The Empire of Yearning (9 page)

D
IEGO LED HIS HORSE
from the stables at Chapultepec and out into the open court. He climbed onto a mounting post and swung himself into the saddle, gathered the reins, and rode out into the night, wanting only to put as much distance as possible between himself and General Márquez. He meant to spend the evening in Mexico City, near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, in search of company and amusement there, an antidote to hideous memories: Ángela collapsed upon a stage, blood soaking through her blouse; or images of that day, high in the blue mountains of Michoacán, when he and Baldemar came upon the inverted corpse of Melchor Ocampo. The waxing moon cast a gauzy light across the highland plain, and he rode at an easy lope along the trail toward Mexico City. A cool night wind thrummed through the fresnos, bearing a scent of wood smoke and roasted corn.

He had not travelled more than a league, a matter of twenty minutes or so, when he heard padded hoofbeats behind him. He was being followed—or, no, not followed. He was being overtaken. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. Just then, a man’s voice spoke through the
darkness, not a shout but a kind of heightened whisper that seemed to carry unnaturally far.

“Diego Serrano?”

He braced his weight in the saddle and drew back upon the reins. No highwayman out here was likely to know his name. Besides, if there was to be a fight, better to stand and make a fist of it than to be shot in the back as he fled. He swung his horse around and halted, waiting as a lone rider approached through the moon-washed darkness. The stranger slowed his horse as he drew close. He wore a woollen
serape
against the chill and now briefly removed his sombrero in a strangely formal gesture of salutation. Diego glimpsed a long, sad face with a high forehead, a dark moustache, and a long scar that ran down the man’s left cheek. He guessed him to be in his middle thirties—and then realized he knew this man. It was Octavio, the thief who had robbed him of his clothes and money during the journey back from Veracruz. Even in this dim light, he felt sure of it.

But if the intruder recognized Diego, he gave no sign. Probably he had robbed too many men to be able to keep track of them individually, even those possessed of only a single complete arm. Instead, he nodded back toward the darkness behind him and said he had ridden a great distance with an important mission and wished to speak to Diego Serrano and no other. He had been waiting for more than two days, on the assurance that such a person would emerge from Chapultepec eventually and would most likely be alone.

“¿Es usted, señor?”

Diego said that he was the man so named.

“If that is so, señor, then you will be able to answer a question I have been instructed to pose.”

“Which is?”

Octavio cleared his throat and spoke from memory. “To whom belonged the knife that cut down the body of Melchor Ocampo, when that brave man was found dangling by his ankles, dead?”

Diego felt his spine relax. This man brought a message from Baldemar. He gazed around in relief. The darkness was punctured here and
there by the flickering light of distant cooking fires, just visible through the shifting branches of oak and fresno trees. He turned back to the man in the serape.

“The knife that cut down the body of Ocampo,” he said, “belonged to Baldemar Felipe Peralta.”

“So I have been informed. I was also informed that no one but Diego Serrano would know this.”

Diego smiled. He said, “Were you also informed that I would be missing the better part of an arm?”

“
Sí, señor.
I am sorry to find it so.”

“I wonder, how many one-armed Mexicans are apt to pass this way on any given night, riding alone?”

Instead of replying, the rider fumbled beneath his serape. From the folds of his clothing, he produced a cheroot, which he offered to Diego.

“I have brought a message for you,” he said. “Please, open it, señor.”

“Open the cheroot?”

“Yes. It contains a message.”

Diego looped the reins over the stump of his left arm and used his one good hand to peel back the leaves of tobacco until he found a scrap of rough paper concealed inside. It was too dark to make out whatever words were written on it.

“In my left pocket,” he said, “there are several
fósforos.
Please. Take one. Light it.”

The rider did as instructed. He sparked the tip of the match with his thumbnail and leaned closer. Diego squinted at the wrinkled slip of paper. He thought he recognized the awkward, childish script of his old friend and, in the narrow glow, he was able to read what it said:
When does the Tiger leave Mexico City and by what route?

That was all. Diego touched the scrap of paper to the match’s flame and let it burn till only a cinder was left.

“I know you,” he said. “You and another—you stole my clothes near Paso del Macho.”

“Es muy posible, señor.”

“You don’t remember?”

“What I remember, señor, depends.”

It was certainly the same man. “Depends on what?”

“On why I am being asked.”

“I just wondered—that’s all. I thought you would remember stealing the clothing of a one-armed man.”

“Sí, señor.”

“You do remember.”

“Sí.”

“You mentioned some comrades of yours. Sánchez, Quiñones, and Rivera. They were in the Martinica with Baldemar Peralta?”

“Así fue.”

“And they were sentenced to death?”

“Flogging first. Then death. They and a quantity of others.”

“And now they are free?”

“Así es.”

“Thanks to Baldemar.”

“
Sí
. But we call him el Gordo.”

“Because he is so thin.”

“Sí.”

“And now you are all together?”

“Así es.”

Diego nodded. And now they would finish the job that el Gordo had bungled so badly on his own. He cleared his throat. “In three days,” he said. “By Puebla and Orizaba.”

The man repeated the words aloud.

Diego nodded, satisfied. “Your name is Octavio?” he said.

“Sometimes.”

Diego smiled and asked the man to convey his greetings to el Gordo.

The man touched the fingers of his right hand to the brow of his sombrero.
“Gracias, señor. Que le vaya bien.”
He reined his horse around and set off at a bounding stride, soon vanishing into the darkness.

Diego considered resuming his ride to Mexico City. But it seemed he
had lost his hankering for lights and amusement. He was more concerned with what he had just done. He reached into the breast pocket of his blouse, rooted out a
puro
, one of several there. With the reins still looped over the stump of his arm, he lit the cigar, took a long pull that filled his lungs. He released the smoke slowly, watched it twist and glint, faintly silver, in the moonlight. So this is how, in time of war, a one-armed turncoat becomes a spy. He served two masters now, and the realization made him wonder which of the two he would betray in the end.

He dug in his heels and set off at an easy gait back toward Chapultepec, the cigar still clenched between his teeth—a flicker of light and a four-legged shadow floating through the highland darkness.

“You R
EQUIRE PERMISSION
,” said the soldier, one of several Mexican troops posted near the entrance to the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno. “No one enters without permission.”

“Whose permission?” said Diego.

“El gringo.”

“But I have tried. He won’t see me.”

It was true. Only that morning, he had twice sought to gain entrance to the cathedral in order to confront Salm-Salm. Salm-Salm was said to have an office somewhere in the temple. Twice, Diego had been denied admission. Now he was trying to make a direct assault on the hospital—and he would do it, too, if only he could find his way past this one miserable excuse for a soldier.

The poor fellow didn’t look like much, outfitted in a mismatched uniform whose threadbare tunic was missing several buttons. His boots seemed about to shrivel into various worthless shreds, and he carried a black powder musket with a damaged bayonet, slung from one shoulder by a length of twine. Diego doubted the weapon would shoot. He had
half a mind to make a run for it—first push his way past and then keep on going till he reached the hospital, only a short sprint away. But more soldiers were loitering in front of the ancient building, and it was evident he stood no chance. He decided he would seek out the archbishop instead.

He reminded himself that he was acting solely out of a sense of duty—the emperor had asked him to make inquiries as to Ángela’s health, to see how the woman was faring after her injury. He was also to assess her emotional condition, particularly as it involved her son. Diego knew what that meant.

“You mean, whether she would consent to his adoption?”

The emperor had nodded. “Just so.”

Diego wondered why Maximiliano did not obtain this intelligence from Salm-Salm directly. After all, the prince was in the best position to know. But it seemed the emperor did not quite trust the German.

“He pretends to enjoy a degree of intimacy with me that I do not consider he has earned,” Maximiliano had said. “I wish to proceed with caution.”

For this reason, he was assigning Diego the task of sorting through the morass of personal and political complications involved in such a delicate enterprise—the adoption of an heir. He most particularly wished to avoid any action that might raise Charlotte’s hopes, unless there was good reason to believe those hopes would be realized. She was desperate for a child.

Diego knew this to be true. Not long after taking up residence at Chapultepec, he had accompanied the emperor and empress on an early morning ride that had taken them further afield than planned. Bombelles was among the party, along with Doktor Basch, the emperor’s physician, and the Count and Countess Kollonitz, both members of the imperial retinue and intimates of the emperor and empress. The usual hussar guard followed behind. Eventually, they had reached a private estate called La Hacienda de los Morales, where they were served an impromptu breakfast by a small army of servants. The owners were absent for a time.

The meal was followed by several rounds of pulque flavoured with a variety of succulent fruits, and the unfamiliar libation had pleased
everyone, the women as much as the men. As they prepared to depart, the emperor and his companions all gave repeated thanks to the servants. It was then that a young girl approached, all alone. She was a small Indian child, no doubt a daughter of one of the servants, and could not have been more than six years old. She wore an embroidered blouse over a narrow cotton skirt. Her dark, liquid eyes were almost preternaturally large.

Holding a bouquet of scarlet roses, she first curtseyed and then knelt before the empress. She looked up, raised her arms, and proffered the bouquet. “
Son
para usted.
”

For several moments, Carlota seemed on the verge of tears. Then the tears broke, and she wept openly before recovering her composure. She bent down to receive the flowers from the girl. The child then rose onto her small bare feet, pressed her palms together in an attitude of prayer, and slowly backed away, never removing her gaze from the empress’s eyes. Carlota straightened up, still clutching the bouquet. For a time, she remained still, taking slow, deep breaths.

“My dear …” said the emperor, but his voiced trailed off as his wife burst into tears again, deep, wracking sobs that seemed to surge from the depths of her soul.

Later, during the return to Chapultepec, the empress guided her horse alongside Countess Kollonitz, and both of them kept a little separate from the others, their heads bowed together, conferring in whispers. The emperor smoked a succession of cigarettes and said little as the party made its uneasy way back to the castle at Chapultepec.

It was clear to Diego that both the emperor and his wife longed for an heir, albeit for different reasons. He would not have considered acting on Their Majesties’ behalf on this matter, not as long as Baldemar remained a prisoner. But his old friend was again a free man, and Ángela could choose what she would do. He was fairly certain what that choice would be, but he saw no harm any longer in putting the question. The empress had been so forlorn, so wracked by sorrow. And so it was he now found himself outside the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, feeling useless.
He saw there was no hope of gaining access to Ángela by this route. So, instead, he returned to the Imperial Palace and drafted a message to the Most Reverend Pelagio Antonio de Labastida y Dávalos, archbishop of Mexico City. He dispatched it by messenger. It was written on the emperor’s vellum stock and sealed in wax with the emperor’s emblem. He had little doubt that a reply would be received in short order, for the archbishop would almost certainly conclude that the subject for discussion would be the detested reform laws.

This was duplicity, but it worked. Within two hours, he received a reply inviting him to meet the prelate at once. The old palace of the archbishopric on the calle de la Moneda was in disuse, having been seized under the anti-clerical reforms, along with so many other Church properties. Just like all the rest, it too had then been looted and trashed. The meeting would instead take place at the man’s temporary offices not far from the Zócalo.

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.