by Oakland Ross
At the palace stable, they handed their horses off to a team of grooms. Once again, Salm-Salm had joined them.
Cuernavaca? Diego knew the town. Once the favoured resort of Aztec nobles, it occupied a lower altitude than the capital and enjoyed a more equable climate. It seemed this prospect carried particular weight with the emperor, who disliked the nighttime coolness and early morning chill frequently experienced in Mexico City.
Maximiliano said he wished to see first-hand how work was proceeding. He also wanted to learn something of the town, where he hoped to spend substantial portions of his time in future. Salm-Salm was among those invited, of course, and Diego would be expected to make the trek as well. The mail would be delivered by special courier at least once a day, and the party would be absent from Mexico City for a week at most.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm. “You are too generous, too kind. And, ah, may I see you for a moment? In private?”
“Why, yes,” said the emperor. “Of course. Walk with me to my chambers.” He glanced at Diego. “Hasta mañana, then, Serrano.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Until tomorrow.”
There was a new distance in the emperor’s manner, which Diego attributed to Salm-Salm and his machinations. He wondered what calumnies the man was spreading, what gossip and lies. But, just now, Diego had other matters to consider and other places to be. They included the cockpit at San Antonio de las Cuevas. He had a suspicion that el Gordo might show himself there.
CHAPTER 18
THE COCKPIT WAS AS raucous as ever, as chaotic, as disreputable. Diego skulked about the place for nearly two hours, observing the bloodshed and mayhem, dodging the spittle and bile, but he did not set eyes upon Baldemar Peralta. Finally, he’d had enough. He drained the last of a watery beer and left.
Out on the street, in the cool darkness, a beggar accosted him, pleading for alms.
“Por Dios,” the man moaned, his hand outstretched. “Por Dios, señor.”
Diego was about to turn away and continue on foot to the livery stable where he’d entrusted his horse but something about the beggar’s voice stopped him. He swung around.
Immediately, the wretch began to laugh. It was Baldemar, of course.
Before long, the two men slumped into their seats at Memorias del Futuro, and were soon quaffing pulque from large green-tinted jars. Baldemar still looked woebegone, his clothes hanging from him like washing on a line.
Diego recounted what he’d learned about Ángela, that she had been spirited out of the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno and taken to some unknown location.
“Labastida,” said Baldemar. “But the good thing is, he’ll want to keep her safe.”
It was what Diego thought, too. With both the mother and her son under his power, the prelate was in a stronger position to dictate terms to the emperor, but his position would erode quickly if either Ángela or the child came to harm.
“You’re going to try to find her?” said Diego.
“Got to.”
“I’ll help you.”
Baldemar nodded, sipped from his glass of pulque. “Maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe you can help.”
Diego massaged the stump of his left arm. He said, “I’ll do whatever you want. Whatever I can.”
“All right then.”
Baldemar said there was a priest who could possibly be of assistance to them—a good man, a committed liberal. His name was Padre Buendía, and he was the rector in Taxco, a silver-mining town a couple of days’ ride southeast of the capital.
“He makes it his business to know things,” said Baldemar. “If we find Ángela—I mean, when we find her—Taxco will be a good place to send her, to keep her safe. Along with the boy. Buendía could help there, too.”
Diego said he would be riding out to Cuernavaca in a couple of days, along with the emperor and an entourage of courtiers. Taxco wasn’t so far away. He would try to find some excuse to make a side trip.
Baldemar clapped him on the back. “Ándele, hombre,” he said. “So you’re a confederate of emperors now. How does that make you feel?”
“Strange,” said Diego. “It makes me feel very strange.”
He didn’t say more, didn’t mention his changing sentiments about politics or about Mexico and the chance of unity. Nor did he say anything about the succession of messengers—three of them so far—who had been dispatched to make contact with Juárez, to propose an alliance. There had been no response. As likely as not, the men had been murdered by thieves or assassinated by liberal partisans. He made no reference to his own position, how compromised he had become, beholden on all sides, caught between the emperor, Baldemar, and Salm-Salm, to say nothing of Ángela or her son. For now, he said only that he would keep his eyes and ears open. He would try to contact this Padre Buendía, and matters would proceed from there.
“Good for you.” Again Baldemar clapped him on the back. “Let me know what you learn. And, remember, the Austrian is your enemy, as much as Labastida or Márquez or any of these picaroons. Don’t ever forget it.” He shook his head. “That’s what’s wrong with this country. That’s what has always been Mexico’s greatest defect.”
“What?”
“The hope of a saviour. Some great man who will lead us from the wilderness. First, we endured all those Spanish viceroys, then Hidalgo, then Iturbide, then Santa Anna. Now this Austrian. The bloody country’s like an amphibian, flopping back and forth between water and the land, never making up its mind. You have to make a choice—that’s all. Will you be liberal or conservative? Will you live on water or on land? You can’t do both.”
Diego swallowed another draft of pulque. His friend was a changed man—not just thinner, but more sinewy, tougher, more determined. “And what about you?” he said. “What have you chosen? What are you going to do?”
“Kill conservatives. What else? Maybe you can help there, too.”
“Maybe.” Diego hesitated. “About Márquez …”
“The old snake. What about him?”
“I thought he would be dead by now, but they say he’s still alive. They say he’s here. In Mexico City.”
Baldemar rubbed his jaw, with its grizzle of whiskers, its patches of flaking, reddened skin, residue of a prison rash that had yet to fully heal. “Is that what they say?”
“It is. They also say a bunch of bandits ambushed him on the way to Veracruz, but he managed to escape. Either that, or they let him go. Why would that be?”
“You want to know?”
“What do you think?”
Baldemar nodded. He swallowed the dregs of his jar and wiped his lips. He raised a hand to indicate another round. “We hanged him,” he said. “Right after we captured him. We roped him from an almond tree, not far from Soledad de Doblado.”
“By his ankles? Just like your uncle?”
“Right. By his ankles. Just like my uncle.”
“What about his men?”
“We killed one of them in the ambush. The rest dropped their guns and gave up. We tied their thumbs together behind their backs. A bunch of worms. Not men. They didn’t trouble us after that.”
“And Márquez?”
“We left him overnight, swinging upside down. Let him see what it’s like. Find out how much he enjoyed it. At first, he didn’t say a word. I went to check on him in the morning, and he wasn’t so tough then. He begged me to cut him down. He’d do anything. Anything I wanted.”
“And?”
“I cut him down. That was it. I didn’t want anything else.”
“You spared his life.”
Baldemar nodded.
“Why?”
“Couldn’t let him die like that. Couldn’t let anyone. Not even him.”
“You could have shot him. You could have hanged him in the regular way.”
“Could have.”
Diego drummed his fingers on the rough wooden surface of the counter.
A slender man refilled the
ir jars, and Baldemar took a mouthful, nodded pensively before he swallowed. He said he had done a good deal of thinking while mouldering away in the Martinica. “I came to some conclusions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as there are better things to do to a man than kill him.”
“You don’t say.”
“Worse things, too.”
“You think?”
“I’m serious. Instead of killing a man, you can let him live.”
Diego saw what he was getting at. He repeated a phrase. “Spare his life.”
“That’s right.”
It was a law in Mexico—not a written-down law, but the other kind—that he who saves another man’s life has a claim on his soul forever. If Baldemar had simply killed Márquez out near Soledad de Doblado, that would have been the end of it—vengeance sought and won. But this way, it would be different. This way, Márquez would go to his grave knowing he owed his life to none other than Baldemar Peralta, the man whose uncle he’d killed, whose sister he’d shot.
Diego shook his head. “The mind reels.”
“It does.”
“He’ll have to kill you now. If he doesn’t, he’ll go mad.”
“Probably.”
“But he can’t kill you, not after you saved his life.”
“I guess not.”
“Christ almighty. You’ve got him by the tail. This will drive him mad.” Baldemar nodded once, then nodded again, and then he smiled.
CHAPTER 19
CUERNAVACA STOOD UPON A lush plateau on the western face of the Sierra Madre. The emperor’s new purchase was a mansion that had been constructed by a silver baron of the previous century, a man named Borda. It was famous for its verdant gardens and artificial lake. But the building had fallen into disrepair and was in need of major renovations. Maximiliano told Diego he had approved them all. The mansion, he said, was part of Mexico’s patrimony.
A modest party would be making the journey to Cuernavaca. Their numbers included Doktor Basch and Professor Billimek—the emperor’s naturalist—as well as the Countess Kollonitz and her husband, plus the Count von Bombelles and several other Austrian officers. Sauerthal, leader of the imperial orchestra, made the journey as well, with several string players. Salm-Salm and his wife rounded out the list. The travellers set off early on a Saturday morning, accompanied by a platoon of hussars and a patrol of Mexican lancers. The emperor’s carriage was a sturdy vehicle, newly acquired, drawn by a team of six dun-coloured mules. An outrider cantered alongside, wearing a black uniform with silver spangles.
The route to Cuernavaca took the travellers high above the capital, through a mountain pass of lofty, sometimes vertiginous inclines, flanked by fields of blond grass and dense pine forests that seemed to hum in the sharp, persistent breeze. Eventually, they began their descent along a serpentine course that wound through scattered clusters of adobe huts interspersed by organ-pipe cactus fences. Now and again, they encountered mule teams shuffling along the narrow road. Diego watched as the arrieros waved in greeting and then used their wooden switches to swat at their beasts, forcing them to clear a way so that the emperor and his retinue might pass. The creatures tottered off to the roadside, bearing huge loads of firewood or dried cornstalks or rough wooden furniture, their burdens a good deal larger than the animals themselves.
The journey lasted most of the day, and dusk was approaching by the time the convoy of carriages tottered into the semitropical valley surrounding the town of Cuernavaca. Diego wrinkled his nose—a faint perfume of jasmine scented the air. The temperature was noticeably warmer than in Mexico City. It seemed to him that the flora was more profuse and extravagant, the palm trees stouter. The palmeras swayed above a feast of vegetation—jacaranda trees, cherries, amates, and guayabos.
Unfortunately, there was bad news. The sorry truth was that the mansion de la Borda was uninhabitable owing to the renovations under way. Ladders and flimsy scaffolding clung to the place. Large sections of tile flooring had been dug up, leaving perilous holes and ugly mounds of earth. Whole walls had been knocked down, and plaster dust covered everything. The travellers managed to survive the rigours of their first night, but Diego had a feeling their hearts would quail at the prospect of sleeping yet again in these suspect and uncomfortable quarters. No doubt the mansion would one day make a fine alternative to Chapultepec Castle—but not now, not yet.
It was in these unsettled circumstances that the emperor’s party trooped down to breakfast on the morning that followed their arrival. They gathered on an al fresco terrace in the shade of a small orange grove, while a string trio played a succession of Viennese airs. For a moment, it all seemed tolerable, but only for a moment. They had only to think of the creaking stairs, the dust and detritus, the sagging floors and broken windows, and their spirits drooped again.
A young woman did her best to cheer them up. She gave her name as Beatríz Sedano and introduced herself as the daughter of the chief gardener at the mansion. Her complexion was as dark as polished mahogany, and she had large, arresting eyes and a small Romanesque nose, all framed by a shock of thick black hair of striking iridescence. She took charge of the breakfast and went about her duties with a degree of ease, assurance, and aplomb that was remarkable in someone so young. Diego could not stop watching her.
Toward the meal’s end, Maximiliano climbed to his feet and declared he had an announcement to make. It was impossible that the party should remain at the House of Borda, he said. Some other shelter would have to be found. As a temporary solution, he proposed an outing on horseback, with the aim of exploring the countryside beyond the town. Meanwhile, more suitable accommodation would be arranged, although he did not know exactly where.
At once, the girl, Beatríz, did an about-face and raised a hand. As if she had long ago mastered the art of contradicting monarchs, she announced that she had a superior idea. If a journey on horseback were to be assayed, she said, why not consider a more ambitious project, one that would entail a journey of several days?
“Go on,” said Maximiliano. “What do you have in mind?”
She put out her hands in a theatrical gesture. The party, she said, must on no account miss the opportunity to pay a visit to las grutas luminosas.
The name alone sparked an audible reaction from the gathering, a low hubbub of whispers and murmurs. The shining caves.
The girl explained that the structures in question were also known as the caves of Cacahuamilpa, strange geological formations located a two-day ride from Cuernavaca. About halfway along the route there was a fine hacienda called Cocoyotla, whose owner was accustomed to playing host to parties of travellers. He was able to provide comfortable lodging and acceptable nourishment. Not many adventurers passed that way any longer, owing to the troubles now plaguing the land, but it was her firm understanding that the hacienda might nonetheless still serve as a staging point for such a journey.
All this talk of caves perked the interest of the normally dour Professor Billimek. “I have heard of these formations,” he declared. “They are said to be extraordinary.”
“Haunted, I fear,” said the girl. “They are possessed by evil spirits. It is only fair to warn you.”
“Oh dear,” said the empress. “Why, then, are we even discussing the subject? Evil spirits? No thank you.”
“Pish-tosh,” said Professor Billimek. “These are mere superstitions. Pay them no mind. This excursion could be a great adventure, and I’ll warrant we shall find some excellent specimens along the route.”
The scientist was referring to the region’s flora and fauna and particularly its insects. Diego knew from experience that Billimek never ventured out of doors without his wooden carrying case, stuffed with bottles of various shapes and sizes, which he used to contain his biological discoveries.
“Well then,” said Maximiliano. “I am almost persuaded. But how shall we find our way?”
“I shall accompany you,” said the girl. For once, she seemed to blush, a
lthough it was difficult to be sure, so dark was her skin. “That is, of course, if you wish me to. I am familiar with the terrain, which is difficult and even somewhat hazardous in places. We shall ride along cliffs.”
“Dear Lord,” said the Countess Kollonitz, who was rather plump and a timid horsewoman. “What are we thinking? First evil spirits. And now cliffs. I would prefer to conduct my explorations in the garden here, with a book and a glass of wine.”
“Come, Polly,” said her husband. “It can’t be as bad as all that. As the girl says, many travellers have made the trip and lived to tell the tale.”
Diego observed these proceedings without making any comment of his own. He wondered where this was leading. As it turned out, no further objections were raised, and so the emperor declared the matter decided. He smiled at the gardener’s daughter and reached for his silver cigarette case. “The caves of … what did you call them?”
“The caves of Cacahuamilpa,” she said. “The shining caves of Cacahuamilpa.”
CHAPTER 20
BEATRíZ SEDANO REINED HER horse about as though she were a miniature cavalry officer, grinning at everyone. She was mounted upon a tall bay mare of impressive conformation and was riding bareback, astride her horse, rather than sidesaddle, as she wove among the other riders. She wore a cotton blouse embroidered with a floral pattern, and a long muslin skirt with several white petticoats, all bunched up about her waist. A pair of loose dark pantaloons reached down to her ankles. Her face was shaded by a large straw hat. But there was something distinctly odd about her. Diego had first noticed it at breakfast. When she shifted her gaze from side to side, the dark pupils of her eyes moved in unison with the rest of her head. The balls of her eyes were immobile. She could not seem to move her eyes without also twisting her neck. She must have noticed him staring.
“I am under a curse,” she said, laughing. “It is an ancient blight handed down through the generations since time before memory. In every generation of my family, there has been someone like this. They say I must be a witch. Do you think it is true?”
