with his own.
Three times, he marched across the square and spoke to the French soldiers who guarded the main entrance of the palace. He asked to be admitted. He meant to speak to someone who could arrange an audience with the Austrian. Each time, he was gruffly turned away. After his third failed attempt, Diego withdrew to the shade of the Monte de Piedad across the plaza, where he stood on his own, looking back at the sprawling stone edifice. The National Palace. He supposed it would be renamed the Imperial Palace, with an emperor in residence. But, apart from the guards in front, he detected no sign that it was occupied by anyone at all.
There was nothing for him to do but wait—wait and think about the events that had brought him here. It seemed to him now that Baldemar must have been plotting his act of revenge for years, possibly ever since the day he’d discovered the dangling corpse of his uncle in that forest clearing in the hill country of Michoacán. Diego should have known his friend was capable of such an act, should have seen it in advance. But how? Baldemar’s boastful talk had seemed to be nothing more than empty words. He recalled their times together, in the months and years that followed the death of Melchor Ocampo, searching for anything that might have warned him of Baldemar’s stupid, reckless plan.
After their return from Michoacán, they had both gone back to theirsporadic labours, writing anti-clerical screeds for
El Siglo XIX.
Baldemar wrote badly, if with passion, whereas Diego was just the reverse, and that, too, was a measure of the differences between them.
Neither ever received any payment for this work and so relied on other sources of income for his upkeep. In Diego’s case, he accepted a monthly stipend from Eustacio Barron, his half-brother and a man of great privacy and even greater wealth. A poet, or one who calls himself a poet, has not the luxury of spurning his patrons. The best he can do is resent them, a practice to which Diego applied himself with spirit and invention.
At night, he and Baldemar frequented the capital’s
pulquerías
, cantinas, and cockfight rings, its brothels and gambling dens, where they drank, lost money at cards, and whored. One night, they ducked into a wretched old cantina near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, where they called out for beers, and then more beers, and more after that. At some point that night, a couple of men fell into an argument that got louder and more heated, till one of them drew a pistol and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger. His companion frowned and tilted his head, as if about to pose a question. Then he collapsed to the beer-soaked floor, dead. The killer merely smiled. He glanced over at Diego and Baldemar and nodded his head. He replaced his hat, turned, and sauntered out of the bar. Later, the bartender and another man dragged the corpse away. Following a brief, respectful silence, the assembly of drinkers went right back to swearing and banging their glasses on the tables. It was almost as though nothing had happened.
Eventually, his eyes half open, his voice slurred from drink, Baldemar pounded his fist on the table. He’d been born on the Day of the fucking Dead—he swore—and was damned from the start, fated to lead a short life and meet a violent end.
“You’re sure?” said Diego. He’d heard all this before.
“As sure as I am of anything. As sure as I am of the fucking past. But listen to this.” Baldemar leaned closer. His face seemed to expand in thecandlelight. What he said now he’d never said before. “I won’t go alone. I’ll take someone with me. I swear.”
Diego reached for his glass, but he didn’t get there. A hand gripped his collar, a hand much stronger than his own. At once, Baldemar’s face pressed close to his. He felt the heat of Baldemar’s skin, the flecks of his spittle. He smelled his sour breath.
“I mean it. I’ll go. But I won’t go alone.” Baldemar sat back, still
Three times, he marched across the square and spoke to the French soldiers who guarded the main entrance of the palace. He asked to be admitted. He meant to speak to someone who could arrange an audience with the Austrian. Each time, he was gruffly turned away. After his third failed attempt, Diego withdrew to the shade of the Monte de Piedad across the plaza, where he stood on his own, looking back at the sprawling stone edifice. The National Palace. He supposed it would be renamed the Imperial Palace, with an emperor in residence. But, apart from the guards in front, he detected no sign that it was occupied by anyone at all.
There was nothing for him to do but wait—wait and think about the events that had brought him here. It seemed to him now that Baldemar must have been plotting his act of revenge for years, possibly ever since the day he’d discovered the dangling corpse of his uncle in that forest clearing in the hill country of Michoacán. Diego should have known his friend was capable of such an act, should have seen it in advance. But how? Baldemar’s boastful talk had seemed to be nothing more than empty words. He recalled their times together, in the months and years that followed the death of Melchor Ocampo, searching for anything that might have warned him of Baldemar’s stupid, reckless plan.
After their return from Michoacán, they had both gone back to theirsporadic labours, writing anti-clerical screeds for
El Siglo XIX.
Baldemar wrote badly, if with passion, whereas Diego was just the reverse, and that, too, was a measure of the differences between them.
Neither ever received any payment for this work and so relied on other sources of income for his upkeep. In Diego’s case, he accepted a monthly stipend from Eustacio Barron, his half-brother and a man of great privacy and even greater wealth. A poet, or one who calls himself a poet, has not the luxury of spurning his patrons. The best he can do is resent them, a practice to which Diego applied himself with spirit and invention.
At night, he and Baldemar frequented the capital’s
pulquerías
, cantinas, and cockfight rings, its brothels and gambling dens, where they drank, lost money at cards, and whored. One night, they ducked into a wretched old cantina near the Plaza Santa Cecilia, where they called out for beers, and then more beers, and more after that. At some point that night, a couple of men fell into an argument that got louder and more heated, till one of them drew a pistol and, without hesitation, pulled the trigger. His companion frowned and tilted his head, as if about to pose a question. Then he collapsed to the beer-soaked floor, dead. The killer merely smiled. He glanced over at Diego and Baldemar and nodded his head. He replaced his hat, turned, and sauntered out of the bar. Later, the bartender and another man dragged the corpse away. Following a brief, respectful silence, the assembly of drinkers went right back to swearing and banging their glasses on the tables. It was almost as though nothing had happened.
Eventually, his eyes half open, his voice slurred from drink, Baldemar pounded his fist on the table. He’d been born on the Day of the fucking Dead—he swore—and was damned from the start, fated to lead a short life and meet a violent end.
“You’re sure?” said Diego. He’d heard all this before.
“As sure as I am of anything. As sure as I am of the fucking past. But listen to this.” Baldemar leaned closer. His face seemed to expand in thecandlelight. What he said now he’d never said before. “I won’t go alone. I’ll take someone with me. I swear.”
Diego reached for his glass, but he didn’t get there. A hand gripped his collar, a hand much stronger than his own. At once, Baldemar’s face pressed close to his. He felt the heat of Baldemar’s skin, the flecks of his spittle. He smelled his sour breath.
“I mean it. I’ll go. But I won’t go alone.” Baldemar sat back, still
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