24

The Eye of the Storm

Rico knew that Mexico City’s main newspaper, El Imparcial, The Impartial, was laughably misnamed. Porfirio Díaz had backed El Imparcial for the thirty years he held power and it still occupied a comfortable position in the back pocket of big business. But Rico’s grandfather had received it by courier every week and Rico had learned to read with it.

He wasn’t surprised that El Imparcial claimed Victoriano Huerta had nothing to do with the deaths of Francisco Madero, his brother, and the vice president. The president himself had entrusted the general with quelling the coup attempt, El Imparcial said. And besides, General Huerta was visiting with the Dutch ambassador when President Madero was shot.

Rico wanted to believe that Victoriano Huerta hadn’t ordered Francisco Madero’s assassination. Almost everyone of influence seemed to believe him. When Huerta took over as president pro tem, diplomats of every embassy came calling to congratulate him. Foreign investors expressed their pleasure at having a forceful leader in control again. The military hierarchy hadn’t protested. The only government leader who refused to recognize Huerta’s authority was Venustiano Carranza, governor of the northern state of Coahuila. And he lived too far away to matter.

Rico had taken a weekend pass to the capital to see how it fared. The charred corpses had disappeared from the streets, along with the cartridge casings and unexploded artillery shells. Workmen were repairing the damage done to the buildings. Electricity had been restored.

Rico shouldn’t have been surprised by how quickly his people seemed to have erased from their memories the image of the dead bodies of men, women, and children, slaughtered by their own government. Maybe their history of thousands of years of violence had habituated them to it.

Only in Mexico, Rico thought, could such a senseless bloodbath be nicknamed a Fiesta of Bullets.

Before Rico returned to duty at Tres Marías a week ago, he suggested that Grace throw a fiesta of her own to celebrate the coming of Lent. He figured it would cheer her up and take her mind off the uncertainty in the capital. He had not experienced one of Grace’s full-throttle extravaganzas, so he could not have imagined she and her friends among the officers’ wives would organize something like this. The crowd of officers gathered in front of Cuernavaca’s elegant theater should have tipped him off.

When Rico and Juan entered the theater, a flock of young women surrounded them and jostled to break eggs on their heads. Fortunately María and the Colonial’s kitchen maids had poked holes in each end of the eggs and had blown out the original contents, leaving only the shells. Unfortunately they had filled the shells with cheap cologne and bits of gold and silver paper.

Being pelted with eggs was customary at pre-Lent celebrations, so Rico and Juan had worn their oldest dress uniforms. They both bowed and moved away from the door to give the ladies a clear shot at the next guests.

Juan stopped to stare around the room. “¡Que maravilloso!” And Juan wasn’t one to use words like “marvelous.”

The theater was another of Porfirio Díaz’s monuments to progress and to himself. It would have looked at ease in Paris or Rome. Frescoes crusted its domed ceiling. Red velvet swags decorated the curved tiers of balconies and loge seats. It looked posh enough as it was, but Grace and her staff and her friends had turned it into a fairyland.

The seats formed a line against the walls to make room for dancing. A long buffet and smaller tables sat in a jungle of potted palms a-twinkle with small lights. A soft glow from Japanese lanterns illuminated the room. The parquet floor glittered with the gold and silver confetti that had fallen off the guests. Baskets contained brightly colored paper fans and parasols as gifts. Women were already using them to flirt with the men.

Luís, the Colonial’s cantinero, presided at a bar set up in a side room. Rico was pleased to see him. The success of the surprise he had planned would depend on people drinking enough to lose their inhibitions.

Cuernavaca’s social set was not large. Everyone knew each other so conversation was lively. They all wanted to forget, at least for tonight, the troubles in the capital. Besides, during Carnival they all had a duty to enjoy themselves.

Rico found Grace and whirled her around. He gave her a feather-down kiss that was more satisfying than a buss and a bear hug. It was a kiss of friendship and comfort. It was an optimistic kiss. It implied they would have the rest of their lives to enjoy more passionate embraces.

It also transferred confetti from Rico’s lips to hers. He brushed it off with the tips of his fingers, then gathered her into his arms. She leaned against him as if coming home.

The band started with the usual Mexican danzas and two-steps. As the barrel in the bar filled with empty bottles, the laughter grew louder and the music livelier. By midnight Rico and Grace and all the other couples were dancing the tango. Rico gauged that the time had come for him to introduce his surprise.

He didn’t doubt that people would like the Turkey Trot. The Vatican had denounced it with indignation. That alone would assure its popularity.

Rico had mailed a musical arrangement to the bandmaster a few days before. As the musicians launched into an exuberant rendition of “Stop-time Rag,” Rico grabbed Grace by the waist and pulled her close to demonstrate the “hugging” that had so offended the Pope.

Rico and Grace had danced together so often to the phonograph that she caught on quickly to the basic moves. Four alternating hops—left, right, left, right—with feet wide apart. Up on the ball of the foot, and landing on the heel. Once Grace had the rhythm, Rico added fast kicks between her legs and the sudden stops and turns that made the dance fun and alarming.

Before Rico and Grace finished the first circuit of the floor, the whole company took off at a gallop that was more free-for-all than dance. As Rico steered Grace through the happy mêlée, she threw her head back and laughed.

Rico wanted to believe that as long as they were dancing, nothing bad could happen. Tomorrow he would have to tell Grace he had been assigned to Veracruz for six weeks. Rumor had it that Huerta intended to install Rubio, a general now, as governor of Morelos. The good news was that Rubio liked Grace and would make sure nothing happened to the Colonial. But Rico wondered if Rubio was sending him away because he planned a campaign he knew Rico would protest.

Much as Rico disliked Rubio, he hated Emiliano Zapata more. He remembered the view from the high ridge at Tres Marías, the blight of black patches that once had been productive fields and lovely old houses. Rico knew the names of every one of those haciendas—El Rosario, Los Arboles, Santa Fe. He knew the families who had lived behind their vine-covered walls. Zapata had to be stopped before he destroyed not only Morelos’s economy, but its history and tradition. Huerta was a brute, but maybe Mexico needed him.

Still, Rico couldn’t shake the feeling that the country was holding its breath, waiting for the rest of the tempest to arrive with a roar.