The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  Now, with the arrival of the Austrian, it seemed they had new hope. Surely this archduke who had been crowned the emperor of Mexico would recognize their claims. He too belonged to nobility and so must surely understand their own rightful ambitions on this score, their wish to be designated the duque of this or the conde of that. God willing, they might even be invited to join the Austrian’s court. Their wives might be appointed as ladies-in-waiting to his own wife, the empress. Just think of the distinction, the glory. Diego watched them as he made his way past. The men strode about in the rain-damp streets, smoked their cigars, grumbled among themselves. Meanwhile, their womenfolk remained aboard the carriages, all in full toilette, with flowers or jewels strewn through their hair, all eyeing one another jealously.

  Diego pressed on, shaking his head at the folly of his compatriots. Did they not realize what an absurd picture they made? Did they imagine themselves to be European? Ángela had often lamented the provincial ways of Mexico’s haut monde. The women were shallow and uncultured, she said. Why, their taste in clothing lagged a good two years behind the fashions of London or Paris. And the men! They were backward in every way. Dear God—these were the 1860s, not the Dark Ages. This was a time of ferment and reform in Europe, where new ideas were emerging about justice and equality, the dignity of all men. Yet here in Mexico, what passed for learned discourse in conservative circles was nothing but cant, jealousy, and greed. Are women human? Does the killing of a Jew constitute murder? Do Indians have souls?

  Diego picked his way through the mud, the ruts, and the rivulets that riddled the street until at last he reached the huge plaza, where hundreds of other supplicants had gathered—Indians, in this case. They, too, must have heard of the Austrian’s arrival, and so they had come to seek redress for their many grievances—debt peonage, the denial of holy sacraments, the wholesale seizure of their land. Diego was well aware of these offences.

  The Indian men gathered in small groups, wearing loose button-less blouses of cotton and striped breech cloths. They peered out from the shadows cast by their straw hats, their sombre faces a dull bronze. Some were barefoot, but most wore crude handmade sandals, fashioned of maguey fibre or rawhide. The Indian women kept apart, whispering in clusters, their hair in twin plaits intertwined with ribbons of cotton. Most of them had small children bound to their backs in great handwoven shawls.

  Diego joined neither group—neither the conservative potentates nor the Indian supplicants. Instead, he took up a position by himself about halfway between the two assemblies. He was mestizo, after all. The conservatives would not have welcomed him into their midst, for they considered him an Indian—and he loathed conservatives anyway. The Indians would have accepted him, but their purpose in being here had little to do with his own.

  Three times, he marched across the square and spoke to the French soldiers who guarded the main entrance of the palace. He asked to be admitted. He meant to speak to someone who could arrange an audience with the Austrian. Each time, he was gruffly turned away. After his third failed attempt, Diego withdrew to the shade of the Monte de Piedad across the plaza, where he stood on his own, looking back at the sprawling stone edifice. The National Palace. He supposed it would be renamed the Imperial Palace, with an emperor in residence. But, apart from the guards in front, he detected no sign that it was occupied by anyone at all.

  There was nothing for him to do but wait—wait and think about the events that had brought him here. It seemed to him now that Baldemar must have been plotting his act of revenge for years, possibly ever since the day he’d discovered the dangling corpse of his uncle in that forest clearing in the hill country of Michoacán. Diego should have known his friend was capable of such an act, should have seen it in advance. But how? Baldemar’s boastful talk had seemed to be nothing more than empty words. He recalled their times together, in the months and years that followed the death of Melchor Ocampo, searching for anything that might have warned him of Baldemar’s stupid, reckless plan.

  After their return from Michoacán, they had both gone back to their sporadic labours, writing anti-clerical screeds for El Siglo XIX. Baldemar wrote badly, if with passion, whereas Diego was just the reverse, and that, too, was a measure of the differences between them.

  Neither ever received any payment for this work and so relied on other sources of income for his upkeep. In Diego’s case, he accepted a monthly stipend from Eustacio Barron, his half-brother and a man of great privacy and even greater wealth. A poet, or one who calls himself a poet, has not the luxury of spurning his patrons. The best he can do is resent them, a practice to which Diego applied himself with spirit and invention.

  At night, he and Baldemar frequented the capital’s pulquerías, cantinas, and cockfight rings, its brothels and gambling dens, where they drank, lost money at cards, and whored. One night, they ducked into a wretched old cantina near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, where they called out for beers, and then more beers, and more after that. At some point that night, a couple of men fell into an argument that got louder and more heated, till one of them drew a pistol and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger. His companion frowned and tilted his head, as if about to pose a question. Then he collapsed to the beer-soaked floor, dead. The killer merely smiled. He glanced over at Diego and Baldemar and nodded his head. He replaced his hat, turned, and sauntered out of the bar. Later, the bartender and another man dragged the corpse away. Following a brief, respectful silence, the assembly of drinkers went right back to swearing and banging their glasses on the tables. It was almost as though nothing had happened.

  Eventually, his eyes half open, his voice slurred from drink, Baldemar pounded his fist on the table. He’d been born on the Day of the fucking Dead—he swore—and was damned from the start, fated to lead a short life and meet a violent end.

  “You’re sure?” said Diego. He’d heard all this before.

  “As sure as I am of anything. As sure as I am of the fucking past. But listen to this.” Baldemar leaned closer. His face seemed to expand in the candlelight. What he said now he’d never said before. “I won’t go alone. I’ll take someone with me. I swear.”

  Diego reached for his glass, but he didn’t get there. A hand gripped his collar, a hand much stronger than his own. At once, Baldemar’s face pressed close to his. He felt the heat of Baldemar’s skin, the flecks of his spittle. He smelled his sour breath.

  “I mean it. I’ll go. But I won’t go alone.” Baldemar sat back, still glaring at Diego, straight into his eyes.

  Diego listened to those words again, this time in his mind, and what he heard was not the bravado of a drunken friend. Baldemar had been testing him. He heard it now. Why hadn’t he heard it then? Now, nearly three years later, Baldemar was in the Martinica, in danger of his life, and it was up to Diego to rescue him. But that didn’t seem likely, not today. He’d already waited several hours in this deadening sunlight, staring at the National Palace, that dreary heap of rocks, and so far he had nothing at all to show.

  CHAPTER 8

  DIEGO 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 considerab
le 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 imperia
l 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.

  CHAPTER 9

  DIEGO’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.