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Chapter 11
- University of Wisconsin Press
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172 o 11 La Niña emerged from the crypt be neath the altar of the church of San An drés to rain pound ing the stained glass win dows and gloomy shad ows flood ing the sanc tu ary. The smell of in cense per meated the still air—the odor of sanc tity, she thought with dis taste. She could not wait to es cape it and fill her lungs with the mi as matic air of the city, that fa mil iar mix ture of fried foods, flow ers, sew age, wood smoke, char coal, horse ma nure, eu ca lyp tus, and all the other in nu mer able fra grances, ex ha la tions, odors, stinks, and em a na tions that pro claimed life. For the past hour, she had knelt beside the tomb of her hus band while the ob se qui ous pas tor of the church led her in a ro sary to com memorate the an ni ver sary of his death. She droned her way through the Five Glo ri ous Mys ter ies, nau seated by the musty air and the black smoke pour ing from the can dles. They pro vided the only il lu mi na tion in the final rest ing place of three cen tu ries of dull-witted, haughty Gaviláns. Her own fam ily—ha cen da dos from Du rango—bur ied their dead in a hill side grave yard be neath can o pies of oak branches where horses grazed and lov ers pic nicked. Her maid hur ried to her side as she pre pared to leave the church. She pushed open the door for her mis tress and un furled an enor mous um brella at the very mo ment La Niña left the church. She took a dozen steps to her wait ing car riage. The driver, with long-perfected tim ing, threw back the door just as she reached the coach and as sisted her in side. Her maid en tered be hind her, ar ranged a fox fur throw across her lap, and then de parted to join the driver for the three-minute ride to the pal ace. La Niña, who had been tended to by ser vants since in fancy, was only pe riph er ally aware of their ac tiv ity. She was in a nos tal gic mood, for as she had knelt in the crypt beside the dust that had been her hus band, her thoughts wan dered back to her 1909–1911 173 girl hood in Du rango. She had been born in 1831, ten years after Itur bide se cured México’s in de pen dence from Spain. Her family’s vast hold ings had been un af fected by the change in govern ment—the cat tle con tin ued to graze, the corn and wheat con tin ued to grow, the veins of sil ver still traced their del i cate lines through the dark ness of the mines—and hers was the child hood of a prin cess. Not, how ever, a con fined prin cess of the city. She was a coun try aris to crat who, by day, rode horses, raced bare foot in the dust, and swam in the cold streams of the moun tains. At night, she sat at her father’s table in silk and jew els, eat ing quail and fried squash blos soms off plates car ried across the Pa cific by the Ma nila galle ons. Her child hood friends lived in the same care less op u lence. When one of them, the son of a sil ver king, had mar ried, the path from the bri dal car riage to the church was paved with sil ver in gots. Sil ver was the foun da tion of all their for tunes and even the moon light that filled her bed cham ber seemed like a spray of sil ver. It seemed, at first, that the ro mance would con tinue when she came to the city for her so cial debut. Her fam ily had a fine house, a fine name, and wealth. The in vi ta tions poured in. There were can dlelit balls, ex cur sions to the Teotihuacán, where she stood at the peak of the Pyr a mid of the Sun, and long boat rides in...