THE EMPEROR FAILED TO make good on his threats against Márquez. Either he had decided to heed Bazaine’s advice or he feared what the Tiger of Tacubaya, thoroughly enraged, might do. Besides, the fortunes of war had lately turned against the imperial forces, and Márquez’s warrior instincts could no longer be easily spurned. In short, Maximiliano needed the man on his side, just as Bazaine had predicted.
Emboldened by the end of the war in the American states, and strengthened by new supplies of weaponry, the armies loyal to Juárez had begun to gain ground. Bazaine and Márquez were both adamant that more aggressive battlefield measures were necessary. In particular, Márquez demanded that his officers be authorized to summarily execute anyone suspected of membership in an armed group on the liberal side. Captured combatants would be dealt with in the same way. He seized every opportunity to promote his case, brow-beating the emperor to authorize the measures, not next week, not tomorrow, but now.
“Chinga a su madre,” the general swore one day. He roared out the words—a deeply offensive oath—loudly enough that anyone nearby could hear him, no doubt including His Majesty. The officer had just left another meeting with the emperor, a meeting that had evidently produced yet another indecisive result on the question of summary execution, and Márquez was leaving no doubt about his displeasure. Ever since the game of billiards at Chapultepec, he had abandoned any pretence of holding Maximiliano in anything but the roundest contempt.
This time, Diego happened to be advancing along the corridor and heard the officer’s obscene outburst. He wondered how the emperor abided the man. Yet so he did, out of both necessity and fear. Lately, the atmosphere at the Imperial Palace had become deeply oppressive, rife with treachery and suspicion and doubt. Diego needed air. He hurried out onto the Zócalo, where a riddle of rickety scaffolding clung to the stone exterior of the Metropolitan Cathedral, and workmen bustled about, repairing the bell tower that had nearly been destroyed by the blast of Bazaine’s sixteen-pounder.
“Serrano!”
A man’s voice called out from behind, and Diego turned to see who it was. Salm-Salm. He waited for the man to catch up. The prince made as flamboyant a figure as ever, wearing a voluminous white blouse above a mauve cummerbund and a pair of wine-red trousers. He announced that he wished to propose a truce between himself and his old friend, el poeta manco.
“Are we in need of one?”
“Come now. We have been adversaries ever since that evening at the opera, when dear Ángela was shot.”
Diego made no comment either way.
“I want to speak to you about the child,” said Salm-Salm. “And the mother.”
“Yes?”
“Look. It might not seem that the question of succession is the most pressing matter facing Max. But the affair should be settled just the same, in fairness to all. We should come to an agreement, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know.”
Salm-Salm explained that Maximiliano and Labastida were at an impasse. Yes, Ángela’s son had been handed over as agreed. No, the Church would not authorize his adoption by Maximiliano, or not without the mother’s formal agreement.
“Which you do not have.”
“Which we do not have. That brings us to the crux of my proposal. I know where the boy is currently residing, and I suspect that you know where the mother might be found.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you do. And I don’t believe you are alone. I believe that little witch in Cuernavaca knows, too. Twice, to my knowledge, she has communicated with you about something. Shortly after the first instance, Ángela disappeared from Max’s, ah … from his second house in Cuernavaca. I call that an interesting coincidence.”
“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.”
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.