by Maria Duenas
Mauro Larrea, who cared little about troop numbers or morale, feigned interest until he was able to drop in a timely question.
“How long do you think their war will last, Mariano?”
Larrea was perfectly aware that all indications suggested it would be a protracted and bloody conflict. Yet, in his desperation, he clung to the futile belief in a swift resolution. If the war ended soon, he could try to recover his equipment—or at least part of it. He could sail there, track down his property, hire a gringo lawyer, demand compensation . . .
“I fear it will drag on, my friend. For a good few years, certainly.”
Muttered agreement could be heard around the table, as if they were all certain.
“The struggle is a lot more complicated than it appears from where we’re sitting,” added the giant. “This is a battle between two conflicting worlds, two philosophies of life, two radically different economies. They’re fighting over something that goes much deeper than slavery. What the southern states want is outright independence. Now we can honestly call those idiots the Disunited States of America.”
They all chuckled at this: the wounds inflicted by the US invasion of Mexico less than two decades earlier were still raw, and nothing gave Mexicans greater pleasure than seeing their neighbors attacked head-on. However, none of this interested Mauro Larrea; the conversation had merely confirmed what he already knew, that his fight was lost. Never in his wildest dreams would he recover so much as a nut or bolt from his equipment, or the smallest portion of his investment.
Most of the others were preparing to leave, when suddenly Mariano Asencio clasped him by the elbow with a bearlike paw, holding him back.
“I’ve been hoping to bump into you for days, Larrea. But our paths never seem to cross.”
“True, I’ve been busy recently. You know how it is.”
Platitudes, but what else could he say? Fortunately, Asencio ignored them.
“There’s something I want to ask you about,” he said.
Only after the others had gone off in their different directions did the two men leave the café. Larrea’s coachman was waiting for him with his carriage, but there appeared to be no carriage awaiting Asencio. Larrea instantly discovered the reason.
“That quack Van Kampen—the damned German physician whose gibberish my wife forces me to listen to—insists I need exercise. And so she has taken it upon herself to command my coachman not to wait for me anywhere.”
“I can give you a lift wherever you wish . . .”
Asencio declined the offer with a wave of his hand.
“No chance: she caught me red-handed the other night arriving home in Teófilo Vallejo’s landau, and you wouldn’t believe the dressing-down she gave me. What possessed me to marry a blond Episcopalian from New Hampshire, I’ll never know,” he protested with a hint of irony. “But I’d be most grateful if you’d walk with me, my friend, assuming you’re not in a hurry. I live on Calle de la Canoa; it won’t take us long.”
Larrea sent his coachman on ahead to the new address and, as the empty carriage drove away, prepared to listen to this man who had always aroused conflicting emotions in him.
Throngs of people of diverse complexions filled the streets, bustling to and fro as they did every day. Indigenous women carrying huge bunches of flowers, their infants wrapped in shawls on their backs; dark-skinned men balancing on their heads big earthenware jars brimming with sweetmeats or lard; beggars and soldiers, honest citizens and charlatans—all moving about ceaselessly from morning to night.
Asencio sailed through them like a galleon, using his cane to push aside vagabonds and lepers who moaned and whimpered as they begged for alms in the name of the holy blood of Jesus Christ Our Savior.
“A group of British investors has contacted me. They were all set to participate in a promising mining venture in the Appalachians, but the war has obviously put a stop to that. They’re considering moving their capital here to Mexico and have asked me for information.”
A joke. A bad joke played on him by fate was Mauro Larrea’s first thought when he heard the news. This distant conflict had plunged him into poverty, and here was Asencio telling him that these Englishmen, former brothers of the gringos who were now so busily killing one another, were considering investing in the very sphere that his financial ruin was forcing him to relinquish.
Oblivious to the anxiety gnawing away at his companion, Asencio continued talking as he made his way, swaying from side to side like a pachyderm as he lashed out pitilessly with his cane, sweeping aside blind men with empty eye sockets and cripples boldly displaying their stumps and deformities.
“I tried to persuade them that now isn’t the time to invest a guinea in Mexico,” he snorted. “Despite the assurances given by the various governments in recent years to attract foreign investors.”
“Their fellow countrymen from the Company of Merchant Adventurers already tried that in Real del Monte and Pachuca,” observed Larrea, doing his best to sound natural despite the anguish assailing him. “But they couldn’t get used to the Mexican way of working, and refused to pay their share . . .”
“They’re fully aware of that,” Asencio cut in. “But apparently they’re better prepared now. The machinery is in Southampton just waiting to be loaded. If they shipped it over here, it would be a godsend for me, because I could use the same vessel to transport my merchandise to England. All they need are good fishing grounds, if you’ll forgive the expression—and pardon my ignorance of your business. A good mine that hasn’t been exploited recently, they say, but with guaranteed potential.”
Larrea had to stifle a sardonic, bitter laugh. Las Tres Lunas, his dream project, was exactly what those damned English sons of bitches were looking for without even knowing it.
“I promised them I’d make some inquiries,” his gigantic companion continued. “And it occurred to me to ask you. Steering clear of any conflict of interest, naturally.”
The biggest irony of all, Larrea reflected, was that, according to the laws governing mining concessions, Las Tres Lunas didn’t actually belong to him. Had that been the case, he could have sold or leased it to the English investors for a significant sum. Or invited Asencio to be his partner in this hypothetical future venture. However, he owned no title deeds to the mine, since this was prohibited by the old bylaws dating back to the time of the viceroyalty, which were still valid. What he had was a temporary concession, entitling him to take possession of and exploit the mine. However, in accordance with the same law, unless he started to do that soon, the concession could be revoked, leaving the way clear for whoever else showed interest in it.
Asencio seized his arm once more, this time to suggest they stop on a corner by an old street vendor. On a filthy-looking brazier, a woman was heating up the tortillas she had kneaded in her bony hands with their long, black fingernails. From among the hordes of food vendors lining the streets, he couldn’t have chosen a more wretched stall had he done so deliberately.
“That idiot Van Kampen has also managed to persuade my wife that I should eat less. Between the two of them they’re starving me to death.” Asencio promptly rummaged in his waistcoat pocket for a few pesos. “I’d have done better to marry a nice Mexican doña, the kind who always has the table laid when you get home. How about a pork taco, my friend? Or a nice corn tortilla dripping with lard?”
They continued on their way, Asencio staving off the beggars with admirable dexterity even as he wolfed down the food he had bought and went on talking nonstop, his shirtfront becoming soiled with specks of grease.
“I imagine this war must also be affecting you negatively,” Mauro Larrea then ventured. “With the Confederate ports in the south blockaded by the Union.”
“On the contrary, my dear man,” Asencio replied. “Due to the blockade, the southern states are beginning to trade through the port of Matamoros, where I have som
e business interests. And since the North no longer buys the South’s cotton, which was the main commerce between them, I’ve started to provide the Yankees with that, too; I have a few plantations up there that I bought for next to nothing before the hostilities broke out.”
With this, he swallowed the last morsel of his third taco and gave a loud belch. “Pardon me,” he added perfunctorily.
“So, returning to the matter at hand. What would you advise me to tell the subjects of Her Gracious Majesty? They’re expecting to hear from me soon, and are champing at the bit. Naturally, for my part, I’ll keep looking into things. You must know Ovidio Calleja, the superintendent at the Mining Board. He owes me a few favors. I’ll see what he has to say. That rascal never misses a trick, especially if there’s something in it for him. But I’d appreciate your opinion. Between you and me, silver mining is still a safe investment, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Larrea was thinking on his feet. “There are more and more problems. The costs often outweigh the profits: the price of quicksilver and gunpowder, which are bought by the ton, changes every day. Banditry is rife, to the point where we are having to pay army patrols to escort the shipments. There is less and less quality silver left in the ground, and the workers are becoming more and more belligerent . . .”
This wasn’t a lie, simply an exaggeration. These problems were nothing new. Larrea had been dealing with them for years, ever since he entered that world.
“In fact,” he added, embellishing as he went along, “I myself am considering investing abroad.”
“Really? Where?” said Asencio with unabashed curiosity. Besides his knowledge of North American affairs, his impetuous opinions, and the extravagant diversity of his businesses, the big man was also known for being quick to seize any opportunity that came his way.
Mauro Larrea had never been duplicitous; he was a straight talker. And yet, finding himself in a tight corner, he had no choice but to hurriedly invent a pack of lies based on snippets of conversation picked up here and there.
“Nothing concrete. I’m looking into several possibilities. I might choose to go south and invest in indigo plantations in Guatemala. An old associate of mine has also suggested doing something related to cacao in Caracas. And then there’s—”
At that instant, the weight of Asencio’s leaden paw on his arm brought Larrea to a sudden stop.
“If yours truly here had as much capital as you, Mauro, do you know what I’d do?”
And without waiting for a reply, the former ambassador drew his mouth reeking of onion, chili, and pork close to Larrea’s ear and muttered a few words that gave the latter pause for thought.
CHAPTER SIX
Andrade was waiting for him, with his shiny bald pate and his spectacles perched on his nose, in front of a mound of documents.
“Damned opportunist,” Larrea muttered, slamming the door behind him as he entered his home.
His agent looked up from the accounts he was going over.
“I hope you aren’t referring to me.”
“I’m talking about Mariano Asencio.”
“The big fellow?”
“The big pirate!”
“Nothing new under the sun.”
“He’s negotiating with a group of Englishmen, a company of adventurers eager to invest wherever he tells them. They are solvent and have fresh capital, and won’t want to risk wasting their time exploiting untouched mines. That devil knows they’ll follow his advice. He’ll move heaven and earth to offer them something tempting, ensuring himself a large slice of the pie.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“He’s just told me he plans to start by sniffing around at the Mining Board Office, where he’ll find no end of projects.”
“Most of which are too trifling to suit these people’s ambitions. Excepting . . .”
“Excepting ours.”
“Which means . . .”
“That as soon as Asencio sees we have started work at Las Tres Lunas, he’ll put them on our trail.”
“And wherever you’ve sniffed out the possibility of finding silver, they’ll be there like a shot.”
The silence grew tense, like a catapult ready to be fired. Andrade was the one who broke it.
“The worst of it is that they’d be acting within the law, because we’ve overrun the time limits on the concession,” he said somberly.
“By a lot.”
“And that means Las Tres Lunas can be declared . . .”
They uttered the two sinister words in unison:
“Abandoned and available.”
In mining terms, this jargon did not bode well, since if within a given time works did not commence, or were suspended for lengthy periods without reasonable grounds, anyone could apply for a fresh concession that allowed them to take possession of the mining site from its previous owners.
“The same as when the King of Spain’s permission was required to install a goddamned winch on royal properties,” muttered Andrade.
Mauro Larrea closed his eyes for a few seconds, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids. In the momentary darkness an image appeared of the eleven folios stamped with the Mining Board Office seal that he had signed and deposited in the archive. In accordance with regulations, they contained his application for an official concession to exploit the abandoned Tres Lunas mine, together with detailed plans of how he would go about it: the exact surface area and the direction in which he proposed to explore, the depth, the shafts he intended to open.
As though reading his thoughts, Andrade’s lips moved silently:
“God help us . . .”
One group of foreigners had already precipitated Larrea into bankruptcy by making off with his machinery. Now, unless he found a quick solution, others were poised to steal his ideas as well as his know-how, his last possibility for redemption if one day the tables turned in his favor.
The two men nodded silently as their eyes met with the same decision floating through their minds. They must at all costs retrieve their application from the archive to prevent it from falling into the hands of Asencio or the English investors. But they would have to be extremely careful not to arouse any suspicions in doing so.
They resumed their conversation that evening when Andrade returned after making a few inquiries. He brought Larrea up to date at the billiard table, where the latter had spent a couple of hours dueling with himself: the only way to calm his demons while he made certain decisions.
“Calleja is away for several weeks on his annual visit to the regional offices.”
Ovidio Calleja, the superintendent of the Mining Board, was an old acquaintance of theirs in the mining business. Years ago, they had clashed with him more than once over boundary lines between mines, shipments of quicksilver, and the like. Calleja never emerged the winner from these encounters, and so, despite the intervening years, Andrade and Larrea were aware that their former adversary still bore them a grudge. They certainly couldn’t expect any favors from him.
Following a spate of unfortunate investments, Calleja had given up mining before finally securing his current post. Although he didn’t command a large salary, a lack of scruples allowed him to gain certain perquisites from the job.
“Perhaps his absence will work in our favor,” Andrade reflected. “If he knew we wanted to retrieve our application, he might make up some excuse to delay giving it back while he had a notary make a copy, or jot down the details to keep for himself.”
“Or to share with anyone who expressed interest.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Andrade, lifting to his lips the half-finished glass of brandy his friend had left on the edge of the table. He didn’t ask Larrea’s permission. He didn’t have to.
Their two minds were working as one. Frantically.
“We could take advantage of his absence to bribe
one of his minions,” said Larrea. “The skinny fellow with the wispy beard, for example, or the one with the tinted spectacles. Request that they discreetly remove our application from the file, entice them with the offer of a choice morsel: a valuable painting, perhaps, or a pair of solid silver candlesticks, or two fine mares, before we’ve sold everything but the clothes on our backs . . .”
Andrade appeared to focus all his attention on replacing the crystal goblet exactly on the moist circle on the mahogany where it had stood moments before.
“Those two clerks you mentioned are the only ones who work for Calleja. He has them trained like a couple of performing monkeys, and they never do anything behind his back. They wouldn’t dare bite the hand that feeds them. Unless you offered them the treasure of Montezuma, which I find highly unlikely, they stand to gain more from remaining loyal to their superior.”
Larrea didn’t need to ask how his agent had come by this information: within the obscure workings of the city’s bureaucracy, it was possible to find out anything if one asked the right questions.
“In any event, let’s wait until tomorrow,” Larrea said finally. “Meanwhile, there’s something else Mariano Asencio told me that I’d like you to know.”
With that, he repeated to Andrade the last piece of advice to issue from the giant’s mouth, adding that he thought this might not be such a bad solution after all.
As was his custom when he observed his friend walking in darkness along the edge of a precipice, Andrade took out his handkerchief and raised it to his brow. He had broken out in a sweat.
Not wishing to betray any urgency, they arrived at the Palacio de Minería that housed the Mining Board Office at around half past eleven the next morning. As if they just happened to be passing the imposing edifice where the archive was kept, or had found an unexpected free moment during their busy schedule. Armed with the usual paper scrolls that were a feature of their trade, together with a folder containing dozens of supposed documents, they appeared self-assured and debonair in their English wool frock coats and freshly pressed ties, each sporting a top hat, which they removed upon entering. The way they had looked when lady luck was still favoring them.