The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  Like many others, Albert from Brussels, who’d become if not a friend then a traveling companion, imagined the worst dangers at night: whenever he closed his eyes, he thought snakes would slither over his body or a horde of natives with machetes would leap out to murder them as they slept.

  “These people are peaceful, Albert; they wouldn’t harm a fly.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Have you seen how they look at us?”

  “The same as we look at them.”

  “They’re strange. What race is it they say they are?”

  “Totonacas, tonatacas, something like that.”

  “Their singing gives me the shivers. It’s so mournful.”

  “That’s because we can’t understand what they’re saying.”

  After a pause, in a low voice, Albert said, “I think death visits this country often.”

  Philippe laughed at the lad’s absurd ideas. He was beginning to grow fond of this young adventurer, as frightened as he was; he piqued Philippe’s interest. He must’ve had a very good reason to travel halfway around the world when he was such a coward. Perhaps, Philippe thought, one day he would find out. And after joking with each other for a while from their respective hammocks, Philippe would say to him, “Come on, brave man. The sun will be up soon.”

  On the way to Mexico City they passed through Córdoba.

  “It smells of oranges!” Albert exclaimed, recognizing smells from other lands.

  Sure enough, it smelled of orange and lemon trees and coffee, and they saw missions all over the place. The soldiers observed the various fruits that the landscape revealed to them. Though the doctor warned them against eating too much in hot lands, they’d decided they would only pay attention to him if they got sick, so they freely picked the oranges they found along the way, and they were juicy and sweet. Philippe and Albert reached an expansive area with trees that bore fruit resembling elongated yellow potatoes.

  “What’s this?” they asked the young Mexican who was still with them.

  “Bananas. You don’t know bananas?” And the boy, astonished at the soldiers’ ignorance, showed them how they were eaten.

  They reached a convent, where they were lodged, while families sympathetic to the empire billeted the officers in their houses. Benito Juárez, Mexico’s president, had issued a decree: anyone helping the invaders would be shot for betraying their country; even remaining in the occupied territories and acting in any capacity to assist the enemy would be considered high treason. However, there were still those who truly believed that the French and Belgians were coming to help, and since Bazaine had cornered Juárez in El Paso del Norte, his threats seemed remote, so they opened their doors as hospitably as they could.

  There the soldiers lived for a bit alongside the locals. The houses were humble, without the comforts of most European inns. Language was the biggest barrier that divided them, but with interpreters and some Mexicans who’d studied French, they set about boring holes in the walls of the Tower of Babel.

  Philippe and Albert observed everything closely. Their attention was drawn to the way in which the natives showed consideration for their animals: they didn’t even throw the dogs out of the churches, which outraged the senior officers. The natives displayed a special fondness for roosters. On one occasion, the Belgians observed two local men greeting each other; instead of asking after his family, one said to the other, “And your rooster, how is he?”

  Albert looked at Philippe.

  “What strange folk,” he said.

  To which Philippe replied, “I think it’s wonderful.”

  In the evening, the troops requested permission to frequent the establishments that sold a kind of alcohol.

  “What do you call this?” asked one of the soldiers, gesturing at a cloth-covered cask.

  “Pulque,” replied a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair.

  “And is it good?”

  “Very good, señor. They say it’s almost as nourishing as meat. We drink it for bellyache, loss of appetite, weakness . . . new mamas even drink it to bring their milk on.”

  The Belgians didn’t understand much, but didn’t need any translation to understand that this liquid as thick as chocolate could be dangerous. They began drinking with caution, but as the night wore on, there was laughter and wailing in equal measure; some because the pulque had loosened their homesickness, and others because it had loosened their sphincters. The days passed with the men in this state, both the body and the soul deteriorating, until without realizing it, Philippe and his companions reached Puebla, where their compatriots of the Belgian legion welcomed them with their homeland’s national anthem. One by one, each note erased the pains and fears of the journey through Veracruz.

  Mexico City was ever closer. Philippe had never felt farther from home. It was only a few months since they left Saint-Nazaire, but it felt like years. They all seemed to have aged, even Philippe. A blond beard had grown in, and the sun had tanned his face, wrinkling his eyes at the corners. Even Albert’s moustache was beginning to grow. They’d lost weight from the diarrhea they suffered from eating food to which they were unaccustomed. Sometimes, when they reached a victualing point half starved, they were received with tortillas and maguey worms. Famished, they ate the so-called worms with disgust at first, but in the end they developed a taste for what were in fact the caterpillars found clustered at the roots of the maguey plant. The road to the capital was arduous. The land, in comparison with what they had left behind, was barren. Wherever he looked, Philippe saw magueys, prickly pears, and endless cacti. They were told that in the rainy season the vegetation exploded with greenery, but seeing this arid landscape, it was hard to imagine it any other color than brown. They crossed several lakes, the largest ones with dikes that prevented Lake Texcoco, which was very close to the city, from flooding. Philippe noted with horror that if any of the dikes burst, the capital would be submerged, but the people didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they preferred to live without worrying about things that hadn’t happened yet. In time, he would also learn to live in the present.

  28

  When the Novara docked in Veracruz, not a single soul came out to welcome the emperor and empress: Juárez’s threats, which included the promise to execute anyone who offered them water or helped them unload the ship, were etched into the memories of every inhabitant of the port. The laughter that would’ve been heard on the streets days before had subsided as the ship approached the coast; those on the wharf hid as soon as they saw the vessel. Nothing moved. The port was utterly desolate, no sign of life. Nobody came to meet them. A cat knocked over a bucket of waste when it shot off in a panic. Carlota, though full of anxiety, managed to draw a comparison:

  “It looks like Cádiz, if a little more oriental.”

  The court nodded with serious expressions, not daring to comment. Maximilian remained serene, though Carlota knew his restraint masked a layer of sarcasm that could erupt at any moment.

  Without the protocol or the etiquette that Maximilian had so carefully planned, they set off on the torturous journey to Mexico City over impossible roads, mud, and torrential rain that seemed to be telling them to turn around and go back. They traveled in mule-drawn carriages that allowed them to see only the impenetrable foliage. The caravan was vulnerable to attack, and the enemy was scattered throughout the territory, hidden in the shadows. The retinue’s spirits verged on desolation. Nobody dared break the tension, and they merely allowed themselves to be rocked by swaying stagecoaches, which creaked as if they might fall apart at any moment. Maximilian fixed his eyes out the window, contemplating the land of which he was lord, while Carlota tried to remain calm in anticipation of whatever might happen.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Juárez himself attacked us on the road,” she suddenly said, exhausted and uncomfortable from the conditions.

  “Don’t invoke the devil, Charlotte.”

  Their spirits needed a respite, some vision that would make them feel at home.
And that finally appeared in Orizaba, where they were to spend the night because Almonte, imperial regent in the absence of the emperor, was waiting for them there. As if the heavens had shone on them, everything was different there. Carlota peered out through the window, and, marveling at the scenery, she broke into a smile. She looked at Maximilian, searching for her husband’s complicity. He, too, was openmouthed. They were greeted by a snow-topped volcano surrounded by coffee plantations.

  From that moment, hope found a place in both of their silent thoughts. As they progressed, they encountered cedar and fir forests, haciendas with vast crops of sugarcane, maize, coffee, and cocoa, and orchards full of orange trees whose aroma was carried in the wind. The fruit colored the landscape brightly; pomegranates, bananas, and palm trees seemed to dance. Carlota forgot her grievances and began to reconcile herself with her new land. As they traveled farther inland, the threat from Juárez seemed to fade, and there were spontaneous manifestations of joy, with onlookers leaning out of windows to see the monarchs and throw flowers at them. A number of barefooted people dressed in calico elbowed their way through the crowds to greet the young sovereigns. From her seat, Carlota observed them closely.

  “Who are those unfortunates?”

  “Natives, Your Majesty. They work the land.”

  “They work their land?”

  “No, Your Majesty, the land does not belong to them.”

  Carlota frowned. She took the notebook she always carried with her and, in poor handwriting due to the movement of the carriage, she wrote, Protect the needy.

  They finally reached their destination. Exhausted and somewhat bedraggled, they arrived in Mexico City. Carlota sensed that the capital was like a piece of Europe in America. Before long, triumphal arches appeared with the inscription Eternal thanks to Napoleon III, marking the entrance to the Chalco Valley. People waving large hats cheered for the sovereigns. A kind of delirium had seized thousands of Mexican gentry; some cried with emotion as the imperial carriage passed by, parents hugged their children, and many hearts were filled with confidence, including those of the emperor and empress.

  Carlota thought it was wonderful. She rejoiced at the affection the people showed them and the love from those she already called her people, even if some balcony doors slammed shut as the entourage passed. It had been a year since the French army took the capital, forcing Benito Juárez out.

  “It will go well here so long as the French support us,” Carlota said to Max through her smile while she waved at her subjects with the palm of her right hand open.

  29

  From the moment Carlota and Maximilian set eyes on Chapultepec Castle, they decided it would be their official residence. It was an architectural wonder, facing the two volcanoes that guarded the valley like holy beings; the snow on one took the form of a sleeping woman, and beside her, a warrior in love rose up to guard her.

  “It will be my Miravalles,” Maximilian said, and with that he cured his nostalgia for Miramare.

  The National Palace hadn’t been what they’d hoped for an emperor’s residence. The one night they spent there became a nightmarish memory: the cold and bedbugs forced the emperor to lay his regal body on a billiard table, while Carlota tried to sleep in an armchair. After that, they decided they would only use it for official functions. But Chapultepec Castle . . . ah! That was something else. It also needed some maintenance and improvements, but that was trivial for an emperor. He would make the castle his very own Schönbrunn. He quickly employed two hundred builders to refurbish the place at top speed under his instruction, and when the work had progressed sufficiently, Maximilian was thrilled to take charge of the decoration. He decided where to put the tapestries, furniture, and chandeliers that had been sent from Europe; the Sèvres vases, Boulle commodes, and two pianos that Napoleon III had generously gifted took pride of place. The castle was embellished a little more each day thanks to the sovereign, who didn’t allow his wife to participate in the decorating; he and Schertzenlechner alone assumed this role. In his view, his wife didn’t have good taste, and he entrusted nothing to her: she liked gray, austerity, sobriety. Carlota didn’t complain and, since the emperor’s mood depended on his love of art, poetry, and literature, she decided, as always, to channel her energy into politics.

  Carlota did take responsibility for choosing the ladies of her court. Constanza had been living in Chapultepec for a week, after reluctantly moving there with her mother’s blessing and mission and to her father’s pride. Three of his children now, in one way or another, were present in the upper echelons of power. And not just any power, but royal power. Power invested by God the Father.

  “You must earn yourself a place among the ladies of honor,” Vicente had reminded her.

  “Yes, Father, you already told me. The petit service.”

  “That’s right, petit service, not the grand service, Constanza. Anyone can be a lady of the court, but not a lady of honor. Don’t forget.”

  “No, Father,” she replied laconically.

  “And don’t look like that, girl; being part of an empress’s court is a great privilege. Several friends of mine had been hoping their wives would be called upon.”

  “And others preferred to avoid the trouble,” Refugio blurted out from behind. “Did you hear what Don Pedro from Puebla said when they summoned his wife to be a lady of the court?”

  “What did he say?” Constanza asked, her interest suddenly aroused.

  “That his wife couldn’t go, because she who is a queen in her own home can’t be a servant in anyone else’s.”

  The women burst out laughing.

  “Don Pedro speaks nonsense,” Vicente added seriously. “They almost got themselves sent into exile!” he protested to interrupt his daughter and wife’s laughter. “He’s all bark and no bite. His wife is at Chapultepec now, as it should be.”

  Refugio resumed. “And, you know, they named Josefa Varela a lady of the palace? They say she’s a direct descendant of Netzahualcóyotl . . .”

  Now Vicente laughed.

  “She’s certainly the right color!” he replied sardonically, referring to her dark-bronze skin.

  The ladies of the palace had in fact been carefully selected, and only the wives and daughters of important Conservatives and influential politicians were invited, endeavoring not to offend anyone, which was inevitable for those who were left out.

  And so, amid the laughter, Constanza gathered her courage and turned up at the castle, certain her life was about to be turned upside down.

  Carlota’s inspection was like an officer mustering a battalion: she lined the ladies up in a row, and as she passed, each of them curtsied. The empress looked them up and down, asked them to introduce themselves, and then made them take a step forward. Constanza sensed that the empress was in no way weak or delicate; quite the opposite. The smile she gave was anything but sweet. She was serious, dry, and to all appearances hadn’t laughed for a long time.

  “Tell me your name,” she ordered a lady in the row.

  “Manuelita Gutiérrez del Barrio,” the woman promptly replied. “At God’s and at your service, Your Majesty.”

  Carlota felt pride reemerge somewhere in her soul. She liked the way this woman, a complete stranger, had known how to address her; Mexican women, she thought, were by no means out of touch.

  “You shall be a lady of honor, Doña Manuelita,” Carlota said in a Spanish that allowed a suppressed French accent to come through.

  Manuelita bowed her head again. The empress asked the next, “What is your name?”

  “Guadalupe Blanco,” the woman said unceremoniously.

  “And tell me, under which viceroy was the School of Mining built?”

  The room went still. The woman seemed petrified. Test questions? Nobody had been expecting that. Nobody dared break the silence. At last she replied with an almost imperceptible “I don’t know.”

  Carlota looked her in the eyes and said, “Return to the line, please.”


  The woman retreated, bearing the weight of her ignorance on her shoulders.

  She asked each of the women in front of her a question: How old is the cathedral? Who designed the Sagrario’s façade? When was the National Palace built? And to each of the questions, the women, ashamed, replied with an I don’t know. When it was Constanza’s turn, she took a step forward, smiling.

  “Name?”

  “Constanza Murrieta, Your Majesty.”

  “And could you tell me, Constanza, what the name of the most distinguished Mexican of this century is?”

  Constanza opened her eyes wide. She hesitated for a second before answering.

  “Would Your Majesty like a diplomatic reply or the truth?”

  Now Carlota’s eyes grew wide.

  “Honesty will always be appreciated in this court.”

  Constanza swallowed. She was about to say Benito Juárez, but feared such a response would have her banished or, worse still, ruin the plan to become a spy, a scheme that suddenly seemed exquisite. A spy inside the court. She was becoming increasingly attracted to the idea. And so, shrewdly, and thinking on her feet, Constanza lied out loud in the middle of the imperial hall, saying, “His Most Serene Highness Antonio López de Santa Anna, Your Majesty.”

  30

  1866, Paris

  Carlota walked with a firm step, escorted by her finance minister, to her second meeting with Napoleon. Racked with worry, she hadn’t slept for several nights, and when she had finally managed to fall asleep, Napoleon appeared before her like the devil himself. She had received a few letters from Maximilian, and the situation in her beloved Mexico couldn’t have been worse. It was all or nothing, and she wouldn’t accept nothing.

  Walking in, Carlota introduced the minister, saying He knows Mexico’s finances backward and forward, and they sat at a marquetry table. Despite her fragile appearance, it was as if Carlota had an artillery squad hiding in her skirts. Once again, she put Napoleon up against the wall. Once again, she took him into legal territory, with arguments that made Napoleon uncomfortable. Carlota demanded. Napoleon apologized. And the more pressure she applied, the more intimidated he felt. She reminded him of his promises, all of them broken.