The Empire of Yearning Read Free Page B

“You’re not coming to the harbour?”
    “All in good time. First I want to look in on my wife. And about your petition—you may rest easy. I shall make your case for you, I promise.” He glanced down at his empty glass. “Oh, and those coins of yours—you don’t happen to have a couple more? I’ll repay you, of course.”
    Diego gave the man half a dozen centavos, freshly minted.
    Salm-Salm smiled. “Thank you. You’re very kind. One last thing. The emperor and empress—you know they are without children?”
    Diego knew nothing of the sort. He asked what difference it made.
    “Oh, you never know,” said the prince. “Something to bear in mind—in the months ahead.”
    Diego nodded, then took his leave of the man—such an odd fellow, always speaking in riddles. He set out for the harbour. His route took him along the perimeter of the Plaza de Armas in the direction of the seawall. It was patently a lie, what Salm-Salm had just said about Ángela, about her having a child. The idea was unimaginable. And Ángel de Iturbide the father? The most notorious rake ever to call himself a Mexican? That was even worse. The man’s father was Agustín de Iturbide, a legendary opportunist who’d crowned himself emperor after the country gained independence more than forty years earlier. Agustín the First—and last. He’d ended his life before a firing squad. How dare Salm-Salm utter the name Iturbide in the same breath as Ángela Peralta?
    Maybe it was these thoughts, or maybe it was something else, but Diego felt his legs buckle beneath him, and he nearly fell down. In a patch of shade, he stopped to rest and to recover his balance. Pray God this wasn’t the yellow fever, but he suspected that it was. Still a little unsure of his footing, he continued on his way to the harbour, where the sudden stench nearly made him gag. But he forced himself to endure it. The Austrian had come, and Diego had a duty to discharge. He shuffled down toward the sagging docks that tumbled from the Malécon into the murk and brine. A squadron of vultures circled overhead, like dark skeletons floating on the air.
    Diego looked out over the grey expanse of water and caught sight of a slender boat, a sort of skiff, that was tracing a course across the harbour’s oily surface. The craft was a pretty affair, with a striped awning that obscured his view of its passengers. At first he thought the vessel was approaching the shore, but he soon realized his error. Propelled by a single boatman, armed with a long quant, the craft was actually bearing its passengers away.
    Meanwhile, a half-dozen conventional landing boats were also knifing across the water in what seemed a general retreat. The flotilla carried a party of men clad in tropical uniforms, as well as a smattering of women in long white dresses that glinted in the sunshine, like bits of quartz. The boats were all making for a large warship that was anchored across the harbour, near the island of San Juan de Ulúa. A thin trail of smoke coiled skyward from its stack.
    Diego squinted in the sunlight. So this was the
Novara
—a three-masted frigate, converted to steam, that dwarfed all the other ships in the bay. From what he understood, the warship had borne the Austrian and his retinue all the way from Europe. She had dropped anchor only a short while earlier as Veracruz dozed through its afternoon languor. With no breeze to stir them, a bevy of ensigns and banners drooped from the lines. Meanwhile, a gang of seamen crowded by the railings, waiting for the landing craft to return. It looked to Diego as if the travellers had intended to venture ashore but had decided to abort the mission beforeeven setting foot to Mexican soil. And no wonder. There was no welcoming party, no bunting or garlands, no marching band, no evidence of ceremony at all. Besides, viewed from a few dozen
varas
offshore, Veracruz must have seemed to consist of little beyond rotting wharves, carrion birds, pariah