The Empire of Yearning (2 page)

D
IEGO’S EYES SHOT OPEN
and he sat bolt upright in the bed. What on earth was going on? Someone was pounding at the door of his room, calling his name. Groggy from sleep, he struggled to make sense of the uproar. “In the name of God,” he shouted back, “what do you want?” His mind cleared a little, and he thought he recognized the voice. It was the hotel manager. Finally he could make out what the man was saying.

“¡El austríaco! ¡El austríaco!”

Diego called out his thanks.
Gracias.
Now go away. When the commotion ended at last, he dragged himself from the narrow, creaking bed. Three days had passed since his encounter with the Prince of Salm-Salm, and now at last the Austrian had come. He splashed some tepid water onto his face. His forehead pulsed, as if his brain had split into various mismatched pieces. He knew that he was not merely hungover. He was coming down with something—pray God, not the yellow fever. In his experience, a hangover worthy of the name could mask any number of infirmities or diseases, but not this wretchedness. He pulled on his boots with his one hand and clumped down the stairs into the musty
and cavernous lobby, which enjoyed some relief from the coastal torpor owing to its lofty ceilings. He pushed his way through the front door and groaned out loud as he met the leaden heat full on.

“Ah, Serrano …”

It was the Prince of Salm-Salm. He was installed nearby, alone at a shabby wooden table in front of the hotel entrance. A young bootblack was attending to his shoes. The European raised a glass of what looked to be mezcal and grinned.

“Will you join me? My wife is asleep, and I hate to drink alone.”

“Your Austrian has made landfall,” Diego said. “I just heard. I think they will disembark soon.”

“I know it. The SMS
Novara
is at anchor even now. Their Imperial Highnesses should be stepping ashore before very long. Rather inconsiderate on their part, I must say, to arrive in the full of the siesta. Please, sit down. I have a proposal.”

There was something about his tone, some persuasive undercurrent. Diego set his hat upon the table and drew up a chair. The gap-toothed hotel manager shuffled out, took note of Diego’s presence, and soon returned with an extra glass, as well as a bottle of mezcal. He poured out two drinks.

“Leave the bottle,” said Salm-Salm. He raised his glass. “
¡Viva México!
”

It seemed an odd toast, with the country under French occupation, mired to the throat in debt, and an Austrian just arrived to rule the land as emperor. Still, Diego raised his glass and tipped it back. He closed his eyes briefly at the liquor’s familiar sting. “A proposal, you said.”

Salm-Salm folded his arms on the scarred tabletop. The bootblack quickly adjusted his position, as if attached to the prince by a combination of ropes and pulleys. “I have been thinking of what you told me the other night. I believe I may be able to help.”

Two evenings earlier, after much drink, Diego had lowered his guard for a time and spoken to Salm-Salm about his purpose in Veracruz, a subject he had so far broached with no one except Ángela Peralta. He
had not meant to unburden himself to the fellow, and yet that was exactly what he had done.

“Assist me?” he said. “How?”

“It is quite simple.” Salm-Salm lifted his glass and smiled.

By now, the bootblack had completed his task but remained on the cobblestones, perched upon his knees, waiting for a coin. Salm-Salm did nothing, so Diego rooted in his pockets till he found a claco. He tossed it toward the boy, who snatched it from the air, fast as a frog snapping at a fly. He got up and trotted away.

Salm-Salm breathed in through his slender nose, as if testing the sweltering reek of the air. He said he was willing to advance Diego’s case with the Austrian in person. “His Majesty is, after all, a relative of mine.”

“A cousin, I think you said.”

Salm-Salm puckered his brow for a moment, then brightened. “A second cousin, I believe. On my mother’s side.”

“You are close, then?”

“Oh, I should think so. Oh yes.” Salm-Salm expanded on his proposal. He was willing to promote his Mexican friend’s cause to the Austrian, encouraging the man to grant clemency in the case of Baldemar Peralta.

“That would be a great kindness.” Diego drummed the tabletop with his fingers. “And you would expect, in return, precisely … what?”

“Nothing. Merely your good opinion.”

“I see.”

The prince leaned back in his chair, clasped both hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. “You know,” he said, “what I best remember about Max is his taste for hikes. He was forever setting off on some great expedition.”

“On foot?”

“Of course. How else?”

Diego shrugged. As it happened, walking was not a popular enterprise in Mexico, or at least not among those who could afford another means of conveyance. The use of one’s legs as a method of locomotion? That
was for the poor and the derelict. Europe, it seemed, took a different view. “I wonder what else I should know about your cousin.”

Salm-Salm leaned in close. “That he is the very soul of discretion.”

“In what sense?”

“Oh, for example, do not expect to encounter him at the principal entrance of any building. He does not like to be conspicuous, not Max. He is the very reverse of Mexico and its love affair with ostentation. Look to find him leaving by the most unrecognizable gate.”

Diego frowned. “You think this information will be of use on some occasion?”

The prince shrugged. “You never know. Perhaps. In your case, I believe it will.”

They both eyed their drinks.

“And what of my proposal?” said Salm-Salm.

“I would be greatly in your debt.”

“Nonsense. Debts are for tradesmen.”

“And gamblers.”

“True. And gamblers.” The European reached into the pockets of his trousers, as if in search of money, but he came up empty-handed. “Perhaps there
is
one thing you can do for me, if I help to save your friend’s life.”

Diego waited.

“Introduce me to Ángela Peralta. You know, your friend’s sister.”

“I know who she is.”

“Of course you do.
The greatest singer Mexico has ever produced.
”

Diego waited, wondering what the man would say next.

“I have a proposal to make about her son.”

“Son!” Diego laughed. “Your informants have misled you there. Ángela has no son.”

“Indeed she does. It was all the talk in New York City not long ago. You may know of the father. Ángel de Iturbide.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“I swear it’s true.”

“It is a lie and a slander. You would be wise to take it back.”

The prince raised his eyebrows. He seemed about to speak but then reached for his drink instead. “All right then. I take it back.”

“Good.”

“Still, I would like to meet the woman. A small price to pay for the life of your friend.”

Diego climbed to his feet. The exchange had unsettled him. He did not like to hear Ángela’s name mentioned—or not by just anyone. His head was pounding again, and he felt as if mud were oozing through his vitals.

“Very well,” he said. “I will give it some thought.” Diego tossed the boy a pair of medios to cover the cost of the drinks. He took up his hat. “You’re not coming to the harbour?”

“All in good time. First I want to look in on my wife. And about your petition—you may rest easy. I shall make your case for you, I promise.” He glanced down at his empty glass. “Oh, and those coins of yours—you don’t happen to have a couple more? I’ll repay you, of course.”

Diego gave the man half a dozen centavos, freshly minted.

Salm-Salm smiled. “Thank you. You’re very kind. One last thing. The emperor and empress—you know they are without children?”

Diego knew nothing of the sort. He asked what difference it made.

“Oh, you never know,” said the prince. “Something to bear in mind—in the months ahead.”

Diego nodded, then took his leave of the man—such an odd fellow, always speaking in riddles. He set out for the harbour. His route took him along the perimeter of the Plaza de Armas in the direction of the seawall. It was patently a lie, what Salm-Salm had just said about Ángela, about her having a child. The idea was unimaginable. And Ángel de Iturbide the father? The most notorious rake ever to call himself a Mexican? That was even worse. The man’s father was Agustín de Iturbide, a legendary opportunist who’d crowned himself emperor after the country gained independence more than forty years earlier. Agustín the First—and last. He’d ended his life before a firing squad. How dare Salm-Salm utter the name Iturbide in the same breath as Ángela Peralta?

Maybe it was these thoughts, or maybe it was something else, but Diego felt his legs buckle beneath him, and he nearly fell down. In a patch of shade, he stopped to rest and to recover his balance. Pray God this wasn’t the yellow fever, but he suspected that it was. Still a little unsure of his footing, he continued on his way to the harbour, where the sudden stench nearly made him gag. But he forced himself to endure it. The Austrian had come, and Diego had a duty to discharge. He shuffled down toward the sagging docks that tumbled from the Malécon into the murk and brine. A squadron of vultures circled overhead, like dark skeletons floating on the air.

Diego looked out over the grey expanse of water and caught sight of a slender boat, a sort of skiff, that was tracing a course across the harbour’s oily surface. The craft was a pretty affair, with a striped awning that obscured his view of its passengers. At first he thought the vessel was approaching the shore, but he soon realized his error. Propelled by a single boatman, armed with a long quant, the craft was actually bearing its passengers away.

Meanwhile, a half-dozen conventional landing boats were also knifing across the water in what seemed a general retreat. The flotilla carried a party of men clad in tropical uniforms, as well as a smattering of women in long white dresses that glinted in the sunshine, like bits of quartz. The boats were all making for a large warship that was anchored across the harbour, near the island of San Juan de Ulúa. A thin trail of smoke coiled skyward from its stack.

Diego squinted in the sunlight. So this was the
Novara
—a three-masted frigate, converted to steam, that dwarfed all the other ships in the bay. From what he understood, the warship had borne the Austrian and his retinue all the way from Europe. She had dropped anchor only a short while earlier as Veracruz dozed through its afternoon languor. With no breeze to stir them, a bevy of ensigns and banners drooped from the lines. Meanwhile, a gang of seamen crowded by the railings, waiting for the landing craft to return. It looked to Diego as if the travellers had intended to venture ashore but had decided to abort the mission before
even setting foot to Mexican soil. And no wonder. There was no welcoming party, no bunting or garlands, no marching band, no evidence of ceremony at all. Besides, viewed from a few dozen
varas
offshore, Veracruz must have seemed to consist of little beyond rotting wharves, carrion birds, pariah dogs, and one-armed men.

¿Viva México?

The entire country was in ruins, and this city was no better off than the rest. Still, there was something about the scene that put Diego in mind of another arrival on these shores—Hernán Cortés and his army of brigands more than three hundred years before. In those far-off days, the natives of Mexico had thought the Europeans must be gods, conveyed across the sea aboard floating mountains, come to fulfill an ancient prophesy about the plumed serpent, Quetzalcóatl. The Aztecs failed to realize their mistake until it was too late, and here was the result—this backward and bankrupt land. He tried to envision his country as a foreigner might have done, a European who was seeing Mexico for the first time. It would not be a pleasant sight. True, just two years earlier, Mexico had won a stirring victory—el Cinco de Mayo—when her forces had turned back the French invaders at Puebla. That was a glorious victory but also a short-lived one, for the French had returned in greater numbers, and this time they had overcome all opposition. They were now installed in Mexico City, while Mexico’s own government had fled to the north, its president and ministers reduced to the status of fugitives in their own land. What sort of country was this? Diego gazed out at the erstwhile landing party receding across the harbour. Before long, the retreating visitors began to clamber aboard their warship by means of gangways strung from the port broadside. The waiting seamen helped them onto the main deck, an operation executed with machine-like efficiency, so unlike the conduct of business in Mexico.

Diego turned and began to walk back in the direction of the Plaza de Armas. His head still throbbed, and he stumbled once or twice. It occurred to him that he had just lost his first and possibly best chance of making his way into the presence of the Austrian, in order to plead for
the life of Baldemar Peralta. It was a life that absolutely deserved to be saved. All the idiot had done, or tried to do, was avenge the death of his uncle, a legendary statesman named Melchor Ocampo.

A
S HE SHAMBLED BACK
to his hotel, Diego felt drugged by the afternoon heat. His head swam, and his limbs felt weak. He found his way to a broken wrought-iron bench and lowered himself onto the seat. He needed to rest, to settle his thoughts, to calm the throbbing in his head. He knew now that he was very ill. It was
el vómito
as likely as not. The yellow fever. The blood thudded in his temples, but his mind kept returning to thoughts of Baldemar. Even now, three years later, he remembered perfectly well all that had happened in that dark time when Melchor Ocampo was killed.

Baldemar and his sister were related by marriage to Ocampo, who was an uncle on their mother’s side. Ocampo was also the leading architect of Mexico’s sweeping liberal reforms, all effected during the early presidency of Benito Juárez, when Ocampo was already advanced in age. After reaching his seventh decade, the celebrated reformer withdrew from public service and retired with his wife and their four daughters to a hacienda in the highlands of Michoacán in central Mexico. There, he busied himself by writing on a variety of themes and by conducting a range of scientific investigations.

On the thirtieth day of May in the year 1861, Ocampo found himself alone at the
estancia
save for a handful of servants. His wife and daughters had journeyed to the town of Maravatío to attend a wedding celebration, travelling under armed guard. The most recent civil war had ended only five months earlier, a circumstance that meant little to those who continued to fight. Mexico was a treacherous country then, as it was now, and it would have been worth anyone’s life to travel any distance at all without arms and the wherewithal to use them. Even given such protection, life was cheap and readily squandered. The armed guard that accompanied the Ocampo women to Maravatío meant that Ocampo himself was all but undefended.

On the day following the women’s departure, a band of horsemen rode up to the main house. Ocampo strode out to receive them. As soon as he observed the men at close quarters, he must have known that trouble had come. It was easy to imagine what he saw—an assortment of roughriders, a hard-looking lot. From what Diego later ascertained, all of the men carried pistols in weathered leather holsters, and two had long arms affixed to their high Mexican saddles. Given the condition of their horses, whose legs must have been streaked with dirt, their flanks lathered with sweat, it seemed they had ridden a long way, over rugged country, and at speed.

The leader of the men introduced himself as Captain Saúl Cajiga, a Spaniard by birth to judge by his accent. He steadied his horse and tipped his large, round-brimmed hat. “To whom have I the pleasure of addressing myself?”

“My name is Melchor Ocampo, at your service.”

“Formerly the minister of state?”

“Just so.”

“We are well met then.” Cajiga smiled and used his thumbnail to pick something from his teeth. He leaned to the side and spat on the ground, not far from Ocampo’s feet. The other men with him—five in number—traded glances and sniggered.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Ocampo, who could not have been glad at
all. But he did not betray his alarm, deciding instead to make a show of hospitality. He glanced up at this Cajiga and observed that the day was hot, the sun nearly at its height. Might the men care for a drink? Why, only this morning he had ventured into the orchard and picked a quantity of
granaditas
that even now were being converted into a delicious libation. He had chirimoyas as well, not to mention limes, oranges, and sapotas. If his guests preferred, they might have mezcal.

“We have not come to drink,” said Cajiga.

“No,” said Ocampo. “I suppose not.”

“We have come on an important mission, with orders of a most specific nature, whose terms we have committed to memory.” The captain reached up and tapped his forehead twice with the tips of the fingers of his left hand. “We well remember what must now be done.”

“You have the advantage of me, then,” said Ocampo, “for I have never been able to remember the future.”

“It is a useful skill. What a shame that now you will not have the opportunity to acquire it. You have left this project too late.”

Cajiga nodded toward a barefoot manservant, one of Ocampo’s Indian retainers, who had emerged from the house shortly after Ocampo and now stood cowering in its shadows. Policarpo was his name, and it was he who later related the gist of this conversation to Diego.

“You there,” the Spaniard said. “Prepare a horse for your master. He is coming with us.”

They departed in short order, Ocampo surrounded by Cajiga and his five companions.

In a matter of days, news of these events reached the offices of Benito Juárez, the president, who spoke at once with a new minister of state, Francisco Zarco. It so happened that Zarco was also publisher and editor of the liberal newspaper
El Siglo XIX
, to which Diego was a frequent contributor. As one of only two survivors of the Massacre of Tacubaya, he was deemed to be a man of grit and promise, and so it was his name that cropped up when Zarco required someone to seek out the kidnappers, determine their demands, and, if possible, negotiate with them.

Diego departed the capital the following day, in company with Baldemar, who had also survived the killings at Tacubaya and had long been his closest friend.
El gordo y el indio
, they had been called at school. The fat one and the Indian.

They set off through waving fields of blond grass, their horses scaling the pine-clad heights north of Mexico City. Later, the highland conifers gave way to groves of Mexican oak and mesquite scrub. The two men rode past maguey plantations and rolling cornfields, bordered by fences of organ pipe cactus.

Three days it took them to reach the hills of Michoacán, and they argued every step of the way. They called each other the worst names they could think of, and disagreed about everything imaginable, from the attractions or defects of women they both knew to the dismal state of Mexico. To Baldemar, the country’s condition resulted entirely from the predations of conservatives—conservatives in alliance with the Holy Roman Church. But Diego wondered if liberals did not share their portion of the blame as well. He was a liberal. They both were. Both had fought on the liberal side. But, so far, the vaunted reforms instituted under Juárez had produced no improvement in the lives of the people. Yes, ecclesiastical property had been seized from the grip of the Church, but to what end? So that looters could sack the churches and convents, melting crucifixes down for the gold? Where was the advantage in that? But it had happened. And, yes, el Cinco de Mayo had been a glorious victory, but what difference had it made in the end? The French had returned in greater numbers, and this time there had been no stopping them.

But Baldemar had an answer for that, one that effectively cut off all discussion. After all, he had fought in the battle of el Cinco de Mayo, whereas Diego had not. One-armed as he was, Diego had stayed behind in Puebla to work in an improvised medical clinic and had suffered the French bombardment, same as everyone else, while Baldemar had ridden out to fight. That seemed to mean that nothing anyone else had to say on the subject warranted any attention at all.

“
Muy
bien
,” said Diego.

He pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks, she broke into a loping stride, and the two men cantered across a broad plain stippled by scrub trees and saguaro cactus. It was nearing sunset, and clouds drifted in thin purple rafts above the low range of hills to the west.

They picked up the trail of Ocampo’s kidnappers at the town of Maravatío. From there, they followed a trail of cooking fires and spoor. The men who had abducted Ocampo were either deeply inept or unimaginably brazen. A child could have tracked their route. It occurred to Diego that these men
wanted
to be followed. But why should that be so?

Two more days of riding brought them to the village of Huapango, where the local people said that, yes, a party of riders had shown up not two weeks earlier, with a prisoner in their power. General Leonardo Márquez had been waiting, along with his own party of riders. The two bands had merged and ridden off as one, making no secret of their destination. The villagers pointed the way to a hamlet named Tepeji del Río. There, the locals provided Diego and Baldemar with further guidance, and they took up the trail once again. Two hours later, they rounded a crest of rocks and rode into a forest clearing.

“
Ay Dios
,” said Baldemar.

A man’s bloated and shirtless body dangled upside down in the middle of the clearing, strung by the ankles from the branches of a Mexican oak tree. The dead man’s head was suspended a good five feet from the ground, and his arms hung freely beneath him, the shoulders having dislodged themselves from their sockets by the force of their weight.

Baldemar kicked his heels, and his horse scooted forward. He drew a long-bladed knife from his belt and cut the rope, letting the cadaver fall. The two men dismounted and briefly observed what Márquez had done. The corpse was badly swollen and had started to decompose, but it did not seem that Ocampo had been mutilated in any way prior to his death. He had simply been strung up by his heels and left to dangle in the nighttime cold or burn in the late-day sun. It would have been a slow and miserable death.

Diego’s eyes stung, and he blinked them repeatedly. “They couldn’t
have hanged him properly?” he said. “By the neck? Like civilized men? They couldn’t have shot him in the head?”

“Guess not.”

Baldemar looked away, out across the broad green valley that unfolded to the west. He said nothing. What could he say? For a long while, neither man uttered a word. They just glared off in different directions, both too angry to talk. They’d known the journey would end in something like this. Now that it had, they were in no way prepared. Diego closed his eyes, as if all of this could simply be willed out of existence—this path, this clearing, the corpse on the ground. But, when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed.

“
Pinche cabrón.
” Baldemar turned away and spat, as though the taste of the obscene words was itself an affront.

Soon, they set about the task of binding the corpse in the blankets they had brought for their own comfort. Baldemar’s horse was much the larger and sturdier of the two, and they draped the body behind his high-backed saddle and rode to Tepeji del Río. They stored the corpse of Melchor Ocampo in a disused shed of mud and wattles to protect it from the disrespect of dogs. The following morning, they set out to retrace their route. They wore kerchiefs over their mouths and nostrils, knotted behind their necks. The reek was vile beyond belief.

In due course, they reached the former minister’s estate, where they delivered the body of Melchor Ocampo to his wife, doña Ana María Escobar de Ocampo, who was Baldemar’s aunt. The nine days of mourning commenced.

Later, after Ocampo’s body had been laid to rest, the government of Benito Juárez dispatched a succession of armies, each commanded by yet another in a seemingly endless series of inept generals, all charged with identical orders: to capture General Márquez alive, if possible, or else kill him in battle. One after another, the armies accepted the challenge but failed to meet it. Two of the generals gave their lives.

General Márquez remained in his mountain redoubt, biding his time and awaiting some change in his fortunes. In the meantime, Mexico was at peace at last—if you could call it that. What passed for peace in Mexico was really just a respite between wars.