THE JOURNEY TOOK DIEGO through an arid landscape of parched stream beds, broad plains, mesquite scrub, and table mountains, and it finally brought him to what seemed to be a scattered and unremarkable town, overlooking the river known to Mexicans as the Río Bravo.
He soon found the sometime journalist J.S. Bartlett at work in his office at the United States customs house. The lanky American disentangled his long legs from beneath his desk. He strode toward Diego, hands outstretched. The two men exchanged introductions, and Diego explained that he wished to cross into Mexico in order to—
“Señor Serrano,” said Bartlett, “I know exactly why you want to cross into Mexico. You want to speak to Presidente Juárez.”
“That is so,” said Diego. “I understand he is installed at El Paso del Norte.” It was the small Mexican town just across the border from Franklin. “It seems you have been forewarned of my visit. You’ve spoken to General Grant?”
“Something along those lines. Let’s just say we have been expecting you.” The young man stood by a large window commanding a view of the slow, meandering river and, beyond it, Mexico. A dome of curly blond hair framed an oval face bisected by a pair of wire-framed spectacles. He wore a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “Señor Juárez arrived some months ago,” he said, “accompanied by his staff, some journalists, plus five hundred soldiers and half a dozen artillery pieces.”
Diego fumbled for a cigarette. “You are precise.”
“I am a journalist,” the young man said. “Precision is my trade.” He used the tail of his shirt to remove some smudge from the windowpane, then turned toward Diego. “But we are not averse to round numbers, either.” He removed a cigarette from his breast pocket, lit Diego’s and then his own. “For example,” he said, speaking through a haze of smoke, “thirty thousand. Give or take.”
Diego let out a low whistle. “That many? How will they cross the border?”
“Oh, they won’t. Not officially. They’ll be recorded as having been ‘mislaid.’”
Diego smiled. “I want to arrange for some of these … these articles … to move further south. A town called Xalapa. Can that be done?”
“Oh probably. But it’s not my department. You’ll have to talk to Señor Juárez. A lucky thing he’s so close.”
The American returned to his desk and resumed his seat. He crossed his arms at his chest. “I imagine you know these are difficult times for Señor Juárez.”
“For all Mexicans.”
“I know, I know. But I’m referring to something specific. The man has just learned that his youngest son is dead. In New York.”
It was the first Diego had heard of it. He remembered a boy, only a few months old at the time of his visit, nearly a year ago now. “I didn’t know.”
“How could you? I learned about it in a cable from my newspaper. I had the unfortunate duty of informing Señor Juárez myself. He’d never even set eyes on the boy.”
Diego shook his head. “He must be suffering.”
“He must. Besides, the war goes badly.” Bartlett contemplated his cigarette for a moment before continuing. The liberals, he said, were in retreat on almost every front. Only the other day, they had been obliged to surrender the southern city of Oaxaca to the French.
This was news to Diego, but he understood at once how grave it was. The loss of Oaxaca was apt to hit Juárez especially hard, for he had been raised in that town and had been governor of the state. What was almost as bad was to hear the news delivered by an American, who seemed to possess far better intelligence about Mexico than Mexicans did themselves.
“My newspaper has a correspondent in Oaxaca,” said Bartlett. He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “But I guess the military situation in your country will start to change now that the north has won the war.”
The American meant the other war, the war in the United States. Until that moment, Diego had not known for certain that the conflict was over or that the Union side had prevailed. He’d known only that victory was imminent. So now it was done.
“But these … ah … these new articles—I’m sure they’ll help.” Bartlett meant the Spencer rifles. He rose and once again extended his hand. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Diego. “I intend to cross the border now. May I proceed?”
“Por supuesto, Señor Serrano. Vaya con Dios.”
“Y usted también.”
Diego strode out into the late afternoon sunshine. He told his companions—the men who had accompanied him from San Diego and who’d received half wages thus far—that he would return in a matter of days. They would wait for him on the northern side. He remounted his horse, gathered the reins, and in short order was venturing back into his own country. He forded the river, the water lapping at the heels of his boots. On the far side, his horse clambered up onto a rough beach of pebbles and gravel, and he was in Mexico again. Goats bleated on the slopes of dry, sun-bleached hills, dogs barked at intervals, and the road ahead seemed both narrow and badly in need of repair, the way stippled by low, scrubby trees and carpeted by patchy grass shorn to the ground by ungulates. He urged his horse into a trot and was soon riding into the town of El Paso del Norte, a forlorn collection of low adobe buildings, haphazardly assembled in the cool but brilliant sun. Rolls of sagebrush stumbled amid helixes of dust, and wiry, underfed pigs snuffled through the garbage for their supper. He drew the dry air in through his nostrils, sensing wood smoke and the pungent corn scent of tamales. For better or worse, this was Mexico again.
He rode on.
Before long, several armed sentries strode out from a low adobe hut at the entrance to the plaza mayor, not a complete uniform or a decent pair of boots in the lot.
“Oiga, señor,” said one. He raised his rifle. “Deténgase.”
Diego did as he was told. He declared that he had come to speak to His Excellency. He made no mention of the emperor, whose letter he had burned long ago, letting the ashes scatter across the blue Pacific. Instead, he carried a handwritten statement of introduction, scribbled and signed by Baldemar Peralta. He nursed a faint hope that the renown of el Gordo de las Gafas might have reached even this remote outpost. He handed the document to the elder of the guards. Unfortunately, neither this man nor any of his subordinates was able to read. Thus the letter was launched on a slow, uncertain way up the chain of command until eventually word came back—let the visitor through.
Diego found lodging that night at a dismal, slump-roofed excuse for a hotel, a building that seemed to be both very old and yet only half-finished. Diego slouched about the place, drinking raw aguardiente straight from the bottle and wondering at the strange contradictions of fate that had brought him here. He supposed Juárez must sometimes wonder the same thing. They were confederates in that respect, both of them far from home, he a mestizo, Juárez an Indian, both driven to the furthest edge of a country once again ruled by foreign, white-skinned men. Bazaine. Napoleon. Maximiliano.
He took another swallow of the cloudy liquor, and the kick of it caused his eyes to water. Before long, he found himself thinking of Beatríz. Another swig. Another swallow. More dampness about the eyes. The way she had watched him that morning, near the gate at the House of Borda, as he rode away. He hadn’t known then if he would ever make it back, and he wondered now if he ever would. No other messenger had returned, not as far as he knew. For now, he could only wait while Juárez decided whether to grant him an audience. The contrast between her dark skin and her white teeth. The flowers she braided into her hair. Ah, he didn’t know what he was thinking. He took another mouthful, and his eyes welled up again.
It was not until his third full day in the town that a messenger appeared at the hotel to announce that the president would be willing to receive him that same afternoon. Unwilling to wait that long, Diego pulled on his jacket, adjusted his blouse, and set out on foot at once, remembering to bring the ambrotype he had carried from New York to Mexico City and now here.
When he reached Juárez’s provisional headquarters, a military orderly guided him to a second-floor office that overlooked the central plaza through rows of paint-flecked wooden jalousies, many of them broken or missing. The orderly indicated a chair and asked him to sit. He did so, surveying the room. The office contained a large wooden desk, its surface gouged and bare, as well as several straight-back wooden chairs of various styles. The light through the jalousies cast scattered images on the opposite wall that resembled rows of broken piano keys.
Diego held his document folder firmly in his lap and waited for the president to appear. It was true what he’d told Bartlett. He had indeed met Juárez on one previous occasion, years earlier, when the president had been making his way through a crowd in Mexico City. Juárez had singled Diego out from the crowd, no doubt on account of his missing arm, and had changed his direction at once. A host of soldiers cleared his path. The president was a small, dark-skinned man with a sombre demeanour, and he reached out with two hands to grip Diego’s one.
Diego nodded. “Sí. La guerra.” He did not elaborate.
But Juárez thanked him, anyway. “Gracias por su sacrificio. Le agradezco yo y le agradece todo México.”
Thank you for your sacrifice. I thank you. All Mexico thanks you.
It was odd to think of that encounter now, so many years later, and to realize that Beatríz and the president were the only ones who had ever put the matter to him in this light. For his own part, Diego thought of the loss of his arm mainly as a humiliating blunder, something he would rather not discuss or hear mentioned. But Beatríz had regarded his injury in a different way—and so had Juárez, all those years ago.
A soldier appeared at the doorway and announced that el presidente would see him. Before long, a small but erect individual entered the room—the president of Mexico. Diego leapt to his feet. Benito Juárez was much as Diego remembered from that one previous encounter—a compact man with burnished bronze skin and with a severe expression etched into the contours of his narrow, rectangular face. If he had known pain or pleasure during the course of his life, his features did not show it. The two men shook hands. Juárez took in Diego’s missing arm—or the empty space it would have occupied.
“Ah yes,” he said, as if he remembered exactly who this visitor was, and to Diego it truly seemed that he did.
The president lowered himself into a solid wooden chair and gazed across the chipped surface of his desk. He must have been sixty years old, but there was not a strand of grey in the sleek black hair that was parted on the left and combed tidily over his pate. His features remained fixed in an attitude of serious purpose. He said nothing at first but merely waited until the orderly entered with coffee for them both, served in mismatched cups and saucers.
Juárez took his coffee black. He sipped from the cup and replaced it in its saucer. He glanced up. “I am informed that you were recently in New York,” he said.
“I was.” Diego supposed that questions on this subject must by now have been posed to J.S. Bartlett. He also realized his movements in New York, as in Washington, must surely have been monitored. He was, at least in theory, an emissary from the court of Emperor Maximiliano. He said, “Some time has passed since then.”
“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.