The Empire of Yearning (5 page)

D
IEGO DECIDED IT WAS
no use remaining in the plaza any longer. If someone of significance were going to emerge from the National Palace, then surely he would have done so by now. Off to his right, he sensed some movement, and he glanced that way. It was nothing, really, just a lone pony cart turning down a side street adjoining the palace.

A side street adjoining the palace …

What an idiot he was.

Only now did he remember something Salm-Salm had said, that it would be best to enter the building by a side entrance, rather than by the main gate. And here he’d been waiting for hours on end right across from the main gate. Diego rapped his knuckles against the wall behind him, hard enough that his fingers smarted. To think he’d accused Baldemar of being a fool.

He set off along the edge of the plaza and then turned down a side street that traced one side of the palace. He soon found himself gazing at an inconspicuous porte cochère tucked within a small courtyard, at a considerable remove from the Zócalo. He was about to draw closer when
a sudden commotion made him stop. Just in front of him, a door opened. A pair of military guards appeared, followed by a tall, fair-haired individual with a french fork beard. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the man wore a grey topcoat and a felt top hat, also grey. He was followed by a variety of companions. Diego stepped closer, and the man in the top hat looked up. He stood still, frowning for an instant. Then his face broadened into a smile.

“
Mon Dieu
,” he said.
“C’est le poète manchot.”

Without hesitation, Diego replied in French, a language he had fully mastered during his years of study at the Academia de San Juan de Letrán. “
Vous me connaissez?
”

The man laughed. He continued in French. “
Je crois que ‘Votre Majesté Impériale’ est la forme correcte.
It is also customary in some jurisdictions to bow. At the very least—remove your hat.” He laughed again, and it was difficult to tell whether he was genuinely annoyed or merely joking. “These Mexican republicans, Felix—do they have no manners?”

Diego removed his hat, although he could not bring himself to bow. He saw that the man’s companions included Salm-Salm, dressed again in layman’s clothes.

“I fear they do not, Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm. “They insist all men are equal.”

“I subscribe to a similar doctrine,” said the Austrian, for it was evidently he. He was smoking a cigarette and seemed at his ease. He included Diego in the conversation without ceremony or hesitation, as if he had stumbled upon a friend of long standing. He shrugged and made a theatrical flourish with his cigarette. “But we have need of forms and protocols just the same.” He looked at Diego more intently. “Of course I know you. You are Diego Serrano—the one-armed poet and one of the survivors of the massacre at Tacubaya. Salm-Salm here has filled me in. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

He advanced a step and proffered his right hand, which Diego took in his own. He realized his heart was pounding. This was his chance. At last, it had come. He must not waste an instant.

“Your Highness …” he said. “I mean, Your Imperial Majesty …” The title seemed to form itself upon his tongue unbidden. He had never used such an honorific before, but the words were not as difficult to pronounce as he had imagined. He took a deep breath. “In this city, there is a young patriot who has been imprisoned unjustly. He is to be tried before a court martial, and I greatly fear he will be condemned to death. He—”

“Yes. Salm-Salm has spoken to me of this matter. Is this a formal petition?”

“He acted impetuously to right a grievous wrong—a personal injury—wishing only to ensure that justice be done in the case of a legendary villain, a murderer who thoroughly deserved such punishment. The incarcerated man is my friend, Baldemar Peralta. He is in the Martinica Prison facing trial on the charge of attempted assassination. He—”

“You wish to make a petition on his behalf, I take it. Is this a formal undertaking?”

“I don’t know, Your Imperial Highness—”

“Majesty.”

“Your Imperial Majesty. Sorry. I appeal to you as a man of generous spirit, as—”

“Because, if it is a formal petition, I am afraid this is not the time or the place. A schedule will be set out in due course for the hearing of such appeals. The hours will be published for all to see. I … yes …?”

A large man laid his hand upon the Austrian’s arm. “Your Majesty,” he said, “the hour is late.”

“Yes, yes, of course. You are right.” The Austrian turned back to Diego. “I am afraid we have business to attend to just now.” He tossed his cigarette away and smiled—a young man’s smile. He hesitated. For a moment, his expression darkened into a frown. “I wonder …” he began. He gestured toward the hulking edifice of stone that reared behind him, the National Palace. “You don’t happen to know of another palace in this city, do you? This place is bestial. Why, it’s infested with parasites.”

“Your Majesty …” The large man said again. “The hour …”

“Right you are, Charles. Coming.” The Austrian shook his head.
“Anyway, it’s out of the question that we should live here. The place is an abomination.” He gave Diego a look that somehow combined charm, arrogance, and utter helplessness. “You must know of some more suitable address. You are Mexican, after all.”

And it was as if God himself had suddenly appeared, to clear the heavens or part the sea. This was the moment Ángela had anticipated, and she had equipped Diego with a response.

“It so happens,” he said, “that I know of an ideal location.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Yes. As for this building, I agree with you. It is a monstrosity—too severe, and sorely in need of light. Why, look.” He waved the stump of his left arm in the direction of the Zócalo. “The entire plaza is far too big. Those who designed it lacked any sense of human scale.” He tried to recall Ángela’s exact words. “They wished only to intimidate, to sow fear among the common folk.”

“Dear God,” said the Austrian. “But this is my view exactly. Hold hard, Charles.” He fumbled for another cigarette. “And you say you know of another building, something preferable?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Diego knew he was not responsible for this proposal. Ángela was. “The place I speak of—it is not in the city proper.”

The Austrian dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “
No importa.
”

“It serves another purpose at present.”

“Irrelevant. What is its name?”

“Chapultepec, Your Majesty—a word that means Grasshopper Hill. That is the name it goes by. Chapultepec Castle.” He sounded the word out, syllable by syllable.

“Cha-pul-te-pec …” The man repeated the word aloud, as if testing its shape and heft upon his tongue. “Chapultepec Castle.”

“Baldemar Peralta,” Diego said.

“I’m sorry …?”

“The name of my friend.”

“Oh … ? Oh yes. Make a note of that as well, would you, Charles?
Chapultepec Castle. And Baldemar …?” He glanced once again at Diego, his eyebrows raised.

“Peralta. Baldemar Peralta.”

“Precisely. We shall speak again, I promise. Salm-Salm, why didn’t you mention this place? I thought I gave you a commission.”

The Austrian glanced back at Diego and touched the fingers of one hand to the brim of his top hat in a kind of salute. Then he and his companions set off on foot, strolling away from the Zócalo. Soon, they disappeared from view.

Diego watched until the imperial party had dwindled from sight. He felt strangely exhilarated—euphoric almost. Who knew if he had succeeded in persuading this unexpectedly affable man—and, if so, to do what? It didn’t seem to matter. He felt restored. In his chest, he sensed an unfamiliar lightness. He’d met the emperor in the flesh. Just why that should please him, he did not know. He replaced his hat and set off in the direction of the Zócalo.

Two days later, a letter arrived at his lodgings near La Ciudadela. The document was embossed with the imperial coat of arms, bearing the motto
Equidad en justicia.
It was affixed with a ribbon and sealed with the letters
MIM
in scarlet wax. In the very first sentence, the Austrian announced that, in the names of Mexico and the Almighty God, he had decided to grant Diego’s appeal. Baldemar Peralta would be freed.

Diego let out a whoop and hopped around the room, nearly tripping against the leg of a chair. He managed to regain his balance and immediately returned his attention to the Austrian’s letter. He read the rest of what was written there—a command for the recipient to present himself at the emperor’s temporary chambers in the National Palace three days hence.

What on earth was this? Diego poured a tumbler of brandy and carried it to a casement window. He perched upon the broad sill and read the letter through again. For Baldemar—freedom. For himself—an audience with the Austrian. He sipped his drink. Was this what lay in store for Mexico under imperial rule? Not the catastrophe he had imagined
but instead something like an improvement? Granted, almost anything would be an advance on what had prevailed till now. Since gaining independence four decades earlier, Mexico had been ruled by a succession of vain and swaggering men who governed for their own amusement and enrichment. The country had been vastly diminished as a result, deprived of half its former territory, mired in poverty, and burdened by unpayable debts. Diego swallowed a mouthful of brandy and thought of Antonio López de Santa Anna, an infamous megalomaniac who had ruled as Mexico’s president on eleven separate occasions, embroiling himself in one disaster after another. He had sold Arizona to the gringos in order to bankroll his army. Might not the Austrian do better? Was it possible he could do worse?

Diego didn’t know. All he knew was that he had been commanded to present himself before this European archduke three days hence—and he intended to do so. He penned a reply and dispatched it by courier. That done, he sent word to the stable for his horse to be saddled. Soon, he was riding in the direction of Ángela’s house and, this time, he had good news to tell.

D
IEGO’S HAT SLIPPED FROM
his hand and tumbled to the floor. He slumped into a sofa in the main salon. He felt as if someone had just punched him in the chest. Hard. What was this? This was madness. Even as he tried to absorb Ángela’s astonishing news, it occurred to him that he smelled cigar smoke in the room, which seemed strange. But Ángela’s news was even stranger. Diego closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes again.

“He does
what
?” he said.

“He refuses to be pardoned.”

It was the sort of thing you needed to hear at least twice before you believed it. Even then, it was a challenge.

Ángela balanced herself on the edge of the wooden settee. She told him she had only just received the news, a half hour ago, maybe less. It was Achille Bazaine who’d told her.

“Bazaine in person?”

“Well … yes.”

“He came here?”

“He would have to, wouldn’t he? To give me the news directly? He would have to come here. I mean, I haven’t been out of this damned house in …” Ángela fell silent. She put her hands down on the settee, as if steadying herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It isn’t your fault. It’s my idiotic brother. Again.”

Diego took a deep breath. Bazaine commanded the French army in Mexico. Would he really have time to attend to a matter such as this in person? It seemed unlikely. It seemed … again Diego shook his head to free himself of unwelcome thoughts. Besides, the issue now was Baldemar.

“Did he say why?”

Ángela nodded. It seemed her brother had formed a bond of friendship with some fellow inmates in the Martinica Prison, a dozen or so, all of them confined to the same subterranean cell. Baldemar refused to accept his own release unless his new comrades were set free as well.

She raised both hands and held them before her, as though some kind of solution were written there. But, of course, it wasn’t. “Goddamn him. The fool.”

The fool? Maybe. Diego suspected that, beneath her distress, she was actually proud of her brother, the stubborn, headstrong hero. She was angry, frustrated, yes, but also proud. He remembered the names of those other men, the
compinches
of the two thieves who’d waylaid him on the road from Veracruz. Sánchez, Quiñones, Rivera. He wondered if they were among Baldemar’s fellow inmates.

He realized that Ángela was still speaking. She was saying she had presented Bazaine with a possible solution—do as Baldemar demanded. Extend the offer of clemency to the others. What was wrong with that? But the Frenchman had only laughed. He’d made it plain that the prospect of freedom for just one liberal prisoner—even if it
was
her brother—represented an affront to every French soldier who had died in this war, not to mention every French combatant still living. He was glad this had happened, glad the offer had been refused. And, on that note, the Frenchman had picked up his cap and left the house.

“Charming,” she said. She was silent for a time and did not look at him. Finally, she sighed.
“Bien. Así es.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s Baldemar. He won’t change his mind. You know that. You know him as well as I do. He’s too stubborn. But maybe …” Her voice trailed off.

Diego could imagine what she was thinking. Maybe Baldemar wouldn’t change his mind—but the Austrian would. Was that it? If that was what she was hoping—that the new emperor would free all these men, Baldemar and the rest—then she was certain to be disappointed. He shook his head.

“I don’t think so. I can’t conceive of it. One man, yes. But not more, not as his first official act. They’re probably all liberals anyway.”

He sat back, wondering what to do or say next. The truth was, he had a duty—a solemn duty—to rescue Baldemar from death. What was he going to do now?

Just then, a howl erupted in another part of the house. It rose and fell, then rose and fell again. Diego turned to Ángela. He arched his eyebrows. What was that?

She sighed. “Diego …” she said. She eased forward and reached out with one hand, as if to place her palm against his knee, but something made her stop.

“Yes?”

“There is something I have to tell you. I should have told you before. I—”

The howl went up again.

Diego nodded, already knowing what she would say.

“My son,” she said.

He felt hot, light-headed.

“My son,” she repeated. “I have a son.”

Diego tried to focus his thoughts. It was uncommonly warm in the room, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. Dear God. Could it be that Salm-Salm had been right all along? He found it intolerable that the fellow should know more about Ángela than he did himself.

He heard a loud, persistent drone emanating from somewhere in his head, making it difficult to comprehend what she was saying. He realized she was still speaking, but her voice seemed to come from a great distance. It seemed disembodied, distorted. He could make out the individual words but not their collective sense. He forced himself to concentrate. Ángela was saying that the child’s father was Ángel de Iturbide. Diego knew him—rather, knew
of
him. His father had proclaimed himself emperor of Mexico and had ended his sorry life before a firing squad. The son, Ángel de Iturbide, the man Ángela was speaking of, had grown to be an individual of some property and wealth. Somehow, he and Ángela had met, and a child had been the eventual result. The boy had been conceived in Mexico but born in New York City, where Ángela had pursued the father in hopes of prevailing upon him to take responsibility for his actions. That was never likely—she understood it now—for the man was a notorious philanderer. It was in his blood.

“Diego—are you listening to me?”

“Yes.” And he was listening. He was trying to. Goddamn this ceaseless drone. It was as if his head were on fire.

Ángela continued. Now she was explaining the reason for these visits from the man he knew as the Prince of Salm-Salm but whom she identified as Father Fischer, a Catholic priest. It seemed he had visited her repeatedly. What he wanted was both simple and terrible. He wanted her to give the boy up.

Diego said nothing, just looked at her, trying to take all of it in.

“He wants me to give up my son so that the Austrian and his wife can adopt him.”

“Adopt him?”

“Yes.”

“You mean, as an heir?”

“Exactly. They themselves are without child, and my son is descended from an emperor.”

“An emperor?” He couldn’t believe he was being so stupid, but simply repeating her words seemed to be all that he could manage. “They want you to give him up?”

“Yes. They—what do you think I am saying? Are you listening to me? Father Fischer said exactly that. Give him up.”

“And will you?”

“
What?
” she practically shrieked. “Of course not. No, no, no.” She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth on the settee, convulsed in tears. “No. Not ever. Never.”

The child cried out again.

“Ay Dios.”
Ángela sprang to her feet, tears still running from her eyes. She begged Diego’s forgiveness—she had to go, to attend to Agustín.

So that was the child’s name.

She left without another word. A maidservant saw Diego from the house. He retrieved his horse and rode off in the direction of the Gran Teatro Nacional. Something drew him there, some faint glimmer of an idea. A banner mounted on the theatre’s facade announced that the forthcoming opera season would commence later in the month—a little more than two weeks away. Ángela—identified on the poster as La Peralta—would star in the opening production, playing the role of Violetta in
La Traviata
, by Giuseppe Verdi.

Diego reached out with his hand and slammed his knuckles, hard as he could, against one of the Romanesque pillars that stood at the theatre’s entrance.

¡Santa Madre de Jesús!

The pain was impossible to describe.

Then he did it again.

His hand scorched, his vision flamed red, and his eyes welled with tears. He reined his horse around, his fingers burning as if they really were on fire. He had no choice but to keep using his hand—he only had the one. He shifted his heels, and his horse broke into a slow canter.

So much for Ángela. So much for love.

The next day at noon, his hand wrapped in bandages, Diego rode to the National Palace, meaning to confront Salm-Salm. He needed to know what the so-called prince was up to. Why was he tormenting Ángela? And why dress up as a priest?

When he reached the Zócalo, Diego slowed his horse to a trot and proceeded along the cobbled perimeter of the great plaza. He decided to enter by the porte cochère located well back from the main gates. Once there, he informed a guard that he had come to speak to the Prince of Salm-Salm. Minutes later, he was received by the prince in a gloomy antechamber with cracked plaster mouldings. The carpets were badly worn, and a dark gelatinous substance clung to the ceiling in one corner, dripping a viscous liquid onto the floor. Diego took a seat in a wobbly ladder-back chair. He sniffed suspiciously at the air.

“Black mould,” said Salm-Salm. “I’m surprised the place is still standing.”

Diego shrugged. No wonder the Europeans were desperate to leave.

“You have spoken to Ángela Peralta, I take it,” said Salm-Salm.

Diego frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“To judge by the condition of your hand.”

“Ah yes. Yes, I have.”

“I fear you must be in some pain.”

“A subjective notion.”

“Not in my experience.”

Diego took a deep breath and, without additional formalities, he recited all that he had learned from Ángela. He focused especially on Salm-Salm’s desire that she renounce her son. “Is it true?”

The prince settled back into his creaking swivel chair. He set the heels of his shoes atop an ancient wooden desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. He exhaled a plume of cigarette smoke that coiled into the murky light. He smiled at Diego for what seemed an inordinately long time. Only then did he speak. It was, of course, well known, he said, that Maximilian and Charlotte were without offspring, despite seven years of marriage. Naturally, the empress craved a child, and for all the usual reasons,
having nothing to do with establishing a line of succession and everything to do with what many a woman in the prime of her child-bearing years might reasonably feel.

Diego tried to remain quiet. What he really wanted was a shouting match, not a civilized conversation, but he understood that a shouting match would accomplish little, as gratifying as it might be. “They cannot produce a child on their own?” he said.

“Well, they haven’t managed it yet, after seven years. Make of that what you will.”

“What do you make of it?”

The prince gazed about the room, then looked back at Diego. He lowered his feet to the floor. He leaned closer, his complexion seeming paler than ever. Did the man not go out in the sun?

“Most people believe that Max is the party at fault,” he said in what was almost a whisper. He explained that Maximilian had made a journey to Brazil several years earlier to visit his cousin, Dom Pedro II, who was emperor of that distant and mysterious land. It was rumoured that, while there, Max had conducted an amorous affair with a Brazilian woman of a certain station, a woman who frequented the court. He had thereby contracted an unidentified infirmity that had left him sterile, or so it was said.

“Tit for tat,” said Salm-Salm. He sat back. “We gave you smallpox. You give us syphilis.”

When Diego failed to react, he smiled.

“A joke.”

Still Diego said nothing.

The prince briefly contemplated his cigarette. Whatever its cause, he said, the condition seemed to be of a permanent nature, and it imperilled the future of what Salm-Salm now grandly referred to as the Second Mexican Empire. The first Mexican empire had of course consisted of the brief reign of Agustín de Iturbide, grandfather of Ángela’s son.

“Bastard son,” said Diego. “The child is a bastard.”

“Not at all.” Salm-Salm rose to his feet and began to pace about the
room. “Nothing of the sort. The couple are married. All perfectly legal. Who knows what Iturbide was thinking? A moment of weakness? An attack of remorse? Maybe he was drunk. But he and Ángela Peralta were married in New York City. I possess an affidavit sworn out by an attorney of the firm Tweed, Bascombe, attesting to this fact. It is all quite in order.”

Diego waved dismissively, as if this were nothing to him now. “Where is Iturbide?”

“Oh, God knows.” Salm-Salm gestured in the air with his cigarette. “Still out whoring with showgirls, I imagine, in New York or Madrid. The marriage with Ángela Peralta was a deceit from the beginning. Still, it’s perfectly legal. The boy is the legitimate grandson of an emperor.”

“A self-proclaimed emperor. Executed by a firing squad.”

“Sad to say.” Salm-Salm shook his head in a brief show of sympathy for the former ruler, then quickly smiled. “But the child possesses the necessary pedigree. That’s the important thing.”

“I wonder why you told me none of this before.”

“Oh, but I did,” said Salm-Salm. “In Veracruz—don’t you remember? I told you that Ángela Peralta had borne a child.”

“That much, yes. But none of all this. Imperial lineage. Affidavits. The rest.” He paused. “Why not?”

“Surely it’s obvious,” said the prince. He let his cigarette fall to the floor, where he ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He looked up. “You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.” He clasped his hands behind his back, rocked on his heels. “But now you do know—and I have a proposal to make.”

Diego had expected something of the sort. “Yes?” he said.

It was simple, said the German. Ángela would surrender her son to the emperor and empress. In exchange, Maximilian would pardon Baldemar as well as his new-found
compañeros
, all inmates at the Martinica Prison. Salm-Salm made a gesture of washing his hands. “Finished and done.”

“Her son for her brother?”

“Crassly put. But yes.”

“I take it the Austrian—the emperor, I mean … he has agreed to this?”