A couple of years after Constanza was born, the telegraph arrived in Mexico, and Refugio gave birth to Clotilde, a girl as beautiful as she was frail; the slightest exertion brought on unstoppable coughing fits that sent her mother into a panic, still haunted by the specter of infant death. Each night, her mother prayed with fervor, gripping her rosary hard, asking Our Lady of Guadalupe to take care of her beautiful little girl. For Clotilde really was very lovely—much more so than Constanza. She’d been born with black hair—so black it seemed to sparkle with a blue gleam—and though her eyes were green, they seemed gray in a face that was always fixed in a sad countenance. And somewhere between the boys’ stoicism and Clotilde’s weakness, there was Constanza.
As a child she was convinced that women were born for two things: to be mothers or nuns. It was all she had ever seen. Everywhere she looked, she saw women taking orders from men, whether they were husbands, fathers, brothers, priests, or soldiers. The natural fate of women of a certain privileged status, like her, was to serve men and support them in their decisions. To accompany them on the path to glory—their glory, of course. In exchange, women were provided with food and a home, and given plenty of children so they could be selfless mothers to more of the same men. It was prescribed in the Holy Scriptures; she knew it because each night after dinner they read the gospels. Once, Constanza started to read Song of Songs, and before she knew what was happening, hypnotized by the poetic eroticism contained in the onionskin paper, her father dealt her a slap. That night while she unknotted her braid, Refugio whispered something in her ear that became branded with hot iron in her memory: “Don’t ever marry.”
Sometimes, when she saw her mother flipping through Le Bon Ton, Journal des Modes, a magazine full of lace scarves, wide-brimmed hats with feathers, and pearl and diamond accessories; or when she saw her deciding which dress to have sent from Paris or London for a reception in the home of some important military officer, she shook her head and thought she must have misheard. Her mother could never have wished such a thing for her.
One February afternoon when she was ten years old, Refugio told her to get ready to go to Mass.
“Just the two of us?”
“Yes, child. Fetch your gloves.”
Perhaps it was the way she walked, but Constanza sensed they weren’t heading to church. Her pace was quick, nervous, and every now and then her mother turned around to make sure nobody was watching them.
“Mother, what is it?”
“Nothing, child, keep walking.”
She obeyed without saying a word the rest of the way, until they reached a carriage parked on the corner a few blocks from their home, awaiting them.
They arrived somewhere completely unknown to Constanza, in the center of the city. There were a large number of tables arranged in rows, and she thought that they were in a school. Refugio passed through to a room where several clerks were interviewing people: whole families, small children, young couples. Almost no elderly. After they waited half an hour, a gentleman offered them a seat. Refugio remained standing.
“Good afternoon.”
Refugio replied with a nod.
“Name?”
“María del Refugio Salas López.”
“Names of known father and mother?”
“Augusto Salas and Zeneida López.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Marital status?”
“Married.”
“Name of husband?”
“Vicente Murrieta Molina.”
“Children?”
“Five.”
Constanza listened as her mother gave the man each of her brothers’ names, ages, and dates of birth. Bored stiff, she fought to hide her yawns. They’d been there even longer than when she had to go with Clotilde to her piano lessons, and she had to listen to her play the wrong note over and over again. Fed up with the tedium, she wandered off among the desks; everyone there was offering a litany of the names and dates of their lives. She stopped to watch a ladybug fighting to climb out of a glass of water on one of the tables. She looked around but saw no one nearby. She was about to rescue the little creature when suddenly a boy not much older than her came out of nowhere, his cheeks red from the cold and with slight bags under his eyes. Seeing what Constanza was reaching for, he snatched up the glass, reclaiming his possession. To her astonishment he seemed determined to drink a good mouthful. She reached to stop him, but he held the glass out of her grasp—he wasn’t going to share his water with anyone, especially this well-dressed girl with white gloves. He knew her kind and didn’t hold them in high regard. He was moving the glass toward his lips when Constanza, without knowing how or why, heard herself call out, “Stop!” Then she slapped the boy’s hand, and, startled, he dropped the glass and looked as if he wanted to strangle her. Without being able to do anything, Constanza watched the glass fall and smash into pieces on the floor.
“What was that for, you dimwit? That was my water!”
“I’m sorry. There was a bug and—”
“You hit me for that? Stupid runt . . .”
“You would’ve swallowed it if I didn’t!”
“You’re insane! You almost smashed the glass in my mouth!”
A man with eyebrows bushier than his moustache walked heavily toward them, took the boy by an ear, and led him out of the room, saying, “It’s always the same with you! I told you to keep out of trouble, boy!”
He lifted him into the air as easily as Constanza would have removed the ladybug from the glass, given the chance. The boy cried out in pain while he struggled to advance, barely able to balance on the tips of his toes. He didn’t look at Constanza.
She looked around for her mother, but she must have moved on to another room, because she wasn’t there. Far from being frightened, Constanza was glad that her mother hadn’t witnessed the incident—she would’ve given her a good thrashing. Most other girls would have sought the protection of a parent in case someone was coming to pull her by her ear, but Constanza was made of sterner stuff. Instead, she went in search of the little boy; she shouldn’t have behaved so outrageously. Her mother had told her many times: ladies don’t shout or make a fuss—let alone slap down glasses while people are drinking. She felt very stupid, rash, and guilty, as if a man had just been sent to the gallows.
She found him in a little courtyard, sitting on a wicker chair, making circles in the earth with his feet.
“Go away, girl. You only bring trouble,” he said without looking up.
“I came to apologize. I didn’t mean to knock the glass to the floor, or for your papa to give you a scolding.”
“He’s not my papa.”
Constanza was very surprised that someone other than his father had dared treat him like that. In her house, Vicente might take a sandal or even a belt to her brothers, but God help anyone else who dared lay a finger on them.
“So why do you let him treat you like that?”
The boy frowned.
“You’re stupider than I thought.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Not until you accept my apology.”
The boy snorted. “Stupid and silly.”
“Don’t insult me. I just want to go with a clear conscience.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.”
Constanza frowned now. She really didn’t think it should be so hard to obtain his forgiveness. At home that was how everything was resolved: an apology and that was that. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed until, suddenly, for no apparent reason, he looked up at her. Constanza got goose bumps. He was looking at her in a way that made her feel naked. Her discomfort began to outweigh her pride; she was thinking about turning around and getting away from this rude boy, when she heard her mother call her from a window.
“Constanza!”
She turned around, afraid and relieved at the same time. Her mother gestured at her to come right away. Wi
thout saying anything more, she turned and left. That was when she heard his voice.
“Goodbye, Constanza . . . I’ll see you again.”
The hairs on her arms stood on end when she noticed a certain lilt to his voice, something she’d never heard before in anyone. It was not hatred or bravery, it wasn’t even mockery: it was malice.
While a stout woman gripped one of her mother’s thumbs, dipped it in ink, and pressed it against the page where they had recorded all of the information about the Murrieta Salas family, Refugio asked, “What were you talking to that boy about?”
“Nothing.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me his name.”
The woman taking fingerprints, eager to break the routine of stamping fingers on documents, said, “Him? He’s Comonfort’s charge.”
Refugio raised her eyebrows. “He is?”
“Yes, well, don’t tell anyone I told you—I’ll be strung up if they find out. But yes, he was brought in from the streets; he was lost, he hadn’t eaten for a few days, poor thing, and they don’t know where he came from or who his parents were. Nothing. He was brought here, and Sr. Comonfort, when he came to conduct an inspection one day, took him in.”
Constanza had never spoken to a street urchin before. Her life had been sheltered from the poverty and misery of the world; her parents had paid special attention to ensuring it. And, as if by magic, the boy, who minutes before she had wanted to erase from her life forever, suddenly became the most interesting person in the world. Constanza didn’t know who Comonfort was or why the boy had been brought to this place, but she paid no attention to such trivial matters. Refugio, however, was listening carefully, nodding at each word from the woman.
“And what is his name?”
“Modesto . . . Modesto García, I believe.”
Modesto, thought Constanza. What an inappropriate name.
“Done!” the stout woman said, slamming the register shut.
Refugio gave a slight start in her chair, as if someone had clapped in front of her face to wake her from a trance. After a polite thank you, she stood and took Constanza by the arm.
As they left, Refugio took a handkerchief from her bag and—to the complete astonishment of Constanza, who had never seen her mother do anything so vulgar—spat on her handkerchief before scrubbing her finger hard.
“Promise you won’t tell your father we came to the registry.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Promise me, Constanza.”
“I promise,” she said seriously. Then she asked, “What’s the registry?”
“Didn’t you see? It’s where all the births, marriages, and deaths must be recorded from now on. It’s a new law of President Comonfort’s . . . a law I welcome, of course,” she muttered, as if speaking to herself.
Comonfort, thought Constanza.
“The one who took in the boy?”
Refugio stopped after seeing that her finger, while reddened, was clean. She looked at her daughter, who seemed to study her eyes; the girl was searching for something in her, too. They both knew they were thinking many things that wouldn’t be said.
“The same.”
“Mamá . . .”
“Yes, child.”
“Why don’t you want Father to know? Are we doing something wrong?”
Refugio breathed. She never allowed herself to speak ill of her husband to anyone, and she wouldn’t do so now.
“Your father isn’t a bad man, Constanza, but he resists change. He’s always resisted it.”
Refugio adjusted her hat and smoothed her skirt. She took a deep breath, as if she’d just made a declaration of independence with her words.
With an innocence that she was beginning to lose, Constanza asked timidly, “But if you wanted to keep it secret, why did you bring me?”
The woman bent down and looked directly in her eyes.
“Because I want you to see that the world is bigger and more complex than you think, child. Changes are coming and you must know how to recognize them. Don’t ever forget that.” Then, in a low voice, almost a whisper, suppressing a half smile, she added, “There’s another Mexico, Constanza. A freethinking, modern Mexico.”
And she believed her. In part because her mother’s word was law, in part because the image of Modesto, a boy her age who wandered the streets, appeared to her every time she tried to sleep, and in part because after that day came three years of civil war, pitting conservatives against liberals. Her brothers served on the front, Clotilde had to give up her piano lessons, and Vicente stayed home in the capital to conspire against Juárez’s government, which had established its headquarters in Veracruz.
5
1866, on the way to Veracruz
In the carriage, Carlota had time to think to the point of torment. Her mind kept returning to her bitter farewell with Maximilian. As if with premonition, she sensed that their parting embrace in Ayotla, five leagues from the capital, would be their last. Carlota hadn’t wanted to let him go; for the first time in all their years of marriage he felt close, vulnerable, and it had been an effort to separate herself from the warm body she had missed so many nights, as so much love had gone to waste. With the retinue’s eyes on them, she somehow found the strength to slowly pull him from her chest. Then she saw that Maximilian, her Max, the emperor, in front of everyone, was crying.
“Why are you crying? I’m only going for six months,” she said with a smile that got stuck halfway.
Maximilian lowered his head, unable to look her in the eyes. She held his face in both hands and lifted his chin. For a moment, she thought he was going to speak, but he clearly didn’t know what to say. So Carlota spoke.
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I’ll fix this,” she said, and hearing herself, she realized that she was consoling him with a maternal voice, as she so often did. Their nine years of marriage had been long enough for Maximilian to become a kind of child to protect in the hope that, one day, he would spread his wings and fly.
Maximilian’s only response was to nod his head. If he’d wanted to say something, he couldn’t; he just broke into tears, falling to pieces like a defenseless young boy. Unsure how to react, perplexed at his weakness of character, Carlota kissed him on the lips and climbed into the carriage as quickly as she could. She held herself rigid in her seat, straight as a post, not allowing herself to show a hint of weakness.
“Go! At once!” she called to the coachman.
As soon as the horses broke into a walk, Carlota held her face in her hands and, between prayers and vows, cried the tears she hadn’t shed in years. True, the emperor had not been a good husband, but she didn’t feel she had the right to judge him. If it was anyone’s fault that she’d fallen in love with a man more interested in admiring his uniformed reflection in the mirror than lifting her underskirt, it was hers. But she had been very young then and had known very little about life. She had mistaken fragility for sensitivity. How could she have known her beloved Max was more interested in what trees to plant at Miramare than in governing? That he was more concerned with the exuberant vegetation of Mexico, as novel as it was unspoiled, than he was with satisfying his wife? Their marriage had been an endless shared silence, a sea of complicity in which they both pretended not to know what the other was doing, hiding their sins behind a dense veil of duty. She put on a brave face each time Maximilian laughed with Bombelles, the close childhood friend from whom he was never willingly parted. And she said nothing when his valet, Sebastian Schertzenlechner, a blue-eyed Hungarian tall as a tower, was hired and moved into the palace for the sole purpose of bringing wood for the stoves. Sometimes she watched them. While Maximilian never allowed himself to be careless in her presence, she learned to examine him with the same attention with which her husband looked at his butterfly collection. When Sebastian entered the room to add wood to the fire, Max stopped breathing. Then he coughed. And often, at that precise moment, he would remember he h
ad some unfinished business somewhere else. Sebastian then left the room moments later. Carlota, in her most private thoughts, wished that someone would look at her in the way Maximilian looked at Sebastian. But she and Maximilian had a shared responsibility that they had to fulfill until death. The empire was bigger than them, bigger than their happiness, much bigger than desire. And if martyrdom was the price they had to pay, they would pay it with interest. Together, even if an ocean of betrayal and suspicion separated them. She promised herself she would protect the emperor from everyone.
As they drove off in a cloud of dust, Carlota watched the guards help the emperor into another carriage; Maximilian was weak and sick and no longer bothered to hide his malaise. Carlota hoped he would have a safe journey to Chapultepec, his Miramare in the Valley of Mexico, a peaceful haven with a view of the snowy mountains where he could listen to the mockingbird’s song. While she knew she carried Mexico’s fate on her shoulders, a pain in the pit of her stomach made her aware of another horror. Failing this mission was not an option. She had to be more Carlota than ever. More empress than ever. She could never allow doubt to cloud her judgment. Before she left, Maximilian had asked her to settle all their overseas business and financial affairs. She had to persuade a military expert to return with her to Mexico, though all the high-ranking officers expressed their desire to remain in France. She had to obtain a concordat with the Vatican, a task at which several emissaries had previously failed. And, as if any more pressure were needed, she had promised herself that she would make Vienna return Moctezuma’s headdress to Mexico.
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