A Ballad of Love and Glory(67)
When she finished dressing his wound, she massaged his stiff leg muscles and knee joint with a salve she’d made from árnica mexicana simmered in lard. She’d wanted to redirect his attention and she had, but now she had to suffer his bragging.
“It was worth it, you know.”
“What was, General?”
“The loss of my leg. The people thought it was a national tragedy. They offered prayers for my life, held parades in my honor. They came to watch my leg being interred at the cemetery of Santa Paula. What a glorious funeral it was. You should have seen the celebrations, the magnificent monument that was to be the home of my lost limb. I think about that on the days I cannot bear to put on the prosthetic because of the pain. My people know I am but a selfless warrior, a good Mexican. A soldier of the people.”
She wished she could hurry out of there. The man was intolerable. His arrogance and egoism were irritating, but she knew that healing required patience, good energy, and faith on her part. So she pushed her frustration aside and massaged the pain and stress from the leg muscles until they were relaxed and supple. He sighed with pleasure and closed his eyes. “Ah, don’t stop. Por favor. My wife chose to remain in the capital instead of accompanying me on the campaign. But I’m glad you’re here to minister to me,” he said, his voice deep with arousal. Then he took her hand and placed it over his manhood.
Without hesitation, she slapped him across the face. Startled, he opened his eyes but was too shocked to speak. She could see the terrible ferocity in his eyes, the violence raging in their dark depths, but she refused to be intimidated by it and matched it with anger of her own.
“If you wanted a whore, General, you should have called for one instead of a curandera.” She got up and tossed her supplies into her basket.
“My apologies, se?ora Ximena,” he said. She turned to look at him. The expression on his face had changed, the savage ferocity replaced by repentance. “Please, forgive me for committing such an indelicacy. My fever has led me astray.”
He was lying. Fever or no fever, she could see who he was—vile, despicable. And what if he retaliated against her or John?
She nodded. “I’m done for today. I’ll have your servant bring you fresh sheets for your bed and a light meal. As soon as you eat and drink the seven blossoms tea I will have him prepare for you, you should rest, and please, stay away from alcohol.”
“Will you return in the morrow?” He looked beseechingly at her, his voice nauseatingly sweet, like overripe fruit about to spoil.
What would he do if she said no, refusing to treat him again? Was she ready to find out? Could a healer refuse to heal?
“If you promise me there will be no more disrespect toward my person, I will tend to you until the infection is gone. You have my word.”
“I shall eagerly await your return, my lady Ximena. You have my sincerest appreciation for your tender care, believe me. Teniente Riley was correct. You have a great gift.”
* * *
That afternoon, as she and John walked around the busy mercado, she recounted her visit with Santa Anna. She thought about telling him how he had disrespected her, but decided against it. The thought of it sickened her.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Ximena,” John said as they sidestepped the vendors who offered them their produce, insisting that they try the freshest melons, the ripest tomatoes. “?’Twas compassion that I had for the general when I saw him agonizin’ from the pain in his leg, worse than usual last night. I knew you could help him. He doesn’t trust surgeons anymore. Since they mangled the amputation, he’s had no faith in them.”
“I do not trust them either,” she said as she stopped to buy a bag of zapotes. “Some are incompetent with the saw. And they go from one patient to another with dirty tools and sponges. If the patients survive, it is because of their stamina and intervención divina.”
“Forgive me?” He picked up some guavas from a nearby fruit stand and clumsily juggled them, dropping one on his head.
She laughed as he massaged his scalp and paid the vendor for the bruised fruit. “I know you meant well, John, but the man is insoportable!” As they made their way to the stalls that sold fresh herbs and spices, she accepted that John and General Mejía had not meant to put her in harm’s way. But this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. The general suffered from chronic pain. Even once he healed, there would be the next time, and the next.
“You think it’s true, what people say about him?” she asked as she inhaled the earthy tang of fresh oregano. They had both heard rumors that Santa Anna was secretly collaborating with the Yanqui president, which would explain why he’d been allowed through their naval blockade of the port of Vera Cruz and permitted to disembark and make his way to the capital.
“The commander has many enemies,” John said. “He claims the rumors of his treachery to Mexico are poor attempts to turn the people against him, to discredit him.”
“And you believe him?”
“I believe what I see. He has fulfilled the promise he made to his people when he returned from exile—he’s leadin’ the Mexican Army against the Yankee invaders. Those who are heapin’ calumnies upon him are the ones who are not here preparin’ to go to battle and willin’ to die to avenge the insults to their country.”