The City of Palaces (48 page)

“Have you told José?”

“No,” he said. “Perhaps you can talk to him. I prefer he not visit his mother in her current state. It would be too distressing for him.”

She nodded. “Yes, but you must let him see her as soon as she can receive him. He is already badly frightened. Once I tell him his mother is ill, he will be even more fearful.”

“This barbaric rebellion!” he exclaimed. “How can civilized men in the twentieth century be tossing bombs across a city filled with their own people? What madness has poisoned México!”

She looked at him for a long moment. “In the years since you took up residence in my house, I have become very fond of you, Miguel. I am grateful for the happiness you have given my daughter and for my exquisite grandson, so what I say now I say without malice. You are not a Mexican.”

“I beg your pardon, Señora. I was born here.”

“Yes, but you are a full-blooded Spaniard like your father, a
gachupín
.”

“Surely, those colonial classifications are irrelevant in modern México.”

A knowing smile wrinkled her lips. “That you speak of modern México only reveals that you do not know what it is to be Mexican.”

“Then what is it to be Mexican?”

“To live in the friction of being half-civilized and half-barbaric, the one half always at war with the other. This revolution is not about politics. Nothing in México is ever about politics. The bombs that explode around us are the sound of our self-hatred.”

“You are a fatalist, Señora.”

“No. I
am
a Mexican,” she said. “Go and care for your woman. I will see to José and to the household.”

S
armiento slipped his stethoscope from his ears and touched his wife's pale face. The room filled with the pink light of dawn. Alicia slept beneath thick blankets packed with hot water bottles. Her skin was cold; her lips were cracked. Twelve hours had passed since he had discovered her collapsed on the floor. The diarrhea had abated and she had entered the second, graver stage of the disease. The loss of fluids had caused her blood pressure to drop dangerously, and her pulse was fast and weak as her heart tried to push the diminished supply of blood through her exhausted body. She had vomited the sips of water he had given her earlier. When she awakened, he would have to try another tactic to keep her alive. He slumped into a chair. He had not allowed himself to consider the possibility of her death even as it hovered in the air. When José had come to see her and burst into tears, Sarmiento had sent him away with furious words that had expressed his own terror. Life without Alicia was unimaginable, now more than ever as the world collapsed around them in the thunder of artillery shells and the rattle of machine guns.

“You must live,” he whispered.

“Miguel?” Her voice was a dry husk.

“I'm here, darling,” he said, standing, stroking her face.

“I see only white. Am I going blind?”

“No, darling, that's the disease. It will pass.”

“The guns have stopped.”

He thought at first she was describing another symptom, a loss of hearing or cognizance, but then he realized that it had been hours since the sounds of battle had echoed in the air. Had another truce been declared? Not that that mattered. All he cared about was keeping her alive.

“Miguel, if I am dying, I require a priest.”

“You are not dying, Alicia.”

A thin smile pressed itself on her lips. “I have seen this disease before.”

“Then you know it is not invariably fatal.” He smiled back. “Place your trust in your physician.”

“More than trust … love.” Her eyes closed, then opened. “I am so thirsty.”

“You can't keep water through the mouth, but there is another way. Unpleasant and painful, I'm afraid.”

“Do what you must,” she said. “I want to live.”

L
ate in the evening, a servant appeared with a plate of food for him. He wolfed down the beans and rice, his first food in more than a day. He set aside the plate and stroked Alicia's hair. He had been giving her rectal injections of water, tannin, salt, and gum arabic. The first injection had simply flowed back out, but he had continued, reasoning that whatever she could absorb would help her. The treatment was working. The third time he injected her, she retained the fluid. Her skin was detectably less desiccated, and her breathing, once rapid and shallow, had deepened. He was exhausted, not merely from lack of sleep but from the grinding anxiety that he might lose her. He lay down beside her and closed his eyes.

He was awakened by the clamor of bells so loud it seemed as if every bell in every church in the city had been struck by lightning at precisely the same moment. He shook off his fatigue. Alicia was still sleeping. Her breath was deep and slow but that she had slept through the explosion of bells was evidence of her deathly debilitation. Her pulse, still erratic and weak, confirmed this. When she awoke, he would give her more fluids, orally if she could tolerate it. Perhaps a crust of bread? She had gone forty-eight hours without food.

The bells still clanged. He went to the door and called for Alicia's maid, Catalina.

“Why are the bells ringing?” he asked her.

“They say the fighting is over, doctor.”

At last, he thought. The Ciudadela has been taken. He heard Alicia murmur his name. “Bring me water with a little lemon in it,” he told the maid. “Bread if there is any in the house.”

“The doña?” the maid asked hopefully.

“Yes,” he said with a tired smile. “We may have more than Madero's victory to celebrate. And Catalina, send my son to us.”

J
osé stepped tentatively into his parents' room. He was still scalded by his father's reproaches from when he had last visited his mother. When he had seen her on the bed, waxen, he thought she was dead. Convulsed by grief, he had doubled over, sobbing wildly. His tears had driven his father into a fury José had never seen before.

“Why are you whimpering like a little girl?” he had snapped. “Do you think this helps? My God, you have been treated too gently by your grandmother. She might as well put you in dresses and braid your hair. Get out of my sight until you can compose yourself like a man.” He had grabbed José by the collar, thrown him out of the room, and slammed shut the door.

It was the first and only time his father had laid a violent hand on him, and he had slumped to the ground, weeping out of shame as well as grief. The anger and contempt in his father's voice had seared him. Even though the words were spoken in anger, José knew they were not words his father would have used at all had he not already believed them to be true. His father was brisk, disciplined, decisive, and rational. By contrast, José knew he was lazy and soft and emotional. He and his father had had many quiet talks about José's poor showing in school and what his father called his “daydreaming.” If what it meant to be a man was to be like his father, José knew he was a failure. He could not bear the thought that his mother might die and leave him alone to be a continual disappointment to his father. He prayed for her recovery as he had never prayed for anything else in his life.

C
ome in,
mijo
,” his father said. “Your mother is feeling much better.”

José tentatively approached the bed, where his mother lay propped up by pillows, eyes open and shining with love for him. He bit back the sobs, but he could not prevent the tears from falling.

“Mamá,” he whispered, taking her hands. “Mamá.”

“Don't cry, Josélito,” she said in a tired voice. “I'm going to get well.”

“I prayed for you,” he sniffled.

“Thank you,
mijo
. Now you must thank the Lord for hearing your prayers.” She smiled. “So few people remember to thank him that I know he will appreciate your gratitude.”

“Yes, Mamá,” he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Where's your handkerchief ?” she asked, still smiling.

“I forgot.”

His father said, “Your mother needs her rest now, Son. You may return later.”

“Yes, Papá,” he said, reluctantly pulling himself away.

His father walked him to the door, his hand on José's shoulder. “José, I am very sorry I lost my temper with you before. Your mother was so ill that I … forgot myself. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes, Papá,” José said. “I am sorry I disappoint you.”

His father kissed him. “You have never disappointed me,
mijo
.”

It was the first time his father had ever lied to him.

S
he had kept down the water and the morsels of bread and now she was sleeping again. Sarmiento thought he should bathe and change his clothes and report to his mother-in-law on Alicia's condition. He stretched and wandered out into the corridor. He heard voices, Catalina's and a man's voice, insistent and weary. It was Luis. He looked down to the courtyard, where his cousin was demanding to be allowed to talk to Sarmiento.

“Primo, what are you doing here?” Sarmiento called down.

Luis looked up and said, “Madero's been overthrown. I need a drink.”

“Catalina, go and stay with my wife. Luis, come up to my study.”

H
e had heard the words—“Madero's been overthrown”—but he had not truly absorbed them until he sat across from Luis looking at his cousin's stricken face, reading a depth of grief he had not seen in him since he had buried Ángel. Then his own hand began to tremble.

“I heard the bells,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“The church celebrates the end of Madero,” Luis said bitterly. “The archbishop hates Madero because he actually practices what the church professes. Humility, charity, peace …” His voice broke, but when he resumed it was with fury. “If Jesus appeared in the Zócalo, the Catholic Church would nail him to the cross all over again.”

“Luis,” Sarmiento said, extending his hand to the other man's. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Huerta turned on him,” Luis said, draining his glass. He poured another drink. “Gustavo's spies followed Huerta to a secret meeting with the American ambassador and Félix Díaz. Gustavo had Huerta arrested and brought before Madero. I was there. I told Madero that you had seen food and water being allowed in the Ciudadela. I advised him to shoot Huerta on the spot.”

“But he didn't,” Sarmiento said. “He wouldn't. It's not in his nature.”

“He asked Huerta for an explanation. The bastard got on his knees weeping and said it was all a misunderstanding. Yes, he had met with Díaz only to arrange a truce. No, he had no idea that food and water were getting to the rebels, but he would put a stop to it at once. Madero lifted him to his feet and looked into his eyes and said, ‘I believe you.' He let him go with orders to take the Ciudadela within twenty-four hours or lose his command.”

Sarmiento groaned. He admired Madero, perhaps even loved him, but his naiveté approached … foolishness. “Maybe Gustavo was right,” he muttered, remembering the cynical remark Gustavo had made about the family fool having been elected president. “Couldn't you and Gustavo stop him?”

“Madero's faith in his judgment about people is not open for discussion,” he said sourly. “When Huerta left, Gustavo said, ‘You have just released your assassin.' Madero smiled and said, ‘I looked into his eyes and I saw his soul.' Four hours later, Huerta sent Aurelio Blanquet into Madero's office with ten soldiers and informed him he was under arrest. Huerta's such a coward he couldn't even come himself. There was a firefight at the palace and Blanquet's men gained control. I just managed to escape.”

“Where is Madero now?”

“In a prison cell at Lecumberri,” Luis said. “He is still president, Miguel. I know him; he will not willingly resign. That is the only card we have to play to save his life. He must be persuaded to resign in exchange for a guarantee of his personal safety.”

“A guarantee from Huerta?” Sarmiento said incredulously.

Luis shook his head. “Huerta knows that without Madero's resignation, his government would be illegitimate. No country will recognize him and Madero's supporters in the army will revolt. I have been to see the Chilean ambassador. He has agreed to negotiate the deal.”

“Who will persuade Don Francisco to resign? You? Gustavo?”

“I urged him to shoot Huerta,” Luis reminded him. “If I show my face, I will be arrested. Gustavo has disappeared and I fear the worst. You must go, Miguel. You are his friend, perhaps the only friend who never asked anything of him. He will listen to you. Don Salvador, the Chilean ambassador, will arrive within the hour to take you to the prison under his protection.”

“Luis, my wife has been deathly ill. I cannot leave her.”

“If Madero cannot be persuaded to resign willingly, Huerta will torture his resignation out of him. He will murder him, Miguel. Our friend, our leader. Only you can save him.”

Sarmiento sighed. “All right. I will go. You stay here until I return. I don't want to be anxious over your safety while I am trying to negotiate Madero's.”

Luis nodded. “I will immerse myself in this delicious bottle of cognac. Bring back good news, Primo.”

A
t dusk, a black Rolls-Royce, flying the blue-and-white flags of Chile from its grille, pulled up to the palace gate where Sarmiento was waiting. A chauffeur opened the door for him. The Chilean ambassador, Salvador Gossens, a white-haired, avuncular man, greeted him. “Senator, it is always a pleasure to see you, although I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances.” A thick plate of glass, inset with a small sliding window, separated the back seat from the front. Gossens slid the window open, barked, “To Lecumberri” to the chauffeur, and then closed the window.