’s entrance, all finely dressed, gawking and jabbering, apparently in an immense hurry to board the train, the only such vehicle in Mexico. Crews of Mexican labourers struggled to attend to what seemed a colossal quantity of appurtenances, all of which—someone said—represented no more than the tenth part of the goods the Europeans had carried with them and that remained aboard the
Novara
, to be transported to Mexico City at some future date.

Hundreds of
veracruzanos
had ventured out to have a look at these exotic creatures, these European courtiers and this man who called himself emperor. They pushed and jostled against each other, straining for a better view. Diego soon caught a glimpse of the self-styled emperor—Maximiliano I—a tall, hatless figure, going prematurely bald. His broad
dome shone in the sweltering sun, and he strode about by the station entrance, clad in a naval dress uniform. He pointed this way and that, issuing orders, as if giving a theatrical performance. He held himself utterly erect, almost as if his frame were suspended from the shoulders by a pair of invisible wires. He had a pale complexion, and a long, slender nose, but what most distinguished him was his beard, a great ruddy mass of whiskers combed into a long french fork.

Diego tried to make his way closer. He side-stepped, shoved, and struggled, hoping somehow to get close to the man, near enough to draw his attention and then to confront him head-on and make his case—amnesty for Baldemar Peralta! Over and over, he had rehearsed the words he would say. But the crush of onlookers grew steadily more suffocating, and he felt dizzier and fainter with each moment that went by. Just as he thought he might pass out, he sensed a flurry of movement on the part of the Europeans, followed by a ripple of renewed excitement among the crowd. Somehow, he willed himself to remain upright.

He watched as the Austrian disappeared into the station, along with a pale and severe-looking young woman whom Diego took to be his wife, the empress. Their entourage quickly followed. Soldiers took up positions behind the new arrivals to keep the rabble away. A quarter hour groaned past, and Diego could do nothing except stand where he was and helplessly watch as the locomotive released a piercing whistle. Soon, coils of smoke and vapour twisted against the blue sky laced with cumulus clouds, and a procession of wooden cars shuddered into motion. They chugged smartly away to the west, past a blind of royal palms.

Diego watched the train recede. It was strange that the Europeans had chosen to make their journey by these means. He knew perfectly well the tracks extended inland only a short distance, a matter of forty kilometres or so, not even as far as Paso del Macho. Further work had been suspended, owing to attacks by bandits and liberal partisans. As a result, this trek by rail would accomplish nothing at all, except to demonstrate that Mexico possessed a train. The Austrian’s party would be obliged to disembark within a couple of hours, and Diego could easily
imagine them grumbling in the leaden heat while they awaited the delivery of horses and carriages from Veracruz. Only then would they continue their journey to Mexico City. That was bad luck for them but an opportunity for him. He believed he could catch up with the Austrian at the railway’s end.

He stumbled back to his hotel and collected a few belongings. A bottle of mezcal stood by the large ceramic bowl on the dresser. In two quick gulps, he drained what was left, shuddered, and let the liquor’s warmth rise through his chest. Feeling somewhat restored, he staggered downstairs and into the lobby. He paid his own bill, and a groom was dispatched to fetch his horse.

He set off, riding westward along the lush coastal plain, but he had underestimated the effects of his illness. He felt dazed, light-headed, and slow. He found he could not properly sit his horse at more than an ambling gait, and even that was troublesome. It was clear to him now he had no hope of making up the distance that separated him from the Europeans. From what little he knew of the yellow fever, he expected to suffer like this for several more days at least. He forced himself to think of Baldemar, rotting away in the Martinica, and he tried to increase his pace, but it couldn’t be done. More than once, he slid from the saddle and collapsed onto the ground, retching what little bile remained in him.

He had not yet reached Paso del Macho when darkness fell, but he knew he could ride no further. He made his bed on the hard ground of a forested hillside, with his saddle for a pillow and with his Colt revolver clutched at his side. He passed a fitful night, awakening the next day in a poor temper with a sore back, a worsened fever, and the distinct impression that something else was wrong. Even before he managed to open his eyes, he realized that his pistol was gone and that someone’s shadow was blocking the dim morning sunlight.

He forced his eyes open. Not one but two men stood at his feet, both wearing large round-brimmed hats and each aiming at him with a handgun.

“Take off your clothes,” said one of the men. He had a long scar running down the left side of his face, partly obscured by a dark moustache.

“What?” Diego slowly raised himself onto his one good arm. His pistol, he saw, was stuffed into the belt of the man who’d just spoken. He struggled to remain calm. If they were going to kill him, they’d have done it by now.

“Your clothes. Take them off. All of them.”

Soon he was naked, a familiar condition for those who travelled between Mexico City and Veracruz, for the way was rife with thieves.

“Can I keep my boots?”

“A common request,” said the man with the scar. He tilted his head and lowered his voice. “My name is Octavio. And yours?”

“Diego Serrano.”

“I see. What is your purpose here?”

Diego’s head still throbbed, and his heart still raced, but he managed a halfway steady voice. He thought he might as well tell the truth, and that was what he did.

The one named Octavio inclined his head again to listen, then nodded. “A friend in the Martinica?” he said. “Well, in that case, you are in luck. We won’t kill you. We will spare your life in the expectation that you will also plead for the release of comrades of our own who now reside in that same place. They were taken a few weeks ago. Their names are Sánchez, Quiñones, and Rivera. Can you repeat the names?”

“Sánchez, Quiñones, and Rivera.”

“Very well. In exchange, we shall spare your life and also leave you your horse.”

“What about my clothes?”

“Sadly, that is beyond my authority.” The man shrugged in commiseration. “You are liberal or conservative?”

Diego knew that bandits along this corridor liked to think of themselves as soldiers in the liberal cause. “Liberal,” he said.

“Is it so? We are liberals too. Thanks to this happy coincidence, we shall also leave you your gun and your boots. Good luck.”

The two men bundled Diego’s clothes together, along with his saddle and almost all of his money. Out of habit, Diego kept a quantity of bills
in one of his boots as a hedge against exactly this set of circumstances. The robbers mounted their horses. The one named Octavio led Diego’s own horse a distance away, then wound the reins around a tree branch. He tossed the Colt pistol to the ground.

“Adiós
,” he said.
“Que le vaya bien.”

Both men soon vanished on their horses into a dense copse of trees.

Diego watched them go. Here he was, naked, alone, a long way from Mexico City, and too sick to greatly care. He stumbled over to his horse and picked up his gun, wondering where to put it.

Naked but for his boots, he swung himself up onto her back. He tucked his pistol into his right boot, wedging it there as securely as he could. He gathered the reins in his only hand and kicked his heels.
“Vamos.”

He began to ride west, but he got only as far as Paso del Macho before he collapsed near a wayside inn. He was vaguely aware of a pair of servants hurrying out to his aid. They darted from the building with two blankets, evidently accustomed to having their guests arrive without the luxury of a wardrobe.

After spending four days in bed, mostly delirious, Diego was finally well enough to continue his journey. Dressed in a second-hand suit of cheap cotton, he hauled himself up onto a broken-down saddle with a cracked tree that he had salvaged from the livery stable adjoining the inn. He set out for Mexico City, well aware that he had failed in every aspect of his plan. He had failed Baldemar, he had failed himself, and he had failed Ángela. It was her reaction he feared the most. He could barely speak in her presence at the best of times. What in God’s name would he say now?

He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and she broke into a canter, following a rutted trail that meandered to the west. Eventually, the ground grew more rugged and soon began its rise toward the highland interior. The sodden green plains of the eastern coast gave way to an abrupt and rocky ascent. The sky darkened with clouds, and the air turned damp. Diego and his horse scaled a narrow, serpentine trail that wound upward through sheer granite outcroppings, while a thin drizzle—the
chipi-chipi
—spattered down amid rolling waves of mist.

His horse scrambled up the precipitous incline, and soon the rain slackened, the light began to clear, and Diego ascended through a last rafter of clouds. He found himself on a broad undulating prairie that swept away to the west beneath an unblemished sky. The great volcano Pico de Orizaba towered above him. This was the high plain of Mexico, and he felt his spirits swell at the breadth of it and the grandeur.

He rested that night in Orizaba, the following night in Puebla, and then he rode the final leg of his homeward journey, entering Mexico City by the eastern gates. It was dark by the time he arrived, and a celebration was under way. Rockets cracked through the darkness and exploded in streaming bursts of light—in honour, it seemed, of the Austrian’s arrival. He rode past the Metropolitan Cathedral and saw throngs gathered in the vast Zócalo. They were mostly members of the city’s conservative elite, euphoric at having an emperor of their own, a monarch before whom they might kneel and genuflect. He doubted many ordinary folk would share their delight.

Presently, he crossed paths with a haggard man missing most of his teeth who was stumbling alone at the edge of the crowd. The man told him the new archbishop, Monseñor Pelagio Antonio de Labastida y Dávalos, had that evening celebrated a Te Deum in honour of the Austrian and his wife. As Diego well knew, Labastida had fled into European exile after the liberal victory of 1861, only three years earlier—just as many other conservatives had done. Now, like the other exiles, he had returned with the French occupation in order to assume power again.

A rocket exploded a few
varas
away, and his horse shied. Diego thanked the man, reaching down to hand him a couple of coins for his trouble. The man pocketed the money and turned away, but Diego remained where he was, at the edge of the Zócalo. It was likely that the Austrian and his wife and the rest of their party were even now installed in the National Palace, and he wondered whether the man might not appear on a balcony to greet the crowd below. But no doors swung open on the upper floor of the huge, austere building that housed Mexico’s rulers, and no dignitaries appeared to address the gathering. Eventually, the
crush of bodies began to thin as countless unconnected knots of people broke loose, drifting away through the darkness.

Diego guided his horse along the margins of the square. It was the sixteenth of June, in the year 1864. The national government of Benito Juárez had by this time been forced to retreat to Monterrey in the north, where its authority diminished with almost every day that passed. Juárez was an Indian, a pure-bred Zapotec, and Diego had wondered more than once whether it was entirely a coincidence that Mexico should descend to its present miserable state, bankrupt and under foreign occupation, just when an
indígena
held the presidency, something that had never happened before. Now this Austrian had come, to sign decrees, inspect hospitals, preside at balls, and no doubt issue pardons, all the while protected by a French army of thirty thousand and a stout guard of Austrian hussars. So much for Mexico’s vaunted independence. As for Diego himself, all he had accomplished in his hopes of securing liberty for Baldemar Peralta was to reach a vague understanding with an impecunious and unreliable German prince. Quite a pair they made, Diego Serrano and Benito Juárez. Quite a pair of fools.