The City of Palaces: A Novel

Chapter 18

299 o 18 On the after­ noon of the ­ seventh day of the bat­ tle, Ali­ cia re­ turned from vis­ it­ ing fam­ i­ lies who had cho­ sen to re­ main in the neigh­ bor­ hood. She hur­ ried to the toi­ let, where she ­ gushed wa­ tery di­ ar­ rhea. She com­ posed her­ self and ­ started to­ ward the ­ kitchen to help the cooks, but she did not get out of the room be­ fore she again had to seek the toi­ let. By now, with the onset of a head­ ache and nau­ sea, she was ­ forced to admit she was ill. The symp­ toms were fa­ mil­ iar—she had seen them among the poor of San Fran­ cisco ­ Tlalco—but she hoped she was wrong about what they in­ di­ cated. She ­ changed into a light shift and lay down, but every few min­ utes, she was back on the toi­ let, the ex­ pul­ sions pro­ gres­ sively more pain­ ful as there was less and less to expel. The head­ ache ­ throbbed in her tem­ ples. She ­ thought back to the cup of tepid, muddy tea she had ac­ cepted two days ear­ lier from a woman in Te­ pito to whom she had­ brought food. The woman—Luz, she re­ mem­ bered, her name was Luz— had ­ poured her grat­ i­ tude into the cup, and Ali­ cia could not re­ fuse to drink even ­ though it was a near cer­ tainty the water had come from the fetid com­ mu­ nal well she had ­ passed ear­ lier. A sim­ ple cup of tea, no more than two swal­ lows—how frag­ ile the body was, she ­ thought. She was con­ vulsed by ab­ dom­ i­ nal ­ cramps and stag­ gered to the toi­ let. As she tried to make her way back to the bed, she was over­ come with diz­ zi­ ness and fell to the floor. Her last con­ scious ­ thought was chol­ era. Sar­ miento had been work­ ing at a Red Cross field hos­ pi­ tal set up in the Al­ a­ meda, but on the morn­ ing of the ­ seventh day, rest­ less to see the dam­ age to the cap­ i­ tal, he had gone out in one of the vans. The city was a sep­ ul­ chre. The po­ lice had aban­ doned their cor­ ner posts, the ­ priests­ locked up their ­ churches, and even the doors of the great ca­ the­ dral were 300 Tragic Days­ closed ­ against the im­ por­ tun­ ing of the faith­ ful. The ­ thirty box­ cars of­ pulque that ­ slaked the ­ thirst of the city did not ar­ rive at the ­ Estación de Co­ lo­ nia, and the ­ fruit-, ­ flower-, and ­ vegetable-laden tra­ jin­ e­ ras did not skim the sur­ face of La Viga. The big green and yel­ low ­ tranvías re­ mained­ parked at the sta­ tion in the ­ Zócalo. The ­ stables were ­ filled with rest­ less, hun­ gry ­ horses. The fa­ mil­ iar ­ trucks of the Buen Tono cig­ ar­ ette fac­ tory were no­ where to be seen, and the fac­ tory was shut down. The great de­ part­ ment ­ stores along the Aven­ ida San Fran­ cisco—the Port of Ver­ a­ cruz and the Iron House—and the low­ li­ est dry goods shops on the dirt ­ streets of Co­ lo­ nia San ­ Sebastían were shut­ tered and ­ barred ­ against loot­ ers. The­ a­ ters were ­ closed, the bill­ boards of can­ celled per­ for­ mances still ­ splashed ­ across their en­ trances. As they ­ passed ­ through the Co­ lo­ nia Guer­ rero, Sar­ miento heard a cel­ list play­ ing ­ Bach’s sec­ ond cello suite, the “Sar­ a­ bande.” The com­ plex, mourn­ ful music ­ crossed the court­ yard of a once grand build­ ing, now pock­ marked with bul­ let holes, and ­ spilled into the clear, still air. The light, as al­ ways, was daz­ zlingly pure, and above the roofs and domes of the city, Pop­ o­ cat­ é­ petl re­ leased white puffs of smoke and ­ Iztaccíhuatl ­ spread her snowy body ­ beside him. The van ap­ proached the ­ streets sur­ round­ ing the Ciu­ da­ dela, where the ­ rebels re­ mained ­ firmly en­ sconced de­ spite the ­ government’s super­ ior num­ bers and weap­ ons. As it ap­ proached an army check­ point, Sar­ miento ob­ served a truck fly...