The Empire of Yearning

by Oakland Ross

  Diego set off on foot and before long was being ushered directly into the chambers of the archbishop. A novitiate who could not have been more than fourteen years of age announced him and then quickly withdrew. The large oaken doors closed with a definitive thud. Diego gazed around, then took a couple of paces forward. When he saw the archbishop, he halted, unsure what to do. Labastida remained seated at a broad wooden desk, glowering and silent.

  Eventually, he looked up. He invited Diego to be seated, indicating the appropriate chair with a wave of a white silk handkerchief that reeked of lavender. He observed his visitor for a time, then frowned. “What in God’s name has become of your arm?”

  “A reaction to circumstances, Your Excellency.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A war wound.”

  “Amputated?”

  “It was.”

  “Perhaps in Paradise you shall recover it. Perhaps that is your destiny.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You must pray for such an outcome. The Heavenly Father will hear you. He will provide.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So. What have you come to see us about? These demonic laws, I take it. Reform laws, they call them. Deformed laws, I say.”

  Diego said he was not authorized to enter into discussions concerning relations between church and state. He had come for another purpose.

  “Another purpose?”

  “Yes. I should have explained myself more clearly. I—”

  “Another purpose?” Much louder this time. “I don’t understand. What other purpose could there possibly be?”

  Diego explained that he had come in hopes of arranging a visit with Ángela Peralta at the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, but the archbishop did not seem to be listening. Instead, he was shaking his large, ponderous head back and forth like a pendulum and running his handkerchief across his brow, over and over. When he finally spoke, it was almost possible to detect the capital letters formed by the tone of his voice.

  He said he did not believe there was any subject worthy of discussion apart from the bestial injustice of the reform laws. He had expected the French to put matters right. But nothing had been done. He peered at Diego. His eyes were watery and red, and yet they seemed to burn with intensity. “So we have been obliged to strengthen our hand, as it were.”

  It was clear what he meant. He meant Ángela, and he meant her son.

  “You propose a bargain, Your Excellency?” said Diego.

  “That is a rather blunt term,” said Labastida. He pressed his handkerchief to his lips.

  “But not mistaken?”

  “No. Not mistaken.”

  “The boy in exchange for the resumption of Church privileges.”

  “And property.”

  “I see.”

  “Forgive me for speaking so plainly. But clear accounts make friendships, as they say.” The archbishop smiled. “I take it you will communicate my thoughts on the subject to His Imperial Majesty?”

  “Yes,” said Diego.

  “And reiterate my request for an audience? A private audience?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I do wish. Oh, and please convey my highest regards to the empress.”

  “Very well.”

  “Good.” The archbishop rubbed his hands together. “Now, to other business.” The prelate said a visit to Ángela Peralta could be arranged. He said Diego should first seek out a certain Father Fischer—

  Diego broke in to say he had already tried to do so.

  “Oh? Without success, I take it.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Ah well. Protocol.” The archbishop reached for a quill pen, dipped it in a pot of ink, and scribbled on a sheet of vellum. He blotted the paper and handed it to Diego.

  “Here. Take this note to Padre Fischer. He can arrange a visit for you, but he requires my authority, of course. Now he will have it. You will find him at the cathedral.”

  “Thank you.” Diego pocketed the document. “Fischer—that sounds German, I think.”

  “American, they say. From Texas.” The prelate smiled again, gazing somewhere to Diego’s right. “Off you go, then. And I do trust you will convey the substance of our little talk to His Majesty.”

  Diego found the so-called Father Fischer at the Metropolitan Cathedral, just as Labastida had said. The note from His Excellency seemed to open all doors. In no time, Diego found himself in the presence of the man—Fischer or Salm-Salm—in a gloomy little cubicle just off the nave of the church.

  “I don’t understand this,” said Diego. “Why are you dressed as a priest?”

  “Because I am a priest.”

  “I think you are not.”

  “Are you sure?” Salm-Salm settled back into his chair and lit a cigarette with an air of insouciance that did not seem precisely clerical. “To possess just one identity—I find this such a classical notion, so outmoded. I prefer to be more romantic. Besides, I would hardly hold much influence with the Church if I were just a minor European noble without prospects of any kind. Much nicer to be a fellow man of the cloth.”

  “Who was Padre Fischer then? The real one.”

  “Oh, a chaplain—an American of German descent. He served with the Confederate forces until his untimely death. I was able to purchase his documents for a nominal fee and—voilà.” He leaned one elbow on his desk and lowered his voice. “You see how candid I am? I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. So, what brings you here?”

  Diego produced the archbishop’s letter.

  Salm-Salm fumbled in his black vestments for a pair of eyeglasses.

  “Of course,” he said. “You wish to visit La Peralta. I should have known.”

  “I wonder,” said Diego, “what exactly is your position here? With the Church, I mean.”

  “Oh, nothing specific. Among other things, I serve as confessor to our friend.”

  “Ángela, you mean.”

  “The very one.” He scrutinized the document once again before clucking his tongue. “Well, I see no objection, now that you have followed proper channels.”

  The man scribbled a note of authorization and held it out to Diego with an exaggerated flourish. “There you go.”

  Diego accepted the document feeling like an idiot—again. To think, as easy as that.

  CHAPTER 17

  ÁNGELA LOOKED OLDER, thinner, and frailer. More than a month after the shooting, she was still bedridden, lying supine on a narrow wooden cot in a dark room with stone walls and a single narrow window dissected by a pair of bars that formed an iron cross. Disparate sounds drifted up from the street below, the cries of vendors, the clip-clop of horse hooves, the sudden yapping of dogs.

  Meanwhile, Ángela rested on her back, staring at the ceiling. She said she was not permitted to leave.

  “It’s as if I were in a prison.”

  Bags drooped beneath her eyes, and her dark hair lay dishevelled on the pillow. Her hands were clasped over her abdomen, her fingers as wizened as sticks. She said it had been more than four weeks since she had seen her son. They refused to tell her where he was. They refused to tell her anything.

  Diego took a seat in the only chair, a wobbly piece of furniture with torn webbing. “Who won’t tell you?”

  “The priests,” she said. “None of them will tell me anything. There’s one especially—”

  “Padre Fischer?”

  She nodded. “You’ve met him, I remember. Dear God. He wants me to give Agustín up for adoption. To become the son of the emperor … the Austrian … the …”

  “I know.”

  “You know? What do you know?”

  “What you’re saying. Your son. Adoption. The emperor and his wife are without child, you see. They—”

  “Whose concern is that? Not mine. Agustín is my son.”

  “Of course. Yes.” He paused. “You knew they released Baldemar?”

  “Yes. I saw him.”

  “You saw him? When?”

&
nbsp; “Just for a moment. A week ago. Maybe more. I lose track of the days. He managed to sneak in, disguised as a priest of all things. He wanted to take me out of here, but I couldn’t leave, not like this. I’m still too weak. And Baldemar—he looked dreadful. He’s so thin. I barely recognized him.” She paused, dampened her lips with her tongue. It was an effort for her to swallow. “Can you help me, Diego? Can you find my boy?”

  Diego said he would try—and he meant it. He would. But first there was something he needed to know. “About your son,” he said. “The arrangement that this priest, this Padre Fischer, proposes … I wonder, is there any chance … any possibility at all … I mean—”

  “What?” She raised herself on one arm, her reedy voice suddenly resonant, strong, though she gasped at the pain this exertion cost her. “What are you saying? You cannot be serious. Diego, not you, of all people. Oh God.” She began to weep.

  “No, no.” Diego extended his good arm, as if fending off some demon. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I meant at all.”

  It was a feeble denial, but it seemed to calm her a little. He had promised to raise the matter, and now it was done—thank God. He felt like a traitor, for a traitor he was. Meanwhile, Ángela collapsed back on the bed, too weak to support herself any longer. She began to cough, then closed her eyes.

  “Just help me,” she said in a hoarse whisper, she who possessed the most glorious voice in Mexico. “Just find my son.”

  “Yes,” said Diego. “I will try.”

  “Not ‘try.’ Find him. Bring him to me. As soon as you can. Not here, but … somewhere.”

  She struggled to sit up. She turned and looked straight at him. From somewhere deep within, she seemed to summon a portion of her old strength.

  “You know,” she said, “we can’t let them win, the conservatives. It was Márquez who shot me. I saw him. And now it’s Labastida and his thugs who are holding me here and who are after my son. They’ll do anything to get their way. You know that.”

  Diego said he did. “But the emperor favours alliances.”

  “Alliances?” She practically spat out the word. Again something of her old vigour welled up. “Alliances with whom? With conservatives? You can’t form alliances with them. The Mexican conservative will never be satisfied until he possesses every jot and tittle of wealth and power in this land. God in heaven, you would think the Enlightenment had never occurred. I don’t care that they’re stupid. What I cannot stomach is the pride they take in their stupidity. Do you think I would surrender my son to serve the interests of these vipers? Dear God, Diego. Find him. Find my son.”

  She unleashed this diatribe in a steady, powerful voice that recalled the Ángela he knew. But the effort left her drained. Her voice trailed away, and she fell back onto her bed, too exhausted to speak another word.

  Diego retrieved his hat, and he left her there.

  Diego and the emperor were riding alongside the canals at Xochimilco. It was shortly past eight o’clock in the morning, another brilliant day, with only a slight chill left over from the highland night. Slackening the reins, Maximiliano rubbed his upper arms and torso to get the blood flowing. They were accompanied on this outing by Salm-Salm, who had hastened to join them at the last moment. It was essential, he said, to discuss the matter of Ángela Peralta and her son. The survival of the Second Mexican Empire depended upon it.

  “An heir is imperative,” he said as they rode through the early sunshine. The subject seemed to be an obsession with him. “It is foolhardy to think otherwise. There is no telling what could befall Your Majesty. Forgive me for saying so, but you could suffer grievous injury at any moment. An attack of food poisoning. A fall from your horse. A wayward bullet. God forbid that any such thing should happen, but it could. You lead a perilous life, and precautions must be taken. I believe you should hold talks on this subject with Labastida.”

  “What?” Maximilliano snorted. The archbishop wishes only to discuss the reform laws, to have them revoked. He would trade the boy to achieve this purpose, but I will not give in to his demands. This is the year 1864, for God’s sake. It’s the modern age. We must abide by modern notions. In this, I am in complete agreement with Juárez. The Church has no place meddling in the affairs of the state. In any case, I am in perfect health.”

  “Pray God you remain so,” said Salm-Salm. “But the point is, you may not. Then what?”

  “There’s Charlotte,” said the emperor. “She could govern, if it came to that.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty. But what of the long term?”

  Maximiliano was silent. To Diego, it was clear what Salm-Salm was up to. He meant to use the dilemma of the emperor’s childless state to manoeuvre himself back into the centre of the man’s confidence.

  “I agree this is an important matter,” the emperor said. “But we must not act in haste.”

  Diego broke in. “Our first goal must be to free Ángela. She is the child’s mother, after all. As long as Labastida holds her, he holds the upper hand. Besides, it is a breech of justice to detain an individual against his will.”

  “Well said.” The emperor gave his horse an affectionate slap. “But what would you have me do? Order my hussars to storm the place?”

  “Surely not,” said Salm-Salm, who appeared to take the remark literally. “Such an assault would poison the well for good.”

  “And so will never take place,” said Diego. “That is not the point. The point is, the Church should have no part in this. The Church is no longer entitled to exercise control over hospitals, much less use them as prisons. Those powers were abolished by the reform laws. Labastida has no jurisdiction in this.”

  The emperor halted his horse. For a time, he gazed out at the view. Presently, he nodded. “I’ll consult Bazaine. If he agrees with Serrano here, then we shall order the singer’s release. We shall see what cards Labastida holds then.”

  He clucked his tongue several times and reined his horse around, aiming back toward Chapultepec.

  “Come,” he said. “We have work to do.”

  That afternoon, Maximiliano summoned Bazaine to appear before him at the Imperial Palace. After a rote exchange of pleasantries, the Frenchman offered his opinion that the Church was in no way entitled to hold Ángela Peralta against her will, despite her incriminating family ties.

  The emperor shifted in his seat and whispered to Diego. “He means her brother, I take it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Maximiliano frowned for a time and then looked up. He instructed the French marshal to arrange for the woman’s release, by any means necessary. She should be placed under proper medical care but far from the authority of the Church.

  Bazaine said it would be done. With his cap tucked beneath one arm, he bowed, saluted, and withdrew.

  The next day, the Frenchman returned to the Imperial Palace, this time with news that the singer was no longer to be found at the hospital in question. He was unable to say where she was. Someone had spirited her away before his men had found time to act.

  “Someone in the Church, you mean?” said the emperor.

  Bazaine shrugged. He assumed as much, but he was quite sure Labastida would deny it. “Somehow they got word,” he said. He hesitated. “I have other news.”

  “Speak,” said the emperor. “Out with it. I haven’t got all day.” He was often short with Bazaine, wishing to make it clear that the sword served the crown, rather than the other way around. “What news?”

  Bazaine said that General Márquez had not departed the country as expected. In fact, he had returned to Mexico City. He was here, now. It seemed that on their journey to Veracruz he and his compadres had come under attack by a large band of heavily armed men led by none other than Baldemar Peralta.

  “I speak of the man Your Majesty pardoned only short weeks ago,” said Bazaine. “The—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Maximiliano. He scribbled at the air with his cigarette. “I know who he is.”

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bsp; “And now Márquez refuses to leave Mexico.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “This is a rough country, Your Majesty. They have their own codes, these Mexicans.”

  The emperor nodded. “Yes, yes. But how dare he refuse a direct order? He is under instructions to proceed to Constantinople. Far from here.”

  “Let me repeat,” said Bazaine. “The perpetrator of this attack was Baldemar Peralta.” The Frenchman hesitated, ran his tongue across his upper teeth. “Baldemar Peralta—the very man Your Majesty pardoned that night at the Imperial Theatre, along with a dozen others.”

  “I am aware of it,” said Maximiliano. “You don’t have to keep telling me.”

  “Ah,” said Bazaine. “But surely that is the point, Your Majesty. It seems that I do.”

  The room fell silent. Several guards and palace aides stopped what they were doing, stunned at this sudden impertinence. How would the emperor respond?

  Maximiliano ground out his cigarette. He moved his lips from side to side, as if unsure whether to swallow something he’d just put in his mouth, something that didn’t seem quite right.

  “Well,” he said at last. “I leave the matter in your hands then.”

  “The matter of General Márquez?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “And what of the singer?”

  Maximiliano shrugged. “Find her,” he said. “If you can.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The Frenchman gave the briefest imitation of a bow and withdrew.

  The following morning, at the end of their customary ride, the emperor informed Diego that he planned to depart the capital in order pay a visit to Cuernavaca, a town located a day’s journey to the southwest. On Salm-Salm’s advice, he had lately purchased a house there, sight unseen, and was having the place restored.