The City of Palaces (32 page)

“Oh, no you don't,” Gonzalo interrupted. “This is a once-in-alifetime event. You owe it to José so he can tell his grandchildren he saw the Centenario parade.”

“Gonzalo is right, Miguel,” his mother said, lifting José's heart, which had dropped like a stone at his father's words. “José has been looking forward to the parade for weeks.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” his father muttered. He helped her into the carriage and then climbed in himself. “Let's go see Nero fiddle while Rome burns.”

“Cheer up, Miguel!” Uncle Gonzalo said, slapping his father on his knee. “This is a celebration, not a funeral. Sean, go!”

The redheaded driver shook the reins and the horses pranced out of the courtyard into the street and headed toward the Reforma.

J
osé had never seen so many people, ten, twenty deep on either side of the Reforma. There were men perched in the boughs of trees and boys who had shimmied up lampposts or climbed the statues of the Illustrious Men, two from each state, that lined the broad avenue. When they reached the intersection with the Reforma, the crowds of Indians parted at the sight of the plumed white horses and fairy-tale carriage. They drove to the front of the crowd, where they parked along the roadway beside other elegant carriages, many of them enclosing the families of José's classmates. Across the wide boulevard, José saw a canopied platform raised high above the crowd. In the center of the platform was the presidential throne, its tall back surmounted by two carved eagles. An old, white-haired man in a dark suit sat in the chair as stiffly as a marionette waiting for its strings to be pulled. Beside him sat a stout woman in black, her face obscured by a heavy veil. Around them were men resplendent in military uniforms, red and blue, green and yellow, black and white, with rows of medals and sashes across their chests, wearing plumed and spiked hats. There was a tension in the crowd that José thought was like his own excitement as he waited for the parade to begin. The notes of the presidential anthem were struck by a military brass band. The old man rose, prepared to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, but he was met by silence and then a single cry: “
Viva Madero!
” The roar of approval from the crowd behind José was quickly extinguished by a John Philip Sousa march and then by cries of “It's starting! Here they come!”

José looked in vain, but he could not see past the top of the driver's seat. He climbed up on the seat between his aunt and uncle.

“José, get down,” his mother chided.

“But I cannot see!”

“Go up and sit with the driver,” his uncle told him. “He has the best seat in the carriage. Sean, take my nephew and pass the basket down here.”

The exchange was made, the pale, freckle-faced driver hoisting José to his seat. He was only a few years older than José, David's age. He grinned at him and said, in bad Spanish, “So, little man, your name is José?”

“Yes, sir,” José said politely.

“I am named Sean,” the driver said. “Juan in your language.” His eyes were bright blue and his teeth were straight and white. A derby sat upon his thatch of red hair and his uniform, almost as tight as a matador's suit of lights, revealed a chest of heroic width. He threw his arm around José's shoulders, pulled him close, pointed to a group of men in the middle of the street that was slowly moving toward them, and asked, his breath grazing José's ear, “Now, that fellow, in the feathers? Is that supposed to be Moctezuma?”

José nodded, unable to speak, as excitement swooped through his body at the sights and sounds of the crowd, the weight of Sean's hand on his shoulder, his leg against Sean's leg, and the approach of the Aztecs. He was abruptly aware that his
pene
had become rigid and slipped through the opening of his undershorts. He looked down at his lap and saw it was sticking up beneath his trousers. He squeezed his legs together to conceal it and it rubbed against the woolly fabric of his trousers, creating a tickling sensation that was both abrasive and delicious. The air filled with the noise of drums, rattles, and whistles. Passing before him, in feathered headdresses and embroidered robes, was a group of Aztec musicians followed by warriors in even more glorious headdresses of iridescent quetzal feathers carrying feather-work shields. Behind them, on a canopied litter carried by six attendants, was an Indian representing Moctezuma.

The Aztec emperor was seated on a bench covered with gold cloth. At his feet was a jaguar skin. He wore a purple mantle and a gold, feathered headdress. He looked neither right nor left but straight ahead as he was carried toward the Zócalo where the National Palace occupied the site that had been his palace. José remembered Chepa the cook had told him that when the Spanish first laid eyes on the emperor, “their guts rose up and they were terrified at the sight of the god.” There was a ripple of movement in the immense crowd and then the Indians began to fall to their knees as the cortege passed, only a few at first, then by the hundreds and soon, on either side of the Reforma, thousands were kneeling silently.

“What is this Indian madness!” his uncle exclaimed.

“It's not madness,” his father replied. “They are honoring their king.”

“Their king?” His uncle laughed. “Their king is King Pulque.”

Trumpets sounded. There was the clatter of horses on the pavement and then, trotting behind the Aztecs, came a contingent of men in suits of armor surrounding a bearded man carrying the flag of Castile—Hernán Cortés. A wave of anger rose from the still-kneeling Indians, but from the carriages of the rich came the cry, “
Qué viva Cortés!
”

The armored soldiers stopped before the reviewing stand, dismounted, and bowed to Don Porfirio. He acknowledged them with a jerky wave and they continued on their way.

“Indian insolence,” he heard his uncle say. “I blame Madero. When the Indians see dissension among the
gente decente
, it stirs them up. Thank God, Don Porfirio had the strength of character to lock up the little lunatic.”

“And the Indians, Gonzalo,” his father said. “Are they to eat cake?”

“Not my cake, Miguelito,” his uncle said with a laugh. “José, try one of these chocolates. We received a shipment from Vienna.” He passed a box of chocolates to José, who took one, offered one to Sean, and returned them to his uncle. He took a bite and chocolate liquid filled his mouth.

“Resigning from the department,” his father was saying. “I can no longer serve this government. Díaz is a dictator, pure and simple.”

“Only an iron man can rule México,” his uncle replied. “Look at these savages! Do you think they're ready for democracy?”

“Not savages,” his mother said. “Christians, like ourselves, Gonzalo.”

José's attention turned away from the adult conversation back to the parade. A group of men in the powdered wigs and knee breeches of the age of the viceroys rode on a flower-decked float. On a dais was a throne occupied by an actor playing a Spanish king with a crown of Mexican gold on his head. Behind them were men in clerical robes mounted on black horses. They led another group of men in white robes carrying green candles.

“Mamá,” José called. “Who are the men with the candles?”

It was his father who answered. “They are victims of the Inquisition on their way to be burned at the stake.”

The penitents were followed by a dashing young man on a white charger in the costume of a Napoleonic general wearing a great, plumed tricorne. He was accompanied by two beautiful, similarly dressed young men.

“Iturbide,” Uncle Gonzalo murmured. “And look, his grandsons ride with him.”

A roar erupted from the crowd. José scanned the street and saw the cause. An actor dressed in the simple vestments of a country priest, carrying the banner of the Virgin of Guadalupe, walked alone in the center of the Reforma.

“
Viva Hidalgo!
” came the cries. “
Viva la patria! Viva México!
”

As Hidalgo approached, the crowd spontaneously burst into the national anthem. Everyone rose in the carriages, on the reviewing stage, even Don Porfirio, who, José saw, wiped tears from his eyes.

“See,” his uncle said triumphantly. “See the president's tears! What dictator weeps out of love for his country?”

“My father once told me that Don Porfirio can cry on cue,” his father replied.

“With all due respect, Miguel,” his uncle said, “your father was a madman. Is that the path you intend to follow?”

“I am already well advanced on it,” his father replied. “I support Madero. That is why I am leaving my post.”

“And you, Alicia, are you also a Maderista?” Uncle Gonzalo asked.

“I am with my husband,” she said.

Behind Hidalgo came a cavalcade of soldiers and sailors from a dozen countries, carrying the flags of their nations and of México.

“Papá, look!” José cried. “Japanese!”

“That's a queer lot,” Sean said.

“There are the
inglés
sailors,” José pointed out, testing his English. “Your country.”

“I'm Irish, lad. The English are our enemies.”

“Why?”

“That's a long story, to be told with tears and whiskey,” the older boy replied. “Someday when you're older. Look, here comes your army.”

A general with a handlebar mustache, ropes of gold braid, and a plumed helmet led the march of the cavalry. After the horsemen came the artillery, rank after rank of caissons loaded with cannons of every size and dimension and then the infantry, a great, silent mass of soldiers that filled the sky with bayonets. José was enthralled—here were his toy soldiers come to life, but the crowds of Indians fell silent as the army passed.

“That's your answer to Madero, Miguel,” Uncle Gonzalo said.

There was a break in the ranks of soldiers and in the space between one unit and the next came a group of Indians chained together in iron collars, one man linked to the next by ropes of heavy iron. They wore the dirty white costume of countryside
peónes
but they looked angry, not frightened, and they carried themselves as proudly as their chains permitted. The lead man wore a sign around his neck and on it were the words
guerreros yaquis
.

José was astonished.
These
were the Yaquis, the fiercest warriors in México. In the newspapers they were depicted as savages in loincloths swinging axes and slaughtering men, women, and children for their scalps, which they wore on belts around their waists. These men looked nothing like that. They looked like the Indians of the marketplace.

“Papá, are they really Yaqui warriors?”

It was his mother who said, “This is shameful.”

“No, it is a message to the mob,” Uncle Gonzalo said.

The sight of the Yaquis had deepened the silence of the crowd, and now, as the next contingent appeared, José could sense fear.

“Who are they?” Sean asked as the horsemen approached.

“The
rurales
,” José replied, awed. José explained to the young driver that the
rurales
were highwaymen who Don Porfirio had persuaded to protect the roads of the countryside instead of terrorizing them. They were clad in tight gray
charro
suits braided in silver, with yellow kerchiefs around their necks; the brims of their gigantic sombreros cast shadows that rendered them faceless and even more menacing. They rode beautiful horses on hand-tooled leather saddles heavy with silver studs and conchos. Their polished boots were fitted with silver spurs and rested in silver stirrups. Bandoliers crisscrossed their chests and their rifles were slung over their shoulders.

“Thieves and murderers,” his father said. “Those are the kinds of men who keep your president on his throne. We've seen enough, Gonzalo. Take us home, please.”

“But Papá,” José protested. “There's more.”

“Your father is right,” his mother said. “Gonzalo, please.”

“As you wish,” his uncle said and curtly commanded the driver to return to the palace.

That night, José stood on the roof of the palace with his grandmother and watched the fireworks. They burst in the air above the Zócalo and rained fire in all the colors of the rainbow. When the last one had exploded, he stood in the darkness, thinking about the day, the parade, the redheaded, blue-eyed driver, the odd sensation in his
pene
, the quarrel between his father and his uncle, the Indians falling to their knees when Moctezuma passed, the thrilling, frightening ranks of the
rurales
, and he felt, without knowing how to express it, that he had been part of something momentous.

“Abuelita,” he said, groping for words to frame his thought. “Was today history?”

“Today history?” she repeated incredulously. “You are too young to concern yourself with history.” As the echoes of the last blasts faded in the air and the smoke dissipated above the city, the night birds began to sing again and the stars came out. In a softer voice she said, “History is simply the passage of time, José, so we are in history at every moment.”

“History doesn't start after we die?”

“When we die, we are no longer in time,” she said. “We are in eternity somewhere in the sky with God,” she continued, somewhat disdainfully, as if imagining an unfashionable resort town. “On earth, we are simply the dead.”