Trouble Down Mexico Way

by Nancy Nau Sullivan

  “No angel. I’m Blanche Murninghan,” she said. “And this is Haasi …” But Haasi was already busy at a long counter, a molcajete in one hand and an avocado in the other. Laughing with the girls in long skirts who twirled into the room as they set bowls on the table.

  Blanche didn’t move. She stared back at Emilio. “You speak English well.” She blurted, without thinking.

  “Sometimes. For example, like now.” He was still smiling, a crease around the eyes that added years.

  She felt the blush move along her neck. She was glad the room was dim and cool. She hoped he couldn’t see the pink in her cheeks.

  But she wanted to hear him speak again. The sound of his voice was deep and smooth. He didn’t seem to be in any rush. She finally asked, “Do you live here?” They were in the middle of nowhere. Does he feel like that? She couldn’t tell anything about the way he felt, but they were tied together in some odd way.

  He said, “I am not always here.”

  Then where? She didn’t have time to ask him. Carmen clapped her hands. “¡A la mesa!” Everyone gathered at the table, but Blanche’s eyes followed Emilio as he set his guitar against the wall.

  Chapter Ten

  FIESTA

  The party reeled, round and round in a circle of color and music, flags and flowers. Carmen guided Blanche and Haasi to yellow chairs, the backs painted with blue flowers. Carmen set food on a table covered in a well-worn orange-and-turquoise-checkered cloth: bowls of red and green salsas, chopped onions, cut limes, roasted-salted serranos, and jalapeños, and stacks of warm tortillas in small round baskets. They all sat, except for the boys who gathered on stools along the wall, guitars at rest, and waited their turn.

  Carmen began passing bowls. Eddie piled the meat and strips of white pigskin into tortillas. The young men helped themselves to the vat on the stove. Blanche stole a look at Emilio, a head taller in the middle of the bunch. He reached for limes and chiles over Carmen’s shoulder, and she swatted him with a quick hand. “To the kitchen!” she laughed.

  Blanche watched Eddie and added the shiny white strips of pigskin to her taco. The juice ran down her arm. She mopped it up quickly. “Ah, a good sign,” Eddie said. “¿Le gusta?”

  “I love it,” said Blanche. She’d never tasted anything so good.

  She should try everything, except, perhaps, for the chapulines, the Oaxacan grasshoppers. Eddie enticed her with a plateful of the deep-fried insects, all legs and shriveled bodies. Blanche shook her head. He popped one in his mouth and it crackled in his teeth.

  “Qué cosa, Eddie,” Blanche sat back in the chair. “You’ll be up jumping around.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “No. No jumping!”

  They ate the tortillas and juicy, salty meat and the roasted serrano peppers, hot and biting. Nopal, roasted corn, a variety of chiles—familiar ingredients that never seemed boring. It was virtually the same diet as what the Aztecs ate.

  Eddie nodded approval. “More for Las Angelitas.”

  “Está bien.” Blanche didn’t want to trouble the girls, but this detail of hospitality—the warm tortillas—seemed important. “Muchas gracias,” she murmured.

  “Me alegro,” he said. “I am very happy.”

  Emilio pulled up a chair next to Blanche. “They don’t eat chamorro often. Or grasshoppers.” He spoke softly. “But today they are celebrating, and Mexicans do not need much of an excuse. They are thankful you are here, and very thankful for what you and Haasi did for Eddie.” He wrapped a tortilla into a cylinder with one hand and ate it in two bites. He had been hanging back with the boys, but she had seen him watching her.

  “They? Isn’t this your home?”

  “No, I’m visiting in Tepequito. I do part of my medical training in the country. We must all do service to complete the study.”

  “You’re a doctor?” She sounded incredulous. Required training? It made perfect sense, but she’d never heard of it.

  “Not yet. One day, I hope.”

  One of the girls held out the bowl of chamorro to Blanche. She couldn’t resist. She took a small portion with serranos, the green skins blistered black.

  Emilio’s eyebrow shot up. “A true mejicana.”

  She smiled. “Not really. But I like the hot stuff.”

  He laughed. “You like it here?”

  “Very much.”

  His eyes squinted in a smile. He had the whitest teeth and darkest eyes she’d ever seen.

  “Permiso,” he said. “Excuse me.” His hand rested briefly on her arm, and then he strolled back toward the corner. He clasped hands with one of the young men and picked up the guitar. They began to play, and the chords and notes filled the room where fifteen people fit nicely. They settled in groups of two or three at the long dining table and at a spare conversational arrangement of carved pine sofa and chairs with red cushions. Sunflowers drooped out of a vase on a small end table in front of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

  Blanche had been sitting too long, enjoying herself too much. She stood up to help. Haasi was way ahead of her, piling dishes and jabbering away in Spanish with the girls. Blanche lifted two bowls off the table, but Carmen shook her head and motioned to Haasi. “Sit.” A Tres Leches cake, soaked in three kinds of sweet milk with peaches, appeared. Carmen put forks and plates on the table and cut the cake.

  “Toma,” Carmen said, handing out the plates. “Enjoy!”

  The cake was light and sweet. “They have a way with sugar!” Blanche nudged Haasi whose expression was blissful. She eyed the second piece Carmen put on her plate. “Who’da thought? Cake soaked in milk? Heaven!”

  Eddie nibbled at the cake, clearly delighted. Carmen clapped and moved her feet, humming to the music. She’d changed to a red shawl over a white muslin top embroidered with roses, and her long white hair fell in waves about her shoulders. The young men tuned their guitars for the next song, their fingers picking out the chords.

  Emilio’s gaze found Blanche as he sang: “Mujeres Divinas.” Blanche’s Spanish couldn’t quite keep up, but she understood something about dying in the cantina and always adoring that divine woman.

  Divina mujer. No one had ever called her a “divine woman.”

  “First you’re an angel, and now divine.” Haasi laughed.

  “I know. And I haven’t even died yet.”

  “Don’t say that!” Haasi did not hide her superstition.

  “Sorry.”

  Haasi sighed. She squeezed Blanche’s hand.

  They sat close together, scooting their chairs nearer to the guitars. Carmen brought out a bottle of mezcal. Why not? Haasi and Blanche each tossed back a shot. A sandal tapped the concrete floor, and Blanche reached for more.

  The night was magical—and miles and centuries away from her neat cabin on Santa Maria Island. She might as well have landed on the moon. She looked at Eddie, curled up, a shawl over his shoulders, and as snug as a cat, warming to the music. His head was moving, his fingers tapped the arm of the chair. Oh, Eddie. He looked up at her and motioned to the mezcal, rocking his thumb. He pointed at the bottle. “Toma. Drink. Celebrate.”

  Blanche tossed back a shot and warmth flooded to her fingertips. Above her, the pink and red flags waved in the breeze.

  Eddie raised the glass in a toast. “¡Salud, pesos, amor, y el tiempo para gastarlos!” Health, money, love, and the time to enjoy them.

  The door of the cottage stood open to the evening. Dozens of candles burned down, the edges of the room glowed, and their voices blended into one song. Blanche wanted to stop time right there, to enjoy the moment, and stop chasing the nightmares of the city. It was a welcome respite.

  It’s crazy being here.

  Crazy is good.

  It was a happy accident that brought her and Haasi here, that the pillows had cushioned the blow, that Eddie seemed to have recovered so well. She eyed Emilio strumming away. She grabbed the bottle and poured two shots, one for Eddie and one for her.

  They sang about dead lovers, lo
st children, cactus, springtime and beer, and the time flowed out around them. They sang about the man whose brother died in Guadalajara, and the dear mother who died in Acapulco. They turned to songs of whales and owls, horses and birds, and laughed until they almost fell down. Eddie leapt up, danced in a circle and sat down again, his hand cupping one knee, the feet keeping time with the music.

  The moon threw raggedy silver patches onto the floor; the candles burned away the hours. Blanche requested Cielito Lindo. They groaned but sang it anyway.

  Emilio was at her side, and she felt the room spin. It might have been the drinks, or not. Carmen said, one, maybe two, with an admonishing glance at Eddie. Blanche had had three, maybe four. She was losing count of everything.

  u

  It was now past three in the morning.

  Haasi was chatting with two guitar players. Blanche looked around: How the hell are we going to get home? Cardenal knows we’re here …

  As if Carmen heard her thoughts, she appeared from the back of the cottage. She still wore her loose-fitting muslin and red shawl. She took Blanche’s hand and patted it lightly. “Emilio will take you home,” she said.

  “Emilio?” Blanche was hesitant.

  Emilio rested one arm over the top of the guitar, his legs angled on the stool. He was watching Blanche.

  “OK,” she said. Blanche wanted to stay. She wanted the night to go on and on. She wanted to know more about him and Mexico. “Sure, we’ll go with Emilio.”

  Haasi broke away and whispered. “It’s all set?”

  “I think it’s quite all right,” Blanche said, smiling at Emilio.

  The fiesta did not end when they started for the door. The guests, and their hosts, were still twirling and tapping and playing guitars. Blanche hated to miss it, but their late ride would take them through the vast desert.

  Eddie got up slowly. His eyes glowed as he held Blanche’s fingers. “Muchas gracias. Angel.”

  “Muchas gracias, Señor Eddie. For everything. For this fiesta, for this evening.” She glanced at Emilio. It was getting so she couldn’t help herself. Then, she hugged Eddie one last time.

  u

  Emilio, Haasi, and Blanche crowded into the front seat of Carmen’s truck. The trip seemed to take seconds, their conversation and laughter circling around in the cab of that truck like it was their own private universe. They skimmed the dark desert toward the lights of Mexico City with hardly a soul on the road.

  At the hotel, Haasi whispered, “Good luck.” She ran off to their room, returning in minutes to drop off a couple of Tecates.

  Blanche laughed. “As usual, reading my mind.”

  Emilio and Blanche sat in the hotel lounge off the lobby. The tile floor the color of an old flowerpot. A poster of Diego Rivera’s Niños Pidiendo Posada hung over the small sofa. A couple of lamps gave off low light, and the windows were crammed with vines and geraniums.

  They talked, their heads together, their legs curled under them on the sofa. They were both only children who never knew their fathers. That was where the similarity ended. Emilio was a child of the desert and horses, a hard life of farming surrounded by dogs and chickens and goats. He’d always wanted to be a doctor, since first seeing his grandmother deliver a baby. Blanche had grown up wild on the beach, with her cousin Jack, climbing palm trees and fishing for pompano and snapper. She’d gone to college, majored in journalism, and led an idyllic life under the eye of her doting grandmother, Maeve Murninghan, and her beloved friend Donald Nicholas “Cap” Reid. Her grandmother was gone, but Cap still kept an eye on her.

  They were so different, yet Blanche was drawn to him. He was an open door, and here she was, walking through it. They sipped beer, their eyes locked on each other, and in the hush between stories, she opened the window and let in the early morning breeze and the scent of fresh rain.

  “We are bad,” she said, raising her beer.

  He laughed. “Bad is good.”

  “I feel like I’ve known you for years,” she said.

  “Who can tell about time? No edges to it …” He took the bottle out of her hand and laced his fingers in hers. Then he frowned. “Why did you have to bring up time, Señorita Blanche? I’ve got clinic in two hours.” He looked at his watch. “Wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “Something I need to ask you. Before you go. You’re a doctor …”

  He straightened up, a look of concern. “You all right?”

  The whole strange discovery at the mummy exhibit at the Palacio tumbled out, along with her suspicions. The detective and the thievery of artifacts. He studied her his mouth set in a tight line.

  “I’ve heard rumors, believe it or not, of this strange business with the ‘mummy.’”

  “You know about the body, and, maybe, how it’s possible to make a mummy?”

  He laughed then. “There are good ways to make a ‘mummy.’ And the bad way.”

  “Very funny,” she said. “We’re talkin’ the bad way here. Very bad.”

  He was smiling but guarded. “The rumors … That’s all it’s been. Gruesome rumors.” He was quiet for almost a minute. “Blanche, I’d stay far away from this. It is dangerous. Sinister.”

  “But did you ever hear of such a thing?”

  “What? Making mummies?” He seemed to choose his words carefully. “At the medical school, there’s talk of La Capa Plata, a rough bunch of gangsters. And a woman, a doctor. La Escandolera.”

  “You think she did this?”

  “I have no idea. It’s just some underground talk about the weird business she does for the mob.” He took her hand. “How’d you ever get mixed up in it?”

  “I’m not really in it. I just happened to be there, at the Palacio, staring at this body in the exhibit that I knew was not ancient.”

  “Ask the detective to follow up on a woman doctor who has questionable connections with the medical school. I think she has other business for cover, but I’m not sure what it is. She was once associated with some of the classes, and that’s where I heard about her. Maybe I can find out something, but for now, Blanche, stay away from those people. Sounds like a mess.”

  He reached for a pillow and put it under Blanche’s elbow. She brushed his arm, smooth and warm, and snuggled next to him. He closed his eyes for a second. They sprung open: “Pillows.” He laughed. “If it weren’t for Eddie and his mountain of pillows …”

  Chapter Eleven

  THE UNREAL

  Emilio and Blanche sat, holding hands, and then he kissed her and slipped away. It was dawn. She left the window open, the rain dripped off the leaves of the cherimoya tree onto the patio. She thought of the weight of sound, the light and the dark. She loved the rhythmic sound of water, she loved the sound of his voice, talking or singing. The cool morning wafted into the hotel lounge. She wished the night had lasted longer, that the party didn’t have to end. That he was still here.

  She was suddenly deflated, a party letdown after the fiesta and music. She was glad Carmen had come to pick them up, and that they had gone off with her. She’d visited the real Mexico, and she wouldn’t forget. She sure wouldn’t forget Emilio. She hoped she would see him again.

  Intriguing. Everything about him, and then this last reveal about La Escandolera …

  She climbed the narrow stairs to the room she shared with Haasi, who was curled into a ball under a white cotton blanket. Blanche was careful not to wake her, and soon she too fell into a deep sleep. Her last thought was of Emilio’s dark eyes, falling into them.

  u

  “Blanche! It’s almost noon.” Haasi shook her gently. “Shake off that coma. What the heck did he do to you?”

  Blanche sat up, her hair a fright of curls and the dream fading. The daylight blasted her in the face. “Whaaaat?”

  “Hope he’s not operating today.” Haasi laughed. She scooched Blanche’s legs over and sat on the bed.

  “I hope not, too. He was here ’til after five!” Blanche put her hands on her head and fell back on the pil
low. “OMG. I feel drunk. With love.”

  “Well, can you pull yourself together? For just a bit? Earth calling Divine Angel.” Haasi gave Blanche a friendly shove and grabbed her toe. “Detective Cardenal’s downstairs on the patio.”

  “Ooooooo. Great.”

  “He wants to talk to us again.”

  “Well, good. I want to talk to him, too. See what he knows about La Escandolera! A mysterious gang member slash lady doctor.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, wait’ll you hear.” Blanche staggered to the sink and checked herself out in the mirror. “Think I need a few more winks. No more drinks, for now. But, hey, let’s go see el detective.”

  u

  Detective Cardenal sat at a wrought iron table on the shady side of the patio under a vine of pink mandevilla. He seemed perfectly at home. Traffic blared outside the hotel, but the patio offered a cool city retreat. He was flipping through a notepad, a paper cup of coffee at the ready.

  Blanche stumbled into the sunshine. She lusted after the coffee.

  The detective rose when he saw Blanche and Haasi. “¡Buenos días, señoritas!” His brilliant smile rivaled the morning, his gleaming black hair slicked back.

  “Buenas to you, señor,” said Blanche. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” She was barely awake but rallying. Haasi was bright-eyed.

  “Señorita Haasi gave me a call. We need to talk.”

  Haasi turned to Blanche. “I rang him this morning again. He needs to know what you overheard at the Palacio. And we have other loose ends. …”

  “Let me think.” It was difficult after her night of fiesta. “They did complain about us stirring up trouble.” Everyone in the vicinity seemed aware that Blanche and Haasi had alerted the world to the fake mummy. “I heard bits and pieces, mostly. There were male voices, saying something was not ‘real’ It was a rather weird, heated conversation.”