Chapter 5
Ygnacio
On a Monday at precisely half past nine in the morning, two-thirds of the military rebels in the name of the deposed Viceroy.
They turn on the remaining third.
Spring rains wash through the valley, drenching the barracks at the outskirts of the Capital. Streams run pink.
The soldiers sweep into the Capital, marching in rows down the central boulevard to the presidential mansion. The military, backed by sixteen representatives of the wealthiest families in the Capital, have one demand of Presidente Epifano Valbuena IV: resign.
El Presidente is notified immediately.
He commands his family be taken from the building; his wife does not want to go, but at Presidente Valbuena’s orders, guards force her to follow her children into the carriages waiting outside.
El Presidente watches them go from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The glow of chispa lamps lining his office winks at the penumbra of his silhouette.
Shots ring in the gardens of the presidential mansion. The ceasefire that allowed the women and children to flee has ended. He knows ranks of soldiers have flooded through the wrought iron gates. Without looking, he knows they carry the flag of the Viceroy.
As panic erupts in the household around him, as papers fly and belongings are stuffed into bags, he turns and dictates his final communication to his secretary.
“I will not resign,” he says. “I will leave this palace when my term as an elected official is ended or I am dead. ?Viva la democracia! Viva el Partido Valbuenista de Liberación Nacional! ?Viva el pueblo!”
The words fly from the palace in the notepads of three of el Presidente’s youngest, fastest aides, tucked into jacket pockets as they flee. They climb garden walls and sprint down alleys, dodging soldiers as they race to the printing press.
Shots echo in the streets.
One aide falls. A second.
Blood darkens el Presidente’s words, held to their chests like amulets.
Armando Trevino, the last official, makes it to the press. He pounds the door, lungs and legs burning, begging to be let in. Begging to let el pueblo know Presidente Valbuena’s final decree. Democracy could not die so long as the press gives it breath.
He does not notice that blood seeping beneath the crack of the closed door. Not even as it creeps toward him thick and viscous. Not even as it slips warm beneath his soles.
For the door is unlocked.
It yawns open.
Armando meets the eyes of a solider. The last thing he sees is his own reflection, wide-eyed, glinting in the steel of a bayonet.