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“Santos!”

  The servant was already behind him, also on alert.

  “Of the four-month period you’ve been given to pay the first installment—”

  “Throw him out!”

  “—you have already used up—”

  “By force, if necessary.”

  That consumptive figure with his dangling puppet’s arm possessed neither his father’s ruthless ambition nor his fiery temper. And yet Mauro Larrea was aware that his scrawny frame concealed an equally despicable soul. Like father like son. And that if Tadeo Carrús breathed his last gasp before receiving the agreed sum, one way or another his son Dimas would make sure the debt was paid.

  As the clatter of hooves on cobblestones commenced, Larrea lowered his head inside the carriage and gazed at his home for the last time: the magnificent century-old mansion built by the Count of Regla, once the wealthiest miner in the colony. His eyes glided over the ornate façade made of red volcanic rock and carved stone, with its splendid gates flung open wide. At first sight the house might have appeared a simple reminder of the grandiose days of the now-defunct viceroyalty, the residence of a great man who belonged to the privileged class. And yet, where Larrea’s own life and destiny were concerned, it had a far deeper significance.

  Two enormous cast-iron lanterns flanked the entrance, their light distorted by the uneven glass of the carriage window. Despite this, Larrea could see him: Dimas Carrús, leaning up against the wall to the right, watching his departure fixedly as he scratched the muzzle of a mangy greyhound.

  They stopped off in Calle Capuchinas, where word had been sent ahead to Mariana and Alonso. They were waiting in the hallway with tousled hair, coats on over their nightclothes. But they were young and handsome, and what on others might have looked like an incongruous jumble, on them it had an air of natural grace.

  Upstairs, oblivious to everything, the countess snored thunderously, contented at having got her own way.

  The instant she saw him, Mariana flung her arms around her father. Once again he felt disconcerted by the taut belly that came between them.

  “All will be well,” she whispered in his ear.

  Larrea nodded weakly, pressing his chin into her shoulder.

  “I’ll write as soon as I’ve settled.”

  They stepped back and, lit by a pair of flickering candles, exchanged a few last words about Nico, the house, various unresolved matters she would see to. Until they heard Andrade clear his throat outside. It was time to go.

  “Keep this somewhere safe,” he said, reaching among his clothes and taking out the papers concerning Las Tres Lunas. What better custodian than his own daughter?

  She asked no questions: if this was what her father wanted, she required no further explanation. Then, seizing his big hands, she placed them on the dome of her belly. Rounded, full, still sitting high. “We’ll be waiting for you,” she said. He wanted to smile, but couldn’t. This was the first time he had touched that throbbing life with his fingertips. He closed his eyes for a few moments, sensing it. He felt a lump in his throat, something indescribable.

  He was halfway out of the door when Mariana embraced him once again, murmuring words only he could hear. He pressed his lips together as he climbed back inside the carriage; the sensation of the flesh of his flesh had touched his heart. His daughter’s parting words echoed in his ears. Don’t hesitate to use Úrsula’s money if you have to.

  The grid-like streets gradually gave way to dirtier, narrower, less noble thoroughfares, until names and lights were no longer visible, and they left behind the city of palaces, setting off along the eighty-nine leagues of the Camino Real that stood between them and their destination.

  Ahead of them lay three days and nights of rocky trails, being bumped and jolted, wheels getting stuck in potholes, sometimes in sweltering heat. They traversed vast, empty landscapes, bluffs, and ravines where the horses lost their footing as they scaled craggy slopes covered in tangled briars. From time to time they would glimpse a hacienda or shack, a solitary cornfield, and numerous scenes of devastation in villages and churches that had suffered decades of civil war. Occasionally they came upon a town, which they would bypass, or a ranch hand on horseback, an Indian selling pomegranates to quench the thirst with, or a wretched adobe hut where an old woman sat with a faraway look in her eyes as she stroked a hen on her lap.

  They paused only to rest and water the horses and to allow the men escorting them to sleep. For his part, Larrea would have carried on without stopping. They could have stayed the night at one of his friend’s haciendas, where they would have slept on wool mattresses with clean sheets, enjoyed tasty food, white wax candles, fresh water to wash away the dust and dirt. But he preferred to press on relentlessly, dining on simple tortillas with salt and chili wherever they came across an Indian woman crouched over a brazier who was willing to sell them some; lowering a gourd into streams to drink; and sleeping on palm mats on the bare earth.

  “Working the night shift in Real de Catorce was worse, compadre, or have you forgotten?”

  Larrea lay with his back to Andrade, a small blanket draped over his large frame. Beneath his head was a large leather pouch containing the money entrusted to him by the countess and Gorostiza. He had his boots on, a gun tucked in his belt and a knife within reach. Just in case. Fixed in the ground around them were a handful of lighted pine pitch torches to keep the coyotes at bay.

  “We should have stayed at the San Gabriel hacienda; it’s only a few leagues away,” grumbled Andrade, unable to get comfortable.

  “You’re going soft on me, Elias. Sometimes it’s not a bad thing to remember where we came from.”

  Why does this sonofabitch never cease to amaze me? thought Andrade, eyelids beginning to droop from exhaustion. And he meant it: even though he knew Larrea well, he couldn’t help being astonished at the way he had borne this colossal setback. In the uncertain world they’d lived in for decades, both he and Andrade had witnessed many a casualty: men at the top who on their way down had lost their reason and committed all kinds of blunders; those whose spirits swayed like reeds in the wind the moment they were divested of their riches.

  Rarely had he seen anyone respond the way Larrea did when misfortune sank its teeth into him so mercilessly and unexpectedly. Faced with the unpredictable and devastating vicissitudes of the mining business, he had never known anyone lose so much and lose it so calmly as the man asleep beside him, deprived of all comfort. Like the mule drivers, and the animals themselves, like their Chinaco escort, those peasants who had turned into fighters overnight, brave as they were unruly, fierce as they were loyal.

  They had scarcely entered Veracruz when they became aware of the ravages of yellow fever, endemic in that coastal region. A putrid smell laced the air, half-rotting carcasses of mules and horses lay about, and the ubiquitous buzzards, large, black, and ugly, were perched on posts and rooftops, waiting to dive on the animals’ remains.

  The coachman drove to the Diligencias Hotel without stopping, as if they had the devil on their tail.

  “Holy Mother of God, it’s hot!” exclaimed Andrade as he stepped onto the dusty ground.

  Mauro Larrea removed the neckerchief covering his nose and mouth, then wiped his brow with it. He carefully surveyed the street before openly feeling for his gun to make sure it was where it should be. Afterward, tightly clutching the leather bag containing the money, he shook each of the Chinacos’ hands by way of a farewell.

  Andrade and Santos Huesos saw to the luggage and stabling the horses while Larrea, in a pointless failed attempt to look respectable, straightened his rumpled clothes and smoothed his hair before entering the hotel.

  An hour later he was waiting for his agent in the magnificent entrance, amid an anonymous group of fellow guests. Ensconced in a wicker armchair, he was slaking his thirst with water out of a large jug. He had doused himself with the contents of an entir
e barrel shortly before, scrubbing himself vigorously to remove the traces of his grueling three-day journey. Afterward, he had donned a clean white linen shirt and the coolest suit he owned to combat the lingering effects of the heat. At last, his damp, tousled hair in place, dressed in casual clothes, he no longer gave the impression of an escaped convict, or an eccentric big-city dweller out of his element.

  He had left the hefty bag beneath his bed with Santos Huesos guarding the door, pistol tucked into his belt, and now felt greatly relieved. And, on reflection, he doubtless felt calmer having finally left Mexico City, with its pressures, demands, and lies.

  They had agreed to spend the time left before his departure discreetly settling more of his affairs. They would sell the carriage, the horses, and some of his possessions. They also intended to inquire about the situation in Cuba, which had strong ties with Veracruz, and if possible learn of any new developments in the civil war in North America. They even considered throwing a lavish farewell party as a tribute to the old days and to invoke favorable winds for the more-than-uncertain future.

  However, the wait for his departure proved shorter than expected.

  “I’ve just come from the port. You sail tomorrow.”

  Andrade was walking toward him in his usual brisk manner, still dusty from their journey. And yet, despite his grimy appearance, crumpled clothes, and exhaustion, he still managed to exude an air of elegance.

  After slumping into the chair next to Larrea, he ran his handkerchief over his shiny bald head. He picked up his friend’s water glass and, as was his custom, lifted it to his lips without asking permission, draining its contents.

  “I have also been inquiring about whether we’ve received any mail; all correspondence from Europe comes through Veracruz. I’ve distributed a few pesos and they’ll let me know tomorrow.”

  Larrea nodded even as he beckoned to the waiter. Afterward, the two men sat in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts, which, given their knowledge of one another, were probably more or less the same.

  What had become of the days when they were a handsome silver mining entrepreneur and his dynamic agent? How had all that glory slipped through their fingers? Now, facing each other silently in that port of entry to the New World, they were simply two weary souls dusting themselves off after their fall from grace, searching blindly for a way to build a future from nothing. And, perhaps because the only thing both men had kept more or less intact was their presence of mind, they chose to stifle the urge to hurl angry curses into the air, kept their composure, and accepted the two glasses of whiskey their waiter had just placed on the table.

  “All the way from Bourbon County, the best in the house for our fine guests newly arrived from the capital,” the young lad declared without any hint of irony.

  Shortly afterward, he brought their supper, and the two men went to bed early, each to do battle with his own demons.

  Larrea slept badly, as he had virtually every night during the past few months. He breakfasted alone, waiting for his agent to come down from his room. But when at last Andrade did appear, it was through the main door to the hotel, rather than from upstairs.

  “I finally managed to get the mail,” he announced without sitting down.

  “And?”

  “Tidings from across the sea.”

  “Bad ones?”

  “Dreadful.”

  Larrea sat up erect, a shudder running through him.

  “Nico?”

  Andrade nodded solemnly, then sat down beside him.

  “He has abandoned Christophe Rousset’s home in Lens, leaving only a note. In it he explained how stifled he felt in that small town, that he had absolutely no interest in coal mining, and that he would see about discussing with you what to do next when the time is right.”

  Mauro Larrea didn’t know whether to let out the bitterest, most savage laugh of his life, or curse like a condemned man before the firing squad; whether to upend the table with its cups and saucers, or knock senseless one of his blameless fellow guests, sleepily sipping their first hot chocolate of the day.

  Faced with this dilemma, he struggled to remain calm.

  “Where did he go?”

  “They believe he took a train from Lille to Paris. One of Rousset’s employees saw him at the railway station.”

  Come on, brother, he felt like saying to Andrade. So what if it’s eight in the morning: Let’s repair to a local bar, the two of us, and get dead drunk. We’re bound to find one that’s still open. Let’s play a last game of billiards, bed some whores in the brothels down by the harbor, gamble away the little we have left at the cockfights. Forget that the world exists, and with it all the problems overwhelming me.

  With a great effort, Larrea summoned what little sangfroid he had left, and as the blood beat at his temples like a drum, he reassessed the situation.

  “When did we last send him money?”

  “Six thousand pesos with Pancho Prats, when he and his wife went to take the waters at Vichy. I imagine they must have arrived there a few weeks ago.”

  Larrea clenched his fists, his nails digging into his flesh.

  “And the moment he got his hands on it, the scoundrel made off with it.”

  Andrade nodded. Undoubtedly.

  “But when his money runs out he might get the notion to return to Mexico, so as soon as I’d read the letter I made a deal with the port customs official, who supervises all the cargo and passengers arriving from Europe. It’ll cost us a fortune, but he assures me he’ll keep a lookout for him.”

  “And if he sees him?”

  “He’ll detain him and send me word.”

  Gorostiza and his unwed daughter sending up prayers to the Almighty for his fool of a son; his mansion half shut up; Tadeo Carrús—all of them returned to his mind like phantoms out of some gruesome nightmare.

  “Whatever you do, brother, don’t let him return to Mexico City while I’m not there. He mustn’t see or speak to anyone; he mustn’t get into any scrapes or ask questions about my reasons for leaving. Inform Mariana the minute you get home: tell her to listen for any rumors spread by people coming from France.”

  Andrade, who felt toward the boy as though he were his own son, simply nodded.

  As midday approached, the dense mass of slate-colored clouds above the port made it impossible to see where the sky ended and the sea began.

  Everything took on a depressing gray tone: the faces and hands of the porters, the sails of anchored vessels, the cargo and nets, his spirits. Even the cries of the stevedores, the water lapping against the ship, and the creaking oars all seemed to echo the mood. The boards on the jetty rose and fell beneath his feet as the distance separating him from his beloved friend grew, drawing him ever closer to the tender that would take him aboard El Flor de Llanes, the brig flying the flag of that Spain whose concerns were so remote to him now.

  From on deck he contemplated Veracruz for the last time, with its buzzards and sand dunes. In the days of the viceroyalty it had been the gateway to the Atlantic for people and wealth, a silent witness to the aspirations of all those who for centuries had been arriving from the far side of the ocean in pursuit of foolish ambitions, a future with more dignity, or a simple chimera.

  On its outskirts stood the legendary Castle of San Juan de Ulúa, now almost completely abandoned. The last outpost of the metropolis, from which the dregs of the Spanish army—starving, diseased, defeated, and in rags—finally departed years after Mexico’s declaration of independence, having foolishly struggled to keep the former viceroyalty yoked forever to the crown.

  Elias Andrade’s parting words came back to him in the tender.

  “Take care of yourself, compadre. I’ll look after the problems left behind. You just have to try to repeat your own history. Remember, you weren’t yet thirty when you excavated mines where no one else dared. You earned
the respect of your own men as well as that of the old miners. You behaved honorably when necessary and showed grit when you had to. You became a legend, Mauro Larrea, don’t you forget that. There’s no need for you to build an empire; you only have to start over again.”

  Part II

  HAVANA

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They recognized each other from afar, although neither gave any sign of it. Seconds later, when the introductions were made, their eyes met briefly, as if to confirm silently: so it’s you.

  And yet, extending her gloved hand to him, she affected a look of icy indifference.

  “Carola Gorostiza de Zayas, pleased to meet you,” she said neutrally, as one might rattle off a dusty poem or a response at Sunday Mass.

  She bore only the faintest resemblance to her brother, perhaps the way their lips appeared to form a square when they spoke, or the narrow bridges of their noses. She was undeniably beautiful and exaggeratedly opulent, thought Mauro Larrea as his lips brushed her silk glove. A cascade of topazes adorned her bosom, and from her thick, dark, gathered tresses protruded a pair of colorful ostrich feathers that matched her gown.

  “Gustavo Zayas, at your feet.”

  These were the next words he heard, although Zayas wasn’t actually at his feet but rather facing him, next to his wife. He was tall, with watery blue eyes, and wore his once fair hair brushed back. And handsome as well, younger than Larrea had expected. For some reason he had assumed Zayas would be roughly the same age as Ernesto Gorostiza, who was seven or eight years his senior. But the man standing before him wasn’t much older than forty, although his gaunt face betrayed signs of having suffered the sorts of vicissitudes that others might never have experienced in a hundred lifetimes.

  There was scarcely time for more: no sooner had the couple finished their polite greetings than they turned around and made their way through the crowd to the ballroom. One thing was perfectly clear: Carola Gorostiza had no intention of revealing the identity of the newcomer to her husband.