by Oakland Ross
“I take it you visited my wife there?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And my family.”
“And your family. I am very sorry about your son. I only just learned of it.”
The president sighed. “I have yet to hear directly from my wife concerning the boy’s death. I have had no news at all. The mail is painfully slow.” Juárez remained ramrod straight in his chair, his delicate hands folded on the desk in front of him. “A most difficult situation.”
It took a few moments before Diego realized what was wanted—words, descriptions, recollections. These were what any man would want during a long, enforced separation from his wife and family, especially following the death of a child he had never seen. Juárez must be desperate for news.
Diego did his best. He recounted his visit to the crowded third-floor apartment in New Rochelle occupied by doña Margarita Maza de Juárez and her brood of youngsters.
Juárez was mesmerized. He remained immobile, transfixed. When Diego fell silent, the president said nothing, as if waiting for more words, more details, and Diego did his best to comply, until he ran out of things to describe. It was then he remembered the ambrotype. “I have brought you something,” he said.
He had hoped this gesture would win him favour, but only now did he sense how inspired Baldemar’s idea had been. He reached into his document folder and removed the black-and-white image he’d had made in New York. It was framed in wood, and still wrapped in the paper and cotton, and the bolt of black velvet. He reached across the desk to deliver the offering to Juárez, who carefully removed the velvet cover, the cotton, the paper, and finally exposed the frame. He said nothing but simply gazed upon the result, a starkly simple image of several wide-eyed youngsters gathered around a newborn child. Enfolded in his mother’s arms, the infant occupied the centre of the picture, flanked by Juárez’s three daughters, a son-in-law, and two other sons.
“It is known as an ambrotype,” said Diego. Not knowing what else to do, he began to describe the means by which the image was created. A plate of transparent glass, treated with a clear binding agent known as collodion is first exposed to the light for a matter of a few seconds, then bleached, and finally mounted on a dark background. The result is both highly detailed and extremely accurate, yielding an image that is true to nature rather than reversed from left to right, as would have been the case with other photographic techniques in current use—daguerreotypes or ferrotypes.
“I see,” said Juárez, who kept his eyes pinned on this single image of his family and of his now perished son, a child he had never set eyes upon until this moment. When he did glance up, Diego saw that his eyes glistened, the only clear sign of emotion the president had betrayed during their encounter. “Thank you,” he said.
The discussion Diego wished to hold with the president might have proceeded in any case, but matters went smoothly now. Benito Juárez was a man embattled on all fronts, the lord of a single border town and not much else. But, with the war recently concluded in the American states, it could not be long before Washington turned its attention to events in Mexico. Much would change. Forty years earlier, an American president had declared the Americas off limits to European powers, and now France would find itself under overwhelming pressure to abandon Mexico. Meanwhile, weapons would begin to find their way across the border. Diego had received assurances to this effect from General Ulysses S. Grant, on the shores of the Appomattox River.
“The Americans are very generous,” Diego said now. “They look to the future.”
“The Americans look to their own interests,” said Juárez. Every few moments, his gaze strayed toward the ambrotype, which stood in its frame a little to his right. “For the moment, it seems their interests coincide with our own. I do not expect this circumstance to last very long, but it is surely welcome.”
He offered Diego a cigar from a humidor on his desk and took one himself. The orderly hurried over to light them.
Juárez eased his cigar from his lips, released a thin coil of smoke. “I take it,” he said, “that you have something to ask of me.”
Diego said that he did—a portion of Spencer rifles, perhaps five hundred or so. They would be delivered to Xalapa to strengthen the forces of Baldemar Peralta.
“El Gordo de las Gafas,” said the president. “You know him?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, you are here on his behalf?”
Diego nodded.
“And not on behalf of this Austrian?”
Diego shrugged. “I am in Maximiliano’s debt. He once saved the life of Baldemar Peralta, who saved my own life some years ago.” He glanced down at what remained of his left arm.
Juárez tapped the ash from his cigar into a small wooden tray. “A complicated situation for you. Divided loyalties.”
“Not just loyalties. Obligations.”
The president glanced again at the ambrotype, then inclined his head. “Your friend Peralta will have his rifles,” he said. “You have my word. There will be no conditions attached. You have done me a great service today, greater than you can imagine.”
For a time, neither man said a word.
“But I do have a request of you,” said Juárez. “This is a separate matter. What I am about to say is not an order, but I ask it of you as your president.”
Even before he spoke, Diego knew what the man would say. It was self-evident, really. When Juárez was done explaining, Diego did not hesitate before stating that he could not comply.
“Then you need not do so,” said Juárez. “I understand and, as I said, it is not an order.” He set down his cigar in the wooden tray and put his hands together, fingers intertwined, elbows perched upon his desk. “But circumstances may change,” he said.
Diego nodded. It was difficult to imagine this to be so, but not impossible.
“As for the rifles,” said Juárez, “you have my word.”
“Gracias,” said Diego. “Gracias, mi presidente.”
The following morning, Diego commenced his return to Mexico City. His quota of bodyguards had been diminished by two, one the victim of a bar brawl, the other of a self-inflicted bullet wound. In the company of those who remained, he set out on the westward trek to San Diego. As for the task urged upon him by Benito Juárez, he could not even contemplate so treacherous an act.
Still, circumstances might change. It seemed almost unthinkable, but it was so. They might. He hoped they never would. At San Diego, he boarded a mail packet for the sea voyage south to Acapulco.
PART FOUR
THE WEEPING WOMAN
CHAPTER 39
HER MAJESTY SIPPED from a cup of chamomile tea and perused a copy of Le Journal des débats, a Paris newspaper that had arrived that morning. The copy was several weeks out of date, but it confirmed the worst. The war between the American states had ended with the north triumphant. Nearly all of the south lay in ruins.
“You realize what this means?” She crumpled the paper in her lap.
Diego said he did. It meant many things—that slavery would be abolished, for one, and that the south would fail in its dreams of secession, for another. But this was not what the empress meant. The victory of the Unionist forces in the conflict to the north had just one principal consequence for her and the emperor.
“Napoleon will withdraw his troops,” she said. She reached for her cup, then apparently changed her mind and instead raised her free hand and worried at her brow. “Just you watch.”
“And the emperor’s treaty with Napoleon?”
Diego meant the Treaty of Miramar, under whose terms the French leader was supposed to maintain a large foreign legion force in Mexico until 1873 at least. The precise date had been deliberately left open.
Carlota made a face. “Treaties!” she said. “Why do men set such stock by them? They are honoured only as a convenience. When he invaded Mexico, Napoleon thought the Confederacy would prevail. The southern states would go their separate way and make com
mon cause with our government here.” She gestured toward the French newspaper. “But, as we know, the actual course of events has not proceeded along these lines. Besides, there is talk of a war between France and Prussia. I fear Napoleon will be wanting his thirty thousand men.”
It seemed to Diego that the empress saw matters more clearly than her husband did.
“So,” she said. “Tell me about your journey.”
Diego provided a brief and not very accurate account of his meeting with Benito Juárez in El Paso del Norte.
“He said no, of course,” said the empress.
“That’s right,” said Diego. “He said no.”
“Of course he did.” The empress gave a bitter laugh. “Idiotic idea.”
In fact, Diego had never posed the question—would Juárez consider serving as Maximiliano’s prime minister? He had never even thought of posing the question. How could he? It was ridiculous. He sipped his coffee. The emperor was again in Cuernavaca, but his return to the capital was expected any day, for he was to preside at a ball in honour of Maréchal Bazaine and his new paramour, who were engaged to be married.
“My father warned me,” said the empress. “Before we left Europe, he said we would be most unwise to put our faith in Napoleon. I am very much afraid that he was right.” Her manner darkened further. “Napoleon is a fool,” she said. “Besides, he is French. They’re all pigs. What have I been telling you?” She reached for the French newspaper again.
Diego looked at her askance, wondering what on earth to make of this outburst. The news had enraged her, of course. But still, Carlota’s behaviour lately had taken a strange turn. She was given to sudden outbursts like this one. Usually so logical, she was now apt to make incoherent statements that seemed to bear no connection to anything. She seemed unbalanced at times.
Diego waited while she calmed herself. He wished to introduce a very different subject: the question of Ángela’s son. Considering all the challenges that faced the imperial government, he said, wasn’t it time to put aside the matter of an heir? Shouldn’t the boy be reunited with his mother?
“Mi muy estimado Señor Serrano …” The empress seemed to rise in her chair, her voice arch and forbidding. “Have you heard nothing of what I have been saying? The question of succession is no longer a subject of any importance. The question of survival is. Your opera singer may do as she pleases, and so may her son. If Napoleon decides to go back on his word to my husband, we will all of us die in this country together. Mexico will be our grave.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. But His Majesty seems to take a different view.”
“His Majesty,” said Carlota, “is not mine to control. I agree with you—he seems utterly set on possessing an heir. I don’t know if it’s Salm-Salm’s influence or something else, but he refuses to be persuaded otherwise, not by you and certainly not by me. Yes, I desire a child of our own, if that is what you are implying. But all that seems beside the point now.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The empress took up her newspaper again. A muscle pulsed beneath her left eye. Diego rose from the table, made a slight bow, turned, and left the room.
The ball for Maréchal Bazaine was a catastrophe. First, the Countess Kollonitz was severely annoyed that the fete coincided with her birthday. That was bad enough. What was worse was that the emperor seemed to be suffering unusual distress—physical distress. Recently returned from Cuernavaca, he began to drink heavily before dinner and did not stop. Diego thought he knew why. General Márquez was among those invited to attend the dinner—as the new minister of war, he could hardly be left out—and Maximiliano was plainly terrified of him.
Following dinner, the men and women parted company. The men made for the billiards room, all except Bazaine, who made his excuses and departed. Was he that eager to be alone with his paramour, or did he have a presentiment of what was about to take place at Chapultepec? By this time, the emperor was clearly intoxicated—his complexion florid, his manner overheated, his speech overloud. At times when under the influence of too much liquor, he was apt to be morose and silent. But now the drink seemed to be having the opposite effect, his uncustomary manic energy intensified by a quantity of fine Bordeaux and port.
“Billiards!” he said. He approached a mahogany side table to fetch a crystal decanter of port. He raised the flask and looked around the room. “Who is for billiards? I challenge anyone at all.”
“I accept.”
The speaker stepped forward—General Márquez. Freshly returned from the torrid eastern lowlands, the man was leonine, his shaggy grey mane having grown too long, his large facial features gone craggy with age. A deep scar—remnant of some ancient battle—gouged the right side of his face.
“Márquez? Is it you?” The emperor swayed slightly as he spoke. “I warn you, mi general, I shall give no quarter.”
Márquez set his glass of port down. He was out of practice, he said, but he would play if His Majesty was willing.
“Willing?” said the emperor. “Of course I am willing.” He advanced toward the rack of cues mounted on the wall. Partway there, he stumbled and almost upset his drink. He recovered his balance and snorted at his mistake. “Must be careful. The empress will be put out. Disorderly conduct, you know. I shall end up in the Martinica if I don’t watch out.”
He selected a cue, tested its weight, and called for play to commence. He made the break shot and immediately seized control. Even in his inebriated condition, the emperor demonstrated superior skills. For his part, Márquez proved to be a fumbler, barely able to execute even the most straightforward shot. In more normal circumstances, Maximiliano might have taken pity on the man and reduced his own level to avoid humiliating his opponent. But he did not seem so inclined in his present condition. He strode around the teak billiards table holding his wooden cue. Before long, he removed his scarlet dinner jacket, his white silk blouse billowing out from the confines of his suspenders. His thin, reddish hair and ample beard seemed to glow in the candlelight.
“Ah, Márquez,” he said. He surveyed the table. “I think I have the better of you again.” He swiftly executed another shot, potting a ball with ease. On his next shot, he potted another.
As the match proceeded, Salm-Salm glided among the guests, speaking in a low, discreet voice, proposing a wager on the outcome. Diego expected the prince to bet in the emperor’s favour, but he seemed to be doing the exact opposite, offering high odds that Márquez would win. Many of those assembled in the billiards room promptly accepted the gamble. It was the prince’s money, after all. If he wished to squander it on a doomed bet, then so much the worse for him.
In other circumstances, Diego would have found it intolerable to occupy the same room as the Tiger of Tacubaya. He was able to do so now only because he had so recently returned from his meeting with Juárez in El Paso del Norte and knew of the arrangement that had been struck there for a quantity of Spencer rifles. This awareness seemed to counterbalance at least some of the repugnance he felt for the man who had murdered Melchor Ocampo and who had shot Ángela, to say nothing of the numberless other crimes he had committed.
Meanwhile, the game continued, with the emperor sinking one shot after another as Márquez stood by, expressionless, as if he were merely a spectator. He barely batted an eye, even as the emperor’s drinking and his strangely agitated state began to tell. Gradually, the quality of Maximiliano’s play diminished.
“Let me see,” said His Majesty. He leaned from the waist and narrowed his eyes, seeking a clearer view of the table.
Even Diego could tell that Maximiliano’s next play was a difficult shot, one that would have to be executed with a precise combination of spin and power, a matter of banking the cue ball against the felt so as to deflect the last red ball into a corner pocket. The emperor took an inordinate amount of time setting up the troublesome stroke. The men in the room kept perfectly quiet as Maximiliano drew back on his cue, lining up the stroke a last time. He released the shot.
For a moment, it seemed he had blundered, but the cue ball somehow nudged the red, which wobbled slightly yet somehow righted itself before dutifully tumbling from sight.
The emperor drained his glass of port and called for another. He put back his shoulders and smiled at Márquez. “There. What did I say? Now that was a shot. Remember that one, my friend. Remember it well.” He accepted another glass of wine from a servant, took a large swallow, and put the glass aside. He hunched down, frowning at the table once more, assessing the positions of the remaining balls. He glanced up at the minister of war, who stood on the opposite side of the table, patiently watching the game unfold. “Two,” said the emperor. “Two in the side pocket. What do you say, Márquez? Do you think I am up to the task? Eh? Do you think?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Your Majesty,” said Márquez in a deep but uninflected voice. “You are in a better position to judge what you can and cannot do, while we in Mexico know only what we have seen.”
The emperor straightened up, quaffed once more from his glass of port, set the glass down upon the edge of the billiards table. He turned to face Márquez. “What is this? Know only what you have seen?” He began to powder the tip of his cue. Had he just been insulted—or not? “I’m not certain I understand your meaning.”
“Then let me be clear.” With his billiards cue in one hand, Márquez stepped out of the shadows and into the full glare of the candlelight that bathed the table from the chandelier overhead. “Allow me to make a proposal, Your Majesty.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Only this. If you fail to make this next shot—if you fail to clear the two ball from the table—why, then you must accept a challenge. You must say a truth or submit to a dare.”
“Truth or dare?” said the emperor. “I am not sure that I—”
“Please, gentleman.” It was Doktor Basch. The stout physician stepped forward and put up his hands. “I beg you, one contest at a time. Please. Your Majesty—”
