Her cigarette was almost finished when a loud splash made her jump.
“What was that?” her companion asked.
“I don’t know, but it sounded heavy,” Marlene replied.
Like a body being thrown overboard.
She rushed back to the Icelandic Bar and looked for Sarita, but the girl was nowhere to be found. Marlene went down to the casino and ran to the roulette table. Carloalberto had vanished, too. She remembered the WhatsApp messages.
Did u do it? R u done?
What if the girl’s friends had wanted something more than pictures? Something that had put Sarita’s safety at risk?
10: A Day in Costa Maya
The next morning, the passengers who had signed up for the “swimming with dolphins” trip gathered on land to wait for their guide. Helen was ready, sporting a big Panama hat, but Carloalberto hadn’t joined them yet.
Sarita was crestfallen. Marlene had read her the riot act the previous night. It had taken her forty-five minutes to find the girl on deck fifteen, hanging out near the pools. Sarita claimed she had gone there with her “new besties” because they’d gotten bored at the party, but Marlene detected alcohol on her niece’s breath. No doubt the girls had found someone unscrupulous enough to buy drinks for a bunch of teenage girls.
“You pull that on me again, we’re leaving this cruise immediately. And your parents will definitely hear all about it,” Marlene had threatened.
Now, head low, Sarita didn’t even dare to look at her.
At eight-thirty, Adriana, a young and energetic Mexican guide, arrived and greeted the group.
“Welcome to Mahahual!” she said. “Our dolphin’s name is Plato. He’s very sweet and loves to meet new people. And he’s bilingual, too! Let’s go see him.”
“Could we wait a minute?” Helen asked. “We’re still missing someone.”
“Sorry, señora,” Adriana answered. “We have a specific time slot reserved in the pool. If we’re late, we’ll lose it.”
“But my friend was so looking forward to this! And it’s already paid for.”
The people around them started to complain.
“You friend could still be sleeping, for all we know,” another passenger said to Helen. “Why don’t you just call him?”
“I lost my phone!”
“He can meet us at the pool later,” Adriana said. “It’s not far from here. Now, adelante!”
The group followed. As Marlene happily talked to Adriana in Spanish, she managed to keep an eye on Sarita, who was striking up a conversation with Helen.
“We could have waited a couple minutes,” said Sarita. “These people are so selfish!”
“I understand, though,” Helen replied. “It’s their vacation. Not a big deal, anyway. He’ll find us.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you—my friends and I follow the show, and we’re very sorry you guys were voted out,” Sarita said, blushing. “Your team was the best.”
Helen smiled sadly. “That’s nice of you, honey. I’m sorry it’s over, too.”
“Have you known Carloalberto for a long time?”
“Ah—only a few months. We only started working together on the show in January.”
“Isn’t he the most handsome guy in the world? A real king, isn’t he?”
It was Helen’s turn to blush.
“Oh, he—” she stuttered. “I suppose he isn’t hard on the eyes.”
Enough of this nonsense. Marlene took Sarita by the arm and steered her away from the screenwriter. “Sara Martínez!” she hissed.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. You told me not to talk to Carloalberto, but you never said anything about Helen.”
“All right, then. You stay away from all these people! They’re trouble.”
They walked to Mahahual, a small, tidy Costa Maya village with gift shops, bars, restaurants and an aviary. The pool was small but crystal clear. Everybody had a chance to greet Plato, a two-year-old dolphin with a wide smile that jumped through a hoop and “kissed” people. A resort photographer captured all their interactions—to later sell the pictures back to the guests. The whole thing lasted fifty minutes, and Carloalberto didn’t end up making it.
After leaving the pool, Marlene and Sarita watched a sideshow of Mayan dancers spinning from tall poles. They visited the Fish Spa, where hungry goldfish nibbled at their toes. It tickled, but they left giggling and with smoother feet. Finally, they swung by a restaurant and grabbed some lobster tacos in jalapeño sauce. The waiter tried to get Marlene to order a Negra Modelo, but she refused. Taking care of Sarita made her feel like she was on duty, and she never drank on the job.
It wasn’t noon yet, and Marlene had no desire to go back to the ship. She knew Sarita would start looking for Helen and Carloalberto the moment they were on board. There was an amusement park nearby, The Lost Mayan Kingdom, and she convinced her niece to explore it with her. After three hours on the water slides and splashing in the pools, Sarita seemed to have forgotten her crush and was her usual bubbly self.
When they returned to the North Star, tanned and tired, a documentary about aliens and the Chichen Itza pyramids was playing on the cabin TV. Sarita kicked off her shoes and plopped down on the sofa bed to watch.
“You think beings from another galaxy helped build the place we’re going to see tomorrow?” she asked, wiggling her goldfish-nibbled toes.
“Sure, why not,” Marlene said, relieved that Sarita had forgotten Carloalberto.
But two hours later, the name Carlos Alberto Casanova blared over the boat’s loudspeakers. He was being called urgently to the Guest Services area. Sarita sat up.
“Did you hear that, Tía?”
“I did.”
It was five twenty-five. The ship should have left for Cozumel at five, but they were still at the Costa Maya dock.
Another announcement came on after ten minutes, asking passengers to proceed immediately to their muster stations—the place where they had been instructed to meet in case of emergencies. Marlene and Sarita’s muster station, where they’d stood around at the beginning of the trip during a mandatory drill, was outside the Forest Café.
The cabin attendant knocked on the door and they hurried outside.
“Is this another drill?” Marlene asked.
“No, ma’am, it’s the real thing,” the young man answered.
11: Two Women and Two Stories
When the boat finally departed for Cozumel around seven o’clock that night, there was palpable tension. Though it hadn’t been announced publicly, most passengers already knew, or at least suspected, that Carloalberto was missing.
Rumors ran wild after they were dismissed from their muster stations. Some people said the guy had just forgotten the time and kept drinking in one of the many Mahahual bars. Others believed he could’ve been assaulted, even kidnapped. Did those so-called “express kidnappings” still happen in the area? Those who knew about The Terrific Two suggested it was a publicity stunt.
“It would make sense,” Sarita asserted. “Hollywood stars do that all the time. They come up with crazy ideas to get free press.”
“But this wouldn’t make him look very good,” Marlene replied.
“So what? At least people would be talking about him. They already are, that’s the point. In the meantime, he’s having fun with the dolphins, off in a Mexican casino or drinking Negra Modelos and laughing it off. But he’ll be back soon.”
Sarita refused to believe that anything bad could’ve happened to her superstar. Marlene thought it was strange that the girl wasn’t more concerned. Then she remembered that nobody, except for herself and the other woman who was out on the deck the night before, had heard the splash of something—someone?—into the water. She replayed the sound over and over in her head as hours passed.
Benito invited her to mojito
s at The Ambassador bar during his only free time that day—thirty minutes before he reported for dinner duty at eight. He didn’t seem worried either.
“This happens all the time, and the missing passengers always show up,” he said. “They get sober and take a taxi to the next stop. Lucky for this pendejo, it’s only a two-hour drive from Costa Maya to Cozumel.”
Marlene didn’t mention the splash. If Carloalberto was in fact off drunk or gambling somewhere, it would make her look paranoid—the cliché ex-cop. Besides, she and Benito had more interesting things to talk about. He had already complimented her several times on her outfit, though he was never overtly flirtatious.
Later that evening, the captain released an official statement on video, acknowledging a passenger’s “unexpected absence” and explaining that naval protocol had been followed. Mexican authorities had been notified, and the local police were looking for Carloalberto. A thorough search of the boat had been done, and he wasn’t on board, but tips as to his whereabouts were welcome. Headshots of Carloalberto appeared on the ship’s internal TV channel, followed by scenes from his Terrific Two reel and the telenovelas. Marlene didn’t find him too convincing in any of his roles.
Without much else to do, those who were unfamiliar with the contest began Googling it with the slow and expensive onboard Internet connection. Helen and Emma were soon swamped by passengers wanting to help, chat or snoop.
Helen was willing to offer details. She had seen Carloalberto for the last time when he was gambling at the casino on the night of the dance.
“He was pretty upset after we were voted off the show,” she said. “He pretended to be fine, but I didn’t believe it for a second. We worked so hard!”
Emma refused to answer any questions. She asked to be left alone, which just fueled people’s curiosity.
If this was, in fact, a publicity stunt, it had worked out quite well, Marlene conceded.
Helen also volunteered that Carloalberto had been suffering from depression, Sarita informed her aunt. The girl became increasingly agitated as the hours passed.
“Helen told me he was crushed when they lost,” she said sadly. “But still, I don’t think anything bad has happened, right, Tía?”
“Of course not.”
“She’s planning to give interviews to the Miami media once we reach Cozumel and have phone service. I can’t wait to find out—”
Marlene didn’t like that Sarita was talking to the screenwriter. But she couldn’t very well forbid her niece from approaching Helen when so many other passengers were doing so. Unlike Emma, Helen didn’t mind the attention. She even seemed to welcome it.
“You know what?” Sarita added. “Someone just found Carloalberto’s phone in the casino. Now, that’s scary. People don’t just leave their phones when they get off a boat in a different country.”
Despite Benito’s reassurances, Marlene was nervous, too. That splash rang again in her ears, along with the shamana’s prophecy. A blood trail.
“But this one dissolves into the waves,” she repeated.
If only to appease her conscience before bed, she requested a meeting with the staff captain, an affable-looking Dutch man she had seen mingling with the guests in the restaurants. When she told him about the noise, he didn’t dismiss it, as she had feared he would. In fact, he admitted that three more passengers had reported hearing the splash.
“We’re investigating it,” he said in his slightly accented English. “We take our passengers’ safety seriously here.”
They arrived in Cozumel the following morning.
When passengers started getting off the boat at 8 a.m., a reporter from a Miami TV station was waiting outside. He shoved a microphone at Emma and asked where she thought her husband was.
“I have no idea,” the model replied curtly.
“Did he sleep in your cabin the night before his disappearance?”
Emma looked like she wanted to slap the interviewer, but she composed herself and said, “No. But it isn’t uncommon for him to nap during the day and stay up all night. After all, we’ve been on vacation.”
“Do you think he’s still in Mahahual?”
“Most likely.”
“Was he depressed after he and Ms. Hall were knocked out of the TV competition?”
“Not in the least. Carloalberto has been offered a role in a new movie and is looking forward to a new chapter in his career,” she offered the camera with a courteous, professional smile. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere. This is a minor incident that has been blown far out of proportion.”
Upon hearing that, Sarita turned to her aunt and whispered, “Either she or Helen is lying.”
Marlene nodded. Perhaps even both.
12: The Mayan Ball Game
Marlene had booked herself and Sarita for an excursion called “Chichen Itza by Plane,” which began with a fifty-minute flight from Cozumel to the ruins in an old Cessna Caravan. Only eight North Star passengers made the trip, which was pricey in itself—almost a thousand dollars per person. But Marlene had wanted to visit the area ever since she’d read José Martí’s “The Indian Ruins” in The Golden Age.
“When that reporter left, Helen tried to talk to Emma, but Emma totally ignored her,” Sarita told her as they flew over the Yucatán Peninsula. “So rude. She thinks she’s better than everybody else just because she’s been in Vogue. Actually, I’m not sure if it was Vogue or—”
“I wish you would stop involving yourself in these people’s business,” Marlene said. “You know what curiosity did to the cat.”
Their tour guide, a fifty-something Mayan archeologist with the nickname Turtle, was waiting for them at the entrance of the ruins. The place was already packed with tourists, so he led them briskly through the crowd.
“We need to make the most of these two hours,” he said. “It’s a pity that all of you aren’t staying longer. We have some incredible light and sound shows at the pyramids at dusk.”
Only two hours! Marlene hadn’t realized that when she’d agreed to fork over handfuls of money. Chichen Itza, she thought, deserved more time.
Turtle took them first to the Great Ball Court, where the Mayans used to hold a ceremonial ball game called Pok-a-Tok. The field was rectangular, around five hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide. He showed them the sculpted panels at the base of the outer walls, which depicted two teams of players.
“Their goal was to toss the ball through a loop,” he said, gesturing toward a stone hoop more than twenty feet off the ground on one side of the wall. “It was a solid rubber ball that weighed a good ten pounds. Players would hit it with their head, shoulders, hips or elbows, but they weren’t allowed to use their hands or feet. Many were severely injured and even died after hitting the ball too hard with their head.”
“I guess they didn’t wear helmets back then,” someone said.
“Actually, they did,” Turtle said, pointing to a player on the wall panel with an elaborate headdress. “But we don’t know how effective they were.”
The games, Turtle went on as they walked around the grassy field, weren’t for entertainment, but were considered religious events.
“Like football in Texas?” another tourist quipped.
“Sort of,” Turtle answered. “But the outcome was quite different. Instead of being paid in shiny gold coins, players got a different kind of reward. The game was an offering to their gods, and when it was over, an entire team was offered to them as a sacrifice. And which one do you think they chose?”
“Obviously the losing team,” Sarita said.
“No, Miss, they chose the winners,” Turtle replied. “The Mayans believed in giving their gods only their best, most perfect offerings. Losers didn’t qualify.”
“Then I imagine both teams would try not to win,” the girl replied.
“They fought with all they could
to win,” Turtle said. “For the Mayans, being sacrificed was the greatest honor a human could achieve. They believed that if they were offered up to the gods, they would live forever, and their names would be remembered for centuries.”
They walked to El Caracol, a building that Turtle explained was known as “the observatory.”
“The Mayans used to watch the sky from the top of the tower, without any trees or human structures obstructing the view.”
The guide was still talking when Sarita cut him off, “Excuse me, Señor, but is it true that Chichen Itza was built with extraterrestrial help?”
“Some people say that,” Turtle answered with a sly smile. “Skeletons with elongated skulls that don’t look totally human have been found in this area.” He produced the picture of a cone-headed skull and showed it to the group. “There is a theory that Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god, was an alien that taught the Mayans astronomy and mathematics. After all, he’s usually portrayed descending from the skies in a cloud of fire that could be a rocket.”
“Oh, wow.”
Afterward, they visited the Kukulkan pyramid—also known as El Castillo—where people posed for the obligatory picture.
“During the spring and autumn equinox, the sun casts a shadow across the north face that looks like a serpent slithering down,” Turtle said. “But there’s more to it. Listen!”
He stood near the base of the pyramid and clapped his hands. The echo was an eerie chirping sound that took everybody by surprise.
“It’s identical to the cry of the quetzal,” he explained. “The Mayans considered these birds messengers of the gods.”
At that moment, Sarita, who was looking at her phone, let out a loud shrill cry.
“What it is, mija?” Marlene asked.
“Carlo—Carloalberto,” the girl said. “He’s . . . dead.”
Lips trembling, Sarita read a tweet from Univision News: “Body of missing North Star passenger recovered from the ocean off the Costa Maya waters this morning.”
Death of a Telenovela Star (A Novella) Page 5