Salvador, on the other hand, was very unlike his father. He was sensitive, and from a young age they scolded him for talking to himself for hours on end, discussing all manner of subjects. He too was a good son but, for his father’s taste, he was too much like Refugio. He didn’t have the sense of responsibility that seemed to exude from Joaquín’s every pore. He only spoke when he was directly asked something, not out of shyness but because he preferred thinking to himself. He never missed a detail, but others didn’t seem aware of his quick wit. They thought, perhaps, he had his head in the clouds, dreaming impossible dreams, forever waiting for a distant future. Like his brother, he also received military training. That was the family custom, and he never showed any interest in doing anything else. Had they asked him, he might have said he wanted to be an architect, an engineer, or an artist, because to him, happiness consisted of building; anyone could destroy. He proved to be a good soldier with little inclination to show off. Medals did not excite him as they did Joaquín, whose uniform was covered in them. On occasion, Salvador had seen a tear in his brother’s eyes while he polished them. For him, the only decorations that were worth anything were ones made of flesh: he treasured scars, whether he made them or they were the ones that marked him. He struggled to see an enemy in the young men who fought against him. Being a soldier was the most difficult exercise in discipline he faced each day. He believed the best battle was one that remained unfought. He would sooner negotiate peace than win a war, and yet, every morning, he put on his uniform, commended himself to the Virgin, and prayed he wouldn’t have to kill anyone this day or the next. Still, he brandished his bayonet mercilessly, like a gladiator in the Roman circus. To kill or to die, that was his struggle. He never admitted it. Never. It was something he kept to himself.
Nevertheless, Vicente knew it. He knew them both perfectly. He had watched them grow up; he had seen them ripen until they fell from the tree. He knew their hearts and their fears with the skill of a psychic. He had seen them suffer, and though he had wished he could intervene to ease their burden, he had never allowed himself to do so. His way of being a good father was to teach his sons to accept failure as well as victory, to overcome the intoxication of success, allowing them to cry in peace. He kept his distance, watching them discreetly, taking pride in their triumphs as well as their defeats, because he knew in his flesh—in his own leg—the immense value of falls that force one to stand back up again. He never hugged them or showed affection, but sometimes gave them a pat on the back and a lesson in life in the hope that he had said something that would stay with them forever. Yes, he knew them well, though they thought he didn’t understand them at all.
He knew who to send, why, and what for.
He summoned them to his study, closed the door, and gave them the news.
There were reproaches. Questions. Accusations. Tempers flared, and the brothers began to air the dirty laundry they had kept locked up until that moment. Vicente, fed up with the foolishness, thumped his stick against the floor so hard the ivory handle almost came off.
“I do not have to explain my decision. It will be obeyed, and that’s that!”
Joaquín left the study certain his father had just made a terrible mistake.
Salvador would go to Miramare.
20
1863, Belgium
Getting the letter of recommendation from Mr. Walton proved to be more than a headache for Philippe. It hadn’t been easy to persuade the man that he truly wanted to join the empress’s regiment in Mexico. When he brought it up, Mr. Walton thought the boy was joking and laughed so hard he had a coughing fit. Philippe offered him a glass of water. As soon as he could speak, the first thing Mr. Walton said was “Good one! The carpenter’s apprentice turned soldier. A soldier for the empress, no less! Lad, if you’re trying to kill me with laughter, you’re doing a good job . . .”
Philippe was accustomed to his master’s rude remarks, but this was a whole new humiliation. Mr. Walton had yelled at him, and scolded him, but he’d never laughed in his face because of a request made in all seriousness.
“I’m being serious,” said Philippe. “I need you to write me a letter of recommendation. I’ll take care of everything else.”
“What’re you talking about, lad? Have you completely lost your mind? Open your eyes. Why do you think this offer is so good? Land, wages, military rank . . . They don’t care if they’re sending a trained soldier or a beggar. They need cannon fodder, lad . . .”
But Philippe wasn’t listening. From the moment he’d read the advertisement, his heart had dreamed of adventure. He imagined what it would be like to live so far away from everything he’d known until now. In fact, he’d never really emerged from the damp cave that terrified him so much as a child. If he’d been waiting for a turning point, this was it; this was his moment to let go of doubt and free himself. This was his opportunity to find out what he was made of, and nothing would please him more than dying in the attempt.
Mr. Walton continued his argument. “Plague, fever, vomiting . . . Civilization hasn’t reached there yet, lad. Let these delusions of colonial grandeur go and get to work; it’s getting late.”
Philippe realized the letter would be harder to get than he’d first thought. He hadn’t imagined that Mr. Walton wouldn’t let him leave. Since he’d moved there, he had always felt like a burden, a nuisance. When Arthur found homes for his siblings, scattering them like seeds on a field, Philippe was the last one settled. He didn’t feel comfortable anywhere, and fled each house, until one day he arrived at Walton’s carpentry workshop. He marveled at the things he saw there. The workshop’s specialty was figureheads, so when he walked in, he immediately encountered a mermaid’s bare breasts right in front of him, her hair blowing in the wind. Philippe stood spellbound when he suddenly heard a mammoth’s footsteps. A fat man emerged from the room at the back, swaying from side to side as he walked, so corpulent that he reminded Philippe of the strong man on the circus posters: his thick moustache joined up with his sideburns, and his hands could have destroyed an apple with a single squeeze. He brayed when he breathed, no doubt because of the gigantic belly that prevented him from seeing his feet. When he approached, Philippe unconsciously retreated.
“Open your mouth,” the man ordered without even asking his name.
“Why?” Philippe asked.
“You open it, lad, unless you want me to open it with this!” He gestured at some kind of pincers on the table.
Philippe timidly opened his mouth. Walton squeezed his cheeks together with fingers like sausages and inspected his teeth.
“Good,” he finally said. “You can stay.”
That was it. A superficial inspection of his teeth, and nothing else. Not even a welcome, or a formal introduction, or a pat on the back. That was how, amid teeth and varnish, Walton entered his life.
He grew up under the guidance of this man of few words, something Philippe was grateful for at first. The silence gradually made them accomplices in its own way. They carved together from morning until night and, after a job well done, Walton contemplated the piece with satisfaction for a while. He said nothing and never praised Philippe; his way of doing so was to entrust him with new pieces and better wood. They learned to understand each other without crossing the boundary that would lead to friendship: Walton erected a barrier between them that he never took down, and Philippe never did anything to overcome it. It was their status quo. Little by little, they grew accustomed to one another’s presence. Over time, Walton taught Philippe marquetry, carving, turning, and inlay, and he started to feel at home creating wonders from pieces of wood. Despite the silence and bad manners, it was a refuge where Philippe grew up without fear of the cold winters, and learned to embrace the solitude of his trade. When he created something, he felt less lonely, though he sometimes wished he could talk to someone about hopes and dreams that extended beyond the workshop’s four walls. But this was his life and this was how he’d learned to live it.
After his proposal to leave for Mexico was met with mockery, he carried on working without saying a word. Mr. Walton didn’t realize that in that sea of silence there was anything but calm. Philippe’s mind churned: if Walton was the only obstacle between him and his future, he’d have to do something about it. He started plotting. He needed to find his master’s weak point. Don’t we all have one? he thought. Something that would enable him to torment Walton, if necessary, until he extracted the damned letter from him. For the first time he recognized that he knew nothing about the man. He wondered whether he’d ever been in love, why he lived alone, and, most of all, why he’d taken Philippe into the mausoleum of his solitude.
Walton didn’t allow Philippe into the room at the back under any circumstances, not even to clean or get materials. Sometimes, when he ran out of paint, Philippe had been forced to contrive a way to color some varnish in order to finish painting a figurehead’s Phrygian hat, because Mr. Walton wouldn’t give him the key to the storeroom. He rationed all the materials. Whenever Philippe asked for something, Walton replied, What do you need it for? He had to justify every last drop used in a job. And God forbid the accounts didn’t balance one day; he would be made to pay for it with extra hours or missing dinner. So it was clear Walton was hiding something in there. Philippe had to find out what.
For a month, he saved every cent Walton gave him. He reduced his consumption of food so much that he lost a few pounds. But he needed as much money as possible: he had to be able to afford the most extravagant of nights for his master. After a great deal of effort and sacrifice, it was finally time. Philippe woke at the crack of dawn, as ever, went down to the kitchen to make tea, as ever, and waited, as ever, for Mr. Walton to yell from upstairs to put the kettle on. But when Walton came down, he didn’t find himself alone as he usually did: Philippe was waiting for him.
“Good morning,” he said politely.
Walton frowned and, puzzled, he sniffed hard.
“What’re you doing here gawping, lad? Get to work, it’s getting late.”
“Yes, right away, sir. It’s just, I was wondering . . . do you know what day it is today?”
“Today? Today’s Wednesday, lad.”
“Yes, yes, Wednesday. But do you know what we’re celebrating today?”
Walton put his hands on his hips. The conversation was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable.
“The only thing we’re going to celebrate is me giving you a couple of slaps if you don’t get to work!”
“It’s ten years today since you took me in, sir.”
Walton sighed. He seemed to be counting.
“And?”
“Well, I was wondering if I could buy you a beer after work.”
Walton crossed his arms.
“A beer?”
“If I may, sir, as a token of my appreciation.”
“Hmmm. Maybe. Finish your work. Then we’ll see.”
And that was the end of the most intimate conversation they had had in a long time. Philippe had tossed the coin into the air; now all he had to do was see if it was heads or tails. And it landed on the right side. After work, Walton, who seemed to have been reflecting all afternoon, stood and gestured at him, and then Philippe knew it was only a matter of how much beer the man could hold, which judging by his size could be a lot.
The biggest problem Philippe had that night was carrying Mr. Walton’s dead weight up the stairs. The man weighed more than a sea lion, and the poor lad had to drag him by the feet to his bed. It took him several hours to transport the immense body, unconscious from drink, from the tavern to the house, and on the way, Walton took several bumps to the head.
He’s going to kill me when he wakes up, thought Philippe.
But everything had gone according to plan. For a moment, he’d been worried the alcohol would never take effect. And Walton drank as if he had a hollow leg! But just when Philippe thought he was going to have to spend another month saving even more, Walton broke down in tears and began telling him that he loved him like a son.
Job done, thought Philippe, and then he let the situation unravel by itself.
By the time he got the man into bed, Philippe was soaked in sweat. He sat on the steps to catch his breath and held his hand to his jacket pocket, feeling for the object inside. In the background he could hear Walton snoring.
“Poor man,” Philippe said. “Tomorrow he’ll have a headache the size of a cathedral.”
He didn’t want to tempt fate, and, after regaining his breath, he ran to the back room of the workshop and searched the closely guarded drawers in Walton’s desk.
It turned out that his master was as solitary a man inside as he was on the outside: Philippe found no clues about his past. What he did find was something interesting about his present; Walton, as cantankerous and stingy as he was, had two sets of accounts. Two ledgers. He paid no taxes.
“Well, well . . . ,” Philippe said through gritted teeth. “So that’s it.” Walton was boring even when it came to the secrets he kept.
And to think he kept Philippe almost on bread and water while he hoarded every penny! He was grateful he’d not grown up unprotected and that he’d learned a trade, but Philippe suddenly felt furious. He’d given his life to a miserly man who would be buried with a heap of coins, who couldn’t even show affection to the person who had made him tea every morning for the last ten years. Any remorse, any doubt that remained in his heart, vanished.
He took the ledgers and shut himself in his room.
Walton’s bellows the next morning preceded the cock’s crow: he woke feeling as if an army of elephants were marching in his head. With difficulty, he went down to the kitchen and sat in one of the chairs, resting the weight of his head on his forearms. Philippe was waiting for him in the half-light.
“I’m going,” the young man told him.
“Yes, go, go. Get to work, it’s getting late.”
“No. I’m leaving. Forever.”
With some effort, Walton looked up. He narrowed his eyes. “What did you say, lad?”
“I’m going. I’m going to volunteer for the Belgian regiment in Mexico.”
Walton let his head drop again. “Don’t be a fool, lad. You can’t go.”
Philippe’s only answer was to slide a letter of recommendation that he had written himself across the table, attesting to his excellent character.
“Sign it and I’m gone.”
“I’m not signing anything!” Walton yelled, thumping the table with his fist.
“Sign it or I’ll tell them about your books.”
“What books?”
“These ones!” It was then Walton saw that Philippe was holding two large red ledgers.
Defying the pain in his body, Walton stood and lunged, but Philippe, with quick reflexes, backed out of the way. The long table separated them. Walton began to cough.
“Let me go. Sign the letter, and I’ll leave forever. No one will ever find out about your fraud.”
“How do I know you won’t blabber?”
“Look . . . all I want is to get out of here. Go far away. I don’t care what you do with your life or your money. Just sign the letter and you’ll never hear from me again.”
Walton slumped back into his chair, which strained under the sudden weight. All at once, his tone softened. “What’re you going there for, lad? You’ll probably die on the way.”
“And what do you care?”
Walton looked up. He wanted to say, I do care, but he didn’t know how. He reflected that he had never really known how to love someone.
“Help me,” Philippe pleaded.
Walton held the letter. He read it, picked up the pen, and reluctantly signed it.
“You’re out of your mind, lad.”
21
In mid-1863, Salvador Murrieta set off for Trieste with a group of Conservatives. The delegation was made up of ten men, one of them a priest—nicknamed the Doctor for his wisdom—representing the Catholic Church, and th
e rest staunch Conservatives of the finest stock, all with political legacies or heroic deeds under their belts. Several were graduates of the Chapultepec Military School; some, ironically, had defended the homeland from the invading United States forces alongside Los Niños Héroes in 1847. Sitting in the front row, Almonte occupied the position of honor, flanked by a pair of renowned diplomats, accustomed to the pomp of the European courts and well versed both in languages and etiquette. Also present were a French-born general naturalized as a Mexican, a banker, the editor of a monarchist newspaper, the director of the School of Mining, a landowner, the grandson of a judge, and, representing the highborn families of Mexico, Salvador Murrieta. There they were, on the other side of the ocean from Mexico, making a final attempt to rescue an idea of the nation that had been lost. Salvador was trying to look older than he was, dressed in a suit and a black bow tie, but alongside the men with white hair and moustaches, the truth was he stood out more because of his youth than his attire. He didn’t mind being beardless, not anymore, at least. There was a time when he would have felt uncomfortable to be the only man without whiskers at a table like this one. Once, he had tried to let his moustache grow. For weeks, he looked on in desperation as his face, for all his daubing it with oil and shaving with a razor blade, barely produced a soft fuzz. He decided then, more out of resignation than acceptance, that his jaw looked better hairless, and from that moment on he promised himself he’d never envy another man’s beard again. The drawback to his youthful appearance was the condescension with which the other notables treated him, thinking of him as a mere bystander without a voice or a vote, an ornament like the four-armed candelabras on the mosaic table. Behind his back, some said they were uncomfortable with the young Murrieta being imposed on them, but it was unwise for them to argue with Don Vicente if they wanted to keep receiving cheap loans. Salvador pretended he didn’t care, because he didn’t mind remaining silent, provided he had nothing relevant to say, which was the case in Miramare. He knew his father had sent him precisely to keep quiet and watch: he didn’t trust even his own shadow, and had sent him, his youngest son, not to speak his opinion, but to return with a detailed report on everything that happened on the other side of the ocean. As much as Salvador regretted the delegation’s indifference, he’d been sent there as a listener and nothing else.
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