Veracruz, Veracruz
The presidential retreat at Veracruz had been designed with luxury in mind. It looked like a Spanish presidio that had gotten out of hand with decor and extravagance. The white walls were accented with gold, red and white ceramic tiles paved the hallways. A large set of wooden double-doors, curved like an old fortress's, led to a stone patio. It was circular, built around a water fountain that streamed brilliant blue water. A garden flanked the stone, tended by groundskeepers to become almost offensively vibrant green. Ferns, bushes, and other flora accented the walls of the retreat. To top it off, a Mexican flag waved proudly atop a flagpole from the roof. Servants in white suits carried platters of silver bearing glasses for the officials who often took holiday at the scenic villa. The Gulf of Mexico beyond the patio shone in the sunlight, and President Enrique Hernandez never tired of the sea.
The tall, dark-skinned politician had a ruggedly handsome appearance and, although he was closer to his mid-fifties in age, the composure of a much younger man. His black hair, speckled with grey, was conservatively kept and his beard had long since been shaved. Despite the clean-cut appearance, Hernandez's posture never changed from that of a hardworking rancher's: indeed, part of his popularity came from his upbringing as a poor vaquero in Sonora. A man of the people, they called him, dedicated to improving the life of the common man. Sometimes he looked around the palace in Mexico City or the retreat in Veracruz and chuckled at the irony, but he believed himself more than worthy of his luxuries. After all, he had worked hard to get where he was and was working even harder to keep Mexico on its astoundingly miraculous path to power. He had great pride in his nation.
In the bay, a sailboat race had been underway for several hours now. The first Saturday of each month, the sailors in Veracruz's port would launch their sailboats and race for prizes offered by the race administrators. These men were poor, often living in the slums by the port and pooling much of their own money into brightly decorating their crew's boat. Out on the sea they competed for money and pleasure, but were the source of delight to tourists and locals alike. People would line the docks, wives and husbands and their children all cheering for their neighborhood's crew. Dozens of boats would race, the winners returning home for a celebration in their tenement. Hernandez, who had not been to the coast until he was almost thirty and visiting a friend in Guaymas, was instantly in love with the fresh, salty air and the glistening beaches. Everything about it was better than a dusty ranch in the middle of the Sonora desert.
The race was ending, a few of the stragglers coming past the finish line, and President Hernandez rose from his lounging chair and stretched out his arms and legs. He itched behind his neck and turned to the stack of papers on the floor next to him in a cardboard box. Next to that was his humidor, from which he picked a carefully-wrapped cigar and his steel lighter. Inscribed on it was the name Carla, in memory of his wife who had died in an automobile accident in Mexico City almost six years ago. Hernandez never remarried, instead focusing on his political career as a way of coping. She had been a worker in a bookstore in Guaymas when he had moved there, whereupon they courted and entered a marriage that lasted fifteen years. He had loved her, and still did, and hoped that she approved of his work from Heaven. The President lit his cigar and tossed the lighter in his suit vest's pocket, before reaching through to his weekly reports.
Things were normal, the reports claimed. Well, as normal as they could be in a world that had evidently discarded any semblance of normalcy. With the United States gone and wars in Asia and Europe heating up, it seemed like there was nothing going right. It was in Mexico's best interest to lay low for now while it refined its plans. Agricultural exports to many of the former American states were reaching record highs as another wave of drought hit their breadbasket region. Industrial production, too, was being directed to the ever-so-hungry expansionist Japanese across the Pacific. Hernandez noted that he'd have his staff write them a telegram sometime to offer an expansion upon their relationship, as it seemed like they were quite the ally to have. Panama, recently purchased, was settling in quite nicely as the troops conducted a formal change of command. Guatemala's miniature civil war had been stomped out by its authorities - with Hernandez's aid, of course - and the President would soon be sending his final aid package.
It was Hernandez's plan, in fact, to annex Guatemala soon enough. The Mexicans had been using the state as a sort of policy testing ground for years: the government was being groomed by previous Mexican administrations into strengthening relations. At this point, they were economically and politically inseparable. Guatemala had elected socialist politicians in elections that may or may not have been "influenced" by Mexican authorities. Latino brotherhood was preached by radio stations and newspapers. Military aid in the civil war and economic aid immediately before and during helped sway public opinion towards Mexico. But perhaps the greatest tactic of them all was the ambassador's repeated claims that, since the United States had fallen and the Monroe Doctrine was now moot, there would be nobody to protect them against Western imperialists such as the British who had claimed Belize. In fact, it may even be better to come under Mexico's wing as brothers-in-arms. After all, Guatemala was once part of the Mexican Empire.
Hernandez would leave the annexation procedure to his ambassador, Alejandro Morales. The man was, quite frankly, a silver-tongued devil, capable of swaying anyone from a pretty girl at a viñatería - he was an infamous womanizer - to the leader of a Latin American state. They would hold a referendum that would obviously pass, and Guatemala would become the newest Federal District of Mexico. Guatemala would then become entitled to the same progression and developments that blessed Mexico, and would no longer worry about foreign occupation or civil disruption. Political dissent in Mexico had a habit of disappearing if it got too rowdy.
The next report folder was internal, focused on the standard fare benchmarks of progress: crime remained a constant issue in rural areas, where groups of bandits sometimes challenged the newly reformed law enforcement agencies. Most of the time, however, they discovered firsthand that the Wild West had ended and surrendered before too many of them could be killed by a sharpshooter's rifle. Employment, on the rise since the Depression hit the continent, helped put a stop to that: after all, one couldn't exactly find the time to shoot at the policía when they were putting up telegram wires along new railroads for twelve hours a day. The motivation also significantly decreased when their families had food on the table and a roof over their heads. The pay wasn't the best, but they had something. Acts to put Mexicans to work on public works projects like the railroads were hugely successful in reducing poverty.
Hernandez tossed aside the last of the reports after scanning through them. Nothing urgent that had to be dealt with immediately: he would confer with his cabinet when he returned to Mexico City next week. For now, he would smoke cigars by the sea and watch the sun set over the horizon, casting its last pink rays of dusk over the glistening Gulf of Mexico. Inside, he would listen to a futbol match over the radio and perhaps read through another chapter of his novel. Life in Veracruz was peaceful, and being the President of Mexico was good.
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