IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT. After stabling his horse near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, Diego ambled along the rain-dark street, picking his way through the mud and dung, trying to avoid the beggars and hawkers. Suddenly, a wiry trollop hailed him with a cackle, followed by a disgusting proposition.
He waved her away. “¡Váyase!”
Normally, such a hag would have taken him at his word, but this woman proved more persistent.
“Go away,” he repeated.
She replied that, as a manco—a man with just one arm—he might have need of her assistance in order to gratify himself, as she put it. It was a service she would be only too happy to provide.
“I said no!”
Diego turned upon the woman and would have applied a well-aimed boot had the creature not begun to laugh in a throaty voice that soon betrayed its owner—Baldemar. The two men embraced. Even dressed as an old whore, Baldemar seemed in much improved condition, his frame at least somewhat filled out, his complexion far less sallow, no sign of the terrible rash he had suffered previously.
They quickly found their way to their usual haunt, a dark and creaking place hidden away from prying eyes. Over jars of pulque, Baldemar announced that he was a gamberro now—an outlaw, as such men were called by Mexico’s conservatives, who refused to flatter their enemies by calling them soldiers. Baldemar and several dozen other men, including those who had been freed with him from the Martinica Prison, were honouring a pact they had made while under sentence of death. They were dwelling among the people. They were fighting the monarchists and the French. Their numbers had grown, and they continued to grow.
“It began with Márquez,” Baldemar said. “When we handed him and his men over to the French in Veracruz, they gave us three hundred reals apiece. A thousand for Márquez. Not only that, but they agreed to open the prison at San Juan de Ulúa and set the inmates free. Nearly a hundred of them. We promised each man a carbine and a horse, and they all joined up with us. Well, most of them did. They call me el Gordo de las Gafas.”
The fat man with glasses.
The name had gained currency even though Baldemar was anything but fat nowadays. But he did wear glasses, a pair of green-tinted lenses that gave him a mysterious air, at once studious and daring. Already, he and his fellow gamberros had fought several battles in the rugged, precipitous lands to the east. They had taken dozens of prisoners each time. And, each time, Baldemar had followed a remarkable course, his signal inspiration. He actually set his prisoners free, something almost unheard of in Mexico, where prisoners taken in combat normally stood an excellent prospect of torture followed by execution. Word of this practice had spread widely, giving him a decisive advantage in battle.
“It means our enemies don’t fight so much,” he said. “There’s no need to battle to the death. What would be the point? They might as well give themselves up. They know we won’t kill them. A lot of them turn coats and join our side. The rest go back to their wives.”
To the people who dwelled in the hill country to the east and on the coastal flats, Baldemar had already become a hero, a legend. As he spoke of this newly won status he betrayed no trace of false modesty but no boastfulness, either. It wasn’t a hollow claim but simple fact.
“I should have killed Márquez, though,” he said. “I can see that now. I should have put him under while I had the chance.”
“Why?”
“He’s put together his own band of fighters. They’re based in Tampico.” Baldemar spat on the floor. “Murdering scum. People call them the Blue Butchers on account of their uniforms.” Baldemar tipped back his drink, swallowed, wiped his lips. “He means to kill me.”
“That surprises you?”
“No. It’s just that he can’t. I have a claim on his soul. Remember?”
Diego did remember. But he wasn’t so sure any longer that Baldemar was right. Other men might abide by that ancient code of honour. But Márquez? He glanced up at the barman, and motioned for their glasses to be refilled. He changed the subject. “What about Ángela?”
“I hear you spoke to Padre Buendía. In Taxco.”
“I did. How did you know?”
Baldemar shrugged. “These priests,” he said. “Anyway, I’m sure he’ll find her—or at least find out where she is. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Then what?”
“Then we spring her loose. Or I do. You won’t be in Mexico when that happens.”
“I won’t?”
“No, you won’t.”
Diego gazed at his surroundings, the murky light of the pulquería, the wavering candles, the half-illuminated men hunched over their crude irregular glasses. He had no idea what Baldemar was getting at, but he had little doubt that something was about to change and that he would have little say in the matter. He owed Baldemar a debt he could never hope to repay. But, unlike the Tiger of Tacubaya, he would keep chipping away at it just the same. He knew it, and Baldemar knew it, too.
But still his friend said nothing further on this subject he’d just raised.
Finally, Diego banged his palm against the wooden counter. “If I’m not in Mexico,” he said, “then where the hell will I be?”
Baldemar turned his jar around in a circle on the bar. Then he turned it around again. “In Washington,” he said. “In Washington, District of Columbia.”
Diego looked down at the milky surface of his drink. He lifted the jar to his lips, tipped it back, felt the liquid well in his throat. He swallowed. He hadn’t expected this, and he had no idea what it meant. But there it was again. He wasn’t a free man yet. He knew he had only to wait and sip his drink, and eventually Baldemar would get around to explaining what all this was about. Eventually, Baldemar did.
“Fine,” Diego said when his friend was done explaining, although it wasn’t fine at all. But he would do it because he had a duty to uphold. Besides, who knew where it all might lead? He was the servant of two masters and did not have the luxury of knowing anything for certain.
Out on the street, in the chill nighttime breeze, the two parted company and walked off in contrary directions yet again.
It was either a very good time or a very bad time to be leaving Mexico. Diego couldn’t decide which.
Since his return to the capital, the emperor seemed to have recovered from his strange ordeal at the shining caves and had thrown himself back into his daily round of duties and recreations. He rose early, as always. He continued to work on his magnum opus, codifying the innumerable protocols and formalities that pertained to the imperial court. He rode through the countryside near Chapultepec. He signed decrees. He visited orphanages. He received petitioners. He presided at receptions and balls. He appointed and sacked ministers so frequently that Diego sometimes wondered whether his own job was safe. But, no matter how quickly he lost patience with others, the emperor seemed to have an abiding faith in his one-armed secretary.
In most ways, everything was just as it had been before. Still, something had changed. The trauma Maximiliano had suffered that day in the rugged lands beyond Cuernavaca had left its mark. He did not talk about the cache of bones he and Diego had discovered. For the most part, he did not refer to the scorpion sting or the ensuing drama, but it was clear the experience had affected him deeply. He seemed distracted at times. He made excuses and neglected some of his former duties, eager to escape the endless ceremonies and rituals of high office. He began to take an inordinate interest in what seemed to be marginal enterprises—pet projects of his own devising. He began to absent himself more often from the capital. Diego could only speculate about what had changed or why. But when he looked back on that foray to the shining caves, he sometimes wondered whether Maximiliano had discovered in that excess of bones some premonition of his own death.
If the emperor spoke of that day at all, it was to recall the curandero in Taxco, his soothing, sympathetic ways. Once or twice he even called for pots of boiling water and pine gum to be set up in his study, so that he might purify his lungs while dictating his correspondence. Mindful that don Plutarco was of native blood, Maximiliano developed a new interest in Mexico’s indigenous people. He officially declared himself “Protector of the Indians” and formally outlawed the practice of debt peonage. These measures produced no practical benefit as far as Diego could tell, but they did cause additional grumbling among the Mexicans at court and further alienated the emperor from the Church.
As for Salm-Salm, he had restored himself to the emperor’s favour. True, his frenzied journey back to Mexico City had proved unsuccessful. He had meant to wrest control of Ángela and her son from Labastida and to formalize the boy’s adoption by the emperor and empress. In that, he had failed. But Maximiliano was grateful for the attempt and appointed him grand master of the imperial household. Among other lucrative duties, the prince was now responsible for approving the petitions filed by Mexicans seeking formal recognition of their claims to nobility. He was delighted, for here was a highly remunerative post. Most of the petitioners were more than willing to pay handsomely for a favourable response.
Meanwhile, Mexico’s internal war ground on in the hinterland, far from the occupied capital. The French were gaining ground, it seemed, and Juárez would soon have little option but to withdraw even further north. At this rate, he would soon find his back pressed against the border with Texas, where he would have no choice but to make a final stand. No reply had been received to the missives Maximiliano had dispatched. Maybe Juárez had received them or maybe he had not. In either case, the result was the same—exactly nothing.
By this time, it was well known that General Márquez had organized a private fighting force and that he and his men now marauded the coastal lands to the east, just as Baldemar had said. The Blue Butchers, as they were known, had their headquarters in Tampico on the torrid Gulf coast. From there, Márquez and his men terrorized the countryside. Their main goal, they claimed, was to protect the supply lines between Mexico City and the sea, but they mostly devoted themselves to savagery and mayhem.