The Empress: A novel

by Laura Martínez-Belli

  “To die for the fatherland is to live forever,” he replied, his emotions stirred. He left the presidential office feeling his mission was one of life and death, though it wasn’t his life or his death that, at least for now, would turn the wheel of fortune.

  Modesto arrived at La Chana’s house dressed in civilian clothes, with no trace of his military uniform. He didn’t want anybody to know that a Liberal was visiting a sorceress; it was an absurd precaution, for all manner of people turned to witchcraft and the dark arts to protect themselves from the inevitable: mothers asking for protection for their sons on the front, lovers praying for their men to be widowed so they could take their rightful place, politicians selling part of their soul to be able to gain power.

  And La Chana said the same thing to all of them.

  “There are no shortcuts.”

  But, foolishly, they insisted there were.

  Modesto had known her for years, since, as a boy, he and his friends had gone to her to have their fortunes told. He laughed at the premonitions and then had to take back every word when by divine justice they all came true. Since then, he had visited the curandera from time to time so that she could run a raw egg over his back and cure his envy and curses. The egg always went rotten.

  When he walked into her little room, the smoke made him cough.

  “You’ve become delicate since the last time,” she said as she slapped his back. “So, muchacho, what brings you here?”

  “I need your help, Chana.”

  La Chana fixed her eyes on his.

  “Love or money?”

  “Neither.”

  “Oh, my! You need me to do a job for you?”

  “Something like that. I need a poison.”

  La Chana took a drag of her cigar.

  “Who for?”

  “You know who for.”

  “I’m a witch, not telepathic.”

  Modesto smiled.

  “For someone in court.”

  “I see,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

  “Something that’s discreet, Chana.”

  “That’s how old women kill. Men kill with metal.”

  The two of them fell silent. La Chana was trying to unsettle him, and it was working.

  “I can pay you well.”

  “Blood debts can’t be paid with money, muchacho.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Death is paid for with death.”

  Modesto shifted in his seat.

  “Well, I’m prepared to pay the price.”

  “Watch your words, muchacho. You’re playing with fire.”

  He knew that already, but some hidden part of him suddenly made him have doubts. Make her give you the poison, Modesto. Make her give it to you, then go.

  “Just give me the poison.”

  La Chana asked again.

  “Who’s it for? Him or her?”

  Modesto took a deep breath.

  “For whoever takes it, Chana.”

  “Quite the poisoner you’ve turned out to be, boy.” La Chana crossed him with some branches dipped in black water and said, “I’ll give you the plants. But the blame’s all yours.”

  “Done.”

  So La Chana gave him a little package containing some tolguacha herb.

  “In small doses it causes madness. But if you overdo it, it can kill.”

  “I owe you one, Chana.”

  “It’s not me you owe, muchacho. Not me.”

  He left La Chana’s house with a bag hanging from his belt and a debt on his conscience. He hurried off in search of his contact.

  The spy network had been woven with complete secrecy, and often they didn’t even know the names of their informants; that way, if they were captured or tortured by the Conservatives, they could die without betraying anyone. If they were going to be shot, it would be with their eyes open, as befits the brave. But the time had come to make contact with Salvador. He knew there were people who had infiltrated the palace and could carry out the task he needed. It was time to take the risk.

  The Liberales usually met in secret at a house that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. They played cards and drank aguardiente, and between hands and drinks they filled one another in on what was happening at the palace or the progress that Juárez was making. Modesto remembered his shock when he discovered that Salvador Murrieta, of Conservative stock through and through, was on their side. He’d heard about the Murrietas, but never dared establish any kind of relationship with them, in part because he’d have broken out in hives around such a Conservative family, and in part because the opportunity had never arisen. How would it ever arise, with Modesto inhabiting such different circles? In Mexico, the separation between social classes was like water and oil in a pot, making it possible to live one’s entire life without mixing. And yet, by some twist of fate, the person he had to contact to carry out the mission that Juárez had authorized was Salvador Murrieta. He struggled to accept it at first; he had his reservations and even requested some proof of loyalty. Salvador proved himself above and beyond one day when he saved Modesto from the French bullets by dragging him wounded from a pool of other men’s blood and hiding him in a brothel. For a month, Salvador visited him each day to check on his condition.

  Modesto waited for instructions for their next meeting. Salvador always arranged to meet him in public places—parks, banks—but this time he was surprised to be told that the meeting would be at Chapultepec Castle. Salvador, using who knows what devices, had managed to obtain an invitation for Modesto García one Empress’s Monday.

  It must be a joke, thought Modesto; just thinking about going to the castle and kissing the hands of that bunch of traitors made his stomach turn.

  Seeing him arrive, Salvador Murrieta welcomed him courteously with a military salute. Modesto was surprised by the coolness with which he handled himself, the same quality that had brought him to Miramare a few years before.

  “Are you out of your mind? If they discover us, we’ll be shot,” Modesto whispered to him.

  “Relax, Modesto,” Salvador said. “The best disguise is in plain sight, where everyone can see us. Act natural and nobody will suspect a thing.”

  Modesto glanced at the men in the room: they were dancing in circles, fulfilling the protocol of the European courts. The ladies tried not to faint in their tight corsets, and the soldiers and politicians boasted of their victories to the royal audience. For all intents and purposes, they were minding their own business. Only one man observed Modesto with curiosity: Joaquín, Salvador’s elder brother, was trying to remember where he’d seen him before. Feeling watched, Modesto raised his glass in his direction. Joaquín, disconcerted, raised his, too, and then turned to speak to three gentlemen at the back of the room.

  “Your brother suspects. I hope he doesn’t recognize me . . .”

  “Who would? Everyone here is close to Maximilian. To be here, you need an imperial invitation. They’ll never suspect.”

  Modesto felt extremely uncomfortable; he was unaccustomed to pretending to be someone else. When he disliked somebody, he declared war on them to their face, giving them the reasons for his hostility in no uncertain terms; he wasn’t a spy or a diplomat like Salvador. This was senseless torture. It would be best to leave the castle before it was too late. He was prepared to be arrested, for someone to yell Liberal! in the middle of the room, he was even prepared to be shot from behind, but he wasn’t prepared, after an eternity, to encounter her there.

  “Brother dear, would you do me the honor of the next dance?” said Constanza, who’d rushed over from the other side of the room after seeing him.

  “I didn’t think women could choose their partner,” he said jokingly.

  She hit him gently on the shoulder. They laughed. Salvador knew that, had they been alone, she would have pinched him, for his sister only asked him to dance to pass on information. They suddenly seemed to notice Modesto’s presence.

  “Where are my manners . . . ,” said Salv
ador, noticing that Modesto was watching his sister closely. “Captain Modesto García, this is my sister, Constanza Murrieta, lady of the court of our empress, Carlota of Belgium.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  But before Constanza had raised herself upright after curtsying, it was as if a pitcher of cold water had been thrown over her.

  “Constanza, at last we meet again.”

  “Have we met?”

  “I could swear we have, though it was many years ago.”

  Constanza was sure the captain’s face wasn’t among the many she’d memorized since she’d been at court. Still, she remembered it: there weren’t many like his. Dark, strong, perhaps too strong to be considered attractive, but undoubtedly there was something about him that brought back a memory of another age. Then he smiled, certain he knew who she was, and that she recognized him. How could she forget? He was a man now and not a child, but that wicked smile had featured in her dreams more than a few times.

  “Modesto? Modesto from the civil registry?” she whispered.

  Perplexed, Salvador watched them. How could Constanza know Modesto?

  “That’s me,” he said, bending forward in a bow.

  Constanza looked at her brother in horror: she knew at that moment that Modesto was an infiltrator in the court. A supporter of Comonfort, a spy; a man so close to Juárez that she could see him in his eyes. There, in Chapultepec! Her brother had gone too far.

  “Salvador,” she said. “We must speak.”

  Salvador took his sister’s hand and placed it in Modesto’s.

  “It’s him you must speak to. Why don’t you dance with my sister, Modesto? I’m sure it will be a most worthwhile dance,” he said, winking.

  It was crystal clear. She was one of them.

  The music began to play; Constanza felt her heart race. He took her in his arms. He wasn’t well versed in formal dances, but it wasn’t his lack of practice that made them tense when he rested one of his large hands on her waist.

  “You’ve grown,” he finally said.

  “It was to be expected,” she replied, ill at ease.

  “And look at what you’ve turned into. Quite the little lady.”

  Constanza remained serious, as if dancing with an enemy.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “You can ask Salvador.”

  He smiled, showing a row of extremely white teeth contrasting with the bronze of his skin.

  “What’re you doing in the palace?” she asked.

  “Searching for you. Without knowing it, of course. Since when have you been the empress’s lady?”

  “From the beginning. I’m a Murrieta, remember?”

  They turned and turned in a waltz; Constanza was beginning to feel dizzy.

  “Poor Don Vicente: two Murrietas turning against him . . . Three, if we count your mother.”

  Constanza made eye contact. They spoke without opening their mouths.

  “So?” she asked. “Why’re you here?”

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “We need you to give the empress something to drink.”

  Hearing the we, Constanza knew Modesto wasn’t referring to a handful of people, but to all Mexico. Everyone. It was a heavy burden. The music continued to spin.

  “What kind of something?”

  “Something that will send her back to Europe, or farther.”

  “A poison?” Please, she thought, don’t let it be a poison.

  “Yes,” he declared. “Someone close to her has to administer it, Constanza. It has to be you.”

  The music suddenly stopped, in time with her senses. Constanza turned pale. She didn’t know what had made her so dizzy, the waltz, running into Modesto again—the Modesto of her childhood nightmares, now a man—or hearing that she had to poison Carlota.

  “I need some air.”

  And slowly, holding Modesto’s arm, Constanza headed to one of the grand floor-to-ceiling doors.

  “I don’t know if I can do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not an assassin.”

  Modesto looked at her.

  “We’re at war, Constanza. In war, you kill or you die.”

  “But you’re asking me to do something, something that isn’t . . . I can’t do it.”

  “You must do it for Mexico. Don’t you see how they’ve dressed you up? You look Prussian. Where’s the girl I knew? What happened to that girl who accompanied her mother to the civil registry against her father’s wishes, Constanza? You know that’s the real Mexico, not an empire. Even Iturbide was only emperor for eleven months, and he was Mexican. And this isn’t an empire; it’s a farce . . . It’s just another intervention by a foreign army.”

  “But she’s a good woman. You have to believe me. I’ve seen it. She wants to do things for Mexico.”

  “She’s as guilty as he is. We have to put an end to what they represent.”

  “Lower your voice; you’re going to get us killed,” she ordered, realizing they were just a few yards from the monarchs.

  He seemed to suddenly realize that he wasn’t in Juárez’s office, but in the middle of an imperial ceremony. It all seemed ridiculous, absurd, illogical. Discreetly, Modesto handed her a pouch of herbs.

  “Give it to her gradually and she won’t even notice. Do it for your country.”

  Constanza was petrified.

  Modesto, clicking his heels together in a military salute, kissed her hand and said goodbye, leaving her in a state of utter confusion.

  46

  María Ana Leguizamo never liked her name. Whenever her mother called her from the other side of the field to come help with household chores, María Ana always, always thought she’d been given the ugliest name in the world. With all the beautiful names she could’ve had! She would’ve liked to have been called Xóchitl or Jazmín, the mere mention of which evoked the smell of flowers. As she washed clothes at the river, she recited a string of names, threading them together as if listing the Aztec princes. Albertana. She soaked a shirt. Aurelia. She wrung out the water. Adelaida. She scrubbed it with soap. Abigaíl. She rubbed its elbows and neck against a stone. Alfonsina. She soaked it in the water again. And that was how she spent the hours, imagining infinite possibilities. She usually introduced herself using a false name whenever she had the chance: when she went to buy tortillas, she was Petunia; when she delivered clean clothes to the boss’s house, Azucena; another day she was Solsticio. As if with each name she had the opportunity to be reborn and to reinvent herself. As if each name had the ability to give her part of the life she dreamed of, far from the world of poverty in which she was growing up.

  Though they lived in Cuernavaca, she’d been born in Pachuca, where her mother was from. Even before she was born, her mother decided to change the course of destiny and emigrate, fleeing a cholera epidemic that was killing everyone: babies, children, and adults. When María Ana was only one week old, she wrapped her up, stowed the small amount of money she’d earned by washing clothes in a wafer box, and left the village before dawn, hoping that, if death was to find them, they would be on the road and not in a bed with no mattress.

  It seemed incredible that two such fragile creatures could have survived the disease and the dangers of the road, but Doña Eulalia was as strong as a tree, and where others gave in, she only grew stronger. She had the greatest motivation: her little María Ana, whom she loved from the day she saw her emerge from between her legs, squatting in the middle of a coffee plantation. She hadn’t known she was pregnant until the moment she bore her; she’d felt some discomfort over the months, but her round matron’s body had hardly changed shape with the child growing inside. In her ignorance, she’d thought she must be hungry all the time because of the long treks; eating tortillas with frijoles at all hours, she grew fatter and fatter, and the more she ate, the more hungry she was, because life was a never-ending vicious circle of eating, sleeping, working the land, and more eating. Until, one day, there was a cramp in her
belly, and squatting behind some bushes, to her surprise and good fortune, she pushed out a beautiful little girl. It took her a while to recover from the shock and the pain, and a bit longer for the happiness and uncertainty to set in. But then, with ancestral wisdom, she found strength in her weakness, cut the cord with a sharp stone, and held the babe to her breast so that she could drink her milk. Being without a husband, she knew immediately that the Juarista who’d taken her one night without consent must be the girl’s father. She accepted this truth as the Blessed Virgin Mary must have: with joy and without giving it much thought. She never told her daughter who her father was, nor did the girl ask, accustomed like all the women and girls of her community to living alone and obeying orders. In her village, men weren’t heads of the family but studs that inseminated them and left without looking back. That’s how it had always been; that’s how the animals did it. She’d seen it since she could remember with the livestock, the roosters, the horses. At any rate, why worry about the direction of the wind? The important thing was that her daughter was perfect, healthy, complete. And she was pretty.

  María Ana grew like a wildflower: as dirty or as disheveled as she was, her beauty always stood out among the greenery of the countryside. The sun caressed her every day without burning her skin. Her almond-shaped eyes had a girl’s sweetness and were caramel-colored at the edges, as if an eclipse was about to take place behind the iris. Her hair was so black it seemed to have a blue tint, and her plump mouth was like a summer peach. The years couldn’t have made her more beautiful, but they did make her more voluptuous: when she reached the age of development, her body became a figure eight, and to control the imbalance caused by the development of all her curves, she began to sway with each step. Between her breasts there emerged a little channel down which the sweat ran. When she walked, though she barely noticed it, her breasts quivered, reminding the men who watched her make her way through the market crowd—lustfully—of two full pitchers of water about to spill over.

  One of these men ventured to speak to her one day. He was twice her age, dark, tubby, with a black moustache that allowed no sunlight through, and long eyelashes, but his voice was serene, and he loved his job more than his own mother. His name was Ignacio, and he was a gardener at a house on the outskirts of the village, but on Sundays, his day off, he ran a small flower stall in a street market.