The City of Palaces (52 page)

“You look well,” Sarmiento said, and Damian did look as inscrutably handsome as ever. “Alicia tells me that your house was undamaged in the fighting.”

He picked up his cigar and puffed it. “Fortunately. Don Francisco's house was burned to the ground.”

“Yes, I saw the photographs in the newspapers,” Sarmiento replied. “That had to have been deliberate.”

The waiter brought them their drinks. After he left, Damian said, “Of course it was. You were at the funeral, Miguel.” He smiled at Sarmiento's unspoken question of how he knew. “I read the newspapers, too. You were photographed.”

“Yes. You were not.” It came out as more of a challenge than Sarmiento had intended.

Damian lifted his drink to his lips, a frothy mix he favored called a Brandy Alexander, and sipped it, leaving a thin line of cream along his moustache. “You blame me?”

“You were friends with Gustavo.” Again, his tone was unintentionally accusatory as if all the anger he felt at those who had abandoned Madero—the roomful of men around them—was seeping out at Damian.

“I did business with Gustavo,” he replied mildly. “If you've come to reproach me, Miguel, don't waste your breath. I am not a politician, much less an idealist like you. I'm a businessman. I adjust to circumstances. You should try it. One sleeps better at night.”

“I have not come to scold you but to tell you,” he dropped his voice, “that I am going to make a speech on the Senate floor denouncing Huerta. I am fully prepared to accept the consequences for myself, but for you, Eulalia, the rest of the family—well, I wanted you to know so you could prepare.”

His brother-in-law lifted his cocktail glass by the stem and turned it in his fingers, thoughtfully. “And you are going to commit suicide when? Because you realize you will be killed.”

“We will leave the city. Alicia, my son, myself. We will go north.”

“To join Governor Carranza's rebellion?” Damian asked. He sipped his drink. “I've met the old man, Miguel. A pompous windbag who would like to be dictator himself. He's no Madero.”

“There was only one Madero,” Sarmiento replied softly.

“Ah, the legend begins,” Damian said scornfully. “Madero, the martyr of democracy.” He drained his glass and held it up for the waiter to see before setting it on the table. “Your certainties are like those of a child, Miguel, the product of blissful ignorance and misplaced hero worship.” The waiter brought his second drink. “You want to know the truth about Francisco Madero? I will tell you. He was as corrupt as Don Porfirio.”

“That's slander. I knew Madero and a more honest man never lived.”

“And I knew Gustavo,” Damian retorted. “His brother's right hand. Gustavo, who doled out government jobs to Madero's supporters and collected the kickbacks on government contracts for the Madero family. Gustavo, who organized the
porra
—the band of thugs that threatened opposition politicians and burned one of the opposition newspapers to the ground. You think you're the only legislator who owes his office to election fraud? That was Gustavo too, but everything Gustavo did, he did with his brother's knowledge and consent.”

Sarmiento remembered the meeting with Madero and his brother when they proposed his election into the Senate. His face must have shown his discomfort because Damian pressed on relentlessly. “You do know what I am talking about, don't you, Miguel? How could you not? You voted for Madero's bill to impose press censorship.”

“It was a temporary measure,” Sarmiento murmured. “The opposition newspapers were attempting to foment a rebellion against the elected government.”

“The road to dictatorship is paved with temporary measures,” Damian replied mockingly.

“Madero was no dictator.”

“Agreed. He was far too inept for that,” Damian said. “Look, Miguel, what did the man really accomplish? He brought down the most stable government México has ever known and replaced it with a weak regime whose days were numbered from the beginning. He gave us Huerta, a drunkard and a murderer.” He waved his cigar. “Don't look so surprised. The fact that I despised Madero doesn't mean I admire his assassin. I am simply realistic. Huerta is president now. One has to do business with him. It won't make life easier if you insist on attacking him in public. I would advise you not to.”

“I did not come to you for advice, Damian, only to warn you.”

“Then I will return the favor,” his brother-in-law said. “If you do this, you will be completely on your own. No one in the family will defend you or assist you. To the contrary, we will denounce you, and if necessary to prove our loyalty to the government, help capture and prosecute you. So whatever your plan of escape is, Miguel, you might wish to keep it to yourself.”

Shocked, he gasped, “You would really do that to me, Damian, to Alicia?”

“My God,” Damian said, his anger breaking through his composure. “Are you Don Quixote? This is not your absurd, chivalrous fantasy of the world, Miguel; this is the actual world, where real people have real things to lose if you persist in your foolishness. I will not risk my family to protect yours.” He smiled humorlessly. “It's survival of the fittest, not the most virtuous.”

“And if I return to the city with a triumphant Carranza, Damian?” Sarmiento said, with equal anger. “What will you say then?”

He shrugged. “All hail the conquering hero.”

T
he Senate chamber was half-empty and even the senators who were present behaved more like casual acquaintances at a social event—smoking, laughing, aimlessly pacing the thick, burgundy carpet in the well of the chamber—than legislators. It was a very different scene than Sarmiento remembered from the last time he had attended, when Maderista senators and opposition senators hurled invective at each other while the president of the Senate futilely called for order. His entrance into the chamber was met with murmured comments and a few raised eyebrows. None of his colleagues approached him except for Marciano Trejo, the ancient senator from the state of Jalisco. Senator Trejo was a remnant from Don Porfirio's era, nominally in opposition to Madero, but for all that a kind and gracious man who had known and admired Sarmiento's father.

“
Chico
,” he said in his old man's croak. “Thank God you are safe and well. Although I must say, I am a little surprised to see you here.” He glanced around the room. “The other lambs have all run off, leaving only us wolves.”

Sarmiento, too, had observed that the only senators present were those who had opposed Madero. “Has it been like this since … the change in government?”

Trejo shrugged. “At first a few of your lot showed up and made speeches against Huerta, but after soldiers were sent to fill the gallery, discretion became the better part of valor. Why are you here, Miguel?”

“I too have a speech to make.”

The old man frowned. “Unless you have converted to our side, that is not a good idea. Belisario Domínguez was the last senator to denounce Huerta and three days later he was beaten to death in his hotel room. By persons unknown, of course.”

“I heard,” Sarmiento said. “The old days are back, Don Marciano.”

Trejo dropped his voice. “Huerta is to Díaz what a butcher is to a surgeon. These are not the old days. These are different days, worse days. I am only glad I will die before they are over. Miguel, think carefully before you deliver yourself to Huerta's hands.”

The president of the Senate called the body to order. Trejo clasped Sarmiento's shoulder affectionately and shuffled to his desk. Sarmiento took his own seat, surrounded by the empty desks of his absent colleagues, and listened to the president drone on about routine matters. He heard footsteps in the gallery above the chamber, brisk and orderly. He glanced up. A row of soldiers, fully armed and in battle dress, arranged themselves silently against the wall of the gallery. The president seemed to falter for a moment, then recovered, and went on. When he finished, Sarmiento stood and asked to be recognized. He was grateful his desk hid his legs because they were shaking uncontrollably.

“For what purpose?” the president asked.

“To speak about the recent events that have disturbed the tranquility of our country,” Sarmiento replied, forcing his voice to remain steady.

His colleagues began to whisper among themselves and one shouted, “Out of order!”

“I am not out of order,” he declared, anger dissolving his fear. “It is the privilege of any senator to speak on whatever issue he chooses.”

“Nonetheless, Senator,” the president replied, glancing at the gallery, “it is my responsibility to maintain decorum in the chamber.”

Sarmiento said, “Are the rules that govern this body not still in effect? Or has the constitutional guarantee of freedom of speech been suppressed even in this room?”

There were shouts of “Sit down!” and “Expel him!” The president anxiously called for order.

Sarmiento's heart raced. His hands were damp with sweat. Then Trejo stood up and silenced the chamber with an upraised hand.

“Señor Presidente,” he said, addressing himself to the dais. “You look unwell. May I suggest you retire to your office for a moment to recover? I offer my services in your place.”

The president nodded quickly. “Yes. Something I ate disagrees with me. I must rest. Senator Trejo will preside until I return.”

All activity stopped as the president departed and Trejo slowly made his way to the dais and seated himself there. He looked at Sarmiento, who had remained standing. “Does Senator Sarmiento still wish to be recognized?”

“I do, Senator.”

He sighed. “So be it.”

Sarmiento reached into his coat for his speech and laid the papers on his desk. He drew a deep breath and began to speak. “Señor Presidente, I read with deep interest the statement of Don Victoriano Huerta to this body upon his succession to the presidency.” The chamber was utterly still. He thought about the soldiers in the gallery and forced himself to focus on the page before him and continued. “In that statement, he asserted that the resignation of the legitimately elected president of the Republic, Don Francisco Madero, was necessary to pacify the nation, restore the confidence of foreign governments in México's ability to govern itself, revive the economy, and bring order to the streets of this city. Every one of these statements, Señor Presidente, was a lie.” He paused, waiting for the outcry, but the silence only deepened. “These statements were nothing more than justifications for one of the darkest episodes in the history of our beloved country. These justifications fail, sir. The people of México will never accept Victoriano Huerta's claim to be its legitimate president knowing, as they do, that he seized control of the government by means of betrayal, and that his first act after taking office was the assassination of the lawful president in a cowardly act—”

The clamor began. Shouts of “Treason!” and “Lies!” filled the room.

“A cowardly act,” Sarmiento continued, shouting now, “committed in the dead of night. By this act, Victoriano Huerta demonstrates he is prepared to shed the blood of innocents to maintain power, and he will.” The shouting grew louder. Ominously, the soldiers in the gallery headed toward the exits. “He will cover México in the corpses of its own people and bring the nation to ruin to satisfy his personal greed—” The doors of the chamber burst open and the soldiers poured in. “A murderer!” Sarmiento shouted as the soldiers surrounded him. “A common criminal!”

“Sir,” a captain shouted into Sarmiento's face. “You are under arrest!”

“On what charge?”

“Insulting the integrity of the president of the Republic.”

“Integrity?” Sarmiento spat. “Your master is a thug.”

“Take him,” the captain ordered.

Sarmiento was pulled away from his desk and dragged out of the chamber, shouting, “
Viva la República de México! Viva Presidente Madero!
”

O
utside, he was slammed against a wall. The captain said to his men, “I've got it from here, boys.” He grabbed Sarmiento's arm and jerked him forward.

“I am a senator!” Sarmiento said. “I have immunity! Take your hands off me.” But the adrenaline that had fueled him through his speech had begun to subside and he felt terror rising in his chest.

The captain pushed him through a door into a narrow corridor and then released him.

“Relax, Señor Doctor. I am getting you out of here,” he said in a low voice.

Sarmiento looked at the soldier in amazement. “What?”

“You don't remember me, of course,” he said. “You dug a bullet out of my shoulder at Ciudad Juárez that I received fighting for Don Francisco. Come, there is no time to talk.”

Sarmiento followed the soldier through back corridors of the National Palace he had not known existed. They came to an obscure exit.

“You have perhaps twenty-four hours before they discover I did not take you to Lecumberri. I suggest you leave the city.”

“What about you?”

“I'm leaving now, to join the rebels up north. God bless you, Señor. Go.”

F
or a moment Sarmiento stood unmoving as the eddies of street life rushed around him. The day was cool and clear. The light fell crisply on the facades of the ancient buildings that surrounded him, picking out, here and there, a weathered adornment. The cathedral bells chimed the quarter hour. It was time. Time to go.