Parlor Games

by Maryka Biaggio

  The palace’s air smelled of grimy chalk, as if its surfaces had absorbed the oils and perspiration of thousands. On the walls, rich-colored paintings depicted Mexican history: warriors of an ancient civilization gathering beneath a stone temple; a landscape of the fledgling Mexico City against a background of misty mountain peaks; a military battle against Spaniards in the city streets; and Mayans harvesting corn and honoring the sun. I strolled the whole rectangle of the building, acclimating myself to the business-like clip of men in light-colored suits, their furtive glances, and the droop of their swarthy mustaches.

  The high-level officials, I reasoned, must occupy the second floor. Mounting the stairs, I reached a hallway of inlaid marble floors with high ceilings supported by arched buttresses. Reddish-brown wood doors separated broad expanses of the halls, suggesting that large or multichambered offices lay behind them. At the end of one of the corridors, four guards stood at attention in front of an unmarked door, perhaps that of President Porfirio Díaz himself. I surveyed the complete rectangle of this floor. Fewer persons walked these halls, and those I did pass studied me with open curiosity. I saw not a single woman on this level. Maybe that would work in my favor—if I could convey the authoritative tone of one who grasped government business dealings, as well as the diplomacy and tact they required.

  I closed the loop of my walk before the door labeled “Secretaría de Recursos José Elvira Pérez.” Spreading my shoulders square and high, I opened the door. A young man in a suit too wide for his sloping shoulders looked up at me, raising his caterpillar-thick eyebrows. The nameplate on his desk read “César López Álvarez.” He leaned forward in his seat, his left hand spread over a document, his right hand gripping a pen. Open wood boxes on the side of his desk brimmed with papers. I assumed the closed door at the rear of the twenty-by-thirty-foot waiting area led to the inner sanctum of the Secretary of Resources.

  “Buenos días, señor, ” I said, striding to his desk.

  Mr. López Álvarez smiled and nodded. “Buenos días, señorita.”

  “¿Usted habla inglés?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  Ah, I thought, one tiny problem solved. “I would like to make an appointment to see Secretary Elvira Pérez.”

  “What is your business, señorita?”

  “The iron-mining contract. I’m Florence Walker, from the United States. A representative of Iron Mountain Mining.” I’d removed my wedding ring and donned a business-style suit for my new identity.

  He reached for a worn notebook and flipped it open. “He is very busy until next week.”

  It was only Tuesday. I doubted I could afford to put this off until the following week. “Not even ten minutes someday this week?”

  “No, señorita.” He hunched a shoulder as if to ease the bad news and tapped the page of the notebook. “He can see you next Tuesday. At noon.”

  “Please do schedule me.” I touched my fingertips to the edge of his desk. “And can you tell me, señor, the best museums to visit in Mexico City?”

  After a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries with Mr. López Álvarez, I hiked back to the hotel. But the altitude left me winded, and I was unable to strike a fast pace or take much delight in the brisk air or cloudless azure sky.

  Once the hallway outside Philip and Saskia’s room emptied, I knocked on their door. No answer. I scribbled a note and pushed it under the door. They can’t have gone far, I thought: They know I was to visit the National Palace this morning. For over an hour, I waited in my room. Although hunger gnawed at me, I dared not leave for fear of missing them. Finally, they rapped on my door.

  I ushered them in, and we settled around the coffee table.

  Saskia, uncharacteristically subdued, patted Philip’s thigh.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  Philip moistened his lips, and his mouth clucked with dryness. “The winner will be made public this Friday. I’ve been outbid.”

  ONE LAST BID

  MEXICO CITY—NOVEMBER 1902

  So much for our plan.” I walked to my hotel-room window and gazed absently down on the avenue. Spare-branched treetops stood inert in the breezeless sky. Beneath their boughs, suited men, perhaps officials from nearby offices, and the occasional woman sauntered along, all of them probably making their way to a midday meal. My stomach rumbled; I smoothed a hand over it. Hungry as I was, I had to think.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Philip and Saskia. They sat side by side on the couch, hunkered over their knees and staring at the floor.

  “All this way,” said Philip. “And for what?”

  Saskia draped her hand over Philip’s shoulder and muttered something in Dutch.

  I strode before them and stood akimbo. “From what little I understand, the Díaz government isn’t above striking back-door deals.”

  Philip looked up at me. Early afternoon’s bright light deepened the creases between his eyebrows and the wrinkles tugging at his mouth. He shook his head. “True, but it is not easy to penetrate their circle.”

  “We mustn’t give up yet.” I’d set out to help Philip with this business matter, and I was determined to succeed.

  Philip leaned back on the couch and looked up at me. “The announcement won’t be made until Friday,” he said, a hint of hopefulness lifting the end of his sentence.

  Saskia allowed herself the glimmer of a smile. “If anyone can solve this problem, it’s May.”

  “I must manage an audience with Secretary Elvira Pérez,” I said. Grabbing my hat from the dresser, I rushed to the door. “If you’ll excuse me, Florence Walker has business to conduct.”

  When I got to the National Palace, I found the door to the Secretary’s office locked. I walked around the second-floor rectangle twice, trying the door each pass. When, on my third go-round, I spotted Mr. López Álvarez unlocking the door, I hurried to let myself in.

  “Señor, do you mind if I wait and see if the Secretary can spare a few minutes?”

  “I doubt he will be available, señorita, but you may stay.”

  I sank onto the red sofa against the wall perpendicular to his desk. Although I wished to strike a friendly note with Mr. López Álvarez, I simply couldn’t summon the energy for conversation. Arranging my skirt comfortably over my knees and legs, my hands on my lap, and my spine flat against the sofa, I endeavored to rest my body and compose my thoughts. Once Mr. López Álvarez’s absorption in his work exceeded his interest in my presence, I even closed my eyes.

  Not an hour later, a man in a sand-beige suit rushed in. He glanced at me as he passed and then greeted Mr. López Álvarez by his first name. After that, they spoke rapidly in Spanish. Although I could not comprehend the content of their brief discussion, I discerned that the visitor, who threw up his hands as he hustled off, left disappointed.

  I looked inquiringly at César.

  “You see,” he said, “not even his son can get in.”

  “His son.” I slanted my head in thoughtfulness. “I believe my associate met him last year. I’ve forgotten his name.”

  “It is Alonso Elvira Alamo.”

  I rose. “Yes, that’s it. I really should convey my regards. If you’ll excuse me.”

  I bolted out of the office and headed down the hall to the stairway, lifting my skirt enough so I could lengthen my stride to a trot. There he was, rounding the corner at the bottom of the stairs.

  I bounded down the steps on the balls of my feet—to keep my heels from clacking on the marble stairs. As he opened the main door, I called out, “Señor Elvira Alamo.”

  He pivoted around. “¿Sí?”

  He stood stock-still, his compact five-seven-ish frame centered in the doorway. Bright light glowed around his head, sun-blinding me to his expression. Had I surprised him? Was he annoyed?

  A million tiny sunbursts sparked before my eyes. My legs wobbled like rubber. Then I fainted.

  Moist fingertips dabbed my cheeks. I fluttered my eyes open to find myself lying on the red couch i
n the Secretary’s office. Mr. Elvira Alamo knelt beside me, spritzing my face with water, and César stood beside him, gazing down on me.

  “Señorita,” said César, “you are well?”

  Mr. Elvira Alamo swiftly withdrew his hand, as if he’d been caught at an uninvited intimacy, and asked, “Shall I get a doctor?”

  His voice, as fluid and sonorous as a cello, calmed me. He fixed his chocolate-brown eyes on me in an expression concentrated with concern. He had an oval face, with a refined brow and gently sloping nose, and his black hair coiled against his skull in a mass of curls—reminiscent of a bust of Apollo. I flushed at the realization that he had carried me here. Lifting myself up on my elbows, I said, “No, no, it’s the altitude, that’s all.”

  Mr. Elvira Alamo rattled some command to César, who rushed out. He offered his hand. “Are you able to sit up?”

  I gripped his smooth, dry palm and righted myself. “Forgive me for inconveniencing you. I’ll be fine.”

  Mr. Elvira Alamo rose from his knees and seated himself beside me. “You have just arrived here?”

  “Yes, late yesterday.” I blinked from dizziness and slouched forward. My limbs tingled with weakness. The spasm in my hollow stomach reminded me: I was voraciously hungry.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Michigan. I’ve come to see your father on business.”

  Mr. Elvira Alamo chuckled. “First you must rest. I will take you to your hotel.”

  César returned with a glass of water. I gulped every drop, relishing its coolness coating my tongue, coursing down my throat, and pooling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Thank you. I needed that.”

  Mr. Elvira Alamo escorted me down the stairs to the street and signaled for a carriage.

  He helped me into the compartment and sat across from me. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Yes, a little. I’ve overexerted myself.”

  “Do you have any traveling companions?”

  I smoothed my thumb over the inside of my bare ring finger, assured by the absence of my wedding ring. And I knew no one could have seen me with Philip and Saskia. “No, I’m here alone.”

  “Then you must allow me to stay with you. Until you are sure you do not need a doctor.”

  “No, really. I don’t want to bother you.”

  “I insist,” he said. “You are a guest in my country.”

  At the moment, I could think of little other than food. “Then, if you would allow me to buy you a meal, I would be grateful for the company.”

  But Mr. Elvira Alamo objected when I requested the bill for our afternoon luncheon, which turned into a relaxed, indulgent affair. “You are in Mexico, señorita. The man pays here. And we are not finished. You must try our special coffee drink, with chocolate.”

  “What a lovely meal,” I said, waving my hand over the table. “The ceviche, the pambazos. Everything.”

  The sun slanted under the eave of our west-facing window, intensifying the ocher reds and yellows of our scraped-clean plates. The satisfaction of a meal much needed and agreeable company to pass it with suffused me.

  Mr. Elvira Alamo looped his arm over the back of his chair. “You were hungry, sí?”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to Mexican cuisine, Mr. Elvira Alamo.”

  “Por favor, you will call me Alonso.”

  “Then I am Florence.”

  “And how long are you visiting, Florence?”

  “At least as long as my business takes. I must meet with your father.”

  “He is not an easy man to see.”

  “I have an appointment next week, but I’d hoped to see him sooner.”

  Alonso planted a finger on his cheek, as if he were concocting a plan. “He will attend a state reception Thursday evening. Would you like to join me?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Alonso’s complexion glowed with an umber burnish, and he smiled with the abandon of a guileless youngster. “Perhaps tomorrow you will permit me to show you around the city? To the places I have told you about?”

  I spent all of Wednesday afternoon sightseeing with Alonso, touring the expansive Zócalo, the Metropolitan Cathedral, and Alameda Park. When he dropped me off at the Gran Hotel in the early-evening hours, I took the elevator to the third floor and waited for an opportunity to knock undetected on Philip and Saskia’s door. This time they were waiting for me.

  Saskia took my hand and whisked me in. “I can’t wait to hear about your day.”

  “Florence, darling.” Philip stood by the couch in a black velvet smoking jacket, a thumb tucked into his red sash belt. He chuckled—I imagined over using my assumed name—and pointed at a bottle of brandy on the coffee table. “Come, have a drink.”

  Saskia and I joined Philip around the coffee table. He poured for us, and I lifted my glass in a toast: “To the next step.”

  Without taking a sip, Saskia lowered her glass to the table. “You’ve had some success?”

  “It’s too soon to use that word. But Alonso has promised to introduce me to his father tomorrow evening.”

  “Does Alonso hold a government post?” Philip asked.

  “He’s a lawyer. And, from what I can gather, an unofficial assistant to his father.”

  Philip rolled his glass between his palms. “Then we should discuss strategy.”

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  By the time we’d reviewed my plan twice, the bottle’s contents had dropped a few inches and I was ready to declare, “Enough, for goodness’ sake. Isn’t there a Dutch version of that expression about beating a dead horse? Or don’t you trust me to think on my feet?” Instead, I said, “I have to tell you about the most thrilling experience I had today.”

  Philip blinked his eyes into focus.

  I set my glass on the table. “Alonso knows the curator of the University of Mexico’s rare-book collection.”

  Saskia, as alert as daybreak, folded her hands on her lap and tilted her head.

  “He showed us a fourteenth-century copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy.”

  “How extraordinary,” said Saskia.

  I held my right hand up, contemplating my fingertips. “I touched a page of the Inferno.”

  “I must keep you by my side,” Alonso said as we walked arm in arm into the National Palace. “All the men here will want to steal you from me.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” I said, pleased I’d packed my maroon gown. It was perfect for the occasion.

  He raised his eyebrows in an is-that-so question.

  I squeezed his arm. “Not that I would want to be stolen from you.”

  The palace’s interior courtyard flickered with fist-thick candles planted on iron pedestals. At the court’s center, blazing firepots arranged beneath canopies provided sanctuary from the chill night air. Waiters in white jackets carried trays of refreshments, handing them off and then glancing away, like shuttlecocks batted from one racket to another. As we waded into the thick of the gathering, Alonso signaled a passing waiter and whisked two drinks off his tray.

  He offered me a glass. “Wine for you?”

  “Please,” I said, accepting the glass and tilting it toward the crowd. “Are these all government officials?”

  “Sí. And their guests.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “A Belgian delegation is visiting.”

  I sipped my wine and surveyed the guests. “On any particular business?”

  “They want to sell steel rails for our National Railroad.”

  “They’re not bidding on the iron mining?”

  “No, they want the rails business.” Alonso steered us toward a table overflowing with hors d’oeuvres.

  I tucked my hand under his arm. “I imagine the bidding is all very confidential.”

  “It depends on who you are.”

  Squeezing his arm, I said, “You’re obviously a man of many hats.”

  Alonso glanced sidelong at me, ar
ching an eyebrow. “Spoken by a woman of mystery.”

  “For the moment,” I said, hunching a shoulder, “I’m a businesswoman.”

  “And you are worried about your company’s bid.”

  “Of course, but I also have other business with your father.”

  Alonso reached for an empanada. “Tomorrow they will announce the winner.”

  “And you say you don’t know much about it.”

  “He is my father.”

  I swung around in front of him and brought my face close to his. “I have some information that may be of interest to him—about the bidding. Do you think you could arrange a private meeting tonight?”

  “For you, I will try,” he said.

  The meeting arranged and the reception winding down, Alonso and I scurried to the Secretary’s office and settled on the couch in the waiting room. The tap, tap, tap of a man’s compact heels sounded in the hallway, the volume of their beat ever increasing until they stopped abruptly. Secretary Elvira Pérez entered. He was short and thickset, with shiny black hair and eyes like those of a lynx—quick and concentrated.

  I stood and extended my hand. “Señor Elvira Pérez. It is an honor to meet you.”

  “Señorita Walker,” he said, giving my hand a delicate squeeze and motioning toward his office. “My pleasure. Please, come in.”

  He opened the door to a spacious office—of perhaps seven hundred square feet—with a rectangular red carpet emblazoned with the government seal, a desk situated two-thirds of the way from the entrance, and oil portraits of distinguished-looking men lining the walls. Secretary Elvira Pérez motioned for Alonso and me to seat ourselves in the thick-armed wooden chairs in front of his desk.

  He eased into the carved high-back chair behind his desk. “You are from Iron Mountain Mining, Señorita Walker?”

  “Yes, sir. As you know, we submitted a bid on the iron contract.”

  “We had many bids. I regret to inform you that yours was not the highest.”

  “Yes, I know.”