by Oakland Ross
“Which one?”
“Ha. That one there. I know all about the other.”
“A reaction to circumstances.”
Baldemar nodded. It seemed to be all the explanation he needed.
Diego paid the account, and the two men walked out into the cool night. They embraced stiffly and parted company. Emaciated and bedraggled, Baldemar limped off into the darkness. Diego watched him go, watched him dwindle into the shadows and then vanish altogether, the way a memory does. He waited a while, then shrugged and turned and walked the other way.
PART TWO
THE PRETTY INDIAN
CHAPTER 13
“DEAR GOD, WHAT DOES the man expect of me?” Maximiliano shuddered in exasperation. “These are not the Dark Ages.”
It was not yet six o’clock in the morning, and Diego had just read aloud a letter from the newly installed archbishop of Mexico City. Monseñor Labastida was insisting upon an audience with His Majesty. There was little doubt what the man wanted—everything the Church had once possessed and only recently lost.
“Why does he keep hectoring me?” Maximiliano worried at his beard, a sure sign of agitation. “There’s nothing to discuss. The separation of church and state is an established principle. Freedom of religion is not a radical idea. Besides, the man’s a reptile.”
Diego laughed. “I always imagine him as an amphibian myself. A toad.”
Now they both laughed.
A month had passed since Diego’s acceptance of the Austrian’s offer of employment at the imperial court. Nothing could have prepared him for the result. He had expected to be banished to some dark cell located far from the emperor’s quarters, where he would transcribe documents, receive dictation, and carry out other mundane duties.
Instead, he was almost always at the Austrian’s side. His counsel was sought on nearly every matter of state that came to the emperor’s attention. This was far beyond anything he could have imagined. Already, he had outstripped even the Prince of Salm-Salm in the emperor’s confidence and was surpassed in influence only by a few of the man’s venerable Austrian confrères. Any of the Mexican ministers at court—a constellation of conniving and genuflecting men—would have sacrificed his firstborn to gain the degree of impact and intimacy that Diego seemed to enjoy as if by right. They all seethed with jealousy and made no effort to disguise the fact. Salm-Salm pretended to take the new arrangement in stride, but it was clear he was furious at being displaced by anyone at all, much less a brown-skinned youth with a roman nose and just one arm.
Nor was that all. Contrary to his own expectations—indeed, contrary to every conviction he possessed—Diego found himself basking in the emperor’s presence. He found he enjoyed the man’s company immensely. Their personalities seemed effortlessly compatible. They laughed at similar coincidences, enjoyed the same sorts of jokes, and even saw eye to eye on matters political. It was a strange and remarkable thing, this bond they had formed. Or maybe that was wrong. Maybe it all made sense. Maybe it was just as Salm-Salm had observed: they were both younger brothers, after all.
In some ways, the finest hours of the day were the earliest hours. Sharp at four o’clock each weekday morning, both men were out of bed and ready to start work. Granted, at the outset, this required some accommodation on Diego’s part. He had to curb his drinking, for one thing—something he managed with far less difficulty than he would have thought. He also had to get to bed much earlier than was his custom. But he prevailed upon himself to adjust.
Each weekday morning, in the deepest hours of the madrugada, he made his way to the emperor’s private quarters, where they laboured together, reading correspondence, drafting replies, and exhaustively discussing the most pressing matters of the day, while Grill, the emperor’s Austrian valet, plied them both with cups of hot chocolate and the sugary Viennese biscuits that Maximiliano adored. No one interrupted them during these long daily sojourns, which extended until seven o’clock in the morning, and undoubtedly it was these marathon sessions that most aroused the ire of those who competed for the emperor’s favour.
Diego loved these early hours. Yes, Maximiliano was a foreigner. Yes, he was a monarch imposed upon Mexico by an occupying power to lead a conservative regime. But the man truly seemed a liberal at heart, and he reviled the stalwarts of the old guard—men such as Labastida and Márquez—as thoroughly as Diego did. His goal, he said, was to unite this divided land, to forge a common cause between conservatives and liberals, and to bring peace through order. As much as he detested conservatives, Diego found that he was coming around to the same way of thinking. The emperor’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on him. Either Mexicans would embrace each other or the country would tear itself apart.
“Even so,” said the emperor, who was still on the subject of the archbishop and his demand for an audience, “it might be wise to mollify the man. It’s just that I’d rather not do it myself. I don’t think I can bear the cologne—or the gas.”
The archbishop was notorious for his flatulence.
Maximiliano stroked his beard, a sign that he was thinking. At length he spoke. “What if we ask Charlotte to take this on? She’s always looking for more to do.”
“Labastida cannot abide the presence of women,” said Diego.
“All the better,” said the emperor. “This way, perhaps he’ll leave us alone.”
“Perhaps.”
Maximiliano fell silent again. He shook his head, reached for a Viennese biscuit, and bit it in half. “We shall see,” he said. “For the nonce, I propose to take the matter under advisement.”
Under advisement. It was one of the man’s pet expressions and generally meant that the subject in question would be deferred until it could be deferred no longer. Maybe, in this instance, it was for the best.
Maximiliano swallowed the rest of his biscuit, then slapped his hands together. “So,” he said, “what’s next on the agenda?”
“A letter from the Italian ambassador, Your Majesty. He wishes to present his credentials, signed by King Victor Emmanuel.”
“Splendid news. You’ll set it up then, Serrano?”
“Yes.”
The emperor looked at him askance. “‘Yes’?”
“I mean, yes, Your Majesty.”
Maximiliano laughed and shook his head. “Bloody republican …”
They both laughed.
It sometimes seemed to Diego that Maximiliano embodied all that Mexico lacked. He was a creature of precise habits, a man who was forever revising and adding to lists—lists of personal resolutions, lists of rules for proper conduct. He insisted that the finer details of any enterprise were the key to its success. No strategy could succeed that was based on defective tactics. And so he tinkered constantly. Rarely a week went by that he did not sack at least one of his ministers, appointing another in his place. He insisted on being kept abreast of even the most minute matters of state. He worked frantically.
On this morning, as on others, the two men eventually accumulated such a quantity of documents and letters that the papers spilled over the desk and across an adjoining work table, leaving many more leaves to be arranged on the carpet.
The emperor frowned and set his cup and saucer down in a small clearing on his desk. He said, “About the opera singer …”
“Ángela Peralta.”
“Yes. I wonder, what is her present state?”
To the best of Diego’s knowledge, Ángela was still being held under guard at the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno. Her life was no longer in danger, or so he had been informed by Salm-Salm. Diego had not yet been permitted to visit Ángela himself.
“I see.” The emperor straightened a stack of papers. “Look in on her, would you? And report back to me.”
“It might be difficult. The place is under guard round the clock. I have tried I don’t know how many times, but they would not allow me near the entrance. It seems they won’t allow anyone.”
“They allow Salm-Salm.”
It w
as true—Salm-Salm disguised as Father Fischer. Diego wondered whether Labastida and other members of the Church hierarchy knew the prince’s real identity. He wondered whether he knew it himself.
“You are aware,” said the emperor, “that the woman has a son? An infant?”
Diego grimaced and said that, yes, he understood this to be so.
“Look into that as well, would you? The child’s whereabouts. I’m sure that Salm-Salm knows, but he insists that he does not.”
Shortly before seven o’clock, Maximiliano’s valet reappeared to attend to his master’s toilette, while Diego and the emperor worked through the last of the morning’s correspondence.
Later, the two men set off on a hack through the nearby countryside. Normally, they enjoyed the company of several others—various officials of the court or even the empress. Sometimes Salm-Salm would join them. On this occasion, however, they rode alone, followed at some distance by a pair of grooms and a palace guard composed of half a dozen hussars. Together, they explored the forests and sprawling grasslands of Chapultepec and then rode along the Avenida de la Viga out to the canals of Xochimilco, where Indian women paddled their dugout canoes smothered in flowers, in sweet peas, double poppies, blue bottles, gillyflowers, and roses. Diego prided himself on knowing the names of things, a remnant of his former life as a poet.
As was usual on such outings, the emperor eschewed all talk of statecraft and grand affairs, contenting himself instead with banter about the weather, or observations about their physical surroundings, or gossip about members of the imperial court. There was a time for serious discussion, said Maximiliano, and a time to speak of simpler matters. As always, he sought to govern himself with rules and order. To Diego, this kind of discipline was unknown. He had never experienced anything of the sort. No doubt the emperor’s approach was the product of his European heritage and the high station to which he’d been born. After only a month in the man’s presence, Diego had revised his own thoughts on many subjects, sometimes dramatically. He now believed it possible that the forty-odd years of Mexican independence had been a mistake, not in conception but in the breech. The country had endured four decades of torment, death, and folly. Might they not have been avoided if only Mexicans had sought out a high-born European from the outset, someone to act as monarch, to embody the nation’s ideals and resolve its contradictions? He didn’t know the answer. But he did pose the question.
Either way, the emperor had come late, but at least he had come. In his presence, Diego almost forgot that he was a mestizo with just one arm.
“Come,” said the emperor. He dug the heels of his stamped boots into the flanks of his favourite mount, the docile Anteburro. “We have work to do.”
His horse broke into a canter, and Diego hurried to catch up. The sun was already high, and the morning chill had vanished. Both dressed in charro, the two men galloped toward Chapultepec. It was only a little past eight o’clock in the morning, and the day had barely begun.
CHAPTER 14
“I WANT TO TALK about Juárez,” said the emperor.
He and Diego were seated in a polished black carriage that rocked along the rutted trail leading from Chapultepec Castle toward Mexico City. Among his many other projects, Maximiliano planned to build a grand thoroughfare along the route, an opulent boulevard that would rival even the Champs Élysées in Paris.
“Juárez? Yes, Your Majesty. What about him?”
“I’m just thinking how remarkable it is—a pure-bred Indian, elected president in a country where Indians are treated worse than beasts of the field. It really is a remarkable thing … as you yourself must know—I mean, as well as anyone.”
“But I am mestizo, Your Majesty. Not Indian. These are different things.”
“But your mother was Indian?”
“Yes.”
It was clear the emperor made little distinction. Either a man was white or he was not. This was a common perception among Europeans and white-skinned Mexicans alike. Normally, Diego abhorred this view. He resented being lumped in with people who had no European blood whatsoever—but he understood that Maximiliano intended no insult.
He returned his attention to the emperor, who was outlining yet again his formula for bringing peace to Mexico. First, he must establish a dialogue with Benito Juárez, who still claimed the Mexican presidency from his redoubt in the north. If he and Juárez could talk to each other face to face, the emperor said, he was sure that good sense would prevail and they would come to an understanding. Think how many lives might be saved if he and his Mexican counterpart could form an alliance. He, Maximilian, would rule as the sovereign, with Juárez as his prime minister, and the people would make common cause behind them. Mexico would be united—united and independent. He asked Diego for his opinion.
Diego weighed his words carefully before replying. He said that, according to the most recent news, the liberal rump under Juárez had been forced to decamp from its provisional capital at San Luis Potosí and had withdrawn even further to the north, to Monterrey. It would be possible theoretically to send a messenger to cover that distance, but the man would be obliged to traverse rough and perilous lands. As likely as not, he would be robbed and murdered during his journey. If he somehow managed to reach the liberal outpost, he stood an excellent chance of being identified as a conservative and therefore assassinated.
“I see,” said the emperor. He pursed his lips and frowned, then looked up. He said he wished to make the effort all the same. There was no choice, not if he meant to end the war.
Diego nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty. I will draft the necessary documents.”
And the carriage bore them into the city.
That afternoon, the two men conducted an inspection tour of the capital, a mission the emperor undertook once a week or so. Maximiliano considered the streets to be in a pitiable condition, and he liked to travel at random, with no fixed route, in search of deficiencies that demanded replacement or repair. As they proceeded from one street to the next, he dictated a catalogue of needed improvements.
The emperor was particularly concerned with improving the circulation of traffic. He meant to realign dozens of roadways and to beautify them in the process. He wished the newly plotted streets to be shaded by fresno trees. Steel tracks would be installed along the middle lanes, where tramcars would travel, at first drawn by mules—faute de mieux—but eventually powered by steam engines imported from England. He desired that the aqueducts be thoroughly dredged. Where they were crumbling, they must be rebuilt. He was determined as well that a proper system of refuse collection be instituted. He particularly meant to end the disgusting Mexican practice of tipping waste water and night soil directly into the street.
Now the emperor looked out the carriage window at the passing scenery—the usual Mexico City bedlam. “I grow tired of this chaos,” he said, his voice suddenly reedy and sad.
“I’m not surprised. We all do.”
“As emperor, I find it especially wearying. I have seen more than enough of what is wrong with this country. Surely there is something that is right.”
Diego said nothing.
“Serrano?”
“I’m thinking.”
He did not need to think for long. It so happened that this was the fourteenth day of August—the day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. In Mexico, it was a rare day that wasn’t holy for some reason, and Diego had an idea. It would involve an unexpected detour and some unanticipated travel. But, if His Majesty wished to see Mexico at its finest, then perhaps the inconvenience would prove justified. The emperor agreed at once.
At his orders, the imperial carriage and its guard of hussars lurched to a halt and reversed direction. They soon departed Mexico City to the south, lumbering along a not altogether unrecognizable excuse for a road that wound its way toward Coyoacán, an Indian village ten or so kilometres from the capital.
“And what shall we find in this place?” said Maximiliano.
“Co
hetes, Your Majesty.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Rockets.”
And so it was. The day of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary was a well-known holiday in Coyoacán, and that meant rockets and fireworks and dancing and rockets and lights. And yet more rockets. The fiesta did not properly begin until darkness had fallen. By then, a combination of torches, stars, and a gibbous moon illuminated the night. When the people of Coyoacán learned that an emperor—an emperor?—was in their midst, they quickly accommodated themselves to this unexpected circumstance. They improvised a sort of throne, using a chair made of Mexican hardwood, and insisted that Maximiliano install himself there, across from the ancient parish church of San Juan Bautista.
Before long, Indian men and women approached Maximiliano, one by one, to bow and offer gifts of flowers and food. They knelt upon the cobbles, whispering to him in Nahuatl, their ancient tongue. They made the sign of the cross against their breasts, put tobacco before him, lit candles, splashed aguardiente onto the ground, drizzling the liquid from tarnished old bottles while reciting incantations in low, sibilant whispers.
The emperor motioned for Diego. “What are they saying?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”
“You don’t speak their language?”
“A few words. Nothing more.”
“I thought you were Mexican,” said Maximiliano. “Surely I was led to believe that you were.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Diego. The truth was, he spoke only a little Nahuatl, even though it had been his mother’s first language. To him, it had always seemed to be a low patois, an embarrassment. Now he wondered.
As for the rockets, Diego’s prediction was borne out in spades. Before long, the projectiles darted into the purple sky, exploding in luminous shards that toppled back to earth. Next, some of the men fired into the crowd with buscapiés—literally, feet-seekers—missiles that swerved and veered in their flight, skittering along the cobbles. Everyone danced and leapt about—the men, the women, and the children too—all careening back and forth, and from side to side, laughing and shrieking, desperate to escape the rockets and yet delighting in the excitement.
