THE INSURGENCE
of CHAN
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN |
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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
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
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
"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.
"
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
"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
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
"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
"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
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