The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  The emperor stopped his pacing and set down his cup of chocolate. He put back his head and shivered, as if reliving the sensations of that night.

  “I’ve never known anything like it,” he said. “It was like an explosion. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

  There was, of course, much work to be done that did not bear on the Bajío or on the emperor’s journey there, but he seemed to have trouble concentrating on anything else. He listened impatiently as Diego recounted his journey to Washington—a heavily censored version. When Diego was done, Maximiliano merely shrugged. He had been giving the matter much consideration, he said, and had concluded that it made little difference which side won the war now dividing the American states. He possessed a treaty—the Treaty of Miramar—that both he and Napoleon had signed. It provided firm guarantees of French support for the imperial cause in Mexico, without any reference whatsoever to events in other lands. What mattered was what happened in Mexico. And Mexico had a war of its own. That was the conflict that required his attention.

  “Speaking of which,” he said, “I don’t suppose there has been any word as yet from Juárez?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “We must keep up our hopes.” Maximiliano lit a cigarette. “Meanwhile, we have no choice but to fight on. I think it would be wise to summon Bazaine for an update on the state of battle. See to it, will you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Now.” He clapped his hands. “Let us proceed to the mail.”

  Among the morning’s correspondence was a letter that had arrived by diplomatic pouch from Franz Josef, Maximiliano’s older brother. The emperor’s manner changed at once. Diego could see the muscles tighten in his neck.

  The emperor stubbed out his cigarette. “Read it,” he said.

  Diego did as he was told. After the usual pleasantries, Franz Josef reminded his younger brother of an agreement they had both reached in private—specifically, that “Maxi” formally renounced his place in the line of succession to the Austrian Crown in exchange for Franz Josef’s approval of “this Mexican adventure,” as he described it.

  The emperor’s expression darkened and he furrowed his brow, as if anticipating what would come next.

  For reasons too complicated to explain, Franz Josef went on, he had lately found himself obliged to make this arrangement public—

  “Make this arrangement what?” Suddenly the emperor buckled, splattering hot chocolate onto his robe and across the floor. He barely seemed to notice as he turned to Diego, livid. “Public?” he said. “An agreement that was reached in strict confidence? How dare he break my trust? My God, he goes too far.”

  With Grill’s assistance, the emperor changed into a fresh dressing gown. He insisted that a reply be dispatched immediately, under diplomatic seal. It might still be possible to limit the harm caused by Franz Josef’s reckless presumption.

  Diego had paper, a quill, and a pot of ink at the ready. “But is it true?” he said.

  “Is what true?”

  “That you renounced your place in the line of succession?”

  “No,” said the emperor. “I mean, technically, yes. I had to. Franz Josef insisted upon it. A quid pro quo. In exchange, he supported my acceptance of the Mexican throne.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “In a way. It was in private, and I had no choice. What kind of agreement is that? Franz is grasping at straws.” He swore beneath his breath. “Ready your pen, Serrano. I mean to set that sheet of vellum on fire.”

  “But, forgive me, Your Majesty.” Diego reached for a sheet of stationery. He knew he should let the matter drop. What difference did it make? But he was curious. Why was Maximiliano so tormented about losing the Austrian throne? Wasn’t one empire sufficient? Wasn’t he satisfied with Mexico? “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, “but do you want to be the emperor of Austria?”

  “That possibility will never arise.”

  “Then what does it matter?”

  “It … I … There is a principle here, a principle of confidence and trust. Take down my words.”

  And Diego complied, scribbling as the emperor fulminated. Later, he affixed Maximiliano’s seal to the letter and had it placed in a secure diplomatic container. He dispatched the epistle to Veracruz by means of a special messenger under a guard of hussars. But what did it mean? Why did Maximiliano care whether he occupied a place in the Austrian line of succession? He was the emperor of Mexico. What more did he need?

  That evening, Maximiliano encountered his wife for the first time since his return from Cuernavaca. They met formally in the Red Room, amid the scarlet paper, the oriental vases, the delicate wooden furniture. Carlota greeted her husband coolly. She cleared her throat. He cleared his. She smoothed the folds of her skirt and asked him about his travels. Had they gone well? He replied that they had. He felt he had learned much and looked forward to learning more.

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said. She declared that she was troubled by their present circumstances. These past several weeks, which she had spent in a position of responsibility at Chapultepec, had only deepened her concerns.

  “Yes,” said Maximiliano. He gazed indulgently at his wife.

  “We face many grave threats,” she said. “With the passage of time they grow only more dangerous. We rule a country we do not control. The treasury is bankrupt. We are beholden to Napoleon for our army. We have few allies within Mexico and even fewer outside. The Church opposes us, and now it seems the landowners do as well.”

  She said she had received angry reports from diverse sources concerning events that had taken place during the emperor’s excursion in the Bajío. Was it true, for example, that he had given a speech in a town called Dolores, honouring the father of Mexico’s independence?

  “Hidalgo?” said the emperor. “You know, I believe I did. He is considered a great hero.”

  “Or a rabble-rouser and murderer. He massacred hundreds in Guanajuato.”

  “So say the conservatives.”

  “It was the conservatives who brought us here. We must build bridges.”

  “Bridges?” Maximiliano pounded his armrest with his fist. “Bridges? We have built bridges. Dear God, I have lost track of the balls, the banquets, and the galas at which our sole purpose has been the befriending of these bloody conservatives. We have bestowed titles of nobility upon practically every petitioner in the land. And what do we have to show?” With his cigarette, Maximiliano drew a large zero in the air. “All for nothing. They still oppose us. The Mexican conservative will never be satisfied until he again possesses every jot and tittle of wealth and power in Mexico. You might as well establish cordial relations with a den of bears. God in heaven, you would think the Enlightenment had never occurred. You would think Victor Hugo had never taken up a pen. Mention Charles Darwin, and the oafs stare back at you, blank as donkeys. I don’t mind that they’re stupid. What I can’t stand is the pride they take in their stupidity. You know, my dear, I do not regard myself as the emperor of a few rich land owners who care for nothing in the world but their precious titles of nobility. I am the emperor of all Mexicans. This is the year 1865. This is the modern world.”

  Maximiliano fell silent. At first, Diego marvelled at the power and conviction of his words—not just their sound but their meaning, too. He wished he had said these very words himself. He then began to wonder if, just possibly, he had. Something wasn’t quite right. It took him a few moments to recall what it was. In fact, he had heard this speech before, almost word for word. These were almost the exact sentiments Ángela had expressed to him that day, a year earlier, when he had visited her in the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno. He realized that Maximiliano was only repeating what Ángela must have said to him on some other occasion, the same thoughts she had expressed to Diego and no doubt to others.

  The empress heard her husband out. When he was done, she nodded her head. “I agree, my dove. But we have to forge alliances, at least for the prese
nt, at least until we have consolidated our position. We must cooperate with many different interests.”

  “I hope you don’t count Labastida and his bishops among them.”

  Carlota frowned. “As you know, an emissary is still on his way from Rome. Perhaps he will prove more amenable to reason than Labastida.”

  “A cactus would prove more amenable to reason than Labastida.”

  Carlota produced a thin smile. “That may be so. Nonetheless, if we must deal with cacti, then we must equip ourselves with gloves. We require alliances. The survival of the throne depends upon it.”

  “They are holding us to ransom, you know—the Church, Labastida, all of them. They’ve got that boy, the son of … you know. Peralta.”

  Diego winced. The man spoke as if Ángela were a complete stranger to him. He thought how easy it is to lie and remembered the countless lies he himself had told.

  “Well,” said Carlota. “We shall simply have to await the arrival of this Meglia.” She eased forward toward her husband. “Max?” she said. “Are you listening to me?”

  The emperor was peering at the ceiling. “I have heard from Franz Josef,” he said.

  “What news does he send?”

  “Alarming news. He has publicly declared that I have renounced my right of succession to the Austrian throne.”

  “But I thought you had. Otherwise, you would not have received his permission to serve as emperor in Mexico.”

  Maximiliano fidgeted with an unlit cigarette. “It is one thing to reach an agreement in private, quite another for all the world to hear of it.”

  “Well, I don’t see that it matters now what the world does. Do you want to be the emperor of Austria?”

  “Of course not. It’s the principle. Franz Josef has no right to betray a private arrangement arrived at in confidence.”

  “I see.” Carlota let a few moments pass in silence. “What do you propose to do?”

  “Oh, it’s already done.”

  Maximiliano explained that he had composed a protest that very morning. Two months would pass before he could hope to receive a reply, but he was prepared to wait. The truth was that he and his brother were both emperors now, and Franz Josef could not abide the fact.

  “As for me, I am feeling worn out.” Maximiliano stood up. He bid Carlota a good night and nodded at Diego. “Tomorrow morning?” he said. “At the usual hour? We have much to do.”

  He turned and left the room.

  CHAPTER 33

  THERE WAS STILL NO sign of Baldemar. Once or twice a week, Diego ventured into Mexico City hoping to stumble upon his old friend—or be ambushed by him—but he was always disappointed. Perhaps it was no surprise. By now, el Gordo de las Gafas had become a legend among the people of the east. He was a hero of the common folk, pitted against an arch villain—the Tiger of Tacubaya, the bloodiest murderer in the land. It was well known that Márquez was obsessed with the capture of Baldemar Peralta. Almost everyone seemed to know he owed his life to the Fat Man. Dozens of corridos had been composed to celebrate the episode, and now they were hummed by campfires and crooned in cantinas across the coastal flats that stretched from the central sierra to the torrid shores of the Mexican Gulf.

  The songs even travelled to Mexico City, where Diego sometimes heard their lyrics on the Plaza Santa Cecilia, sung in furtive snatches, mostly late at night. From rumours and vignettes that came his way and from the lyrics of these corridos, he managed to piece together an impression of the new life that his former schoolmate had fashioned for himself as an outlaw and rebel.

  Mexicans like a hero, and they especially admire a hero who pays close attention to his appearance. For that reason alone, Baldemar had earned their respect. He rode a tall bay gelding and went about in a black leather vest over a white blouse above a pair of beige breeches with silver spangles. He wore stamped leather boots with pointed toes and adorned with silver spurs. His long-barrelled Colt revolver, the one he’d got as a gift from Diego, he kept tucked beneath a wide belt. Beneath his black, round-brimmed sombrero, he wound a green bandanna that encircled his brow.

  Baldemar was also distinguished by the steel-rimmed spectacles with green-tinted lenses that he kept perched upon the bridge of his sunburned nose. The eyeglasses gave him an incongruous scholarly cast that only added to the notoriety he had won through his reputation for courage, as well as his unheard-of habit of freeing his captives rather than killing them. There were other irregular fighters—gamberros—who roamed the Mexican countryside, launching hit-and-run attacks on the imperial forces, but none of them was as celebrated in myth or song as el Gordo de las Gafas.

  Before long, a tangle of folk tales sprang up around him. Baldemar had failed to assassinate General Márquez that day in Mexico City only because a young Indian waitress had strayed into the line of fire, and he was forced to lower his weapon to avoid harming an innocent girl. Later, after being tortured and brutally abused in the Martinica Prison, el Gordo received a pardon from the emperor but refused to accept it until every other prisoner in the place also was freed. And so the doors of the Martinica were thrown open. On departing that jail, each of the former inmates received a grant of three hundred reals and a revolving pistol. Or so it was said.

  It was also Baldemar Peralta who captured the Tiger of Tacubaya near Soledad de Doblado one day by assuming the shape of a jaguar and leaping from the branches of a mango tree. He fell upon his quarry and wrestled the man from his horse. Subsequently, and after reverting to human form, el Gordo dangled his prey from the limb of an almond tree, taunting the general until the man revealed the most closely held secrets of the state, including the routes of ingress to the imperial mint, a building that was filled to its cobwebbed ceilings with ingots of silver and gold, all the treasures of Mexico, systematically stolen from the common people and hoarded over hundreds of years. When the present war was over, every last Mexican would be rich, for el Gordo would share the plunder with all his countrymen, down to the lowliest Indian peasant. Thus, centuries of injustice would be redeemed.

  These and other tales were told and retold, polished and embellished as they passed by word of mouth through the countryside. Steadily, the fame of el Gordo grew. Young men soon began flocking to his side, often with the blessings of their mothers and sisters. Gradually, he expanded his range of operations, until it seemed he was in a dozen places almost at once—one day in the rolling blue mountains of Michoacán, the next day in the ancient village of Ixmiquilpan, then in the green, orchid-festooned forests outside Xalapa. But he suffered one persistent limitation: the difficulty of acquiring sufficient munitions and powder—a constant source of torment and frustration.

  Meanwhile, General Márquez steadily added to his own renown, although in a very different way. He conducted regular forays through the eastern lands, staging exercises that he liked to refer to as training sessions, designed to build confidence among the local populace. He strove to impress upon people that there were just two kinds of Mexicans in time of war: good ones and dead ones. Good Mexicans refused to have anything to do with godless liberal gamberros, did not feed them or provide them with intelligence or allow them safe passage across the land. Instead, as quickly as humanly possible, good Mexicans communicated everything they knew about the activities of godless liberal gamberros to the defenders of Mexico’s honour and dignity, the contraguerrilla.

  It was Holy Week, and Diego was striding across the Zócalo of Mexico City, through the clutter and commotion, the commerce and din—the vendors and putas, pariah dogs and mules, the shouting and braying, barking and laughter, church bells and screams. Not far from the Metropolitan Cathedral, a frail, morose Indian man was bound to a stout wooden post, doing enforced penance by playing the part of Judas Iscariot. All those who passed him, on horseback or on foot, availed themselves of the opportunity to hawk their phlegm and gob upon the miserable wretch. They called him names, denounced his sins, and spat at him again.

  Diego tossed the remains of a ch
eroot onto the rutted street and observed the miserable creature. Mexico was its own worst enemy, it seemed. What need did the country have of French occupiers? All on their own, Mexicans were more than capable of savaging one another. Just then, from the corner of his eye, Diego saw a man running toward the sopping Judas. Something flashed in the sunlight—the blade of a hatchet. The blade sliced down, once, twice, three times, severing the bonds that held the fellow. With his free arm, the man with the hatchet raised the Indian up.

  “¡Vamos, hombre!” he shouted. “¡Corre!”

  Both dressed in rags, the two men darted toward the Monte de Piedad. Meanwhile, bystanders pointed at them and began to shout. More than a few gave chase, shrieking “Judas! Judas!” Diego broke into a run, determined to catch up with the two fleeing men, the Judas and his rescuer. In addition to his soiled and threadbare clothing, the man with the hatchet wore green-tinted glasses. It was Baldemar—Diego was sure of it.

  Somehow, he managed to catch up with the pair, and the three of them kept running, weaving and doubling back through the side streets that skirted the Zócalo, until they reached the Plaza Santa Cecilia. Here, they stopped and rested, hands on their knees, chests heaving.

  “¿Estás loco?” said Diego, still panting from the effort. “Are you out-of-your-mind crazy?”

  “So it would seem,” said Baldemar. “I can’t help myself.”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “What? These rags? It’s a disguise.”

  “Clever. The glasses go perfectly. And the hatchet?”

  “I had to steal it.”

  “So it’s true what they say. You’re a common thief.”