THE INSURGENCE of CHAN SANTA CRUZ

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

         In another locked room, the library, where faultless tomes of classic wisdom stared down in abject distaste, the younger generation of the montes... thirteen in number... were grouped in a loose circle around the brothers Macias.

         These were the Caballeros. And, if one may wonder at the presence of Fidel Montez-Betancourt and the absence of his counterpart on the other side of the family, the conclusion would rightly be drawn that the sympathies of the society were with the unionistas... for these Caballeros despised everything of the Mexican Republic.

         A thin, blond youth in evening dress, topped by a devil's mask of crimson silk, called the gathering to order. This was Roberto Urzaiz whose exploits were famous, even amidst this fast-moving young crowd of Merida. Coming into possession of the family hacienda on his twenty-first birthday, he had sold it and invested the proceeds in London and New York until such time as his extravagance would have exhausted them. Three years had strained this fortune, but Roberto remained a model host with his grand house and all-female staff, two of whom always stood by his side when he offered "entertainments" for his friends. As "Hermano Mayor" of the Caballeros, Roberto passed judgment on new members, maintained the society's finances, and updated the code of the Chase from an extensive library of occult and pornographic literature.

         Now Robert recited the oath, to which José swore eternal fealty. The Caballeros applauded. The initiatory sacrament was brought forth.

         It was a bottle of Scottish whiskey, Old Claymore, crucial to the lore of Caballeros in several respects. Primarily, it was un-Mexican... and solidarity with the culture and language of the British and the French was a point well worth making, and repeating. The secessionists of 1847 had turned eyes towards Texas only when rejected by the British colony of Belize and such rejection was taken not as an insult, but merely proof that their forefathers had not purged themselves sufficiently of deleterious "Mexican" traits. As for the French, their cultural affinity was moderated by the debacle of the regime of Maximilian, who held not a few supporters in the city. But, being pragmatic, even in debauchery, the Caballeros had chosen the symbolic uisghe of the British Isles over good Napoleonic cognac.

         A Caballero was expected to show his worthiness by consuming this liquor at a single draught. The vessel, a campana cast in ancient copper, long green, had allegedly been removed from a martyred church of Valladolid, sacred as an emblem of the failed independence uprising of 1847. Inverted, it bore a distinct... deliberate... resemblance to a portion of the female anatomy, comparable to a conch shell. La Concha! it was called, and it was filled with a half liter of Old Claymore... José raised it to his lips and the burning liquor flowed vigorously down to his stomach. Perspiring heavily, he thanked his brothers and received their accolades. "Caballeros," called Urzaiz, "to the hunt!" José followed them, tottering weakly back to the ballroom.

         "Here's our inspiration," Roberto said, and a large young lady squealed with recognition. "How is my Brasileña?" he inquired, giving Teodora Fermin, only daughter of a wealthy banker, a peck on the cheek.

         "That's one of our politer terms," Rigoberto informed his brother in a low voice. Among ourselves, we call her Brasa... or, sometimes, Matogrossa... with respect for her geography. They're a fine match. She adores him... and he cherishes her father's money."

         José smiled, closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair. A thousand Scottish clans clashed claymores in his stomach and his head was lightening. The sensation was akin to traveling backwards in a rapid coach. When, with some effort, he returned to the ballroom, whereupon an apparition from the Arab paradise swam into view.

         "Champagne," said Rigoberto to a passing busboy, Esteban Chan. "Two glasses." He winked at José. "The way out of Hell lies through its center."

         José straightened. "That one in the yellow dress... I've not seen her before."

         Rigoberto frowned. "Nor I. Perhaps Roberto has made her acquaintance. If not him," he added, "nobody! On your feet, Caballero." He extended a hand towards his younger brother and José traversed the short space as if wading through the snows of the Swiss mountains, to which he had traveled during his sixteenth year.

         "That one?" asked Roberto. "Let me remember, I think I know her. Run along now and get me one of those little sandwiches, my Brasileña... the ham. They're Danish, aren't they?"

         "Dutch?" inquired Rigoberto. Teodora giggled and entered the throng, not vanishing of course, but at least somewhat diminishing.

         "Elena Villareal," Roberto recalled in a low voice. "She's the Campechean Senator's daughter. Also, in some way, a part of that busy Molina family... a niece or something. Educated in New York, I've heard. Dangerous quarry, Caballeros, but... " he added as Teodora returned and pressed the sandwich into his fingers, so much smaller than her own, "...what is the sweetness of a rose without its thorns."

         "Would you please... introdush us?" José stammered, each word dropping like a cannonball off of his tongue.

         "I could hardly do so," said Urzaiz sternly, "for we are virtual strangers. Why don't you ask her to dance?" he suggested. "They don't concern themselves with the formalities in New York City." He broke off a portion of the sandwich and extended it to Teodora as if she were a huge, chiffon-befeathered parrot with a sharp beak.

         Elena was dancing with Fidel Montez-Betancourt... a young man of sober sympathies who had, some years ago, declined an invitation to join the Caballeros. Despite the clamor in his stomach and the lightness in his head, José realized that he would have to quickly introduce himself if there was to be a chance of claiming her hand for the quickly-approaching midnight waltz. And so, with careful, snowshoe steps, he made his way across the floor in the moments that the orchestra put down and wiped their instruments, the dancers dispersed to corners where, in small groups, the warring sexes evaluated the prospects of past partners and potentials of the next.

         "Señorita," said José and Elena turned suddenly, wiping away his composure as thoroughly as a wet sponge streaks across a blackboard. She has blue eyes, he wondered. Words formed in his mind, an introduction which would establish his position as her host, a member of an influential society and a great house without appearing needlessly boastful. An opportune compliment, followed by a request for the dance. Yes. In his throat, a swelling formed as words warred in an effort to become coherent sounds as Fidel's mouth... beneath a rather effeminate eagle's mask of pearls and feathers... curled into a sneer. José leaned forward, close enough to breathe the scent of a foreign, doubtlessly Parisian perfume he recalled from his journeys to watch the sculptors at work upon a great image of a lady, to be sent to New York.

         "O!" she replied in mock horror, “a skull? What would you tell me, Sir Calaver?" Elena baited, and then José opened his mouth to say these things which hopefully would lead him to the dance floor at the stroke of midnight and to further plateaus of delight thereafter, but words did not come. Instead, a wave of brown and yellow vomit leaped forth through his lips and washed over Elena's bodice and her yellow dress. With a strangled sob of despair, José slumped against the wall, turning his face from Elena and the humiliation towards the darkness.

         Rigoberto led his brother away while Fidel Montez-Betancourt rushed to the shaken Elena's side and steered her in the opposite direction, face swelling with rage beneath the dead feathers and perlas de precio bajo that seemed to also swell like hundreds of enraged, misshapen little skulls. It was at this very moment that the skinny butler marched imperiously onto the dance floor, elbowing the astonished montes and their progeny aside. Life occasionally grants fleeting epochs of power and authority to humble men and Flaco, who was by no means a humble man, possessed enough intelligence to seize the moment... although, of course, his vanity would not permit the separation of his own importance with his message. Flailing his arms like wings, he stood upon his toes to add an inch or two to his stature and a deep growl was birthed from somewhere in the core of his bony frame; a cry like the crowing of an angry rooster that wholly silenced the crowd (already muted by the strange spectacle of the vomiting skull). Even the musicians put down their instruments.

         "Distinguished gentlemen and ladies," the butler announced... "His Excellency, don Francisco Canton, Governor of Yucatan!"

 

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