by Oakland Ross
CHAPTER 10
FOR DIEGO’S PLAN to succeed, he had no choice but to recruit Ángela, and so he was obliged to visit her again and make his case. He said nothing of her sham marriage or her infant son. He was unsure which of these two circumstances enraged him more, but he did his best to put them out of his mind. All that was in the past, or so he told himself. He handed his horse off to a stable hand and walked up to the main door. A maidservant ushered him into the main salon. Within several minutes, Ángela appeared.
“Your hand …” she said. “What happened to your hand?”
“A reaction to circumstances.”
It was the response he had settled upon, sufficiently vague it could mean anything at all. Besides, he felt remote from Ángela now. Possibly, it was this distance that freed his tongue. Whatever the reason, he found he could speak with a greater assurance than he could remember ever having experienced in her presence before. He explained his plan to rescue Baldemar. She listened without speaking and, when he was done, she promptly agreed to play her part. She had no better proposals of her own, she said, and Diego’s scheme might even work. It had to.
He looked at her, then at the floor, then at her again, managing somehow to hold her gaze. The pain in his hand still throbbed, and this seemed to balance the other distress he had suffered on her account. He felt clear in his mind. They had one goal: to rescue Baldemar. Before, other factors had always complicated his motives. Now nothing else mattered.
Still, it was a gamble. Everything depended on Ángela’s performance, not during the opera but afterward. As the banner had announced, the production on the opening night at the newly renamed Gran Teatro Imperial was to be La Traviata, and Ángela would play the part of Violetta. But her real performance would come after the curtain had fallen—the performance that would determine Baldemar’s fate. She assured Diego she would prepare herself fully. She would be as ready as it was possible to be. It was all anyone could do.
But much could still go wrong.
The opening night arrived at last, and Diego paced back and forth near the entrance to the theatre, impatient for the evening ahead to be over. If this venture failed, he had no idea what else could be done to save Baldemar. It would be hopeless.
By a quarter past seven, a procession of carriages began to totter up to the entrance. The women alighted from their coaches and paraded forth like walking ornaments, in gowns of silk, sparkling with diamonds. Ostrich plumes fluttered in their hair. The men kept ebony canes tucked beneath their arms and saluted each other with their cigars. French military officers squired the daughters of Mexican society. The archbishop, Monseñor de Labastida y Dávalos, was a study in purple, radiant in his immense vestments and glittering jewels. He clutched a large amethyst cross and scattered vague benedictions as a half-dozen priests struggled to help him negotiate the stairs.
The cream of Mexico had flocked to the theatre and, miraculously, they had managed to arrive on time, a rare feat for Mexicans. But it was the opening night of the opera season, after all. More to the point, the emperor and empress were themselves to preside, providing everyone in attendance with an opportunity to strut and preen and, just maybe, to share a private word with His Majesty on some confidential matter or other. Besides, word had got out that no one would be permitted to enter the theatre after the emperor and empress had arrived, and so punctuality became the watchword, if only for tonight.
Diego spat discreetly onto the ground, a bitter taste in his mouth. He cursed himself, but he couldn’t deny feeling a faint tremor of excitement. Who could explain it? An emperor, an empress—they were just mortal creatures, like anyone else. He knew this to be so. Yet what was he to make of these ripples of anticipation, this gooseflesh, this racing of the blood? He turned and strode into the theatre, along with the rest.
Built in the 1840s, the theatre had been newly rechristened in Their Majesties’ honour, but it remained a troublesome affair, prone to drafts, chilly at night, and poorly lit. Patrons ascended to their boxes by means of dark, narrow stairways that posed a particular challenge for the archbishop and his acolytes.
Still, the audience members all managed to find their seats in good time. Those in private boxes made an ostentatious show of settling themselves, for they were on full display and knew it. The booths were open in front to within inches of the floor, so that the women might more easily show off the grandeur of their dresses, the perfection of their shoes. Meanwhile, in the orchestra pit, the players tuned their instruments in that strange but inevitable ritual of blissfully discordant sound.
At the stroke of eight, the emperor and empress ascended to their box, and a hubbub of excited whispers reverberated through the crowd. Known now by the Spanish versions of their names, Maximiliano and Carlota took their seats, accompanied by a retinue of courtiers and guards. The other patrons craned their necks in order to obtain a better view, some leaning perilously from their balconies. For once, Diego thought, they were more eager to see than be seen.
He, of course, felt nothing but scorn for this entire spectacle, and yet he couldn’t stop watching. Carlota wore a gown of emerald silk, with a diamond-studded tiara and a brooch of jewels in the form of water plants and dew drops. Her tall and angular husband was decked out in the dress uniform of a Mexican general, with an ermine robe draped over his shoulders. Both waved and smiled while exchanging inaudible pleasantries with their companions, a party of nobles that included both Salm-Salm and his ethereal wife.
Diego sat alone in his half-sibling’s box. Neither Eustacio Barron nor his wife was in attendance. Barron was away somewhere, on some pressing international business or other. He had investments in a dozen countries or more.
Soon, a team of ushers filtered through the house extinguishing the candles by means of doubters mounted on long wooden poles. The orchestra began to play the overture. The drop curtain lifted, revealing a salon in the Paris apartment of one Violetta Valéry, who is entertaining a bustle of guests. Diego settled back in his seat, seeking to lose himself in the music and the story, trying not to think of what would come afterward. Let the evening lead where it might. It was too late to change course now.
The performance went passably well, apart from some confusion with props, not to mention a backdrop that failed to settle properly into place. But the cast were excellent, none more so than Ángela. Despite her troubles, and the nervousness she must have been feeling, she seemed to lose herself in the part of Violetta. Despite all that had lately passed between them, Diego could not help admiring her talent, the control and purity of her voice, the authenticity of her bearing on stage.
Even before the final curtain fell, the audience members had surged to their feet. “Bravo!” they cried. “La Peralta! La Peralta!” Many tossed flowers to the stage, and waves of applause rolled across the balconies and over the orchestra pit. The cast were summoned back no fewer than three times before the cheering finally subsided. Only then, after the briefest of pauses, did Ángela make an unscheduled foray back to the stage, alone, unbidden, and with a Mexican flag draped in her arms.
The patrons noticed immediately and stopped in order to see what this was about. Something unusual—that much they could guess. Something unexpected was afoot.
Ángela raised the fabric of Mexico’s three-coloured banner, holding it aloft for several moments before letting the flag settle over her shoulders. She wrapped the material around her breast and took a step forward. Without accompaniment, she began to sing. But the lyrics and melody were not what Diego had expected, not what he and Ángela had rehearsed. They had agreed that she would perform a pair of verses and the chorus of Mexico’s national anthem. Instead, he found himself listening to a sumptuous melody whose lyrics were unfamiliar to him.
If a dove alights at your window, treat it with kindness because it is me. Tell it the stories of your loves, my darling. Crown it with flowers because it is mine.
Diego wasn’t sure he saw the connection between these words and B
aldemar’s plight, except that the song Ángela sang was so clearly an expression of love and not of war. It was also as poignant a melody as he had ever heard, an impression apparently shared by the rest of the audience, for everyone remained in perfect, rapt silence until the final note faded, and Ángela advanced a few more steps toward the edge of the stage. She peered out into the audience until her gaze fell upon the emperor in his box. She addressed him directly, her words meant for him alone. She spoke in what seemed an almost confidential tone, without embellishment or theatrics.
She said that she brought a message on behalf of the great majority of Mexicans—the poor, the landless, the forgotten. Like them, she said, she wanted peace instead of war, life instead of death. She implored the emperor to begin his reign with a gesture of reconciliation. There were many Mexicans who did not subscribe to the doctrine of war or the fetish for inequality and division that blotted their country’s history. They yearned for a Mexico as it ought to be, a land of Equidad en justicia. Deliberately, it seemed, she used the very words the Austrian had chosen as his imperial creed. Then, slowly, she lowered herself to her knees and held her arms above her head, gripping the flag in both hands.
“Free my brother, Baldemar Peralta,” she said. “Free him, and those imprisoned alongside him in the Martinica. Amnesty for all who love Mexico!”
Then, silence.
After several moments, Ángela climbed back to her feet. She took a single step forward, awaiting the Austrian’s response. The emperor did nothing at first. But all eyes were on him, and it was clear he had to make some reply. He had to do something. He slowly rose from his seat. He seemed to tower above the box and above the audience, a lone silhouette in the half-lit house. He really did make a commanding presence, tall and erect, enfolded in his ermine robe, with his light-coloured hair, pale skin, and reddish beard. He looked every inch a monarch. Those watching might have thought that all this had been planned in advance, each word, each gesture. But Diego was sure the emperor had no more warning of Ángela’s petition than anyone else.
Diego clenched his fist. Baldemar’s freedom was so close, he could almost imagine reaching out with his one hand and being able to touch it. Maximiliano had only to speak and the pardon would be granted. A few simple words. Nothing more. A spasm of pain flared through his still-bandaged hand. He winced but made no sound, just held his breath. He mouthed an entreaty to the emperor. Say them. Say the words. Say yes. The strains of Ángela’s voice seemed to echo through the half-darkened house.
But the Austrian was silent. He must have been affected by Ángela’s appeal, for he lifted both his hands and held them out, palms forward, as if preparing to say something. Diego tightened his fist even more, shuddering at the pain. Speak, why don’t you? Speak now.
And now, at last, the Austrian did speak. His voice trembled only a little as his words filled the darkness.
“I, don Maximiliano the First, by the grace of God and will of the people emperor of Mexico, do hereby grant this petition. Let there be peace in the Empire during my reign!”
Immediately, Diego felt a burden lift from his shoulders. So familiar had that weight become that he hadn’t been aware of it, not for weeks. But he was aware of it now—aware, at least, of its sudden absence. He’d been bound by a solemn duty to rescue Baldemar, and at last it was done. The words were out. They could not be taken back.
As for the Austrian, he gazed around the theatre, seemingly perplexed. Seated nearby, Salm-Salm put his face in his hands. His own proposal—the surrender of Ángela’s son in exchange for Baldemar Peralta’s freedom—had been dealt a fatal blow, even if only he and Diego knew of it. For his part, the emperor seemed uncertain what to do. No doubt he had expected the theatre to erupt in cheers, but nothing of the sort occurred. In his heart, Diego half hoped the Austrian’s announcement would be applauded by someone, but he understood that this could not happen, not here, not among these people—conservatives all. If the Austrian had been ruled by his head, he would never have issued this proclamation. But it was just as Salm-Salm had said. The man had acted from the heart, moved by the music and the drama of the moment as much as by the substance of Ángela’s appeal.
As for the audience, they must have been stunned by the man’s words—stunned and horrified. What was this? Their fine new emperor, defending godless liberals? At first, Diego detected only a low muttering, but this was soon followed by coughs and the clearing of throats. Chair legs scraped against wooden floorboards, accompanied by disgruntled whispers, murmurs of disagreement. All this he had expected. But, just then, a single male voice roared above the other sounds, its harsh drunken tones bursting through the gloomy light.
“¡A la chingada!” the voice cried—a Mexican oath, the strongest there is.
A brief silence followed, and then a single gunshot cracked through the theatre. Instinctively, Diego ducked but then almost immediately turned toward the stage, just in time to see Ángela collapsing to the boards. The flag slipped from her hands, and a blossom of crimson began to spread across her white silk blouse. Now the audience did erupt—in shrieks and obscenities, in hundreds of shouting voices and thousands of shouted words.
Diego fought his way toward the stage, but it was nearly impossible to pry open a path through the crush and panic of the crowd. Before long, the drop curtain hurtled down, blocking his view of Ángela’s crumpled body. Fists flew and so did boots, but he kept struggling to find a way to the proscenium. Off to the right, he saw a squadron of hussars muscling their way into the crowd to clear a route out of the theatre for the imperial party. Taller than most of the Mexicans, and armed as well, the Austrian soldiers soon imposed their will. Maximiliano and his entourage hurried from the theatre as quickly as they could. Everyone else continued to jostle, push, and shove, frantic to get out. From somewhere inside the building, Diego could hear the raw bark of a man’s laughter. He recognized the voice, the same laughing voice he’d heard the day of the massacre at Tacubaya—or had he only dreamed it?
He twisted his head and peered up at the orchestra seats, tracking the source of that dark, terrible laugh. Sure enough, it was General Leonardo Márquez, surrounded by his customary retinue of thugs. The Tiger of Tacubaya lounged in his seat, his boots resting on the seat backs in front of him, his military frock coat open in front, his collar askew. He was waving a pistol in the air, and he was laughing.
There was no doubt it was Márquez who had fired the shot. Dozens must have seen him. It was he who had shouted the oath and he who had shot Ángela. Now he was not even bothering to leave the theatre. Conservatives were in power now. He could do as he pleased.
Diego tried to ignore the man’s laughter, but it haunted him—that same guttural sound he had heard five years earlier in Tacubaya, the day he’d lost his arm. Or maybe he only imagined that he could remember that piercing sound. As Baldemar never failed to remind him, he’d been dead drunk at the time.
He struggled through the crowd of theatregoers, desperate to reach the stage. But by the time he got there, all he found was a Mexican flag lying crumpled on the boards beside a large pool of blood. Ángela was gone.
CHAPTER 11
“THE GIRL SURVIVED—AM I RIGHT?” The Austrian eased back the folds of a discoloured lace drape and peered out at the Zócalo. “She suffered no permanent harm?”
“I don’t know,” said Diego. “I haven’t seen her. I don’t know where she is.”
“Oh? I understood you knew her.” He let the curtain fall back into place and turned to look at Diego. “Salm-Salm told me so.”
“He may well have done. I—”
“Your Majesty.”
Diego nodded. “Your Majesty.”
This hardly seemed the time for a lesson in courtly protocol. Diego had received no news of Ángela in the past three days, not since she had collapsed on the stage at the opera. Since then, he had tried to find her by every means he could think of—find her and determine her condition. So far, he had failed. She�
�d been shot, and he was the one responsible. The scheme at the opera had been his idea. But it was she who’d taken the risks. Now here he was, responding to an invitation from the emperor to appear before him, and it seemed even the Austrian knew more about the attack and its aftermath than he did, little though that was. It didn’t help that he was being subjected to a seemingly unnecessary lecture in the niceties of etiquette at court. He realized Maximiliano was still speaking.
“Do not think me picayune,” said the emperor. He strode across the room and settled his tall, spare frame into a high-back chair at a large marble desk. He stroked his beard, keeping his eyes fixed upon his guest. “Empires have fallen for a lack of attention to custom and form. Without order, we are nothing.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The emperor smiled. “At any rate, I am informed that the girl is out of danger. Salm-Salm told me so not an hour ago. I thought you knew.”
Diego reached for his hat and got to his feet. “Where is she now … Your Majesty?”
“In a hospital of some kind. It seems no lasting damage was done. I’d talk to Salm-Salm if I were you. But that is not the reason I have invited you here. Please. Sit down.”
Diego had received the invitation the previous afternoon, delivered to his lodgings with what he now deemed to be the usual pomp—a European carriage, a pair of liverymen, a messenger in a dark frock coat. He had assumed the proposed audience would have something do with Ángela and the events at the opera. He now realized his error, for these subjects seemed to be dealt with only in passing. Before long, it became clear that what Maximiliano really wished to speak of was Chapultepec Castle and his delight in finding so suitable a residence. It reminded him a little of Schönbrunn, he said, explaining that this was the palace where he’d been raised, in Vienna. He said he was deeply in his visitor’s debt, for it was Diego who had proposed Chapultepec. He regarded the building as a testament to his visitor’s sound aesthetic judgment and overall perspicacity.
