by Oakland Ross
“Where is the boy?” said Diego, although he knew perfectly well.
“Not so fast. I propose an exchange of information.”
“But one of us might lie.”
“Or both of us.”
“An odd sort of truce. I’m not sure I’m interested.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” said Salm-Salm. “I can make matters difficult for you. Don’t think I can’t. I know a great deal about you that you would not wish to have others know.”
It was the first time Diego had heard the man issue so bald a threat.
“For example,” said the prince, “I know whom you meet, all too frequently, at a filthy dive near the Plaza Santa Cecilia. I understand exactly why it was that you travelled to the north of Mexico. Yes, yes, to meet with Benito Juárez, but your real purpose had nothing to do with carrying out the emperor’s commission. I make it my business to know things, you see. Now, what have you to say?”
Diego had nothing to say. So he and Baldemar had been under surveillance. He cast back in his mind to their encounters at Memorias del Futuro, wondering which bedraggled low-life had been spying on them.
Salm-Salm waited for a time, until he realized nothing more was going to be said. “Very well.” He turned and strode back toward the Imperial Palace. Diego watched him go, trying to guess what the man might do. He might go to the emperor. He might not. On the whole, Diego thought he would delay. Knowledge might be power, but only if it is meted out slowly and by degrees.
Two nights later, Diego was patrolling the perimeter of the Plaza Santa Cecilia when a tall, bony slattern in dark spectacles and with long tangled tresses suddenly lurched into his way.
“Mi amor,” said the woman. She spoke in a strained and warbling voice and reached out to grab his only arm. “Ven conmigo. Te daré todo.”
Diego stopped dead. He knew at once who it was, but he let the charade continue a little longer, until they were both well clear of the square and he was certain they were not being followed. If Salm-Salm had his spies on the prowl, then they had missed their mark this time. Diego stopped by the portal of a tumbledown vecindad, a communal dwelling.
“Baldemar …” he said.
“Mierda,” said the gamberro. “What gave me away?”
“The voice. The glasses. That idiotic dress.”
Instead of proceeding to their usual haunt, they made their way to an unfamiliar place, where they were less likely to be observed. Baldemar pulled off his wig.
“I take it you have news,” said Diego.
Baldemar nodded. In a low voice, he told Diego that clandestine shipments of Spencer rifles had already begun to reach Xalapa. Those weapons, combined with Márquez’s withdrawal from the field, had left the eastern sierra and the coastal flatlands largely under his control. Only the corridor from the capital to Veracruz remained in contest, and he proposed to impose his authority even there. It would not take long. He spoke confidently, even with a certain bravado. Maybe his recent string of successes had affected him. He seemed cockier than usual.
“We should be careful,” said Diego. He eyed the dark interior of the pulquería—the wavering glow of candles, the darting shadows, the shifting silhouettes of men barely discernible in the murky candlelight. Anyone could be watching and listening, even here, a place they’d never patronized before.
Baldemar looked around as well, then shrugged and took another drink. “I have my eyes open,” he said. “We’re all right now.”
“You should be careful just the same. Not just here and not just now. But always.”
“What do you mean?”
Diego explained that Márquez was seeking the emperor’s consent for a freer hand in battle. The result would be summary execution for anyone suspected of acting on the republican side.
Baldemar adjusted his glasses. He chuckled. “The old goat’s only trying to protect himself. He’s been murdering innocents in cold blood for years. He doesn’t need some formal decree to do that. He’s just trying to make everything seem legal now because he knows he’s going to lose.”
“Anyway,” said Diego, “it won’t happen. His Majesty would never agree to this.”
“His Majesty?”
“I mean, Maximiliano. The Austrian. I just can’t—”
“You call him ‘His Majesty’?”
“Everyone does. I have to. He’s the emperor. I’m his secretary.”
“Fine—but here? You’re not his secretary here.”
“Look. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean it.”
“I hope not. But I know how you get.”
Diego gritted his teeth. He would let this insult pass, just as he’d done with all the others. “Anyway,” he said, “the point is that the … the Austrian would never sign such a decree. It would be criminal, and he would refuse. But, either way, the war is going to become more dangerous and more bloody, not less. That’s the point.”
“Point taken.”
“Just don’t get caught,” said Diego. “That’s all.”
“Don’t worry. If I were going to be caught, it would have happened a long time ago.”
“It did.”
Both quaffed their drinks. Baldemar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Speak to me,” he said, “about Ángela’s son.”
“That’s what I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Diego said in a whisper. “I know where he is.”
“Where?”
“He’s in Cuernavaca, at a house called la Casa del Olvido. The House of Forgetfulness.”
Baldemar smiled. He tapped a finger against his head. “Memories of the future,” he said. “I well remember what must now be done.”
Diego could swear he’d heard those same words before. I well remember what must now be done. He strained to recall, but it was no use.
Baldemar was still speaking. “I want you to go to Cuernavaca,” he was saying, “the next chance you get. I’ll find you there.”
Diego set his jar down on the cracked wooden counter and motioned for it to be filled. “All right,” he said. “Fine. To Cuernavaca, then.” He raised his replenished glass and looked straight at Baldemar. If he could have remembered the future—or divined it—he would have done so, and he would have known. But he lacked that particular gift, and knew it, and so he understood nothing at all.
CHAPTER 42
“HE LIKES TO WEAR SAILOR CLOTHES,” Beatríz said. “He goes about with a little frown on his face and with his hands on his hips. He stops and scrutinizes every object or person he comes across, as if he were on an official tour of inspection. He asks questions about everything.”
Diego and Beatríz were strolling through the zócalo of Cuernavaca, speaking in whispers. Diego had arrived the previous evening but had not yet spoken with the emperor, who was also in residence in the town.
Beatríz said she was now able to come and go at the House of Forgetfulness, where Ángela’s son was effectively a prisoner. In some ways, it was a benign form of incarceration, she said, not to mention luxurious. Those charged with the boy’s care—a governess and several other employees of the emperor—did not seem much concerned with secrecy, either. At first, they had taken far greater precautions, no doubt mindful of what had happened to the boy’s mother, spirited away as she had been without leaving a hint of her whereabouts. It was not something that would bear repeating. But, with the passage of time, they had become more relaxed. The governess took Agustín out on walks openly, with only a single armed guard to watch over them. Deliveries of food, clothing, and other provisions were made without subterfuge of any kind. Beatríz found that she was able to visit as she pleased. It seemed to be taken for granted that Cuernavaca provided all the cover that was needed, a modest city hidden away in an intermontane basin a day’s journey from the capital. Who would take an inordinate interest in anything that happened here?
“Does the boy ask about his mother?” said Diego.
“Strangely, no.” Beatríz reached up and pushed back a
n errant lock of her hair. “He doesn’t seem entirely clear on what a mother is. But he often says his father is the king.”
“Does the emperor visit him?”
“No. Never.”
They strolled about the plaza a little longer, content not to speak at all, just glad to be again in each other’s company. Diego had already described his journey to the north, his meeting with the Mexican president. Eventually, they were obliged to part. Beatríz had errands to run, and Diego meant to return to the House of Borda by a roundabout route. He expected at any moment to be accosted by Baldemar, dressed in some outlandish disguise or other. By rights, such an encounter ought to have occurred already, and he wondered if something were wrong. Just in case, he stayed alert, carefully eyeing everyone he passed on the chance that one of them should turn out to be his old friend.
But Baldemar did not appear that morning, so Diego returned to the House of Borda, entering by the al fresco terrace. He flopped onto a wicker settee and rested his legs on a low table. He looked idly around. Before long, he heard Maximiliano’s voice.
“A damned good morning’s work …” the emperor was saying. He marched up onto the terrace, clad in sturdy leather boots, gabardine breeches, and a tweed jacket. He stopped and peered behind him at the brilliant morning light and iridescent foliage.
“México, lindo y querido,” he said. He sighed, turned, and then started. “Ah, Serrano. There you are. They told me you’d arrived. What brings you to fair Cuernavaca?”
Maximiliano crossed the terrace in the direction of a divan cater-corner to Diego’s seat, scattering clumps of half-dried mud in his wake. He collapsed onto the sofa, leaned back, and stretched out his legs, in their earth-encrusted boots. Before Diego could reply, the emperor looked up.
“Ah, here they are,” he said as Basch and Billimek trooped into view. He yawned and patted his pockets, searching for a cigarette. “Basch, how many species taken this day?”
“A half-dozen, Your Majesty.”
“Well then, what did I say? A good morning’s work all round.” He lit a cigarette, rubbed his jaw, stifled another yawn. He glanced at Diego once more. “You look tired,” he said.
Without waiting for a reply, Maximiliano kicked several more clumps of mud from his boots, climbed to his feet, and sauntered out into the garden, with its flowering vines, graceful wooden trellises, and topiary shrubs. Below him, the still waters of the artificial lake reflected the fine blue sky. The sunshine poured down, and the late-morning air was mild and sweet, redolent of flowers and wood smoke.
Doktor Basch shuffled over to Diego’s side. “I warn you,” he whispered, “His Majesty’s mood has been changeable of late. One moment, exuberant. The next … pouf!” He shook his head.
The emperor swanned back onto the terrace, his boots clicking against the tiles. “What’s that, Herr Doktor? Not gossiping about me again?” He laughed and drew upon his cigarette. “Hey,” he said in what was almost a shout, “does no one hereabouts have something a civilized man might eat? Hey! Hey!”
A servant was duly instructed to secure something along the lines of coffee and pastries. Count von Bombelles appeared from somewhere within the house. He arched his back and stretched his arms out to the sides. He and the emperor, along with Basch and Billimek, settled themselves around a long table. At their behest, Diego strolled over to join them.
Soon more cigarettes were produced, as well as pots of coffee and baskets of croissants. The Prince of Salm-Salm emerged onto the terrace, yawning and running a hand through his dishevelled hair. It seemed that he had only just awakened. Another place was set at the table.
For a time, the mood was jovial. Maximiliano shared recollections with Basch and Billimek about their adventures that morning, yet another expedition in search of new specimens of botanical interest. The emperor insisted that he had made the greater part of their discoveries that morning. He lit another cigarette and announced that he would not decline a glass of Riesling, never mind the hour. The morning was too lovely to waste.
Riesling was served at once, and the emperor raised his glass.
“To Mexico,” he said. “To Mexico and the sun.” He raised his glass still higher and broke into laughter, the laughter of pure pleasure. “When the sun shines in Mexico,” he declared, “you think it will shine forever.”
He laughed again. He pressed the glass to his lips and drank. Before long, the flagon was empty. Another replaced it and was soon emptied, too. By now, the emperor had fallen quiet. He barely seemed to register what the others were saying. His head began to tilt to the side. Without warning, he pushed his chair from the table and stood up, gripping the chair back for balance.
“I will take my leave of the gentlemen,” he announced. With that, he walked woozily from the terrace and disappeared into the cool shadows within the house.
Basch shook his head. “Up and down,” he said. “Up and down.”
“It’s the laudanum you feed him,” said Salm-Salm. “It would knock out a horse.”
“Laudanum?” said Diego. He was unfamiliar with the term.
“A little opium, some alcohol,” explained Basch. “To calm his nerves. The emperor possesses a nervous disposition, as you know. He has lately suffered from bouts of anxiety. The laudanum seems to help.”
Before long, Bombelles excused himself from the table. One by one, the other men drifted off, until Diego found himself alone. He gazed out at the gardens, at the peacocks strutting across the shimmering grass and the topiary shrubs glinting, bright emerald, in the patchwork of light and shadow. He lit a cheroot and watched the smoke curl upward, glimmering in the sunlight. He wondered where Baldemar was. How would he reveal himself? What would happen then?
That afternoon, Maximiliano led an excursion to a local school, where he delivered a brief discourse to the assembled students. He then presented each of the teachers with a medal. Later, the emperor and his entourage returned to the House of Borda and took tea al fresco on the terrace.
The emperor announced that he meant to enjoy his siesta outdoors and invited the others to join him in the garden. Only Diego and Basch took up the offer. Soon, Maximiliano was reclining upon a gaily embroidered hammock that swayed in the shade of a large gazebo overlooking the lagoon. He smoked cigarette after cigarette and leafed through a French magazine devoted to the latest innovations in balloon aeronautics. He still intended to fly.
Diego read a novel. Basch huddled at a refectory table, methodically coaxing a succession of dead butterflies from glass jars and mounting them on pins. It seemed to be painstaking work, at least to judge by his periodic grunts and sighs. Somewhere in the distance, a dove sang mournfully.
Diego drifted off to sleep—until, without warning, a commotion erupted across the lawns. He lurched upright, and his book sprawled across the gazebo’s tiled floor. He turned in his hammock and looked back toward the mansion, beyond the preening peacocks and the croquet hoops.
A guard of Zouaves trotted out onto the terrace in their scarlet kepis and short pantaloons. The Africans formed two rows and snapped to attention. A military officer strode out onto the polished tiles, clutching a peaked cap at his side. It was Bazaine.
The French marshal paused at the edge of the terrace, no doubt to take stock of his surroundings. His eyes blinked slowly and his cheeks inflated and deflated. He descended the several steps and advanced across the grass. Basch was holding up a small white butterfly, impaled on a pin. By now, Diego was on his feet.
Bazaine stopped at the edge of the gazebo and lowered himself to one knee in what seemed to be an unusually deep bow. In that position, he waited as the emperor struggled to his feet.
“Your Majesty.” Bazaine stood upright. “I have news.”
CHAPTER 43
“WELL, IT MUST BE important if you have come in person.” The emperor slid his hands into the pockets of his cotton slacks and affected a casual pose, resting his weight against a wooden pillar. “So, then. What news do you bring?”
“Perhaps Your Majesty had best sit down.”
“Oh?” Maximiliano padded across the gazebo in his patent-leather shoes. He retrieved a cigarette from a humidor set upon a low wooden table. He pressed the cigarette between his lips and blinked at the officer. “That has an ominous ring.”
Maximiliano settled himself onto a long, low settee. He looked up at the Frenchman. “Please, Bazaine, and you, Serrano—please, siéntense. Sit down. Basch—join us.” He glanced over at the Indian attendant who stood nearby, his expression perfectly blank. “Wine,” said the emperor. “White wine.”
Bazaine took a seat across from the emperor. He said nothing at first, merely waited as the wine was produced, decanted, poured. The tension seemed to be contagious, and it soon infected everyone—except Bazaine. It was the emperor who broke the silence. He raised his fluted glass and declared a toast in honour yet again of the French officer, soon to be married.
“But,” said Maximiliano, “I do not imagine it is matrimony that has brought you here.”
“No, Your Majesty, I fear not.”
“I must say, Bazaine, I’m confounded by your presence.” The emperor reached forward and tapped a length of cigarette ash into a glass tray. He gave a nervous laugh. “I was under the impression you had a war to fight.”
“That is so.” The officer nodded. “It is for that very reason, Your Majesty, that I have come to Cuernavaca.”
“Good Lord. Don’t tell me we’ve won.”
“No, Your Majesty. I—”
“A joke, Bazaine. I was joking.”
“Ah.”
“Go on. Say what you have come to say.”
As the Frenchman delivered his news, Maximiliano remained completely still, with his cigarette held aloft. He preserved this attitude for the duration of Bazaine’s presentation. The only change in his posture was a noticeable trembling of his right arm, an involuntary motion that gradually grew more pronounced as Bazaine continued to elucidate the new circumstances prevailing in Mexico.
