by Oakland Ross
Soon enough, a party of men coaxed Maximiliano from his makeshift throne and prevailed upon him to enter the thick of the crowd, where he, too, was enveloped by the explosions of sparks, smoke, and colour. He, too, clapped and cheered. He, too, scrambled out of the way to escape the buscapiés, laughing and waving his arms.
From the edge of the crowd, Diego watched the scene, focusing especially on Maximiliano. By rights, the emperor ought to have seemed absurd. Anyone else in his place would surely have made a ridiculous spectacle. And yet, somehow, he did not seem ridiculous at all. There was a strangely dignified aspect to his demeanour, the ease with which he gave himself over to the serious business of amusement. There was something almost childlike in his bearing, coupled with an undeniable quality of nobility. To Diego, it seemed a rare combination—to partake of foolishness while keeping one’s dignity intact. To him, the emperor seemed all the more impressive for taking part in these games, and he was certainly good at it. He moved with surprising agility and often saved not only himself but also one or another young child, whom he plucked up by the collar, clearing the path for yet another sprinting rocket. Each time, he put back his head and laughed out loud, grateful to have survived the volley, or overwhelmed by the glory of the moment.
Diego watched as a tall figure stalked out from the church, his skin the colour of polished mahogany. He wore an elaborate headpiece made of woven saplings and affixed with a bevy of miniature firecrackers. Someone used a burning stick of wood to set the device alight, and the bizarre helmet soon began to sizzle, flare, whirl, and explode. The man danced through the crowd, clutching his flaming headdress with both hands as flames shot from his head. The children were both terrified and amazed, running away shrieking and then gingerly creeping back, only to dart away again. As soon as the first man exhausted his supply of fireworks, another hurried out from the church to replace him, his helmet also aflame. Soon, he was replaced by another. Then another. And another after that.
Eventually, someone climbed onto the church’s high, slanting roof to light a multitude of fuses that had already been assembled there. Before long, a glistening wall of fireworks cascaded down the church’s cracked and hoary facade, like a glimmering waterfall of light. Maximiliano grasped the hands of strangers—whoever happened to be at his side—and he watched with his eyes wide and his mouth agape, seemingly as transfixed as the others by this inexplicable pleasure, this iridescent river of fire splashing down from the eaves of the church.
Weeks later, the emperor would still be talking about that night, still exhilarated by what he had seen and felt. He would tell Diego more than once that he had experienced an unforgettable sensation, one he had never even imagined before. He struggled to describe it—an awakening of the soul. That was the phrase he used. It had struck him that night, he said, that a sovereign must not stand apart from his people, or not as a matter of course. There were times when he must go among them, to eat what they ate, sing their songs, know their sorrows, share their joys. He said he had never considered matters in this light before. “That evening in Coyoacán,” he said, “I felt connected to the common folk in a way I had never known before. There is a bond between us, a force that unites us.”
But these reflections came later. Now it seemed the fiesta in Coyoacán had reached its conclusion, and the emperor ordered his small party to return to Chapultepec. Exhausted by the evening’s exertions, Maximiliano sprawled across the rear seat of the carriage. He said little but merely gazed out the window at the passing scenery, illuminated by the pewter light of the stars and the moon. He smiled all the while, and Diego wondered what was going through his mind. Perhaps he was taking the full measure of his new-found life, so far from his former home. To think that this was his empire, that these were his people, that he was their lord.
After a time, the emperor roused himself and leaned forward. “All of the preparations are in place, I take it, for tomorrow’s fiesta?” he said.
Maximilian was to preside the following evening at a banquet at Chapultepec in honour of General Márquez, who was soon to depart for the Near Orient.
“I believe so, Your Majesty.” Diego did not plan to attend. He would rather cut off his remaining arm.
“Dear God,” said the emperor. “This Márquez. We’ll be well rid of him.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Your Majesty. The Tiger of Tacubaya, they call him.”
“So I’ve heard. Do you know why?”
“Yes. In fact, I lost my arm there.”
“Did you? You must tell me the story one day.”
Diego agreed that one day he would, but not today. Not tonight. Tonight, he preferred to think of pleasanter things, of the moon dangling in a purple sky above the parish church of San Juan Bautista, of Maximiliano dancing amid a shower of fireworks in the plaza of Coyoacán, and of the soporific rocking motion of the carriage as it bore them both toward Chapultepec and home.
CHAPTER 15
DIEGO LED HIS HORSE from the stables at Chapultepec and out into the open court. He climbed onto a mounting post and swung himself into the saddle, gathered the reins, and rode out into the night, wanting only to put as much distance as possible between himself and General Márquez. He meant to spend the evening in Mexico City, near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, in search of company and amusement there, an antidote to hideous memories: Ángela collapsed upon a stage, blood soaking through her blouse; or images of that day, high in the blue mountains of Michoacán, when he and Baldemar came upon the inverted corpse of Melchor Ocampo. The waxing moon cast a gauzy light across the highland plain, and he rode at an easy lope along the trail toward Mexico City. A cool night wind thrummed through the fresnos, bearing a scent of wood smoke and roasted corn.
He had not travelled more than a league, a matter of twenty minutes or so, when he heard padded hoofbeats behind him. He was being followed—or, no, not followed. He was being overtaken. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. Just then, a man’s voice spoke through the darkness, not a shout but a kind of heightened whisper that seemed to carry unnaturally far.
“Diego Serrano?”
He braced his weight in the saddle and drew back upon the reins. No highwayman out here was likely to know his name. Besides, if there was to be a fight, better to stand and make a fist of it than to be shot in the back as he fled. He swung his horse around and halted, waiting as a lone rider approached through the moon-washed darkness. The stranger slowed his horse as he drew close. He wore a woollen serape against the chill and now briefly removed his sombrero in a strangely formal gesture of salutation. Diego glimpsed a long, sad face with a high forehead, a dark moustache, and a long scar that ran down the man’s left cheek. He guessed him to be in his middle thirties—and then realized he knew this man. It was Octavio, the thief who had robbed him of his clothes and money during the journey back from Veracruz. Even in this dim light, he felt sure of it.
But if the intruder recognized Diego, he gave no sign. Probably he had robbed too many men to be able to keep track of them individually, even those possessed of only a single complete arm. Instead, he nodded back toward the darkness behind him and said he had ridden a great distance with an important mission and wished to speak to Diego Serrano and no other. He had been waiting for more than two days, on the assurance that such a person would emerge from Chapultepec eventually and would most likely be alone.
“¿Es usted, señor?”
Diego said that he was the man so named.
“If that is so, señor, then you will be able to answer a question I have been instructed to pose.”
“Which is?”
Octavio cleared his throat and spoke from memory. “To whom belonged the knife that cut down the body of Melchor Ocampo, when that brave man was found dangling by his ankles, dead?”
Diego felt his spine relax. This man brought a message from Baldemar. He gazed around in relief. The darkness was punctured here and there by the flickering light of distant cooking fires, just visible through
the shifting branches of oak and fresno trees. He turned back to the man in the serape.
“The knife that cut down the body of Ocampo,” he said, “belonged to Baldemar Felipe Peralta.”
“So I have been informed. I was also informed that no one but Diego Serrano would know this.”
Diego smiled. He said, “Were you also informed that I would be missing the better part of an arm?”
“Sí, señor. I am sorry to find it so.”
“I wonder, how many one-armed Mexicans are apt to pass this way on any given night, riding alone?”
Instead of replying, the rider fumbled beneath his serape. From the folds of his clothing, he produced a cheroot, which he offered to Diego.
“I have brought a message for you,” he said. “Please, open it, señor.”
“Open the cheroot?”
“Yes. It contains a message.”
Diego looped the reins over the stump of his left arm and used his one good hand to peel back the leaves of tobacco until he found a scrap of rough paper concealed inside. It was too dark to make out whatever words were written on it.
“In my left pocket,” he said, “there are several fósforos. Please. Take one. Light it.”
The rider did as instructed. He sparked the tip of the match with his thumbnail and leaned closer. Diego squinted at the wrinkled slip of paper. He thought he recognized the awkward, childish script of his old friend and, in the narrow glow, he was able to read what it said: When does the Tiger leave Mexico City and by what route?
That was all. Diego touched the scrap of paper to the match’s flame and let it burn till only a cinder was left.
“I know you,” he said. “You and another—you stole my clothes near Paso del Macho.”
“Es muy posible, señor.”
“You don’t remember?”
“What I remember, señor, depends.”
It was certainly the same man. “Depends on what?”
“On why I am being asked.”
“I just wondered—that’s all. I thought you would remember stealing the clothing of a one-armed man.”
“Sí, señor.”
“You do remember.”
“Sí.”
“You mentioned some comrades of yours. Sánchez, Quiñones, and Rivera. They were in the Martinica with Baldemar Peralta?”
“Así fue.”
“And they were sentenced to death?”
“Flogging first. Then death. They and a quantity of others.”
“And now they are free?”
“Así es.”
“Thanks to Baldemar.”
“Sí. But we call him el Gordo.”
“Because he is so thin.”
“Sí.”
“And now you are all together?”
“Así es.”
Diego nodded. And now they would finish the job that el Gordo had bungled so badly on his own. He cleared his throat. “In three days,” he said. “By Puebla and Orizaba.”
The man repeated the words aloud.
Diego nodded, satisfied. “Your name is Octavio?” he said.
“Sometimes.”
Diego smiled and asked the man to convey his greetings to el Gordo.
The man touched the fingers of his right hand to the brow of his sombrero. “Gracias, señor. Que le vaya bien.” He reined his horse around and set off at a bounding stride, soon vanishing into the darkness.
Diego considered resuming his ride to Mexico City. But it seemed he had lost his hankering for lights and amusement. He was more concerned with what he had just done. He reached into the breast pocket of his blouse, rooted out a puro, one of several there. With the reins still looped over the stump of his arm, he lit the cigar, took a long pull that filled his lungs. He released the smoke slowly, watched it twist and glint, faintly silver, in the moonlight. So this is how, in time of war, a one-armed turncoat becomes a spy. He served two masters now, and the realization made him wonder which of the two he would betray in the end.
He dug in his heels and set off at an easy gait back toward Chapultepec, the cigar still clenched between his teeth—a flicker of light and a four-legged shadow floating through the highland darkness.
CHAPTER 16
“You REQUIRE PERMISSION,” said the soldier, one of several Mexican troops posted near the entrance to the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno. “No one enters without permission.”
“Whose permission?” said Diego.
“El gringo.”
“But I have tried. He won’t see me.”
It was true. Only that morning, he had twice sought to gain entrance to the cathedral in order to confront Salm-Salm. Salm-Salm was said to have an office somewhere in the temple. Twice, Diego had been denied admission. Now he was trying to make a direct assault on the hospital—and he would do it, too, if only he could find his way past this one miserable excuse for a soldier.
The poor fellow didn’t look like much, outfitted in a mismatched uniform whose threadbare tunic was missing several buttons. His boots seemed about to shrivel into various worthless shreds, and he carried a black powder musket with a damaged bayonet, slung from one shoulder by a length of twine. Diego doubted the weapon would shoot. He had half a mind to make a run for it—first push his way past and then keep on going till he reached the hospital, only a short sprint away. But more soldiers were loitering in front of the ancient building, and it was evident he stood no chance. He decided he would seek out the archbishop instead.
He reminded himself that he was acting solely out of a sense of duty—the emperor had asked him to make inquiries as to Ángela’s health, to see how the woman was faring after her injury. He was also to assess her emotional condition, particularly as it involved her son. Diego knew what that meant.
“You mean, whether she would consent to his adoption?”
The emperor had nodded. “Just so.”
Diego wondered why Maximiliano did not obtain this intelligence from Salm-Salm directly. After all, the prince was in the best position to know. But it seemed the emperor did not quite trust the German.
“He pretends to enjoy a degree of intimacy with me that I do not consider he has earned,” Maximiliano had said. “I wish to proceed with caution.”
For this reason, he was assigning Diego the task of sorting through the morass of personal and political complications involved in such a delicate enterprise—the adoption of an heir. He most particularly wished to avoid any action that might raise Charlotte’s hopes, unless there was good reason to believe those hopes would be realized. She was desperate for a child.
Diego knew this to be true. Not long after taking up residence at Chapultepec, he had accompanied the emperor and empress on an early morning ride that had taken them further afield than planned. Bombelles was among the party, along with Doktor Basch, the emperor’s physician, and the Count and Countess Kollonitz, both members of the imperial retinue and intimates of the emperor and empress. The usual hussar guard followed behind. Eventually, they had reached a private estate called La Hacienda de los Morales, where they were served an impromptu breakfast by a small army of servants. The owners were absent for a time.
The meal was followed by several rounds of pulque flavoured with a variety of succulent fruits, and the unfamiliar libation had pleased everyone, the women as much as the men. As they prepared to depart, the emperor and his companions all gave repeated thanks to the servants. It was then that a young girl approached, all alone. She was a small Indian child, no doubt a daughter of one of the servants, and could not have been more than six years old. She wore an embroidered blouse over a narrow cotton skirt. Her dark, liquid eyes were almost preternaturally large.
Holding a bouquet of scarlet roses, she first curtseyed and then knelt before the empress. She looked up, raised her arms, and proffered the bouquet. “Son para usted.”
For several moments, Carlota seemed on the verge of tears. Then the tears broke, and she wept openly before recovering her composure. She bent down to receive t
he flowers from the girl. The child then rose onto her small bare feet, pressed her palms together in an attitude of prayer, and slowly backed away, never removing her gaze from the empress’s eyes. Carlota straightened up, still clutching the bouquet. For a time, she remained still, taking slow, deep breaths.
“My dear …” said the emperor, but his voiced trailed off as his wife burst into tears again, deep, wracking sobs that seemed to surge from the depths of her soul.
Later, during the return to Chapultepec, the empress guided her horse alongside Countess Kollonitz, and both of them kept a little separate from the others, their heads bowed together, conferring in whispers. The emperor smoked a succession of cigarettes and said little as the party made its uneasy way back to the castle at Chapultepec.
It was clear to Diego that both the emperor and his wife longed for an heir, albeit for different reasons. He would not have considered acting on Their Majesties’ behalf on this matter, not as long as Baldemar remained a prisoner. But his old friend was again a free man, and Ángela could choose what she would do. He was fairly certain what that choice would be, but he saw no harm any longer in putting the question. The empress had been so forlorn, so wracked by sorrow. And so it was he now found himself outside the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, feeling useless. He saw there was no hope of gaining access to Ángela by this route. So, instead, he returned to the Imperial Palace and drafted a message to the Most Reverend Pelagio Antonio de Labastida y Dávalos, archbishop of Mexico City. He dispatched it by messenger. It was written on the emperor’s vellum stock and sealed in wax with the emperor’s emblem. He had little doubt that a reply would be received in short order, for the archbishop would almost certainly conclude that the subject for discussion would be the detested reform laws.
This was duplicity, but it worked. Within two hours, he received a reply inviting him to meet the prelate at once. The old palace of the archbishopric on the calle de la Moneda was in disuse, having been seized under the anti-clerical reforms, along with so many other Church properties. Just like all the rest, it too had then been looted and trashed. The meeting would instead take place at the man’s temporary offices not far from the Zócalo.