The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  Carlota was touched. She hugged herself, and then with a gesture she sent the embrace to her loyal soldiers.

  Behind the empress, Manuelita del Barrio and Constanza rode in a smaller calash; the former was visibly excited, as if the regiment of Belgian volunteers had arrived to protect her; the latter, astonished to see the number of foreigners willing to cross the ocean and risk their lives for this endeavor. Never in her life, thought Constanza, had she seen so many fools in one place. She was absorbed in her thoughts when a boy ran toward her.

  “The empress sends you this,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. Constanza read a sentence in the empress’s hand:

  Parlez-vous français?

  “What does it say, niña?” Manuelita asked anxiously.

  “I think the empress wants us to practice our French . . . with the Belgians.”

  “What? Let me see.”

  Manuelita read it, too, and they looked at each other without understanding the sovereign’s instruction. They looked out to one side and saw a crowd of men who needed a good bath.

  “If I have to speak French, I’ll do so at the reception this evening, not now . . . Look at the faces on those soldiers!”

  Constanza observed the scene.

  “Fools,” she now said out loud. “A bunch of crazy fools.”

  Manuelita scolded her.

  “Hush, niña. You’re going to get us exiled.”

  The carriage started moving again. Constanza looked at the crowd of men as they passed. Many of them had the same look of bewilderment she had. Then, for no apparent reason, her eyes fixed on one of them. Many years later, when fate turned against her, she had time to reproach herself for noticing him and no one else. But it wasn’t just anyone: it was him. And once she saw him in the middle of the crowd, she couldn’t look anywhere else. She watched him for a long time, hypnotized, memorizing his face as if she knew that the man she was looking at would change her destiny. He must have felt the force of her gaze, because he made eye contact with her. They looked at each other for an instant, no longer. But Constanza quickly looked away, embarrassed.

  “Why, niña . . . you’ve gone bright red!”

  Constanza held her hands to her cheeks. She was burning.

  “Seems to me you just fell in love.”

  “Ay, Manuelita, the things you say.”

  For the rest of the journey she didn’t interrupt Manuelita once, who, incapable of being quiet, gave her opinion on everything she saw. But Constanza wasn’t listening: she wanted to examine the new feeling, something between nervousness and impatience, that fluttered in her soul. She needed to see him again. To see that soldier again.

  In the evening, clean and wearing their dress uniforms, the French soldiers in Mexico fêted Carlota’s Belgians, as they’d begun to call them, with a reception held at the Palacio de Minería. Constanza knew she would see her soldier, so she went to great lengths with her appearance. The other ladies of the court noticed her new enthusiasm.

  “You can stop primping yourself now, niña, or you’ll outshine the empress.”

  “Ladies!” she replied jovially, aware that, sure enough, there was little she could do to look better.

  She felt ridiculous. The chances she would speak to him were negligible. She didn’t even know his name, and if she did, it would be of little use. Still, something pulsed inside her, a new hope. Before going to the reception, she took a deep breath and pinched her cheeks.

  When the men arrived at the Palacio de Minería, not a single soldier or officer didn’t marvel at it. Many of them had thought they would find only Aztec temples, but they were received in a building whose stairways were on a par with those of any royal hall in Bruges. The central courtyard appeared dignified amid the flowers and ostentation of the royal ceremony. Many of the soldiers had never seen such a building before; most of them were strangers to wealth, and before embarking, their only concern had been to put food on the table. All of a sudden, here they were amid royalty in an elegant reception, admiring the grandeur that they’d only ever heard about in conversation.

  Albert from Brussels was one such soldier. His father was a butcher, and for as long as he could remember, his life had consisted of slitting throats and dismembering cows. He knew how to use a knife, but he’d never driven one into any being with fewer than four legs. He preferred animals to people, especially when he felt out of place, as he did that evening. Philippe could sense his discomfort from the other side of the courtyard. He approached him and, handing him a glass of punch, said, “Hold it together, lad. It’s not just about who you are, but also who you appear to be.”

  Albert took the glass, grateful.

  “Appear?”

  “Being worthy of the uniform, lad. It doesn’t matter where you come from; what matters is where you go.”

  Before he had a chance to respond, the sovereigns appeared with their retinue. Constanza scanned the crowd from a prudent distance.

  From the moment he’d seen the empress, Philippe couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was the reason for his journey, not the emperor, or Van der Smissen, or Bazaine. Her. He watched her closely, as if anticipating her movements. Even knowing she would never notice a poor carpenter from Antwerp, he felt drawn to this woman. He observed every detail. Her skin was pale, almost translucent; Philippe could’ve sworn the sunlight had never touched it. She wore white silk embroidered with gold, and a crimson velvet cloak, also embroidered in gold, protected her from the cold of the night. Her slender neck sparkled with a necklace of diamonds and two strings of pearls that—Philippe thought—were a little distracting, and on her head, she wore an imperial diadem. Accustomed to the noble simplicity of wood, Philippe realized the only adornments he knew were varnish and oil. How distant he was from her. How remote, and yet, they were united by the invisible bonds of fate.

  Constanza spent the entire evening searching for her soldier’s face, but with all of them dressed in the same uniform and their hair waxed, she didn’t recognize him. Where are you? Where are you? she said to herself as she searched for him. Her mood began to darken when, as the night wore on, she still hadn’t seen him. And Manuelita didn’t leave her alone for a second, chattering like a cockatoo. She was in her element, mixing with the cream of Mexican high society, who suddenly acted as if they’d worn a crown from the cradle. Many of them spoke other languages and, out of courtesy to the newcomers, Spanish was rarely heard.

  “Practice your French, niña. Empress’s orders.”

  Constanza gave her a forced smile and, after wasting some time with a merci here and an enchantée there, she carried on her search. She greeted people politely as she escorted Carlota, putting on a façade like when, as a young girl, she’d said rosaries with Clotilde, while really, she was thinking of Baudelaire poetry she’d read the night before.

  The evening came to an end. It was late, and everyone returned to their lodgings. At Chapultepec, Constanza removed her makeup with disappointment in her heart and fury in her head. That’s what she got for being a dreamer, she told herself, and she promised that from then on, while at the palace, she would stop distracting herself with matters unrelated to the mission her mother had entrusted to her: nothing less than to spy on the empress. While she unknotted the braids gathered at the back of her head, she chided herself for being so foolish and missing what was in front of her because she was searching for a rankless soldier. She was rubbing shoulders with the grandees who’d come to usurp Mexico’s sovereignty. Who had the empress been with? Who was the Belgian colonel she’d spoken with for so long? Who was the blue-eyed man, wide as a wardrobe, who hadn’t left the empress’s side for one second?

  You stupid, stupid girl, she said to herself as she removed the red from her lips roughly.

  In the center of the city, the soldiers were divided into groups of a hundred. Without sufficient barracks, some were lodged in houses. Hearing this, some welcomed the news: they preferred the comfort of a house, modest as it might be, to the c
oldness of military accommodation. However, they soon discovered there was little difference between the two. The large building Philippe’s group was assigned was an enormous hall with high ceilings in which pigeons had found the perfect refuge; the floor underneath was covered in a thick layer of white and green. There was no furniture or beds; it was a dovecote.

  “Where will we sleep?” Albert asked.

  “We’ll have to lie on those planks,” Philippe replied.

  Albert made a face.

  “It’s that or the floor,” Philippe said as he grabbed one.

  “How is it you never lose heart?”

  “I’ve slept in worse places,” Philippe replied. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

  Albert obeyed, unaware that his words had stirred up memories of caves, fear, and loneliness.

  The next morning, most of the men awoke covered in mosquito bites, so many they feared they might be infected with some strange disease. The lumps were the size of five-centavo coins and strawberry red. While the mosquitoes seemed to have ignored Philippe, Albert woke up inflamed from the itching.

  “I’m going to die, I’m going to die because of these infernal bugs!” he said while he scratched.

  “You’re not going to die, Albert. It’s just a few bites.”

  “Easy for you to say. Look at you! Why didn’t they bite you?”

  “Let me see,” said Philippe, taking a closer look. Sure enough, the allergic reaction had left Albert with burning arms.

  “Damned sweet blood . . . My father always said that. But the mosquitoes here don’t just bite; they feast! Is it serious? Do I have a fever?”

  “Will you calm down? You haven’t come this far to die from a mosquito bite, you hear?”

  And Albert nodded like a small child, distressed at the prospect of dying, however it happened.

  He wasn’t the only one unhappy with the situation. There were complaints all around: They’re going to starve us to death. We can’t sleep on the floor. If I’d known how bad it was, I’d have stayed in Belgium. Their plaintive voices made the atmosphere ever hotter. The officers struggled to maintain order among so many novice soldiers. Philippe, who was a man of few words, except for the occasional conversations he had with Albert, preferred to just listen. He dressed and, waiting for instructions that didn’t seem forthcoming through all the cursing, took an apple and went out for some air. He was surprised to find himself looking at a figure on horseback accompanied by an imperial carriage: without warning, the empress had decided to visit her men. He didn’t know it then, but Carlota went riding every morning; she was an excellent horsewoman. And though she preferred to go alone, in Mexico she was always escorted; for her safety, they told her. Philippe held his breath, not daring to move a muscle. Unlike the night before, she was wearing neither a diadem nor gold-embroidered dress. Philippe thought she looked better this way. When he saw her move toward him, he stood to attention.

  “What’s your name?” she asked as if she had found a frightened child.

  “Philippe, Your Majesty. Philippe Petit.”

  Carlota smiled. “Well, Philippe, you’re not so petit.”

  He kept a straight face. He was unsure if he should smile.

  “Where are you from?”

  “From Antwerp, Your Majesty.”

  “And how was your night?”

  Philippe hesitated. Carlota, with her usual intelligence, anticipated his response.

  “You may speak freely.”

  “Well . . . truth be told, not so good, Your Majesty. We lack supplies, we have no mattresses, and there are many insects.”

  Carlota remembered her own first night in Mexico City: it hadn’t been very promising. She remembered Maximilian sleeping on a billiard table to escape the bedbugs in the mattress. If that was what it had been like for them, she could only imagine what it was like for these poor soldiers.

  “Thank you for your honesty, Philippe Petit. I’ll see to it that your needs are met as soon as possible.”

  And then she rode off, urging her horse into a trot with the carriage following. Those men had volunteered of their own free will to accompany her halfway around the world. And she felt close to them, as if all of them, including her, were suffering the same affliction. She remembered her own arrival clearly. Reaching Mexico City had been torture: the journey through the wooded mountain passes had been harrowing, and on more than one occasion she’d hit her head on the carriage ceiling. The nobles who greeted them ran out of excuses for the poor state of the route.

  “Apologies, Your Majesties; there has been much rain and the roads have broken up. Apologies . . .”

  A pothole. Apologies. Another pothole. Apologies. More potholes. If the empress had been older, she could have ended up with a broken rib. But Carlota still had her hopes and dreams intact; she loved everything about Mexico, it all seemed wonderful to her. And despite everyone’s contrite expressions, the poor state of the roads wasn’t enough to ruin their welcome. The streets, squares, and public buildings were decked out in green, white, red, and with all the flowers in bloom everywhere, Carlota felt as if she were in an immense garden. At night, the balconies of the houses were decorated with little colored lanterns and lights, turning Mexico City into a stretch of sky on earth. Mexico. Glory. Recognition. The chance to transcend history. Nobody knew then that, in Mexico, glory and failure were two sides of the same coin that turned perilously.

  Philippe watched her ride away. Standing there, he waited for her silhouette to disappear like a ship sailing over the horizon. He watched her go and found himself wishing from the depths of his soul that she would turn and look back at him. But it wasn’t she who turned around. A short distance away, holding her breath like Philippe, Constanza watched in a state of paralysis from the carriage that escorted the empress. The soldier. The man whose eyes took her breath away more even than the corset she wore. Her soldier had spoken to the empress.

  34

  September 1866, Italy

  That morning, Carlota ran her hands slowly over the cloth that covered her, then sighed. While the dresses she wore were loose, the bulge at her belly was increasingly obvious. If she wanted to see the pope, she had to do it soon; it was a race against time, and she couldn’t lose. She feared for her safety and was suspicious of everyone. Bombelles’s constant surveillance made her nervous, as did Bohuslavek’s drops diluted in liquids he made her take. Of course, it was to be expected that Napoleon would keep watch on her. It’s what she would do in his place: the enemy must always be watched; it had been thus since Brutus stabbed Caesar. While she was on European soil, her presence was a threat. France was on the cusp of war, and Europe was a powder keg. No doubt Napoleon had found more than one person with a price to make them his spy. She had to hurry.

  The day after the Independence Day celebrations, she decided to set off for Rome overland. During the journey, Mathilde was her refuge, a haven of peace. In her company, her fears disappeared, and she could relax in the simplicity of being a normal person. With her, she didn’t talk about politics, treaties, or agreements. It was only with her that Carlota forgot about her call to reign. But when she was alone, her mind couldn’t stop agonizing over it all. If her audience with Napoleon had been torturous, she could only imagine what it was going to be like pleading with Pius IX. Maximilian had trod on many of the Church’s toes: only a fool would ignore the fact he was a child of the Revolutions of 1848. On arriving in Mexico, more liberal than the Conservatives who’d summoned him to govern, Max had stripped the Church of its assets and prerogatives. He was sympathetic to the reform laws enacted by Juárez, and to add insult to injury, he had decreed freedom of worship. On top of that, his personal physicians and advisers were Jews. Carlota knew that persuading the Holy Father would be no walk in the park.

  When they finally reached Rome, Carlota alighted from the train at the station amid crowds of people gathered on the platform. It was a spectacle; people pushed to see her descend surrounded by a retinue of ser
vants dressed as charros. Cardinals, ministers, and representatives of Italian high society were there to welcome her, and Carlota, while satisfied with the welcome, felt harried by all the people. They struggled to advance through the mass of onlookers who’d come to see the empress pass. Finally they reached the hotel on Via del Corso where they would stay. The entire second floor was hers. In the peace of her room, Carlota opened the balcony doors and smiled. It had been a long time; the view was magnificent. San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, for no obvious reason, reminded her of Puebla’s cathedral. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. In spite of everything, Mexico was always there, latent, in the smells and colors of the old continent.

  A few days later, Pius IX received her at the Vatican. The Holy Father was dressed all in white, and he seemed to shine brightly amid the golds and reds of the papal throne. Carlota threw herself at his feet to kiss his sandals. The pope, with remarkable speed for his seventy-four years, quickly stopped her.

  “Stand up, child,” he ordered as he held out a hand for her to kiss his ring.

  Carlota looked up; she wanted to find something in the old man’s eyes to give her confidence. With all her anxieties, she wanted to find a crack through which hope could appear. They spoke for a long time. She set out her proposals for a concordat, telling heartfelt stories of her far-off land that nobody seemed to care about.

  “Napoleon has abandoned us,” she said, and, mentioning his name, a terrible feeling of dread stirred inside her. She hesitated before speaking the next sentence, but she was in a safe place.

  “I suspect he wants to poison me, Your Holiness.”

  The pope tilted his head to one side.