The City of Palaces: A Novel

Chapter 6

85 o 6 At ­ Sarmiento’s final meet­ ing with Li­ ceaga be­ fore going out into the field, the di­ rec­ tor de­ ployed his fa­ vor­ ite meta­ phor: “Re­ mem­ ber, Mi­ guel, you are now a sol­ dier in the war ­ against dis­ ease! In this strug­ gle you will bat­ tle ­ against en­ e­ mies seen and un­ seen. I await your vic­ to­ ri­ ous re­ turn!” The bar­ rio of San Fran­ cisco ­ Tlalco did not re­ sem­ ble a bat­ tle­ field so much as its after­ math—a dusty quad­ rant in the south­ east­ ern cor­ ner of the city ­ strewn with de­ tri­ tus, human and oth­ er­ wise, and reek­ ing of decay. Sar­ miento stood in the pla­ zuela in the mid­ day sun in his uni­ form, a white suit with gold ­ stripes ­ around the ­ sleeves, the in­ sig­ nia of the Board of Pub­ lic ­ Health em­ broi­ dered over his heart, and a pith hel­ met from which a fine mesh net fell over his face to pro­ tect him from in­ hal­ ing tox­ ins and ­ microbes. He car­ ried a white can­ vas bag ­ filled with spec­ i­ men jars, med­ i­ cal equip­ ment, and a note­ book for writ­ ing out ci­ ta­ tions for vi­ o­ la­ tions of the san­ i­ ta­ tion code. He had no idea of how or where to begin his work. The pla­ zuela was paved with an­ cient cob­ ble­ stones, but the sur­ round­ ing ­ streets were ­ packed earth with­ out side­ walks or any ev­ i­ dence of il­ lu­ mi­ na­ tion once the sun set. At the north­ ern edge of the pla­ zuela was a small co­ lo­ nial ­ church. To the west, be­ neath tat­ tered can­ o­ pies, was a ­ street mar­ ket. To the east was a com­ bi­ na­ tion ­ pulquería and pool hall­ called Tem­ plo de Amor; a gar­ ish ver­ sion of ­ Botticelli’s Birth of Venus had been ­ painted on its fa­ cade. Next to it was a gro­ cery store whose­ shelves ap­ peared to be bare. ­ Beside the gro­ cery store was a name­ less mesón, one of the ­ city’s in­ nu­ mer­ able flop­ houses, where three women who were ob­ vi­ ously pros­ ti­ tutes ­ crowded the entry. On the south side were heaps of gar­ bage being scav­ enged by ­ fierce-looking, ­ short-haired curs. Bor­ der­ ing the pla­ zuela on the north was a ram­ shackle line of adobe 86 The Palace of the Gaviláns huts that ­ housed small man­ u­ fac­ tur­ ers; in one hut he could see two men mak­ ing ­ chairs, in an­ other, a group of women sit­ ting ­ around a table sew­ ing, and in front of a third, a stack of un­ painted pine cof­ fins. In the cen­ ter of the pla­ zuela, naked chil­ dren clung to their ­ mothers’ dusty ­ skirts as the women ­ dipped clay pots into a stone foun­ tain that­ seemed as old as the ­ church. The ­ fountain’s carv­ ings were cov­ ered with green slime or had been eaten away by time. The dusty, warm, ­ foulsmelling air pro­ duced a las­ si­ tude that ­ seemed to in­ fect the peo­ ple ­ around him. They moved in a tor­ por, the men in tat­ tered white trou­ sers, ­ shirts, and som­ bre­ ros, the women in their dusty cal­ ico ­ skirts and re­ bo­ zos,­ nearly all of them bare­ foot. He could feel it him­ self, a ­ weight that low­ ered his eye­ lids and ­ slumped his shoul­ ders. He ­ roused him­ self from his leth­ argy and de­ ter­ mined to begin his tasks. But where? he ­ thought. He felt like Her­ cules at the Au­ gean ­ stables com­ mis­ sioned to clean out the ac­ cu­ mu­ lated filth of cen­ tu­ ries. Un­ like Her­ cules, he did not have a river to di­ vert ­ through the bar­ rio to flush it out. Water, he ­ thought, he could start with water. Squar­ ing his shoul­ ders, he ­ walked ­ briskly to­ ward the foun­ tain. He ­ pushed aside the women at the well to make room for him­ self, low­ ered his head, and ­ sniffed. The water had a faint min­ eral odor. “Do you know where this water comes from?” he...