tilted his head. “And so I take this to mean that you are a liberal too?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“A happy coincidence then.” The man smiled, revealing the yellow stains on his teeth. “For I may be counted as a liberal myself.”
C HAPTER 12
I N FORMER TIMES , Diego and Baldemar Peralta would often spend their nights at the cockfighting pit at San Antonio de las Cuevas, roaring with the other misfits who crowded onto the sagging wooden stands. It was a notorious dive, infested with gamblers, loan sharks, prostitutes, and other reprobates. A two-inch bog of sawdust, urine, vomit, and spittle carpeted the rotting wooden floor. Hordes of shrieking patrons crowded the perimeter of the ring. They dangled over the railings, beating their fists in the air and crying for blood as the fighting cocks tore each other to pieces. This was his and Baldemar’s agreed-upon meeting place.
Diego knew he would find Baldemar here eventually, and eventually he did. But at first he barely recognized his old friend, who materialized through a dense fog of cigar smoke and evaporating sweat. For one thing, Baldemar lacked his customary wire-rimmed spectacles. His hair was long and stringy, his jaw grizzled by a patchy beard. Corpulent most of his life, he was now shockingly thin. Meanwhile, some kind of rash inflamed his neck and what could be seen of his forearms. He made a pitiful sight, but Diego recognized him all the same, and his spirits lifted at once.
He hurried over, pushing his way through the crush of reeking flesh that crammed every corner of the dank and fetid place. He set his still-bruised hand on Baldemar’s shoulder. The man started. He looked up but at first seemed to recognize nothing. He was practically blind without his spectacles.
“Calm yourself,
mano
,” Diego said. “It’s me.”
Baldemar was convulsed by a fit of coughing. His insides rattled aloud, as though his ribs were bits of scrap metal that had broken loose from his chest. He spat up something and groaned before wiping his lips, shaking his head, and struggling to his feet. He had tears in his eyes, from pain or effort.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
They left right away. The place was too loud, too bloodthirsty, too
loco.
They found their way on foot to a pulquería they knew from years past. Memorias del Futuro, it was called. Soon, they were both slouching at a sway-backed wooden bar in the faint light of a half-dozen tallow candles, quaffing
pulque
from crude irregular glasses, shaped like bottle-bottoms and tinted green.
Diego entrusted some coins to a boy and dispatched him to a taquería nearby with instructions to bring back two servings of
tacos al pastor.
There would be more coins when the food was delivered. The meal arrived in minutes, heaped on a pair of tin plates. The two men tucked in at once, rolling the hot morsels of beef into the warm tortillas, along with chopped tomatoes, onions, and jalapeños. With grease dripping down his scraggly beard, Baldemar recounted his ordeal in the Martinica. When he reached the part about refusing the initial pardon, Diego shook his head.
“Idiot,” he said.
Baldemar wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “You’d have done the same.”
“I would?”
“Sure. Anyone would.”
Diego wasn’t so certain, and he suspected Baldemar knew it. He raised his glass of pulque and took a long, slow draft. “You’ve seen Ángela?”
“You think—?” Baldemar began to cough again. When the fit subsided, he gestured at his miserable frame, from bony shoulders to crumbling boots. “You think I could walk into a hospital looking like this?” He snorted and shook his head. “As a patient, maybe. Otherwise, I’d be wanting a gun. Márquez must have a dozen of his goons stationed around the place, on the lookout for me.”
Diego nodded. It was true. He himself had been barred from entering the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, where Ángela was said to be convalescing from her
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“A happy coincidence then.” The man smiled, revealing the yellow stains on his teeth. “For I may be counted as a liberal myself.”
C HAPTER 12
I N FORMER TIMES , Diego and Baldemar Peralta would often spend their nights at the cockfighting pit at San Antonio de las Cuevas, roaring with the other misfits who crowded onto the sagging wooden stands. It was a notorious dive, infested with gamblers, loan sharks, prostitutes, and other reprobates. A two-inch bog of sawdust, urine, vomit, and spittle carpeted the rotting wooden floor. Hordes of shrieking patrons crowded the perimeter of the ring. They dangled over the railings, beating their fists in the air and crying for blood as the fighting cocks tore each other to pieces. This was his and Baldemar’s agreed-upon meeting place.
Diego knew he would find Baldemar here eventually, and eventually he did. But at first he barely recognized his old friend, who materialized through a dense fog of cigar smoke and evaporating sweat. For one thing, Baldemar lacked his customary wire-rimmed spectacles. His hair was long and stringy, his jaw grizzled by a patchy beard. Corpulent most of his life, he was now shockingly thin. Meanwhile, some kind of rash inflamed his neck and what could be seen of his forearms. He made a pitiful sight, but Diego recognized him all the same, and his spirits lifted at once.
He hurried over, pushing his way through the crush of reeking flesh that crammed every corner of the dank and fetid place. He set his still-bruised hand on Baldemar’s shoulder. The man started. He looked up but at first seemed to recognize nothing. He was practically blind without his spectacles.
“Calm yourself,
mano
,” Diego said. “It’s me.”
Baldemar was convulsed by a fit of coughing. His insides rattled aloud, as though his ribs were bits of scrap metal that had broken loose from his chest. He spat up something and groaned before wiping his lips, shaking his head, and struggling to his feet. He had tears in his eyes, from pain or effort.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
They left right away. The place was too loud, too bloodthirsty, too
loco.
They found their way on foot to a pulquería they knew from years past. Memorias del Futuro, it was called. Soon, they were both slouching at a sway-backed wooden bar in the faint light of a half-dozen tallow candles, quaffing
pulque
from crude irregular glasses, shaped like bottle-bottoms and tinted green.
Diego entrusted some coins to a boy and dispatched him to a taquería nearby with instructions to bring back two servings of
tacos al pastor.
There would be more coins when the food was delivered. The meal arrived in minutes, heaped on a pair of tin plates. The two men tucked in at once, rolling the hot morsels of beef into the warm tortillas, along with chopped tomatoes, onions, and jalapeños. With grease dripping down his scraggly beard, Baldemar recounted his ordeal in the Martinica. When he reached the part about refusing the initial pardon, Diego shook his head.
“Idiot,” he said.
Baldemar wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “You’d have done the same.”
“I would?”
“Sure. Anyone would.”
Diego wasn’t so certain, and he suspected Baldemar knew it. He raised his glass of pulque and took a long, slow draft. “You’ve seen Ángela?”
“You think—?” Baldemar began to cough again. When the fit subsided, he gestured at his miserable frame, from bony shoulders to crumbling boots. “You think I could walk into a hospital looking like this?” He snorted and shook his head. “As a patient, maybe. Otherwise, I’d be wanting a gun. Márquez must have a dozen of his goons stationed around the place, on the lookout for me.”
Diego nodded. It was true. He himself had been barred from entering the Hospital de Jesús Nazareno, where Ángela was said to be convalescing from her
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