Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “This is a sin, it’s so delicioso,” said Blanche. She sat cross-legged against a tree, balancing a coffee and an elephant ear.

  Haasi carefully picked bits of apricot out of a fruit tart. “I suppose you’re ready for a new day of more drama.” Haasi’s expression said she was less enthusiastic about returning to the scene of the “crime,” if indeed there’d been one.

  “At least we have the police on our team,” said Blanche. She dusted sugar off her fingertips.

  “I wouldn’t mention that.”

  “Right. Señor López is jumpy enough.”

  “I’d like to get over there before they think to move that mummy, or corpse, or whatever it is. Do you think that’s gonna happen?”

  “Cardenal hinted around, so did López. At least that’s the impression I got. They said they’d investigate. But I don’t know, Blanche. Now we’ve gotten into the mix, and I don’t think it’s going to be easy to get out. Short of flying out of here—if they’ll even let us. What if they decide to keep us in Mexico?”

  Blanche eyed the remaining sugared bun and the gooey rim of a tart. “Might not be such a bad thing. These, and the beer. I’m in love.”

  “Oh, you.” Haasi laughed, but she sobered, fast.

  Blanche jumped up. “Let’s get.”

  They headed back toward the Palacio and stopped to cross at a crowded intersection. The Mexican sun beat down on them with a heat that was unforgiving. They scooted over to a stop sign out of the glare and waited to cross the busy street. It would be a long wait. Vehicles poured from several streets and merged at the corner. The traffic was dizzying.

  The man in front of them stepped off the curb. He carried at least a dozen pillows wrapped in clear plastic bags. Their whiteness bobbed in the blinding sun like earthbound clouds. Sun and clouds all around, disoriented in the heat, Blanche watched him, and waited. She wanted to get going, too. “I guess we can follow this man carrying clouds. Otherwise we’re gonna stand here forever.”

  “Blanche, patience.” But it seemed the pedestrians were walking right out into traffic.

  She took Haasi’s arm. “Let’s go. How likely is it they’d kill us?”

  The look on Haasi’s face was not reassuring. Blanche wiped a hand across her forehead. It was hot, and getting hotter. The air was so dry. Every breath she took felt clogged with dust. The late spring weather was in the 80s, unusual for the city on a plateau, and a drift of smog made the air worse.

  Pillow Man hesitated. He was short but solid. He wore sagging jeans and a grimy-white, stiff-straw cowboy hat. He turned then, his face in profile, lined like an old leaf, with straight eyelashes and a proud nose. It was a thing Blanche noticed, and loved here: the faces. They were often not pretty; they were maps of hard work and sun, years of fretting and loving.

  “Oh, Jesus!” Haasi prayed. She was a step behind Blanche, a hand on her back. Pillow Man was close in front. Safety in numbers. A bigger target, harder to hit. Blanche checked the oncoming traffic, but Pillow Man did not.

  The black motorcycle spun out of nowhere, and the old man went up in the air—the pillows, clouds in the sky. Blanche froze. Someone screamed, or was she the one screaming? Cars and trucks honked. A bicycle sped past them. Blanche saw a straw-hat wheel away like an errant hubcap. Then dead silence. The sun was blinding. The sky had fallen. Clouds covered the street.

  The metallic screech of the motorcycle pulled her attention to the right. A black-and-silver blur in a helmet was sliding sideways over the pavement, the sound of metal on concrete.

  She squinted at the man on the bike: “Hey!” Blanche yelled.

  But he didn’t look back. He scudded and hopped off farther down the street, gaining balance and momentum, until he was on the bike and gone.

  Pillow Man lay on his side, like he was sleeping. He wasn’t sleeping. He was groaning, and his eyes were black pools of fright and disbelief. Blanche stumbled toward him, looking all around her but not taking any of it in. Haasi held her arms out against the traffic, like a human fence. Her straight, strong little body dared anyone to cross.

  Blanche didn’t think about traffic. She dropped to the man’s side. He was breathing, but he didn’t move.

  “¡Señor!” she said, patting his arm.

  She glanced around frantically, loosening the top button on his worn shirt. Long sleeves! She was afraid he’d toast there on the street. The only thing she could remember about accidents was to cover the victim with a blanket to remediate shock. She wouldn’t have done it even if someone handed her one. It was hotter than hell out there.

  Then he nodded, opened his eyes, watering up as he turned to look at her. She sensed more than heard the creaking of his neck and the effort it took for him to reach for her.

  “Gracias,” he said. “Angel.” He managed a weak smile.

  She gently patted his back. His shirt was rough cotton. Someone handed her his hat. Straw and cotton: the earth. His fingers opened and closed, and he didn’t take his eyes off her.

  The traffic moved in frightening streaks of orange, blue, and yellow, rumbling buses and racing cars. Haasi waved away a small knot of bystanders who were crowding around. He needed air.

  Blanche looked around at the mess. He’d lost his pillows, probably his livelihood, and nearly his life. She felt a thrill of luck that he had probably saved her and Haasi, and how foolish that felt. How foolish they’d been to walk into traffic!

  She sighed. “Gracias a Dios.”

  He lifted his head. “¿Qué?”

  “Nada,” Blanche shook her head.

  He shut his eyes, his breathing shallow and irregular. She could hear a siren and hoped it was coming for them.

  “Do you see the ambulance, Haas?” She was “organizing” the crowd, thanking a stranger who had called it in. Millions of people probably passed here, or near, at some time or other, and Blanche cursed that they were all here today.

  “Why do we have to be the ones?” Blanche looked up at Haasi from where she crouched on the street. “Gotta be a reason…”

  Pillow Man touched her arm. “Angel,” he said.

  “Well, there’s your answer,” said Haasi. “Though I think that’s stretching it.” A smile revealed a slight gap in her teeth.

  “Remember that. I’m an angel.”

  His hand crept slowly after Blanche. She grabbed his fingers.

  “No mover,” Blanche said. The street was a griddle turned up all the way. She adjusted the remnants of a pillow under his head. He closed his eyes; she held on.

  “Estoy aquí,” she said. She was here, and she’d stay until help arrived. She used the retrieved straw hat to shade him and fan the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “I don’t forget you,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE MUMMIES

  Blanche was happy. A rush of relief put a spring in her step. Pillow Man had rallied. His sister, María Carmen, who was working in a kiosk down the street, arrived, and brother and sister went off to the hospital in the ambulance. He would recover, said the medic. Haasi and Blanche had been involved in the incident for more than an hour, and now they hurried toward the Palacio. They had newspaper articles to work on, photos to gather—if not the mystery of the mummy and the missing artifacts to uncover.

  “Wow. Angels. And mummies. It doesn’t stop,” said Blanche.

  “Well, I wish it would,” Haasi retorted.

  Blanche was practically running, and Haasi tugged at her. “Slow down, B. Too hot to hurry. Let’s take it easy, though it probably won’t be with this mummy business.”

  “That detective seemed determined, Haas. He’ll be back. With more questions.” Her eyebrows scrunched; eyes blazed.

  Haasi sighed. “How about a nice cool drink first?”

  “I could use a beer.”

  “It’s not even noon.”

  “So? We be on vacay.”

  “Some vacay,” Haasi mumbled. She pulled Blanche over to the open window of a ti
ny juice bar. Agua fresca (sweetened water), horchata (milky rice-based drink), licuados (fruit shakes and smoothies). Pineapple, papaya, mango, watermelon, strawberries. Fruit she’d never heard of: Cherimoya? Soursop? A lot of it was cut and piled on the counter, the scent of ripe fruit mingling with street fumes.

  “Wow. A Coke seems so boring,” said Haasi. She squinted at the list of drinks.

  “The drinks capital of the world. I’m in heaven.”

  They ordered strawberry-papaya smoothies and water. The cold, slushy drink revived them in the dusty heat.

  “Here’s to Pillow Man,” said Blanche. “Gracias a Dios, he’s all right.”

  Haasi nodded. “Yeah.”

  They headed toward the Palacio at a more relaxed pace and soon ambled into the lobby. “Shall we?” Haasi murmured, looking toward a thin crowd in the mummy chamber.

  Blanche opened her notebook, a pen stuck out of her topknot. She flipped the book closed. “I guess. We can start there. But I’d like to check out this whole place. All of it.”

  “Oh, B.” Haasi sighed.

  “Think I’ll head to the restroom first. Meet you in a few minutes.” She took off without a look back.

  The corridor was empty of visitors and dim as she made her way toward the restroom. She heard a low rumbling. Voices rising and falling. She stopped to listen, ducking into an alcove with a drinking fountain and a dusty plant. She tried not to sneeze, pressing her finger under her nose. Holding still. Then nothing. Quiet as a tomb around here…

  By the time she came out of the restroom, the voices were back, and louder than before. She crept along in the hallway to the source of the noise. Male. Angry. “It’s not real,” the one shouted. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Don’t worry ’bout it. We’ll have it all worked out before anything happens. Say it came from the Convento, on loan. Not our doing. It’s a temporary fix.”

  Some mumbling. “Fix? You call this a fix? Those women saw something. They created an uproar. The devil is mixed up in this, for sure.”

  “Don’t talk like that, and don’t mention anything to anyone, especially the boss. I’m not gonna say it again …” More mumbling. “…exhibit …” Then a series of drawers slamming and chairs scraping. A rustling toward the door.

  Blanche made a beeline back to Haasi and the mummies.

  Haasi was alone except for a couple visitors and those resting in peace in the floor. She stood over the glass case, twisting her long braid. The exhibit of the dusty and drily departed was down by one dead person.

  She turned to Blanche. “That’s funny. She just up and went? The one with the hair clip?”

  “Not so funny. And listen to this. I overheard some men arguing …” Blanche and Haasi huddled over the macabre figures. The mummy of the pink plastic hair clip was gone, the arrangement of leftover bodies oddly spread out with a few more rocks and dirt filled in. Blanche was about to relate what she’d heard in the hallway, but the black-clad man bustled toward them. He was a fussy sort with his prancy walk and arms flinging about.

  “¡Señoritas, buenas!”

  Haasi and Blanche flinched.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure?” It was Señor López rubbing his hands in a frenzy.

  Blanche took a deep breath. “Muy buenas,” she said. “I see Our Lady of the Pink Plastic Hair Clip has got up and gone.”

  “We have removed her. For now.” He chuckled, still wringing his hands. Blanche glanced at his long white fingers. Like snakes.

  A tall man with blond hair, the top of his head carefully coifed into an Elvis quiff, appeared behind López. His fat, florid cheeks had an orange tinge. He was portly in a cheap blue suit and red tie that hung below his belt. “Ah, the señoritas, Blanche and Haasi. Once again,” he said, extending a small, square hand. “Please, allow me. Sarloff Blussberg, arts and exhibits director at the Palacio Nacional.” His inflection was not Spanish, nor, by any stretch, Mexican. German? Austrian?

  Blanche shook his hand. A squishy kind of shake, like wet Play-Doh.

  “How do you do?” Blanche was surprised at his effusive welcome. Their voices were familiar—so angry moments before and now seemingly all cheery and hospitable. “And how do you know us?”

  “Word travels fast, as you Americans like to say.”

  “Seems to be some changes here,” Haasi said.

  “We’re sorry to disappoint you, but the exhibit has temporarily been … altered. What I mean is, it’s been reconfigured, but not really. This exhibit is huge and there’s a lot to see here and perhaps you would like to proceed into the main room ...” He pointed the way, blathering on. His flat tiny hands opened and closed, back and forth. It was distracting.

  Blanche cut in. “Where is she? Did you call the authorities?” She ignored the warning that went off in her head.

  Blussberg looked innocuous enough, like someone’s fat uncle, but he had shifty eyes. He tilted his blond head and pursed his small mouth. “Why would we do that?”

  “Because you should. There was something funny about that body in the floor. I don’t think it was a mummy.”

  He laughed. “Well, I don’t know what else you would call it, er, her,” Blussberg said.

  Blanche was incredulous at his deflection; she checked Haasi, whose expression was flat and cold.

  “More visitors will be in here for this exhibit. Many, many come here. We can’t stop them. They love it. It’s tremendous! I don’t know what questions you have, or concerns, but we are happy to have you visit.” With that, he carefully attempted to steer Blanche toward the door. “Now, shall we? Unless you’d like to stroll through this excellent selection of some five hundred artifacts. … Not much time, you see, we’re closing early today.” Blanche had doorstops on her heels. She didn’t budge from her spot next to the glass case even as Blussberg signaled the exit.

  Why do I keep getting shuffled out of here?

  Haasi poked her in the ribs, hard.

  Blanche gave a little start. Haasi had that all-business look about her. They were a team; no “I” there. Blanche gave in with a sigh. She looked up at Blussberg. “Señor? Thank you for your time. We will visit. Later.”

  Blanche, walking away, fast, tried to shelve the unpleasant confrontation for now. She filled Haasi in on the details of her snooping in the corridor as they took off around the Zocalo.

  Haasi was listening, but for answer she waved a list of cultural attractions at Blanche as distraction. “Haas, what do you think?”

  “Now, Bang, we’ll just have to see, won’t we? They’ve taken the mummy out of there, and Cardenal’s on it. … Maybe we should have lunch.”

  “Don’t have much of an appetite after all that.”

  “Feed the fear and doubt with tacos. Good for the soul.”

  Chapter Eight

  WORK IT

  Blanche and Haasi waited on word from Detective Cardenal. None came. When he did call, Blanche wanted to share the conversation she’d overheard. It pointed to more trouble.

  “He’ll come through,” said Haasi. “In the meantime, we have work to do.” And so, they worked the rest of the day, tearing into the restaurant scene and wearing out sandal leather all over the neighborhoods of Polanco and Zona Rosa.

  The next day, after a tour of the warren of streets around the Zocalo, they landed at the sophisticated Bajo del Cielo for dinner, and despite the austere steel and glass décor, the clientele was young and casual, and they seemed to be having a good time. Blanche and Haasi had dressed up in simple stretchy sheaths, Haasi’s blue, Blanche in red. Blanche had the feeling the restaurant could be plopped down in Paris or New York and would fit perfectly. Lots of fancy black outfits, long shining hair on the women, and a sharp edge to the men.

  Blanche studied the exotic list of selections on the menu. “Who says Mexican food is only beans and tacos? Look at this. They even have moles.”

  Haasi laughed. “Blanche, that’s not mole, as in the little pest that digs holes in your yard.
It’s pronounced mo-lay! A complex sauce of chiles and chocolate—actually invented by nuns.”

  “Oh, yeah. But what a weird name for something so delicious. Sounds like ‘juice of gopher.’ Says here they put mango mole on Cornish hen.”

  “Or you could have it on armadillo.”

  Blanche flapped the menu down on the table. She took a large satisfying swig of the cold San Miguel, and sighed. “I don’t know. It’s all so confusing.”

  “My stomach is delighted,” said Haasi as she bent over the menu. “One thing I’ll skip are the escamoles de hormiga. For sure.”

  “What’s that?”

  Haasi looked up. “The ‘caviar of Mexico.’ Says it’s red-ant roe.”

  In touch with their island culture, they settled on fish: salmon in maize crust for Haasi and whitefish with pomegranate seeds and bitter orange for Blanche. Their choices were a hit. Five stars all the way.

  It was a long walk “home” down the Paseo de la Reforma, but they started out, stuffed and happy. The dead body, the police, and shady characters forgotten. At least for now.

  u

  It was Day Four, and Blanche and Haasi had put a dent in their travel assignment. They’d visited the city museum with its impressionist paintings, art studios, and antique maps; the fabulous Casa de los Azulejos, of Baroque architecture, Orozco’s mural, and a courtyard where they drank café de olla, a cinnamon-and-brown-sugar-flavored coffee. They finished off the day of sightseeing at the immense Baroque cathedral on the Zocalo that was only recently saved from sinking into the city’s ancient lakebed.

  At every turn, there was more to see, and more to eat. They’d sampled Mexican fare in the fondas and in the market and on the street—Blanche had never tasted tacos with pineapple.

  They decided to take a break from local cuisine. There was so much to choose from: Japanese, French, Spanish, American, German, International. They chose Italian.