glaring at Diego, straight into his eyes.
Diego listened to those words again, this time in his mind, and what he heard was not the bravado of a drunken friend. Baldemar had been testing him. He heard it now. Why hadn’t he heard it then? Now, nearly three years later, Baldemar was in the Martinica, in danger of his life, and it was up to Diego to rescue him. But that didn’t seem likely, not today. He’d already waited several hours in this deadening sunlight, staring at the National Palace, that dreary heap of rocks, and so far he had nothing at all to show.
C HAPTER 8
D IEGO DECIDED IT WAS no use remaining in the plaza any longer. If someone of significance were going to emerge from the National Palace, then surely he would have done so by now. Off to his right, he sensed some movement, and he glanced that way. It was nothing, really, just a lone pony cart turning down a side street adjoining the palace.
A side street adjoining the palace …
What an idiot he was.
Only now did he remember something Salm-Salm had said, that it would be best to enter the building by a side entrance, rather than by the main gate. And here he’d been waiting for hours on end right across from the main gate. Diego rapped his knuckles against the wall behind him, hard enough that his fingers smarted. To think he’d accused Baldemar of being a fool.
He set off along the edge of the plaza and then turned down a side street that traced one side of the palace. He soon found himself gazing at an inconspicuous porte cochère tucked within a small courtyard, at a considerable remove from the Zócalo. He was about to draw closer whena sudden commotion made him stop. Just in front of him, a door opened. A pair of military guards appeared, followed by a tall, fair-haired individual with a french fork beard. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the man wore a grey topcoat and a felt top hat, also grey. He was followed by a variety of companions. Diego stepped closer, and the man in the top hat looked up. He stood still, frowning for an instant. Then his face broadened into a smile.
“
Mon Dieu
,” he said.
“C’est le poète manchot.”
Without hesitation, Diego replied in French, a language he had fully mastered during his years of study at the Academia de San Juan de Letrán. “
Vous me connaissez?
”
The man laughed. He continued in French. “
Je crois que ‘Votre Majesté Impériale’ est la forme correcte.
It is also customary in some jurisdictions to bow. At the very least—remove your hat.” He laughed again, and it was difficult to tell whether he was genuinely annoyed or merely joking. “These Mexican republicans, Felix—do they have no manners?”
Diego removed his hat, although he could not bring himself to bow. He saw that the man’s companions included Salm-Salm, dressed again in layman’s clothes.
“I fear they do not, Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm. “They insist all men are equal.”
“I subscribe to a similar doctrine,” said the Austrian, for it was evidently he. He was smoking a cigarette and seemed at his ease. He included Diego in the conversation without ceremony or hesitation, as if he had stumbled upon a friend of long standing. He shrugged and made a theatrical flourish with his cigarette. “But we have need of forms and protocols just the same.” He looked at Diego more intently. “Of course I know you. You are Diego Serrano—the one-armed poet and one of the survivors of the massacre at Tacubaya. Salm-Salm here has filled me in. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
He advanced a step and proffered his right hand, which Diego took in his own. He realized his heart was pounding. This was his chance. At last, it had come. He must not waste an instant.
“Your Highness …” he said. “I mean, Your Imperial Majesty …” The title seemed to form itself upon his tongue unbidden. He had never used such an honorific before, but the words were not as difficult to pronounce as he had
Diego listened to those words again, this time in his mind, and what he heard was not the bravado of a drunken friend. Baldemar had been testing him. He heard it now. Why hadn’t he heard it then? Now, nearly three years later, Baldemar was in the Martinica, in danger of his life, and it was up to Diego to rescue him. But that didn’t seem likely, not today. He’d already waited several hours in this deadening sunlight, staring at the National Palace, that dreary heap of rocks, and so far he had nothing at all to show.
C HAPTER 8
D IEGO DECIDED IT WAS no use remaining in the plaza any longer. If someone of significance were going to emerge from the National Palace, then surely he would have done so by now. Off to his right, he sensed some movement, and he glanced that way. It was nothing, really, just a lone pony cart turning down a side street adjoining the palace.
A side street adjoining the palace …
What an idiot he was.
Only now did he remember something Salm-Salm had said, that it would be best to enter the building by a side entrance, rather than by the main gate. And here he’d been waiting for hours on end right across from the main gate. Diego rapped his knuckles against the wall behind him, hard enough that his fingers smarted. To think he’d accused Baldemar of being a fool.
He set off along the edge of the plaza and then turned down a side street that traced one side of the palace. He soon found himself gazing at an inconspicuous porte cochère tucked within a small courtyard, at a considerable remove from the Zócalo. He was about to draw closer whena sudden commotion made him stop. Just in front of him, a door opened. A pair of military guards appeared, followed by a tall, fair-haired individual with a french fork beard. Despite the warmth of the afternoon, the man wore a grey topcoat and a felt top hat, also grey. He was followed by a variety of companions. Diego stepped closer, and the man in the top hat looked up. He stood still, frowning for an instant. Then his face broadened into a smile.
“
Mon Dieu
,” he said.
“C’est le poète manchot.”
Without hesitation, Diego replied in French, a language he had fully mastered during his years of study at the Academia de San Juan de Letrán. “
Vous me connaissez?
”
The man laughed. He continued in French. “
Je crois que ‘Votre Majesté Impériale’ est la forme correcte.
It is also customary in some jurisdictions to bow. At the very least—remove your hat.” He laughed again, and it was difficult to tell whether he was genuinely annoyed or merely joking. “These Mexican republicans, Felix—do they have no manners?”
Diego removed his hat, although he could not bring himself to bow. He saw that the man’s companions included Salm-Salm, dressed again in layman’s clothes.
“I fear they do not, Your Majesty,” said Salm-Salm. “They insist all men are equal.”
“I subscribe to a similar doctrine,” said the Austrian, for it was evidently he. He was smoking a cigarette and seemed at his ease. He included Diego in the conversation without ceremony or hesitation, as if he had stumbled upon a friend of long standing. He shrugged and made a theatrical flourish with his cigarette. “But we have need of forms and protocols just the same.” He looked at Diego more intently. “Of course I know you. You are Diego Serrano—the one-armed poet and one of the survivors of the massacre at Tacubaya. Salm-Salm here has filled me in. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”
He advanced a step and proffered his right hand, which Diego took in his own. He realized his heart was pounding. This was his chance. At last, it had come. He must not waste an instant.
“Your Highness …” he said. “I mean, Your Imperial Majesty …” The title seemed to form itself upon his tongue unbidden. He had never used such an honorific before, but the words were not as difficult to pronounce as he had
Similar Books
