“He is blaspheming,” the abbot said gravely. Fra Hortensio nodded. The boy tried to claw the gag out, so we tightened the blankets around him until he could not move.
By then I was panting, my hair in disarray and my clothing pulled out of order. This would never do: I could not let the general know that I had been anywhere near the infirmary. I did not feel content to leave the boy with the monk, so frowned at him a moment and decided that, all in all, threats were probably best. The abbot took his leave to attend to the general, and I took the infirmarian aside.
“You know that your abbot wants this young man’s identity hidden,” I said to the monk, who nodded. “Are you under a vow of silence?” He shook his head. “Very well then, I believe that your abbot has put you under one as—as a penance, yes. Do you understand?”
He opened his lips. I held up one admonitory finger, and he closed his mouth and nodded until his head bobbed. There are times when it is very good to be a stern grandmother. I lifted my hem and swept from the infirmary.
I came into the cloister and wrapped my shawl against the shock of the cold mountain air. It was very dark, save for a pale wash of light near my rooms. As I approached I saw a silhouette against the light; a shape with a cap and sword. I shrank back into the shadows. How to explain my presence? The privies were nowhere nearby, so I could not use them as an excuse. What to do?
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped only a little, then saw in the dimness that it was yet another monk. He tugged at my arm and I followed him through dark, empty rooms. We passed into the church, a cold space scented with incense. A curtain rustled as we went through it, then the monk led me along a narrow, lightless hallway. After what seemed an eternity, he ushered me through a doorway into a dark room and disappeared. I had no idea where I was until I heard Maria’s voice, muttering a prayer in the next room. Filled with relief, I entered and collapsed into a chair.
I wanted nothing more than to go to bed; a grandmother should not be subjected to such tiring events. But there was still more to come, for Maria told me that the general had sent a man to take me to the abbot’s rooms. She had put him off as long as she could, but she thought that in another five minutes, he would break into the room. So, sighing with exasperation, I helped her drag off my outer dress and lace me into another one, identically black but less crumpled. She dressed my hair and wrapped my thickest woolen shawl around my shoulders. Then, satisfied that I once again looked like a dignified matron, she opened the door and I swept out, glared at the soldier, and demanded that he lead the way.
As I entered the room, Pulgón rose with insulting slowness and made a sweeping bow, displaying all of his teeth in what was most emphatically not a friendly smile. The years had not improved him: He still looked like a coyote.
“Ah, Doña Ana,” he said. “What a pleasure it is to meet you again, after such a very long time. How long is it, señora? Fifteen years?”
He knew how long it was as well as I did: Fourteen years ago, when he had been a col o nel in a ragtag Conservative army fighting in one of our many revolutions, he had caused my most productive village to be burned to the ground. His claim that we harbored enemies of the state was a transparent lie: He burned down my village because I had refused to give him my hand in marriage. To my great relief, God came to my aid by providing a bloody battle to the south, which sent Pulgón galloping toward Michoacán to see what extortion and misery he could create there. His rise to a position of power in Juárez’s liberal government must have been the result of deep corruption, lamentably nothing new in the history of our poor country.
“General Pulgón,” I said, and pressed my lips together. He was, in truth, no better than a chief of police, but he controlled Mexico City and hence the heart of our country. A cockroach, but a very powerful one.
Father Bernardo offered me a seat far from the window. This room, like all the rooms in the monastery except for the infirmary and the kitchen, had no fireplace. The life of a monk, after all, is dedicated to God and not to the flesh. I drew my shawl more closely around myself as I sat, wishing that the good Father was just a little more worldly and a little less strict.
Pulgón didn’t seem to mind the cold. He strode up and down the room, his hands tucked behind his back, shooting stern glances at me. I waited in silence. Finally he stopped and rocked back and forth, hands still behind his back.
“You know, señora, the peril our country faces from foreign enemies. Even your esteemed son-in-law is alive to the menace of foreign spies and agents of chaos intent upon the overthrow of our revolutionary government and the return of the despicable French, and their English companions.”
This was nonsense, but of course I said nothing. The English and the French trusted each other in the way coyotes trust each other when they desire the same patch of desert. If Pulgón and his Conservative cohorts wanted to use the French to demonize the English, it was only what I would expect of them.
“You would be fond of the French, I believe, since you and their revolutionaries share the same beliefs about the peasantry. Equality and fraternity, indeed. This is dangerous nonsense, señora, as you well know.” He paused and resumed pacing, then rounded on me. “Your actions in the north are known to us, Doña Ana. We were unable to touch you during the shameful monarchy of that known liberal Maximilian, but those days are past. You would do well to think of your future, and that of your family.”
I seethed inwardly but kept my tone calm as I said, “With respect, General, the days of true and honest liberals are still very much with us.”
Someone rapped at the door. The young lieutenant, the one who had stopped us in the city, entered and saluted. Then he glanced at me and grinned. “Ah, Doña Montalvo.” He bowed so low that the insult was obvious. “How is your poor sick niece Candelaria? We know she is still with you, for your carriage did not stop at any great house along the way. And we know, of course, that you only stop at great houses. Or monasteries.”
I said nothing. The lieutenant chuckled and turned away from me. “We have found him, mi general. He was masquerading as a monk in the infirmary. Shall we shoot him?”
Pulgón grinned like a shark. “Eventually, but not immediately, I think. I believe this lady must have had a hand in bringing him here, yes? Disguised, perhaps, as her plague-infected niece?”
I raised my chin. “You make dangerous allegations, General. Benito Juárez is an old family friend. It would not go well with you if we were impeded. Or harmed.”
He gestured this aside, impatient. “Enough. Families more important than yours have proved to be traitors.” He turned toward his aide. “You have rounded up her servants? Very well. You may tell me, señora, precisely what his plans are, and yours. Or I will have your people shot. One by one.”
The abbot’s back stiffened. “My son, take care not to perform violence, or even to offer such, in the Lord’s house. God listens.”
“Then perhaps He will learn something,” Pulgón retorted. “Well, señora? Which is it to be?”
“How can I tell you that which does not exist?” I said. “There is no spy, as you well know. There is no vast English conspiracy, as you well know. I doubt that you act on behalf of any legitimate government. I will tell you nothing, Pulgón. If you intend to shoot my people, you can start with me.” I gave him the same look that caused my grandchildren to quail; not that I expected him to flinch, but how else was I to respond to this dangerous, stupid nonsense? The lieutenant came forward as if to lay hands on me. Father Bernardo’s chair scraped back against the stone floor. I stood, gathering my shawl around my shoulders.
“Tomás Pulgón, you are a snake and your mother would weep tears of blood to see what you have become. Thank the blessed Virgin that she is safely in Her keeping.” Father Bernardo crossed himself, but Pulgón sneered. The lieutenant reached for my arm. I shook him away, leaving my mantilla in his grasp. He dropped it. The abbot picked it up as I walked, my back straight, out of the room. All in all, I thoug
ht as Pulgón’s men surrounded me, I was fairly pleased with myself. I had called him a coyote, a cockroach, a shark, and a snake, even if just in my own mind. Surely the Virgin would not allow me to come to harm at the hands of such a menagerie of pests.
They put us into a disused wine cellar. The English boy lay against one of the dank walls, his eyes barely open. His fever had broken, but the cold and damp would surely kill him if we could not flee this room.
Escape seemed impossible. The wine cellar was dug well into the mountainside, in what must originally have been a cave. The ceiling soared well above the light of the two miserable candles we were allowed. Three heavy doors lay between us and the rest of the monastery; I had listened to the bolts clang in each of them as I was escorted into the cellar, then pushed inside. I had turned, demanding bedding and our coats, but the lieutenant just grinned at me and slammed the door in my face. His footsteps diminished, punctuated by the bolts slamming home in the other two doors.
The shelves were cobwebbed, dirty, and bare. It seemed that this room had not been used in a very long time, and I wondered how General Pulgón had known about it. I felt a tiny draft. Eduardo followed it, sheltering a candle behind his palm, and came back to report that the cavern ended in a smooth, inward-leaning wall with a tiny, inaccessible opening at the very top, through which came the wisp of air. Other than that and the locked doors, there were no openings in the room. I sighed and sank down to sit beside the English boy, who opened his eyes a little.
“I am sorry I have put you in this horrible position,” he whispered.
I shrugged. “I am, to be truthful, more sorry about missing Sr. Beethoven’s symphony.”
He closed his eyes again. “What will happen to us?”
“Oh, I suspect that General Pulgón would like to shoot us all, but apparently I have frightened him a little by talking about my son-in-law’s lofty connection to President Juárez. He will need to come up with an alternative plan, but he is not a very smart man so it will take him some time.”
The boy was silent for a little, then said, “But the abbot, he is a smart man, is he not?”
I sighed. “I think so, yes. I wish I knew where his heart lies in all this. Men of God have not always behaved well.”
“This monastery was larger,” he said. “There are so many empty rooms. Even the infirmary—the monk told me we were in the small room that used to be the apothecary’s drying room.”
“Yes?”
“Someone, at some time, made the monastery smaller. Recently, I think. The apothecary’s dried herbs still hang in the corners.”
“Ah.” I looked at him, his features almost indistinguishable in the dim light. “And what do you conclude from this?”
“That perhaps the abbot is still angry at the taking of the monastery lands, señora. Was it President Juárez who ordered the taking?”
“I do not know. The relationship between the church and the government has been very changeable over the years. It could have been anyone.”
“And so we cannot rely on the abbot to be friendly.” He shivered a little. I covered him with my shawl, despite his protests.
“And your own people?” I said.
“How can they know where I am? And if they do come here, the general could simply tell them that we came and went again. Who will contradict him?” He curled in on himself.
The cold increased. We huddled together, I and the boy and my family of servants, not talking. I had pinched out one of the candles, to make our light last longer. I thought about what I had said to the young man: It was true that Pulgón would not shoot me, but that did not mean that my life was safe. What story would he tell about the death of Teobaldo’s dear mother-in-law? There are so, so many ways for someone to die, especially here in the tall, cold mountains, where the air is thin and warmth is only a distant memory. I shook myself away from these gloomy thoughts and instead remembered the long, hot days on my hacienda, the song of the cicadas under the rhythmic pulse of the looms, the way the copper shone in the hands of my skilled workmen, the sound of children reciting lessons. I did not want to die, but if I did at least I was happy with my legacy. I did not imagine that Pulgón could say the same. Heriberto licked his lips. I sympathized: We were all hungry and thirsty, despite the abbot’s earlier hospitality.
Bolts banged and hinges screamed as the door opened. Light streamed in from bright lanterns. Two monks entered, one holding two lanterns and the second a large, steaming pot. The scent of mulled wine filled the room; I could not keep my mouth dry. The monk placed the pot on the floor and laid a ladle in it, the second monk put one of the lanterns beside it, and they both retreated, still in silence, locking the door behind them.
“Well,” Eduardo said, “at least we will not die of cold for a little longer.”
He reached for the ladle just as the Inglés cried out, lurched to his feet, and staggered toward the pot. Thinking that he meant to thrust his face into it, or at least his hands, I leaped up and reached for him but he drew back one long leg and kicked the pot hard. It tumbled end over end, emptying itself on the dry dirt. Within seconds not a drop of the hot wine remained.
“You stupid fool,” Heriberto said, raising his fist, but the boy collapsed.
I knelt beside him, cursing in English. He coughed from the bottom of his lungs and grabbed my hand.
“Bunions,” he said in English, and fainted.
What sort of incredible nonsense was this? The boy had obviously gone mad, stark mad, from the fever or the ill treatment or both. I shook my head and we stretched him out again, and I covered him with my shawl. At least he had not destroyed the lantern. It gave off a small amount of heat and we held our hands out to it, pretending that it was warm. Then Eduardo prodded his son and nodded toward the bare shelves, and in a moment Heriberto was breaking the dry planks over his knee and piling up the fuel for a fire. Eduardo shaved kindling with the knife he kept hidden near his skin. He piled the kindling and lit it from the lantern. The flame hesitated, then caught. We sighed and smiled at each other, and held out our hands.
Bunions. Whatever had the boy meant? I puzzled over it for a while, then gestured for Maria to pass the pot to me. I put my face into it and sniffed it, and touched the bottom where a drop of the wine remained. My tongue went numb where I touched the wine to it. I scrubbed it out of my mouth with my sleeve. Maria, seeing me, raised her eyebrows.
“I think this wine was poisoned,” I said. “Eduardo, can you smell anything? Your nose is younger than mine.”
Eduardo smelled it and raised his eyebrows. “It is possible, Doña Ana,” he said. “But how would he know that?”
“He is in league with them,” Heriberto said.
I thought for a moment, and smiled. “No. Just before he became unconscious, he said juanetes, ‘bunions’ in English. Who has bunions? People who keep their feet inside cheap boots. Do monks have boots? No, they do not, and so they have no bunions. And because that monk did, our young friend understood that he was not, in fact, a monk, but one of General Pulgón’s soldiers. Pulgón has no reason to give us wine or any helpful thing. And therefore—”
“The wine was poisoned,” Maria said. She looked at the young Inglés with respect. “He has saved our lives.”
We all gazed at the boy thoughtfully.
“So what else does he know?” Eduardo said.
“Wake him up and make him talk,” Heriberto said with relish.
I thought about that for a moment. The boy was still sick, but lying in this place would not make him any better. I patted his cheek. The beaky nose wrinkled and he turned his head away. I patted him again, with more force.
“Hit him a good one, Doña,” Heriberto said.
“Don’t be foolish, that will just knock him out even more.”
“Well, do something,” Eduardo said, so I boxed the boy’s ear. He came awake, howling.
“The wine was poisoned?” I said to him.
“Of course,” he retorted, and clo
sed his eyes again.
“No sleep,” I said firmly. “Listen, joven, what else do you know? Can we escape? What else can you notice, besides the condition of feet?” I helped him sit closer to the fire. “Twice you have noticed things, small things, that have been greatly important. With God’s grace, perhaps you will notice another small thing again.”
After a moment he nodded, then tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Heriberto urged violence in a whisper and I hissed at him to be quiet.
The boy’s nose quivered. After a moment it quivered again. We held our breaths. He opened his eyes and looked at us, then gestured toward Heriberto.
“Tell him to pick up that board,” he said, nodding toward the fire. One of the broken boards poked out of the fire, its other end smoldering. “And him, tell him to help me up.”
I translated. In a moment the Englishman was on his feet. The three of them made a circuit of the walls, keeping about a meter back from them, and all the time the Inglés kept his eyes not on the wall, but on the smoldering board.
“Stop,” he said abruptly. He stared at the board for a long minute. So did I, but saw nothing remarkable. Heriberto held the cold end. The other end glowed while tendrils of smoke trailed toward the wall.
The boy looked down and gestured my men forward while he mumbled a little under his breath. Heriberto looked back at me and rolled his eyes. The English boy leaned forward against Eduardo’s arms and brushed his hand down the wall, clearing away dust and cobwebs.
“Here,” he said. “Door.”
We settled him near the fire again before we all scrubbed at the wall with our palms. A rectangular outline appeared against the stones, the shape of a small door but without handle or hinges.
Heriberto muttered a curse and his father cuffed him. “This is useless,” he said. “Perhaps you should hit him again.”
“No, wait.” Shadows danced over the stones, but soon my fingers touched what my eyes had barely seen—a tiny circular indentation that gave a little under my fingers. I pushed and a stone plug tilted and disappeared. I heard stone striking stone as it fell. I put my finger through the hole. It barely fit, but I felt something cold and flat, like a latch. My finger wasn’t long enough to move it.
Sherlock Holmes: The American Years Page 26