The Empire of Yearning Read Free

clear soup, followed by red snapper smothered in a sauce of tomatoes and peppers. Either the fish was off or Diego was unwell. Before long his head was pounding, and his brow prickled with sweat. Something was wrong. He pushed back his chair and climbed to his feet as the blood ran from his head. He felt he might faint, and had to steady himself against the table. He wondered if he would survive this infernal place long enough to save Baldemar Peralta, even assuming he was still alive. There was no way of knowing, on either account, and so he trudged upstairs to his bed, praying that this distress end quickly and the Austrian come soon.

C HAPTER 3
    D IEGO’S EYES SHOT OPEN and he sat bolt upright in the bed. What on earth was going on? Someone was pounding at the door of his room, calling his name. Groggy from sleep, he struggled to make sense of the uproar. “In the name of God,” he shouted back, “what do you want?” His mind cleared a little, and he thought he recognized the voice. It was the hotel manager. Finally he could make out what the man was saying.
    “¡El austríaco! ¡El austríaco!”
    Diego called out his thanks.
Gracias.
Now go away. When the commotion ended at last, he dragged himself from the narrow, creaking bed. Three days had passed since his encounter with the Prince of Salm-Salm, and now at last the Austrian had come. He splashed some tepid water onto his face. His forehead pulsed, as if his brain had split into various mismatched pieces. He knew that he was not merely hungover. He was coming down with something—pray God, not the yellow fever. In his experience, a hangover worthy of the name could mask any number of infirmities or diseases, but not this wretchedness. He pulled on his boots with his one hand and clumped down the stairs into the mustyand cavernous lobby, which enjoyed some relief from the coastal torpor owing to its lofty ceilings. He pushed his way through the front door and groaned out loud as he met the leaden heat full on.
    “Ah, Serrano …”
    It was the Prince of Salm-Salm. He was installed nearby, alone at a shabby wooden table in front of the hotel entrance. A young bootblack was attending to his shoes. The European raised a glass of what looked to be mezcal and grinned.
    “Will you join me? My wife is asleep, and I hate to drink alone.”
    “Your Austrian has made landfall,” Diego said. “I just heard. I think they will disembark soon.”
    “I know it. The SMS
Novara
is at anchor even now. Their Imperial Highnesses should be stepping ashore before very long. Rather inconsiderate on their part, I must say, to arrive in the full of the siesta. Please, sit down. I have a proposal.”
    There was something about his tone, some persuasive undercurrent. Diego set his hat upon the table and drew up a chair. The gap-toothed hotel manager shuffled out, took note of Diego’s presence, and soon returned with an extra glass, as well as a bottle of mezcal. He poured out two drinks.
    “Leave the bottle,” said Salm-Salm. He raised his glass. “
¡Viva México!
”
    It seemed an odd toast, with the country under French occupation, mired to the throat in debt, and an Austrian just arrived to rule the land as emperor. Still, Diego raised his glass and tipped it back. He closed his eyes briefly at the liquor’s familiar sting. “A proposal, you said.”
    Salm-Salm folded his arms on the scarred tabletop. The bootblack quickly adjusted his position, as if attached to the prince by a combination of ropes and pulleys. “I have been thinking of what you told me the other night. I believe I may be able to help.”
    Two evenings earlier, after much drink, Diego had lowered his guard for a time and spoken to Salm-Salm about his purpose in Veracruz, a subject he had so far broached with no one except Ángela Peralta. Hehad not meant to unburden himself to the fellow, and yet that was exactly what he had done.
    “Assist me?” he said. “How?”
    “It is quite simple.”