The Empire of Yearning (18 page)

T
HERE WAS STILL NO
sign of Baldemar. Once or twice a week, Diego ventured into Mexico City hoping to stumble upon his old friend—or be ambushed by him—but he was always disappointed. Perhaps it was no surprise. By now, el Gordo de las Gafas had become a legend among the people of the east. He was a hero of the common folk, pitted against an arch villain—the Tiger of Tacubaya, the bloodiest murderer in the land. It was well known that Márquez was obsessed with the capture of Baldemar Peralta. Almost everyone seemed to know he owed his life to the Fat Man. Dozens of
corridos
had been composed to celebrate the episode, and now they were hummed by campfires and crooned in cantinas across the coastal flats that stretched from the central sierra to the torrid shores of the Mexican Gulf.

The songs even travelled to Mexico City, where Diego sometimes heard their lyrics on the Plaza Santa Cecilia, sung in furtive snatches, mostly late at night. From rumours and vignettes that came his way and from the lyrics of these
corridos
, he managed to piece together an impression of the new life that his former schoolmate had fashioned for himself as an outlaw and rebel.

Mexicans like a hero, and they especially admire a hero who pays close attention to his appearance. For that reason alone, Baldemar had earned their respect. He rode a tall bay gelding and went about in a black leather vest over a white blouse above a pair of beige breeches with silver spangles. He wore stamped leather boots with pointed toes and adorned with silver spurs. His long-barrelled Colt revolver, the one he’d got as a gift from Diego, he kept tucked beneath a wide belt. Beneath his black, round-brimmed sombrero, he wound a green bandanna that encircled his brow.

Baldemar was also distinguished by the steel-rimmed spectacles with green-tinted lenses that he kept perched upon the bridge of his sunburned nose. The eyeglasses gave him an incongruous scholarly cast that only added to the notoriety he had won through his reputation for courage, as well as his unheard-of habit of freeing his captives rather than killing them. There were other irregular fighters—gamberros—who roamed the Mexican countryside, launching hit-and-run attacks on the imperial forces, but none of them was as celebrated in myth or song as el Gordo de las Gafas.

Before long, a tangle of folk tales sprang up around him. Baldemar had failed to assassinate General Márquez that day in Mexico City only because a young Indian waitress had strayed into the line of fire, and he was forced to lower his weapon to avoid harming an innocent girl. Later, after being tortured and brutally abused in the Martinica Prison, el Gordo received a pardon from the emperor but refused to accept it until every other prisoner in the place also was freed. And so the doors of the Martinica were thrown open. On departing that jail, each of the former inmates received a grant of three hundred reals and a revolving pistol. Or so it was said.

It was also Baldemar Peralta who captured the Tiger of Tacubaya near Soledad de Doblado one day by assuming the shape of a jaguar and leaping from the branches of a mango tree. He fell upon his quarry and wrestled the man from his horse. Subsequently, and after reverting to human form, el Gordo dangled his prey from the limb of an almond tree, taunting
the general until the man revealed the most closely held secrets of the state, including the routes of ingress to the imperial mint, a building that was filled to its cobwebbed ceilings with ingots of silver and gold, all the treasures of Mexico, systematically stolen from the common people and hoarded over hundreds of years. When the present war was over, every last Mexican would be rich, for el Gordo would share the plunder with all his countrymen, down to the lowliest Indian peasant. Thus, centuries of injustice would be redeemed.

These and other tales were told and retold, polished and embellished as they passed by word of mouth through the countryside. Steadily, the fame of el Gordo grew. Young men soon began flocking to his side, often with the blessings of their mothers and sisters. Gradually, he expanded his range of operations, until it seemed he was in a dozen places almost at once—one day in the rolling blue mountains of Michoacán, the next day in the ancient village of Ixmiquilpan, then in the green, orchid-festooned forests outside Xalapa. But he suffered one persistent limitation: the difficulty of acquiring sufficient munitions and powder—a constant source of torment and frustration.

Meanwhile, General Márquez steadily added to his own renown, although in a very different way. He conducted regular forays through the eastern lands, staging exercises that he liked to refer to as training sessions, designed to build confidence among the local populace. He strove to impress upon people that there were just two kinds of Mexicans in time of war: good ones and dead ones. Good Mexicans refused to have anything to do with godless liberal gamberros, did not feed them or provide them with intelligence or allow them safe passage across the land. Instead, as quickly as humanly possible, good Mexicans communicated everything they knew about the activities of godless liberal gamberros to the defenders of Mexico’s honour and dignity, the contraguerrilla.

It was Holy Week, and Diego was striding across the Zócalo of Mexico City, through the clutter and commotion, the commerce and din—the vendors and
putas
, pariah dogs and mules, the shouting and braying, barking and laughter, church bells and screams. Not far from the Metropolitan Cathedral, a frail, morose Indian man was bound to a stout wooden post, doing enforced penance by playing the part of Judas Iscariot. All those who passed him, on horseback or on foot, availed themselves of the opportunity to hawk their phlegm and gob upon the miserable wretch. They called him names, denounced his sins, and spat at him again.

Diego tossed the remains of a cheroot onto the rutted street and observed the miserable creature. Mexico was its own worst enemy, it seemed. What need did the country have of French occupiers? All on their own, Mexicans were more than capable of savaging one another. Just then, from the corner of his eye, Diego saw a man running toward the sopping Judas. Something flashed in the sunlight—the blade of a hatchet. The blade sliced down, once, twice, three times, severing the bonds that held the fellow. With his free arm, the man with the hatchet raised the Indian up.

“
¡Vamos, hombre!
” he shouted. “
¡Corre!
”

Both dressed in rags, the two men darted toward the Monte de Piedad. Meanwhile, bystanders pointed at them and began to shout. More than a few gave chase, shrieking “Judas! Judas!” Diego broke into a run, determined to catch up with the two fleeing men, the Judas and his rescuer. In addition to his soiled and threadbare clothing, the man with the hatchet wore green-tinted glasses. It was Baldemar—Diego was sure of it.

Somehow, he managed to catch up with the pair, and the three of them kept running, weaving and doubling back through the side streets that skirted the Zócalo, until they reached the Plaza Santa Cecilia. Here, they stopped and rested, hands on their knees, chests heaving.

“¿Estás loco?
” said Diego, still panting from the effort. “Are you out-of-your-mind crazy?”

“So it would seem,” said Baldemar. “I can’t help myself.”

“Why are you dressed like that?”

“What? These rags? It’s a disguise.”

“Clever. The glasses go perfectly. And the hatchet?”

“I had to steal it.”

“So it’s true what they say. You’re a common thief.”

“And proud of it.”

By now, the Indian man had straightened up. “Excuse me,” he said to Baldemar. “You owe me three clacos.”

“What? What for?”

“I was to be paid that much by the Church.”

“Paid for what? For being spat on? You’re joking.”

The Indian shrugged. “Besides, it was a penance.”

“What for?”

“I steal money for drink. I beat my wife. I neglect my children. You want more?”

“No. Never mind. Here. Never let it be said I cheated Judas Iscariot out of a few coins.”

Baldemar gave him several clacos, which the man hurriedly stuffed somewhere in the damp folds of his rags.

“Are you el Gordo de las Gafas?” he said.

“Could be,” said Baldemar. “Who are you?”

“A sinner. A humble servant of the Lord. Why are you dressed like that?”

“Just as I said. I’m in disguise.” Baldemar tilted his head toward the man he’d just rescued. He lowered his voice. “Would you like to join me? I have an army in Xalapa. You could lead a different life.”

“A different life? You mean, kill conservatives? Live off the land? Fight for the honour of my country?”

“Yes. All that—and no more spittle. Are you willing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather drink pulque and beat my wife.”

Without another word, the man turned and trotted away on stubby bare feet. Diego and Baldemar watched him go.

Baldemar sighed. “You can rescue a man from servitude,” he said. “But you cannot set him free.”

“Come on,” said Diego, “I’ll buy you a drink.”

Before long, they were huddled once again by the gouged wooden countertop at Memorias del Futuro. The first subject that came up between them was Ángela. Baldemar said that his sister was safe. Just as Diego had suspected, she was hiding out in Taxco in the presbytery occupied by Padre Buendía. Baldemar did not say how he knew this, and Diego chose not to pursue the matter. It was clear to him that his friend had his networks and his ways. Besides, everyone knew there were liberals in the clergy still, despite the staunchly conservative sentiments of the hierarchy.

“What about the boy?” he said.

“That will resolve itself. Eventually.”

“How do you know?”

Baldemar tapped his forehead. “You watch. The French and the Church will come to blows. Labastida will let the boy go. He’ll have no choice.”

“And the child will be returned to his mother?”

“I hope so.”

For a time, there was silence. They attended to their drinks.

Then Diego set down his glass. “And what about you? The war?”

“Better … and worse.”

“Worse how?”

Baldemar shrugged. “Nothing a few rifles wouldn’t solve.”

They emptied their jars and ordered two more. Baldemar explained that Márquez had graduated to even greater acts of bloodshed and brutality on his rampages through the hamlets and villages near the eastern coast. “The truth is, he’s losing the war—and this is his response.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Ah, that,” said Baldemar. “That is what I came to talk about.”

He put down his glass and spoke in a whisper. He set out what he had in mind. Those Spencer rifles, he said. They were needed. Now.

Diego nodded at intervals as his old friend explained what was required. The surprising thing was that he already knew. He had known this part all along, even before Baldemar began to speak.

H
IS
E
XCELLENCY
M
ONSEñOR
P
EDRO
Francisco Meglia, nuncio of the Papal See, arrived in Mexico City on the last day of June in the year 1865, accompanied by a complement of Swiss guards, as well as a force of African Zouaves.

Soon after reaching Mexico City, Meglia communicated news of his presence to Her Majesty the Empress Carlota, who was carrying out the duties of the crown in her husband’s absence. Maximiliano was again in Cuernavaca, availing himself of the sunshine and the warmer climate. Diego remained at Chapultepec, serving Carlota in the office of personal secretary, much as he had done with the emperor but with fewer demands on his time. Many who observed her said they were impressed by the empress’s conduct, implying without saying so that she was a better monarch than her husband.

But this did not mean the empress was a match for the newly arrived papal nuncio. Carlota granted the man an audience at eleven o’clock in the morning, a week after his appearance in the city. It was rumoured the Italian had spent most of this period in solitude, working out chess
problems on a miniature magnetized board he had brought with him from Rome.

Diego was among those who attended the meeting. The encounter took place in the Red Room at Chapultepec. Meglia made a cursory bow, issued a formal but barely audible greeting, proffered his letter of introduction, and then stood in silence, gazing about as if he had recently purchased the building and all its contents and was only now putting a number to their true worth. He projected an air of displeasure, as though concluding he had grossly overpaid.

Carlota cleared her throat and initiated polite conversation, but Meglia made only the most cursory of replies.

Had Monseñor enjoyed an agreeable crossing?

Reasonably so.

What were his principal impressions of Mexico thus far?

It was hot upon the coast, rather less so here in the interior.

What news did he bring of great events in Europe?

All was unfolding according to the will of the Almighty.

He offered these curt replies in a feeble monotone that emerged from a pair of lips that were as thin as wires and barely moved when he spoke. He had a sallow complexion, a long and narrow nose, and dark patches around his eyes, so that he somewhat resembled a plucked raccoon. His black hair was slicked back with a sweet-smelling pomade, and he wore voluminous purple robes. When addressed, he allowed several seconds of silence to precede his response. His manner suggested that he had never in his life been as monstrously bored as he was right now.

“You would like tea?” said the empress. “Or perhaps wine. It is nearly noon.”

“A glass of milk,” said the nuncio. After an additional pause, he added, “If you please.”

Milk was provided, along with a selection of pastries. Carlota squeezed a wedge of lemon into her tea. She cleared her throat, apparently signalling that the time for small talk was done. She gazed at the nuncio and inquired how in his view the imperial government of Mexico and the
Roman Catholic Church could narrow the not inconsiderable gap that, lamentably, had opened between them.

“Well …” Meglia said. He reached into a leather valise to withdraw a document bearing the Vatican seal. “Allow me to explain …”

He placed a pair of reading spectacles upon the bridge of his nose and began to read from the sheaf of papers balanced on his lap. On and on he droned, always in his toneless, uninflected voice. It soon became apparent to Diego that the man had not travelled to Mexico to negotiate. He wondered whether Maximiliano’s recent penchant for absenting himself from Mexico City might not have had less to do with the coolness of the weather in the capital than with the grim prospect of meeting Meglia in the flesh.

For her part, Carlota did her best, offering comments or objections in a tentative, diplomatic voice, but the man simply ignored her and carried on with his pontification, reading word for word from the documents he had brought with him. He concluded his performance by reciting a long and detailed list of apparently non-negotiable demands. He then withdrew into a sort of paralytic trance while Carlota embarked upon a response. It was clear to everyone that he was not listening.

Prior to the meeting, Carlota had informed Diego that she intended to strike an agreement of some kind with Meglia, much as it offended her principles to do so. The crown of Mexico—its very survival—depended upon firm and reliable alliances, arrangements that must include an accord between church and state. Matters could not be permitted to go on as they were, amid mutual suspicion and acrimony.

But she might just as well have said nothing at all. The prelate made no attempt to address her concerns. He simply declared, and subsequently repeated, that the document from which he had been reading would serve as a concordat between the Mexican Church and the imperial government—not the basis of a concordat, he said, but the final form of the treaty itself. Not a word might be changed. In short, the Vatican demanded the complete capitulation of the imperial government on every count, the repeal of every reform law, the restoration to the
Church of every power it had ever possessed, and more besides. Even as a basis for negotiation, it was untenable. But Meglia did not propose it as a basis for negotiation. This must be the final agreement.

Carlota attempted to shift the subject of their discussion. She mentioned the singer, Ángela Peralta, and her son. But Meglia wasn’t interested. This matter lay outside his purview. He had no mandate to discuss it. Carlota protested that, as she understood the situation, both the woman and the boy were, or recently had been, incarcerated against their will by Labastida and his agents. They were being held to ransom, used as pawns in the Church’s efforts to impose its demands upon the state. This was intolerable and must be condemned by all right-thinking people. Could Monseñor Meglia imagine such a travesty being committed in Rome?

The prelate inclined his head, as though to address a child. “But, Your Majesty,” he said, “we do not find ourselves in Rome.”

That night Carlota presided at a dinner that had been organized in the visiting dignitary’s honour. But Meglia did not turn up or even convey his regrets, and the dinner went ahead without him. Bazaine was among those who attended, and on this occasion he was squiring his new Mexican paramour, a girl of just seventeen named Josefa de la Peña y Azcárate. She preened behind an oriental fan and made coquettish eyes at her suitor, who was her senior by a good four decades.

By long-standing custom, discussion of political affairs was prohibited during dinner, a fortunate practice in this instance, as nearly all of the guests would have sided vehemently with Meglia. Carlota would have found herself in a lonely minority, along with Bazaine, perhaps, and, of course, Diego.

Late in the evening, several of the guests wandered out onto the terrace, the ladies in their wraps, everyone intent upon enjoying the cool evening air, while admiring the silvery moonlit view out over the bosky plains that separated the palace from Mexico City. Diego ventured out on his own. The Mexican men smoked cigars and stood about, knees locked and bellies distended, complaining bitterly that they had been saddled, it seemed, with a pair of outright liberals in place of a proper emperor and
empress. Who could have predicted such a thing? It was unconscionable. Emperors preaching reform!

Four days after his audience with Carlota, His Excellency Monseñor Pedro Francisco Meglia departed Mexico City. He was bound for Veracruz, and then for Rome. It was said that he did not cast a single backward glance from his carriage but departed the city with his head cast down, with his magnetized chess set close at hand and his attention focused upon a book that had been published the previous year in Paris—
Bibliographie anecdotique du jeu des échecs.

For her part, the empress informed Diego that she had never met a more contemptible man. After Meglia, it would seem a pleasure to deal with Labastida.