The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  His horse scrambled up the precipitous incline, and soon the rain slackened, the light began to clear, and Diego ascended through a last rafter of clouds. He found himself on a broad undulating prairie that swept away to the west beneath an unblemished sky. The great volcano Pico de Orizaba towered above him. This was the high plain of Mexico, and he felt his spirits swell at the breadth of it and the grandeur.

  He rested that night in Orizaba, the following night in Puebla, and then he rode the final leg of his homeward journey, entering Mexico City by the eastern gates. It was dark by the time he arrived, and a celebration was under way. Rockets cracked through the darkness and exploded in streaming bursts of light—in honour, it seemed, of the Austrian’s arrival. He rode past the Metropolitan Cathedral and saw throngs gathered in the vast Zócalo. They were mostly members of the city’s conservative elite, euphoric at having an emperor of their own, a monarch before whom they might kneel and genuflect. He doubted many ordinary folk would share their delight.

  Presently, he crossed paths with a haggard man missing most of his teeth who was stumbling alone at the edge of the crowd. The man told him the new archbishop, Monseñor Pelagio Antonio de Labastida y Dávalos, had that evening celebrated a Te Deum in honour of the Austrian and his wife. As Diego well knew, Labastida had fled into European exile after the liberal victory of 1861, only three years earlier—just as many other conservatives had done. Now, like the other exiles, he had returned with the French occupation in order to assume power again.

  A rocket exploded a few varas away, and his horse shied. Diego thanked the man, reaching down to hand him a couple of coins for his trouble. The man pocketed the money and turned away, but Diego remained where he was, at the edge of the Zócalo. It was likely that the Austrian and his wife and the rest of their party were even now installed in the National Palace, and he wondered whether the man might not appear on a balcony to greet the crowd below. But no doors swung open on the upper floor of the huge, austere building that housed Mexico’s rulers, and no dignitaries appeared to address the gathering. Eventually, the crush of bodies began to thin as countless unconnected knots of people broke loose, drifting away through the darkness.

  Diego guided his horse along the margins of the square. It was the sixteenth of June, in the year 1864. The national government of Benito Juárez had by this time been forced to retreat to Monterrey in the north, where its authority diminished with almost every day that passed. Juárez was an Indian, a pure-bred Zapotec, and Diego had wondered more than once whether it was entirely a coincidence that Mexico should descend to its present miserable state, bankrupt and under foreign occupation, just when an indígena held the presidency, something that had never happened before. Now this Austrian had come, to sign decrees, inspect hospitals, preside at balls, and no doubt issue pardons, all the while protected by a French army of thirty thousand and a stout guard of Austrian hussars. So much for Mexico’s vaunted independence. As for Diego himself, all he had accomplished in his hopes of securing liberty for Baldemar Peralta was to reach a vague understanding with an impecunious and unreliable German prince. Quite a pair they made, Diego Serrano and Benito Juárez. Quite a pair of fools.

  He clicked his tongue and nudged his horse’s flanks with his heels. She broke into a jog, and he guided her in the direction of his lodgings near La Ciudadela. His meeting with Ángela could wait till the following morning. By then, with luck, he’d have worked out what to say.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE NEXT MORNING, Diego rode to the home of Ángela Peralta on the Street of the Sad Indian. He entered the walled premises through the main gate, dismounted, and turned his horse over to a stable hand. It seemed he was not the only visitor. Waiting in the stable yard was a wickerwork carriage, whose driver stood by the wooden shafts whispering to a pair of ponies and fiddling with their leather braces. He glanced up.

  “Señor,” he said.

  Diego touched the brim of his hat, then turned toward the house. At that moment, the main door opened, and a manservant ushered another visitor into the yard—a priest dressed in dark vestments. He was thin, with pallid features that seemed oddly familiar. The two men eyed each other, and several moments passed before Diego realized the truth. It was the Prince of Salm-Salm. Diego was about to say something, but Salm-Salm pressed one hand to his lips, a bid for silence. In the other hand, he held a cigarette.

  “There you are,” he said in a low voice. “Just the man I wanted to see.” He narrowed his eyes. “You look a bit jaune. Yellow fever?”

  “I seem to be recovering,” said Diego. “Why are you—?”

  “Shh. Please.” The prince took him by his arm and led him aside. “You are surprised by my robes, of course. Unfortunately, I can’t explain just now. Later, I’m sure we’ll have a chance to talk.” He stepped back. “You do not look well.”

  “I’ve been better.”

  The prince eyed his cigarette. “Yellow fever—damned unpleasant, I’m told. Max was adamant about our getting to Mexico City on the double, for that very reason. His secretary seems to have come down with an awful dose, poor lad. Anyway, I decided it was better to leave Veracruz at once. Did you, by any means, ah …?”

  “Cover your account?”

  Salm-Salm nodded, exhaling a small cloud of smoke.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m good for it, you know. The next time we meet.”

  “But why are you dressed as—?”

  “Please, please. Discretion first, explanations later. All in good time.” He glanced around, as if fearful of being overheard. “You have come to see Ángela, I take it.”

  “Yes. It was her brother, you see, who—”

  “Of course. The one in prison.”

  “Yes. Did you speak to—?”

  “His Majesty? Not yet. When an opportunity presents itself, I propose to strike. Have no fear. As for Ángela, you will find her somewhat harried—not quite at her ease, I don’t think.”

  Diego hesitated, then frowned. “You know her well? I thought—”

  “Know her? Not a bit. We’ve only just met.”

  “I see.”

  “Care for a cigarette?” The prince tossed his own away and, from somewhere amid the folds of his cassock, he produced a handsome silver case stamped with a monogram—MIM. He noticed Diego looking. “Maximilianus Imperator Mexici,” he said. He lit Diego’s cigarette and then his own, exhaling two thin streams of smoke through his nostrils. “She is very fretful about her brother, to say nothing of her son.”

  “Son?”

  “Yes. Her son.”

  “Ángela has no son. We spoke of this before.” Diego felt his blood rising. He really could not stomach this slander. Who was this man? He advanced a step. “What are you talking about? And why are you dressed like that?”

  “It’s a long story—not one I’ll bore you with now. As for Ángela, I defer to your no doubt wiser judgment.”

  Salm-Salm waved to his driver and hurried through the stable yard toward his borrowed carriage. Diego followed, and the prince rattled on.

  “Max is in a fearful state, you know. They’ve put us up in the National Palace. What a miserable pile of rocks—infested with bedbugs and God knows what other vermin. The women are in torments. We’ve got to find another place of residence, and I’ve been charged with locating an alternative. It’s a sort of test, I think. Max seems to be sizing me up for an important position at court.” He hesitated. “You don’t have any thoughts on the subject, do you?”

  Diego did not.

  “That’s too bad. But think about it, will you? And come by the palace any chance you’ve got. Not the main entrance—you’d never get past the guards. Come to the side. I’ll leave word.” The prince gripped Diego’s only hand in both his own, then climbed into the small cabin of his carriage and poked his head out the window. “And don’t forget what I said about finding a better residence—something large and airy. Please. I beg you.”

  He reached up and rapped
on the carriage ceiling. “Driver!”

  The driver climbed into his seat, took up the reins, and gave them a slap. The ponies gathered the slack in their braces, and the little carriage lurched forward, tottering across the stable yard and out into the street.

  Diego watched it go as he smoked the last of his cigarette. What a strange, slippery fellow. Perhaps Ángela would be able to shed some light on the matter. That would be a relief. He’d rather any topic of conversation that would save him from confronting her with the truth—that his journey to Veracruz had accomplished precisely nothing.

  He turned back toward the house’s entrance. An Indian maid greeted him at the door and guided him inside, into the large salon decorated in crimson paper and oriental tiles. A large grand pianoforte dominated the room, a great sheaf of sheet music spilling across its keyboard and onto the bench. Several wooden cases were piled on the floor near the instrument. Ángela had only recently returned from a lengthy stay in New York City and was still in the turmoil of unpacking. From an interior courtyard, Diego could hear the squawking of guacamayas.

  Several minutes passed before Ángela hurried into the room, a maidservant scrambling after her, still struggling to secure the fasteners at the back of her embroidered beige blouse. Her shining black hair was gathered behind her head, and her eyes shone. She stopped in her tracks.

  “Oh … it’s you.”

  It was apparent from her expression that she had been expecting someone else, someone taller no doubt and possessed of two complete arms.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He clutched his hat in his one hand. As always in Ángela’s presence, he found it nearly impossible to think of what to say. By rights he should have been brimming with good news, news of her brother. She must have sensed something was wrong and waved him over to a nearby sofa. She settled herself upon a carved wooden settee, fidgeting with her hair.

  “You look awful,” she said. “You’ve been ill?”

  He nodded. He was about to speak when a brief but impassioned howl erupted from some other part of the residence. He thought at first that the guacamayas had rediscovered their lungs. Then he heard a second outburst, and he knew it was not the parrots that were responsible for the sound. Somewhere in the house, there resided an infant.

  Ángela flushed and put a hand to her cheek. Her scarlet fingernails flashed against the whiteness of her skin, blood on alabaster. “The maid … she has brought her child from home. The poor thing was ill this morning. Colicky. I am sorry for the trouble.” She begged Diego’s pardon and hurried from the room.

  He settled back in his seat, swallowed, gazed out onto the courtyard. Could it be true what she’d just said? He waited, not knowing what to think. When Ángela returned, her hair seemed dishevelled, and he noticed a fresh patch of dampness on the shoulder of her blouse. Now that he thought about it, it seemed she had increased in weight. She resumed her place on the settee and put a hand to her forehead, as if trying to calm her nerves.

  “About Baldemar …” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I tried, but I just …” His voice trailed away. All he had was excuses. He had fallen ill. He had been robbed. Both setbacks had been real enough, but they seemed absurd and meaningless now. The plain truth was he had failed. “I’m sorry. I just—”

  She waved him off. “No need to explain,” she said. “Father Fischer told me most of it.”

  “Father Fischer?”

  “Yes. He was just here. Surely you met him on his way out. He is close to the Austrian, it seems. He means to help us rescue Baldemar.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes. He said so.”

  “He isn’t a priest, you know.”

  “Of course he is.”

  Diego frowned. “I met him in Veracruz,” he said, stumbling over the words. “He’s a prince, a German prince. I’ve met his wife.”

  “His wife? Nonsense. He’s a priest, come to serve the emperor … that is, I mean, the Austrian.”

  As liberals, both of them flatly opposed the French occupation and neither felt comfortable referring to the Austrian by the title he had chosen.

  “I don’t know,” said Diego. He wanted to tell her to be careful of the man, but his nervousness in her presence prevented him from speaking. What was Salm-Salm up to?

  Ángela was silent for moment, and then her eyes glinted, like mirrors catching the sun. “I have good news,” she said. “I have it on excellent authority that Baldemar is alive.”

  Diego was astonished to hear it and should have said so. Instead, he asked, “Whose authority?”

  She stared at the floor, then shrugged and looked up. Her voice was barely audible. What she said sounded like “Bazaine.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bazaine.” More loudly this time.

  Maréchal Achille Bazaine? Commander of the French forces occupying Mexico—an officer of Napoleon? What business could Ángela be conducting with Bazaine? Diego tried to pose the question, but his voice failed him once more.

  Ángela evidently understood. “He visits me,” she said. “I mean. You know. Not often. On occasion. From time to time. To keep me informed.”

  Both of them were silent, uncomfortably so, until Ángela cleared her throat and spoke again.

  “You know,” she said. “Father Fischer told me that, in the past, this Austrian has observed the custom of hearing petitions. So I wonder whether we shouldn’t try that route. We could go to the National Palace, seek him out, put our case to him directly. It could do no harm. It might succeed.” She looked straight at him. “It has to.”

  Diego frowned, not because he disagreed but because he was angry with himself. Why had he not thought of this? Or why had Salm-Salm not mentioned it to him, rather than to Ángela? Why had he not come armed with solutions, rather than failure and doubts?

  “The bloody palace …” Ángela shook her head. “Dear God, I hate it. I …” She groaned and put a hand to her brow. “What am I saying?”

  “What?”

  “Here we are, overrun by these bloody French. Baldemar, the fool, has got himself tossed into the Martinica, where they’ll kill him if we don’t do something, and here am I, thinking about the National Palace.”

  Diego knew she hated the place. She’d held forth on the subject innumerable times in the past, heaping scorn upon the building, which stood adjacent to the Metropolitan Cathedral in the city’s central plaza, the Zócalo. It was difficult to be sure which she detested more—the palace, the cathedral, or the square itself. She hated all three, mainly for the vastness of their scale. She had said so before. One felt like an insect in their midst. No doubt this had been their builders’ intent—to overwhelm, to intimidate, to make ordinary folk kowtow in the presence of viceroys and bishops.

  Diego saw her point. The cathedral really was a blight—massive, grey, forbidding. He hated it too, but he wondered whether his views had merely been shaped by Ángela’s. As for the National Palace, he could practically quote her words on the subject. That dark pile of rocks. It was too large, too severe in conception, too deprived of light. It was an insult to Mexico—just like everything else in that abominable plaza.

  “They hate it, you know,” he said.

  “Whom do you mean? Hate what?”

  “The National Palace,” said Diego. “The Europeans. They say it’s infested with vermin.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “They want to live somewhere else. The Prince of Salm-Salm told me so. Just now.”

  “The priest, you mean?”

  Diego grimaced. He had no idea what the man was up to. “Anyway, he said they want to be quit of the place.”

  “And go where?”

  “That’s the problem. They have no other plans. Salm-Salm, the priest, whatever he is—he told me he’s been instructed to find another residence. He said it’s urgent. They’re desperate, he said.”

  Ángela frowned and began to stroke her forehead. Suddenly, she brightened. “Di
ego,” she said. “You’re a genius. That’s it.”

  Diego recoiled. A genius? He didn’t know what she meant. What was she saying?

  She shifted forward in her seat, reached out, placed the palm of her hand on his knee. The effect was immediate, like an electric shock. She outlined a plan—his plan, she called it. It was he, after all, who had sparked the idea, or so she said. When she was done, she kept her gaze on him, her eyes shining. What did he think?

  He wasn’t sure what to think. But he said he would try.

  “That’s all I can ask. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, yes.”

  “Good.”

  She stood up, and it was clear that it was time for him to go. He reached for his hat and climbed to his feet. Still he had to gaze up at her, for she stood nearly half a head taller than he. The familiar curbs on his tongue had returned, as they always did, and he took his leave in his customary inarticulate fashion. Outside, a groom led his horse into the stable yard. He climbed onto the mounting post, threw his right leg over the saddle, and gathered the reins in his one hand.

  He rode away, cursing himself for being the same addled fool he’d always been. As for the identity of the sobbing infant, he could contemplate no explanation other than the one Ángela herself had provided. What other explanation could there be?

  CHAPTER 7

  IT RAINED HEAVILY THAT NIGHT. The next morning, the streets in the central part of the city still ran with the dank overflow, and Diego was obliged to choose his way carefully as he proceeded on foot to the National Palace. He intended to make his case to the Austrian in person. But he was not alone.

  An assembly of large, glass-windowed carretelas cluttered the side streets that adjoined the plaza—expensive carriages, the conveyances of the rich. It didn’t take long for Diego to realize why. With their families in tow, the conservative grandees of the city had gathered near the great plaza for much the same reason he had ventured there himself. They hoped to meet the Austrian—and, like him, they had no better plan than to simply show up. But, while he meant to save the life of a friend, they craved a different reward. Diego could readily divine what it was. Over the years, most of them had accumulated sheaves of musty documents attesting to some ancient privilege or other, and each had begun to press his cause almost as soon as the French began their occupation of Mexico City—so far to little avail.