by Oakland Ross
The firefight continued for an eternity, but eventually the battle shifted further to the east, and Baldemar announced to the others that he would take Diego with him. Together, they would look for help. He’d heard that a group of medical students from Mexico City had set up a front-line trauma clinic in the commandeered summer home of the archbishop, in Tacubaya. He and Diego would make their way there. The others should try to hook up somehow with the main liberal forces, and Baldemar would join them when he could.
The young men split into two groups, and Baldemar stayed with his friend. They staggered through the pocked and sun-dazed streets, amid the reverberation of gunfire and cannon blasts. Eventually, they managed to locate the archbishop’s house. Diego joined dozens of other wounded men already receiving treatment of the most rudimentary kind. Torn strips of bedsheets were used in place of bandages. There was no anaesthesia, and so the injured fighters were made to drink great quantities of rotgut cane liquor, until they were rendered all but senseless. Teams of young students held them down by brute force so that surgery could proceed.
In Diego’s case, it was apparent at once that the limb had to come off, most of it, anyway, a good bit above the elbow. Otherwise there was sure to be infection and gangrene. Six years later, he no longer had any clear recollection of what ensued. He’d been doused with drink and had probably blacked out. Nor did he remember much of what happened following the removal of his arm, when conservative forces led by General Leonardo Márquez stormed the makeshift clinic and set about murdering every last man in the place. Many who were already bleeding from grievous wounds were simply left to die.
For a second time that day, Baldemar saved Diego’s life, and he did it by tipping his old friend onto the floor and then sprawling on top of him, motionless.
“Stay still,” he must have whispered. Or something of the kind. “Play dead.”
It was their only hope.
So much blood coursed over the floor, and from all directions, that it was impossible to distinguish the dead from the merely dying. Uninjured himself, Baldemar was drenched in blood. It was only later, long after he regained consciousness and had been conveyed back to Mexico City, that Diego learned of his friend’s ruse and how it was that they had both survived the Massacre of Tacubaya, when everyone else was dead. In all, more than fifty were killed in that place on that day.
Following that act of slaughter, General Márquez won infamy as the Tiger of Tacubaya—and Diego ended his brief career as a soldier. Baldemar continued to fight, in a bitter war that the liberals finally won, or that the conservatives lost. Either way, Benito Juárez assumed the presidency, but not for long. Soon enough, the French invaded, and Maximiliano ascended to an improvised throne.
“Et voilà …” said Beatríz, gesturing toward the lake and the surrounding gardens.
Diego nodded. “Et voilà.”
Beatríz gazed out through the fading light. “I think you were very brave.”
“By shooting myself? With my own gun?”
“By being there. By going across that road. By not running away.”
Diego sniggered.
“Why do you laugh?”
“Because it isn’t so. I wasn’t brave, not in any way. The truth is, I was too scared to run away, too scared of what Baldemar and the others would think. I stayed out of fear, not courage. If I’d been brave, I would have got out of there, no matter what anyone thought. Baldemar was brave.”
“Maybe he was afraid, too.”
“Maybe. I don’t think so.” He told her about the killing of Melchor Ocampo and about Baldemar’s failed attempt to assassinate General Márquez and all that had happened since, including the emperor’s decision to pardon Baldemar—and his own dilemma, indebted to both Baldemar for having saved his life and Maximiliano for having saved Baldemar’s.
“I thought all that was a myth,” she said. “All those tales about what you owe to the man who saves your life. All that.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe Mexico is a myth, too. It doesn’t mean we don’t have to get up in the morning or go to bed at night or deal with the time in between.”
She pushed his left shoulder and laughed. “I didn’t know you were such a philosopher.”
“I’m not. Not anymore.”
“El poeta manco. That’s what the Prince of Salm-Salm calls you.”
“Well, he’s half right. The one-armed part.”
She looked off toward the lake. “I think you are still a poet. You just have to convince yourself.”
For a time, neither of them said anything. They remained silent and still, watching the dragonflies whisking above the surface of the lake, the pouting of the water where the goldfish snapped. Gradually, the light faded from the western sky, and the evening star blinked above the tamarind trees and the jacarandas.
He told her he was leaving in the morning, to travel north. He wouldn’t be back for many weeks. She nodded but said nothing.
He said, “I don’t know what to do about the boy.”
For a time, she was silent. Then she said, “Neither do I.”
“If the emperor finds out where Ángela is, I don’t know what he’ll do. He wants her son as his heir. He’s determined to have him.”
“Beware a weak man with a powerful conviction.”
Diego glanced down at the space between them, where her left hand was couched upon the marble surface of the bench. He reached over and enclosed her hand in his own, and they both looked out at a last slender band of amber light as it drained beyond the treetops, beneath the weight of the darkening sky.
Diego left the following morning, and Beatríz came out to see him off. He kept turning back to look at her, and at first he could make her out each time, but soon the gates and trees and adobe walls blocked his view. He turned and sought to concentrate on the journey ahead, an unfamiliar heaviness in his heart.
His journey took him through Taxco, and there he sought out Padre Buendía. He spoke to Ángela as well—for the first time in many long months. She had recovered some of the weight she had lost, but still there were dark hollows beneath her eyes, which would suddenly glaze over without warning whenever she thought of her son. He remained in Taxco overnight and resumed his journey the following morning.
At Acapulco, he boarded a mail packet bound north for San Francisco. The vessel ploughed through the high Pacific swell, skirting the narrow, sunburned arm of the Baja and entering American waters off San Diego. Once ashore, he commissioned a dozen men to serve as his security, and he began a long, arduous trek across badlands and desert, aiming for a town on the American side of the Mexican frontier, a speck of little account that was known as Franklin, Texas.
CHAPTER 38
THE JOURNEY TOOK DIEGO through an arid landscape of parched stream beds, broad plains, mesquite scrub, and table mountains, and it finally brought him to what seemed to be a scattered and unremarkable town, overlooking the river known to Mexicans as the Río Bravo.
He soon found the sometime journalist J.S. Bartlett at work in his office at the United States customs house. The lanky American disentangled his long legs from beneath his desk. He strode toward Diego, hands outstretched. The two men exchanged introductions, and Diego explained that he wished to cross into Mexico in order to—
“Señor Serrano,” said Bartlett, “I know exactly why you want to cross into Mexico. You want to speak to Presidente Juárez.”
“That is so,” said Diego. “I understand he is installed at El Paso del Norte.” It was the small Mexican town just across the border from Franklin. “It seems you have been forewarned of my visit. You’ve spoken to General Grant?”
“Something along those lines. Let’s just say we have been expecting you.” The young man stood by a large window commanding a view of the slow, meandering river and, beyond it, Mexico. A dome of curly blond hair framed an oval face bisected by a pair of wire-framed spectacles. He wore a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Señor Juárez arrived some months a
go,” he said, “accompanied by his staff, some journalists, plus five hundred soldiers and half a dozen artillery pieces.”
Diego fumbled for a cigarette. “You are precise.”
“I am a journalist,” the young man said. “Precision is my trade.” He used the tail of his shirt to remove some smudge from the windowpane, then turned toward Diego. “But we are not averse to round numbers, either.” He removed a cigarette from his breast pocket, lit Diego’s and then his own. “For example,” he said, speaking through a haze of smoke, “thirty thousand. Give or take.”
Diego let out a low whistle. “That many? How will they cross the border?”
“Oh, they won’t. Not officially. They’ll be recorded as having been ‘mislaid.’”
Diego smiled. “I want to arrange for some of these … these articles … to move further south. A town called Xalapa. Can that be done?”
“Oh probably. But it’s not my department. You’ll have to talk to Señor Juárez. A lucky thing he’s so close.”
The American returned to his desk and resumed his seat. He crossed his arms at his chest. “I imagine you know these are difficult times for Señor Juárez.”
“For all Mexicans.”
“I know, I know. But I’m referring to something specific. The man has just learned that his youngest son is dead. In New York.”
It was the first Diego had heard of it. He remembered a boy, only a few months old at the time of his visit, nearly a year ago now. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you? I learned about it in a cable from my newspaper. I had the unfortunate duty of informing Señor Juárez myself. He’d never even set eyes on the boy.”
Diego shook his head. “He must be suffering.”
“He must. Besides, the war goes badly.” Bartlett contemplated his cigarette for a moment before continuing. The liberals, he said, were in retreat on almost every front. Only the other day, they had been obliged to surrender the southern city of Oaxaca to the French.
This was news to Diego, but he understood at once how grave it was. The loss of Oaxaca was apt to hit Juárez especially hard, for he had been raised in that town and had been governor of the state. What was almost as bad was to hear the news delivered by an American, who seemed to possess far better intelligence about Mexico than Mexicans did themselves.
“My newspaper has a correspondent in Oaxaca,” said Bartlett. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But I guess the military situation in your country will start to change now that the north has won the war.”
The American meant the other war, the war in the United States. Until that moment, Diego had not known for certain that the conflict was over or that the Union side had prevailed. He’d known only that victory was imminent. So now it was done.
“But these … ah … these new articles—I’m sure they’ll help.” Bartlett meant the Spencer rifles. He rose and once again extended his hand. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Diego. “I intend to cross the border now. May I proceed?”
“Por supuesto, Señor Serrano. Vaya con Dios.”
“Y usted también.”
Diego strode out into the late afternoon sunshine. He told his companions—the men who had accompanied him from San Diego and who’d received half wages thus far—that he would return in a matter of days. They would wait for him on the northern side. He remounted his horse, gathered the reins, and in short order was venturing back into his own country. He forded the river, the water lapping at the heels of his boots. On the far side, his horse clambered up onto a rough beach of pebbles and gravel, and he was in Mexico again. Goats bleated on the slopes of dry, sun-bleached hills, dogs barked at intervals, and the road ahead seemed both narrow and badly in need of repair, the way stippled by low, scrubby trees and carpeted by patchy grass shorn to the ground by ungulates. He urged his horse into a trot and was soon riding into the town of El Paso del Norte, a forlorn collection of low adobe buildings, haphazardly assembled in the cool but brilliant sun. Rolls of sagebrush stumbled amid helixes of dust, and wiry, underfed pigs snuffled through the garbage for their supper. He drew the dry air in through his nostrils, sensing wood smoke and the pungent corn scent of tamales. For better or worse, this was Mexico again.
He rode on.
Before long, several armed sentries strode out from a low adobe hut at the entrance to the plaza mayor, not a complete uniform or a decent pair of boots in the lot.
“Oiga, señor,” said one. He raised his rifle. “Deténgase.”
Diego did as he was told. He declared that he had come to speak to His Excellency. He made no mention of the emperor, whose letter he had burned long ago, letting the ashes scatter across the blue Pacific. Instead, he carried a handwritten statement of introduction, scribbled and signed by Baldemar Peralta. He nursed a faint hope that the renown of el Gordo de las Gafas might have reached even this remote outpost. He handed the document to the elder of the guards. Unfortunately, neither this man nor any of his subordinates was able to read. Thus the letter was launched on a slow, uncertain way up the chain of command until eventually word came back—let the visitor through.
Diego found lodging that night at a dismal, slump-roofed excuse for a hotel, a building that seemed to be both very old and yet only half-finished. Diego slouched about the place, drinking raw aguardiente straight from the bottle and wondering at the strange contradictions of fate that had brought him here. He supposed Juárez must sometimes wonder the same thing. They were confederates in that respect, both of them far from home, he a mestizo, Juárez an Indian, both driven to the furthest edge of a country once again ruled by foreign, white-skinned men. Bazaine. Napoleon. Maximiliano.
He took another swallow of the cloudy liquor, and the kick of it caused his eyes to water. Before long, he found himself thinking of Beatríz. Another swig. Another swallow. More dampness about the eyes. The way she had watched him that morning, near the gate at the House of Borda, as he rode away. He hadn’t known then if he would ever make it back, and he wondered now if he ever would. No other messenger had returned, not as far as he knew. For now, he could only wait while Juárez decided whether to grant him an audience. The contrast between her dark skin and her white teeth. The flowers she braided into her hair. Ah, he didn’t know what he was thinking. He took another mouthful, and his eyes welled up again.
It was not until his third full day in the town that a messenger appeared at the hotel to announce that the president would be willing to receive him that same afternoon. Unwilling to wait that long, Diego pulled on his jacket, adjusted his blouse, and set out on foot at once, remembering to bring the ambrotype he had carried from New York to Mexico City and now here.
When he reached Juárez’s provisional headquarters, a military orderly guided him to a second-floor office that overlooked the central plaza through rows of paint-flecked wooden jalousies, many of them broken or missing. The orderly indicated a chair and asked him to sit. He did so, surveying the room. The office contained a large wooden desk, its surface gouged and bare, as well as several straight-back wooden chairs of various styles. The light through the jalousies cast scattered images on the opposite wall that resembled rows of broken piano keys.
Diego held his document folder firmly in his lap and waited for the president to appear. It was true what he’d told Bartlett. He had indeed met Juárez on one previous occasion, years earlier, when the president had been making his way through a crowd in Mexico City. Juárez had singled Diego out from the crowd, no doubt on account of his missing arm, and had changed his direction at once. A host of soldiers cleared his path. The president was a small, dark-skinned man with a sombre demeanour, and he reached out with two hands to grip Diego’s one.
“The war?” he said.
Diego nodded. “Sí. La guerra.” He did not elaborate.
But Juárez thanked him, anyway. “Gracias por su sacrificio. Le agradezco yo y le agradece todo México.”
Thank you for your sacrifice. I thank you. All Me
xico thanks you.
It was odd to think of that encounter now, so many years later, and to realize that Beatríz and the president were the only ones who had ever put the matter to him in this light. For his own part, Diego thought of the loss of his arm mainly as a humiliating blunder, something he would rather not discuss or hear mentioned. But Beatríz had regarded his injury in a different way—and so had Juárez, all those years ago.
A soldier appeared at the doorway and announced that el presidente would see him. Before long, a small but erect individual entered the room—the president of Mexico. Diego leapt to his feet. Benito Juárez was much as Diego remembered from that one previous encounter—a compact man with burnished bronze skin and with a severe expression etched into the contours of his narrow, rectangular face. If he had known pain or pleasure during the course of his life, his features did not show it. The two men shook hands. Juárez took in Diego’s missing arm—or the empty space it would have occupied.
“Ah yes,” he said, as if he remembered exactly who this visitor was, and to Diego it truly seemed that he did.
The president lowered himself into a solid wooden chair and gazed across the chipped surface of his desk. He must have been sixty years old, but there was not a strand of grey in the sleek black hair that was parted on the left and combed tidily over his pate. His features remained fixed in an attitude of serious purpose. He said nothing at first but merely waited until the orderly entered with coffee for them both, served in mismatched cups and saucers.
Juárez took his coffee black. He sipped from the cup and replaced it in its saucer. He glanced up. “I am informed that you were recently in New York,” he said.
“I was.” Diego supposed that questions on this subject must by now have been posed to J.S. Bartlett. He also realized his movements in New York, as in Washington, must surely have been monitored. He was, at least in theory, an emissary from the court of Emperor Maximiliano. He said, “Some time has passed since then.”