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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...

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