Someone walked into the room. From a ripped hole in the blanket, Paloma saw a man’s shiny black dress shoes and black pants. A flashlight blazed across the room. Paloma and Gael huddled together. Paloma wondered if this mystery man was looking for the cuff link. Was it his? She peeked out again. Gael tapped her arm and shook his head for her to stop. She didn’t care; she had to see who it was. She wanted a glimpse of his face, but all she got was the back of a long black trench coat. The man stepped carefully across the room. Paloma noticed his limp. With every uneven step he took, Paloma’s heart pounded in her chest. Who was this guy? What was he doing there? What would he do if he found them? The man lifted the wheelbarrow across from them and dropped it back down.
Suddenly, he started speaking Spanish, as if he knew they were there. Paloma shrunk back in fear, and Gael’s eyes widened. Paloma caught a few words but not enough to understand what was happening. Gael gave her a frightened look and gestured for her to remain quiet.
Just then, something brushed against Paloma’s neck. She swiped at it, hoping it wasn’t a spider. Gael looked at her with a warning stare to stop squirming, but she couldn’t help it. The creepy crawly sensation continued. It was definitely a spider!
Paloma swiped frantically at her neck, accidently sending the spider flying toward Gael’s face. He let out a surprised yelp. There was a terrible moment of complete silence as Gael clapped a hand over his mouth. But then feet stomped toward their hiding spot—and Paloma felt the Trench Coat Man’s hands clamp down on her ankles.
Paloma screamed and squirmed as he dragged her out from under the desk. Gael kept ahold of her hands, pulling her back under the desk. Paloma felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. Suddenly, when the Trench Coat Man got a good look at Paloma, he looked confused, and his grasp on her ankles slacked. It was just enough of a pause for Paloma to smash her foot against his chin. It landed. The man fell back, losing his balance. But soon he easily recovered and grasped her ankle again.
“¿Quién—” he started to say to Paloma, when a second shadowy figure barged into the room and slammed something sturdy against the side of the Trench Coat Man’s head. He collapsed to the floor with a groan.
“¡Vámanos!” Lizzie yelled as she strapped on her trumpet case and pulled Paloma up onto her feet. Lizzie and Gael took Paloma under their arms and rushed her back through the patio and out of the museum door they had entered. “Estás bien, Paloma,” Lizzie whispered. “Breathe.”
Tears poured from Paloma’s eyes. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. Lizzie and Gael were half carrying her down Allende Street. The air around her suddenly felt thick, like she was trying to breathe through a heavy blanket. Paloma tried to stop Lizzie and Gael by putting her feet down firmly on the sidewalk, but they lifted her and kept moving.
“We have to get farther away,” Lizzie whispered. “We can’t stop yet, Paloma.”
“I need air,” she gasped. She didn’t know where they were, but Lizzie and Gael finally stopped behind some bushes. Paloma plopped down on the wet ground and tried to catch her breath. Lizzie crouched over her, rubbing Paloma’s back.
“You’re okay, Kansas,” Lizzie whispered, and flicked on her flashlight to check Paloma’s ankle for any injury. “You’re fine. Try to relax.”
After a few seconds, Paloma felt better. “I thought he was going to hurt us.” Paloma’s voice broke as she fought back the urge to cry.
Gael sunk down next to Paloma and took over rubbing Paloma’s back while Lizzie stood guard over them both.
“Lizzie hit him hard with her trumpet case,” Gael said. “Like I said, never make a mariachi mad.”
“It’s not funny, hermano,” Lizzie said.
“You’re tough, too, Paloma,” Gael said. “You fought back.”
Paloma gave him a faint smile. She didn’t feel tough. Right now, she felt exhausted and confused.
“That guy was definitely not a janitor,” Paloma said. She rubbed her ankles. Both were a bit tender, but there were no bruises. “Who was he? He spoke Spanish, but it sounded weird.”
“He spoke to you?” Lizzie asked. “What did he say?”
“He said he knew we were there,” Gael answered.
“He also said something …” Paloma said. “Something about the anillo. I know I heard that word.”
Gael started shaking his head. “He never said anillo.”
“My Spanish is bad, but I know I heard it,” Paloma said, frustrated that Gael was denying it. Of everything the man said, the one thing she caught was the Spanish word for “ring.” Did she hear him wrong?
“Doesn’t matter,” Lizzie said, and gave Gael a concerned look. “I saw him limping across the courtyard, and that’s why I whistled. He came out of nowhere, as if he’d been at the museum the whole time. He probably saw you guys in the courtyard.”
“We heard your whistle, but it was too late,” Paloma said. “We had to hide.”
“Maybe he’s the one who opened the secret room before we—” Gael started. Lizzie interrupted him with a raised finger.
“I hear something,” Lizzie whispered as she stole a look over the bushes and scanned the area. She took a few steps and hid behind a nearby tree, peering toward the museum. Gael and Paloma held their breaths. First, they heard only the bristling of the night wind, but from the wind emerged the hum of a car slowing down. Lizzie raced back behind the bushes and hunched down next to Paloma. “Stay down. A car is coming.”
After a few seconds, a black car slowly approached, and stopped in the middle of the street. The click of the car door opening sent a chill straight up Paloma’s spine. She wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Gael, again sensing her anxiety, held her hand. Paloma peeked through the shrubs and saw the man in the black trench coat get out of the car and walk out of sight. Soon the only sound in the night was the steady step, drag, step of his unbalanced footsteps against the sidewalk. Step. Drag. Step. Step. Drag. Step. Paloma’s ankle suddenly throbbed in pain again.
The driver remained in the car. Paloma strained to see who it was, but all she could see was a dark shadow. The Trench Coat Man returned to the car, and as he got in, he massaged the side of his head that Lizzie slammed with her trumpet case and spouted an angry jumble of hissing words that sounded like “shoe,” “mushroom,” “shush,” and “shrek.” Paloma recognized it instantly. It was the same language she heard the Fortune-Teller speaking earlier to some tourists. The car drove off.
“We’re not safe here. We have to go,” Lizzie said as soon as the car was out of sight. She yanked Paloma up from the ground. The three of them bolted down Allende to Paris Street and didn’t stop running until they arrived at Paloma’s house. Lizzie grabbed the key from Paloma’s trembling hand and opened the gate. They scrambled up the wet tree to her room. Once inside, Paloma and Gael sat cross-legged on her bed while Lizzie remained near the windowsill to keep a lookout.
“Do you think the Trench Coat Man followed us?” Paloma asked.
“No sé.” Lizzie shrugged. “Whoever he is, hopefully he gave up.”
“What language was he speaking? Was it French or German? Did you catch it?” Gael asked.
Paloma nodded. “I think it was Russian.”
“It was definitely Russian,” Lizzie said. She gave Gael a serious look. “Something big is going on, Gael. Bigger than we thought.”
Gael’s eyes widened.
“What do you mean, bigger than you thought?” Paloma asked.
Lizzie looked out the window, and Gael shifted uncomfortably on the bed.
“What’s going on, you guys?” Paloma said, frustrated. They weren’t telling her everything. “What would Russians want at Frida’s house? Why would that guy be in the mop room? He was searching for something just like we were. He definitely said something about a ring.”
“If he’s looking for the ring, too …” Lizzie said, gazing at her brother. Her shoulders slumped. “We have to find it before he does.”
“We
will,” Paloma said, when without warning her bedroom door burst open. Her mom stood at the doorway in her robe and slippers.
“Paloma Jane Marquez! Where have you been?” she yelled. “I woke up and found your bed empty. Empty!” She collapsed at the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. “I thought you’d been kidnapped or something,” she sobbed, wiping her nose with a Kleenex she pulled from her robe pocket. “Where were you?”
“I’m sorry,” Paloma said, taking her mom’s hands. “I can explain.”
“Can you?” her mother shouted, and then pulled Paloma into an embrace. “I’m so mad at you right now. I was just in the dining room, calling Professor Breton for help and waiting for a horrible phone call from the police. Another horrible phone call, Paloma!”
Paloma knew about the horrible phone call. Her mom had received one nine years ago while waiting for Paloma’s dad to come home. Paloma could feel her mom’s heart banging against her chest, and hugged her tight. She hated to see her mom cry. She hated more that she was the reason.
“I’m here, Mom,” Paloma said through tears. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Paloma’s mom broke the embrace and stood up. “You two are no longer welcome in our home.”
“Mom!” Paloma protested. Gael and Lizzie both lowered their heads. “It’s my fault, not theirs! I wanted churros.”
“I don’t care!” Paloma’s mom said, throwing her hands up. “I trusted all three of you, and now I know I can’t.”
“Lo siento, Señora Marquez,” Lizzie said.
“Sorry,” Gael repeated. “We didn’t mean to worry you. We were just hanging out—”
“Señora Marquez—” Lizzie said.
“Well, I hope it was worth it, because it’s the last time you’ll get to hang out,” Paloma’s mom said.
“Señora Marquez—” Lizzie tried again.
“I’ll be calling your parents tomorrow.”
“Señora Marquez, there is a man standing at the gate,” Lizzie said with an urgency that snapped Paloma’s mom to attention. Lizzie’s eyes were transfixed on something outside.
“What? Is it Professor Breton?” Paloma’s mom asked as she rushed to the windowsill. She peered outside and gasped. Gael and Paloma lurched forward to see. Paloma hoped it was Professor Breton coming over to help her mom, but the hair standing up on the back of her neck told her it wasn’t. The man in the black trench coat stood motionless in front of their gate.
“That’s not Professor Breton. Who is that?” Paloma’s mom asked.
Paloma had a quick second of panic. Had they closed the gate all the way when they came through?
“He’s trying to open the gate,” Lizzie said with panic. The man pushed up against the gate with his body and then jiggled the gate handle.
“Who is this guy?” Paloma’s mom asked again. Terrified, Paloma grabbed for her mom’s hand to pull her away from the window. Gael glanced at her in a way that meant he, too, knew it was the Trench Coat Man.
“How long has he been there?” Paloma’s mom asked.
“He just showed up,” Lizzie answered.
“Did this man follow you?” The three kids shrugged. “I’m calling the po—”
Suddenly, a black car pulled up. The kids watched the familiar step, drag, step … step, drag, step of the man’s walk before he got into the car, and it drove off into the night.
Paloma grabbed a seat at the back of the classroom and pulled out her note cards. She was the first to arrive at her Mexican art and culture class. An entire day had passed since her mom had busted her for sneaking out with Gael and Lizzie. She spent the whole day at home apologizing to her mom and obsessing over the Trench Coat Man. She wanted so badly to talk to Gael and Lizzie, but her mom had taken her phone away. She forbade Paloma from seeing the Castillos for the rest of their time in Coyoacán. She even threatened to call the university tutoring program, or worse … their parents. It was the most upset Paloma had ever seen her mom.
Still, it wasn’t going to stop Paloma from finding the peacock ring. She was more determined than ever. The fact that the Trench Coat Man had been in the locked room at midnight proved to her that they were on the right track. Paloma pulled out the note card with her observations.
Trench Coat Man
Black trench coat, dark hair, pale, tall, strong, walks with a limp, speaks Russian, speaks Spanish, searching for something in the locked room, too. He knows where I live in Coyoacán.
The last thought chilled Paloma. Was she in danger? Had she put her mom in danger, too? Her mind raced back to that night, grasping for any memories that would help her figure out what was really going on.
Paloma’s pen raced across the note card, adding her thoughts.
He looked at me like he wasn’t expecting to see me. When he said in Spanish that he knew “we” were there, who was he really expecting to find in the locked room?
Soon, a bunch of people of all ages streamed into the classroom. Everyone spoke English, but a few had accents from different European countries. She’d never been in a class with adults and teenagers before, let alone Europeans. Paloma shuffled her note cards and gave the newcomers a shy smile as they took seats around her and greeted her.
“Welcome to Introduction to Mexican Art and Culture!” sang a voice Paloma recognized. It was Professor Breton. He strolled into the classroom, opened his laptop at the front of the room, and sat at the edge of his desk facing the students.
“¡Bienvenidos a todos!” he said, giving Paloma a special wink. “The objective of this four-week course is to expose you to the vibrant culture, art, and traditions of Mexico. Of course, we cannot cover all of Mexico’s diverse culture in four weeks. That, my friends, is impossible! This class should be considered simply a shoreline to get your feet wet. Once you’re through here, it’s up to you to fully dive in!”
Although Paloma felt out of place as the youngest in the classroom, knowing that Professor Breton was the teacher made her feel better. After all, two nights ago when he’d arrived at the Marquez’s home, he’d calmed her mother down and taken Gael and Lizzie home. Perhaps Professor Breton could be a valuable ally to her.
Professor Breton stood at the front of the class and clicked through a slide show displaying Mexican cultural traditions and art. When he stopped on an image of Frida Kahlo, Paloma sat up straight. It was a self-portrait she’d never seen. In this painting, Frida was seated, wearing a white blouse. Two parrots sat on her lap, while two others perched on her shoulders. On Frida’s fingers were several rings.
“This is the artist Frida Kahlo,” Professor Breton said. “Many of you probably have heard of her and have most likely already visited her home, Casa Azul, here in Coyoacán, correct?” Paloma looked around the room. A few students nodded.
“Professor, what’s up with Frida and the overgrown eyebrows?” asked a teenage girl with an American accent. “Didn’t she believe in waxing?” The entire classroom laughed, and Paloma couldn’t help but chuckle, too. When she had first seen the poster of Frida at the airport, she had also joked that Frida needed a salon appointment. Now Paloma saw things differently. The laughter subsided, and Paloma raised her hand.
Professor Breton nodded toward her.
“When I first saw one of her self-portraits, I thought the same thing,” Paloma said. “Then I learned how painting saved Frida’s life. It was freedom to her. She didn’t paint what society expected her to paint. She painted what she felt. Now that I know more about Frida, I don’t see the hairy eyebrows anymore. I see a perfect bird with its wings expanded in flight. I think it represents her soul soaring.”
The classroom was silent. Paloma felt the attention of the entire classroom. Could they see what she saw?
“That’s super deep,” the girl said, glancing away from the self-portrait on the screen to smile at Paloma. “Are you sure you’re not the world’s youngest art professor?”
Paloma blushed. She thought she’d pass out from embarrassment right ther
e on the spot.
“Well said, Paloma,” Professor Breton said. “And I can add that Frida was one of the few celebrated female artists at a time when Picasso, Matisse, and her husband, Diego Rivera, were getting all the attention of the art world. She’s so important that the Mexican government decreed all of Frida Kahlo’s work to be a national patrimony.”
“What’s that?” Paloma asked.
“It means her work, her art, and her personal items are protected by Mexico and cannot be taken outside of the country without special permissions. Permissions that are rarely granted.”
Paloma scrambled to grab her note cards to write everything Professor Breton said and ended up sending several note cards sailing across the classroom floor. She collected them and took a deep breath. She needed to get a grip! Did Gael and Lizzie know about Frida’s work being protected by Mexico?
During a break, Paloma walked with the other students to a small stand outside the front of the school to buy a juice. She was sitting on a stone bench alone sipping orange juice and reading through her note cards when someone called her name. Gael peeked out from behind some trees.
“Is it safe?”
Paloma looked around for any signs of Professor Breton. “Safe!” She was so happy to see her friend, she hugged him. “How’d you find me?”
“I called you yesterday, but your mom says she took your phone away,” Gael said, and frowned. “Lizzie and I feel really bad about that.”
“It’s okay.” Paloma shrugged. “My mom will eventually cave in and give it back to me. She never stays angry long.”
“I wanted to make sure you were fine. I followed you and your mom on a bus from your house. When you jumped off, I jumped off, too. I’ve been waiting for you to come out. What’s going on? Why are you here in this academic puppet factory?” Gael lifted his arms like he was a marionette being pulled by strings.
“You definitely talk like an artist.” Paloma giggled. “I told you my mom enrolled me in some summer classes. She wants me to be occupied with productive endeavors and embrace opportunities!” she said in her best professor voice. “So here I am embracing stuff. After this class, I have Beginner’s Spanish.”
Me, Frida, and the Secret of the Peacock Ring Page 8