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720 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1986
We find fault with Mexico in every way. In Europe we laugh at Santa Anna for having imposed a tax on windows, when the window tax was an English concept from the 1830s. We also deride Santa Anna for having created a miniature court on his little Danish island. However, Napoleon did the exact same thing when he created his little kingdom at Elba, with its very own ministers, national anthem, and flag designed by the “Great Corsican” Himself. But of course no one dared laugh at him, because, even there, he still terrified them. It is also said that a proof of Mexico’s political instability is the large number of governments it’s had. But Achille Lubinal has reminded us that during the last seventy years we ourselves have had more than twelve regimes in France (I think he’s miscalculated, actually, since, just counting Louis Philippe’s reign, we’ve had seventeen different cabinets in eighteen years). And what about the number of different regimes in Spain under the rule of Maria Cristina and Dona Isabella II? I think that we can safely say there were dozens of them, as well as a long succession of military dictatorships.All odd number chapters are written in first person, from the perspective of Carlota, in a castle in Belgium, 60 years after the execution of Maximilian (it’s not a spoiler if the reader is given the information on the second page of the book). It is written as – and implied to be – Carlota’s journal or diary.
So that, during those journeys from Paris to Trieste and from Trieste to Rome, and back again to Trieste, until we arrived at Miramare, all I needed was to stretch out my cupped hands from the carriage to catch the only drink that I could be sure wasn’t poisoned-rainwater-as I do now from the castle balconies. There, in the basin that overflows with crystal-clear water, a white dove is perching on its rim. When the messenger comes disguised as a white dove and he brings me the Words of the song by Concha Mendez from Cuba, there, in my cupped hands as at the bottom of a patera, I see your face and I drink it sip by sip, your dead face, eyes shut and the Weight of all the dust of all the time that’s passed since the year of your execution on their lids. That was the same year the Waltz of the “Blue Danube” was born. How I would love to have danced it with you. I see your dead face, your eyes staring wide, those black glass beads that they put in your empty sockets in Querétaro. Those glass eyes look at me from far away, from the foot of a hill covered with dirt and cacti. They look at me in wonder as though to ask why and how it is that so many things have happened that you never heard of before.Oh, and Carlota is gloriously insane. And, being insane, she is delightfully unreliable.
If you only knew, Max, how terrified I was the first time I saw all those blank pages, when I realized that if I couldn’t find my memories that I would have to invent them. When I felt unsure as to what language to choose from all the many that I’ve learned and then forgotten. When I realized that I couldn’t decide what tense to use because I’m so confused that at times I’m not sure if I was really Marie Charlotte of Belgium, if I’m still the Empress of Mexico, if perhaps someday I shall be the Empress of America; I’m so confused that I don’t know where the truth of my dreams ends and the lies of mv life begin.Really, I can’t speak highly enough about the Carlota chapters – she is, at turns, raging, heartbroken, lustful, obscene; but she is at all times amazingly rendered, a jewel of literary creation. I had to stop myself from quoting her all the times I wanted to, only because this little write up would end up 99% quotes. The book from beginning to end is excellent – the second to last section of the second to last chapter is especially well done (and even happens to not be a Carlota chapter) – taking a step back from it I’m not sure how best to describe it – it is a work of literature, of history, of biography, of politics – all together, all at once – but I do know it is highly recommended.
I have a dagger piercing my breast. I have, piercing my breast, a dream. That dream is a lie. That lie, trying to look real, becomes a river, and it’s so wide that it spills into the turbulent realm of the wind and into the idle promises of the moss. It’s so great that it bursts out of its shrieking cage. This river is the Amazon, and I drank from its waters in the Fountain of Four Rivers when we went to Rome. The cage is made of glass, and inside it is your skull dressed in the feathers of the nightingales from Steiermark that you took with you to Mexico. The lie is so lazy that it sleeps in the yellow dregs of absinthe and only awakens on your lips when you speak of your Empire. The lie swims at the bottom of the most lavish dreams, but the lie is such a liar that it spins out of its own orbit and filters, like the saliva of heaven, like heavenly spittle, through the white scales of the clouds. It’s then that armadillos roll with laughter on the peaks of Acultzingo and canoes glide engulfed in gloom through the waters of the Usumacinta River. The armadillos die laughing because you were executed on June 19th. The canoes, loaded with vanilla, are unable to perfume the mausoleum in the Capuchin monastery. Listen to me. If you want to know what a lie is, I will tell you again and again: you can recognize it by its propellers made of salamander skin, and by the unrelenting lightning coming off its copper palate, by the hideous surprise in its artificial eyes. A terrible taste stuck to your tongue when you realized that Juarez wouldn’t grant your pardon, and those eyes aren’t yours. They belong to Saint Ursula. Maximilian, if you want to know a lie, look at yourself in the mirror of my dreams, and you will see its image from head to toe. But you will not see yourself in that mirror - you will see me, coming from far away moving through the wind and the years, through the waters of the mirror, to throw my arms around you. Don't be distressed if you see me wearing black, don’t feel proud and assume that my mourning clothes are for you. I’m a widow, yes, but the widow of a dream, the widow of a century that died of old age, the widow of an empire that was left an orphan.
Operatic and beautiful..., a Mexican War and Peace. --PW