by M. G. Harris
“But she’s getting old, so she decided to come clean with Andres, to admit the truth. She told him that his real father was a museum curator, a man she met when she was nineteen. At least he said he was a museum curator. He was the man in this photo. He was looking to buy old manuscripts from local collectors, take them back to his museum. One thing led to another between the two of them. Then one day he just upped and disappeared. Your grandmother – Abuelita – called the museum he said he worked for, but they’d never heard of him. No one had. He arrived as if from nowhere and went back the same way. This photo of him was the only evidence Abuelita ever really had that he’d ever existed. That and your father, of course.”
I have no idea what to say.
Mum continues, “Your dad was raised by the man who was kind enough to marry Abuelita. He never knew or suspected. Then when he was about ten or eleven he began to dream about the man in the hut. And ‘Summon the Bakab Ix’. It haunted him. When he discovered that the man in his dream was his father . . . well. . .”
She pauses, seems wistful at the memory. “He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was as though a missing part of him had been found. But it still didn’t make sense of the dream.”
Then she turns, stares intently at me for a second, and asks, “Josh, did Dad ever tell you about that dream?”
I shake my head. Seems like Dad had been pretty close-mouthed about the whole matter.
“Then,” Mum says quietly, “how can this be happening to you too?”
BLOG ENTRY: CAPOEIRA O LE LE
I was desperate for a bit of normality, so I let Tyler persuade me to join the capoeira players in a demonstration for the Summertown Arts Festival. We pitched up outside the bank on a sunny Saturday morning amidst the curious Summertown residents. A light breeze wafted the last of the loose cherry blossoms from a nearby tree and they drifted over us like snow. Mestre Ricardo took the berimbau, the main musical instrument we use in capoeira; I took the pandeiro drum. The whole group stood in a circle as we drummed up a crowd with a song. Pretty soon supermarket shoppers were crossing the road to watch us launch ourselves in combat. In capoeira, the trick is to just skirt the edges – no contact. It’s a flirtation with violence, a ballet. The beauty of the game lies in the controlled, acrobatic restraint of the players.
After a few turns I was up against Tyler. We’d rehearsed the cue. As the roda struck up with the song “Capoeira O Le Le”, we began. Ginga, handstand, au malandrau, cocorinha, armada, queixada. I executed my moves perfectly, just as we practised. Then Tyler left the script and pulled out some style moves – a headspin, a handstand whirl. I could see him grinning at me, delighted to have caught me on the hop. From then on we improvised; we dropped into the music’s groove.
That Tyler – he’s a show-off. But he knows how to please an audience. The crowd loved it.
Then Ollie turned up. And the subject turned to the codex. . .
I glance around the faces, hoping to see Ollie – and then there she is. Luckily, Tyler’s also thrown off balance at the sight of her. With her eyes on us our pace picks up a notch. I can feel my skin warming where her gaze lands.
“That was coolness,” she says afterwards, grinning. Tyler has another bout to prepare for, and he strips off to the vest underneath.
“He’s in good shape,” she remarks to me as Tyler takes up position against Mestre Ricardo.
I sigh. “Yeah. I know. Probably be selected for the British team.”
“I should hope so,” she says. “He’s terrific!”
It’s definitely time to change the subject. “So guess what,” I say. “I’ve found out something about the man in my dream.”
Ollie swivels around, eyes wide. “Go on.”
“He’s my grandfather,” I tell her. “My secret grandfather. Turns out that Dad was illegitimate. His mother only confessed to Dad about a year ago. She sent him a photo of his father. And that’s how I know. Dad’s father – he’s the guy from my dream.”
Well, that does it. I have Ollie’s undivided, even fascinated, attention.
I glance at Tyler, who completes a series of intricate moves, a breathtaking sequence of handstand whirls, headspins and a clock movement. He’s not improvising against Mestre Ricardo, I notice. Each time the players attack, they plant precisely aimed blows within millimetres of each other’s bodies. The crowd surrounds us even more densely. They murmur their appreciation.
Ollie stands next to me, lost in thought. “So in your dream,” she says, speaking very slowly, “you’re seeing the death of your own grandfather?”
I nod. That’s it exactly – like a premonition. Only, it’s already happened.
“And he is asking for the Bakab Ix?”
“Right on.”
“Wow.” Her voice drops to a breathless whisper. “So this Mayan thing – it’s been going on in your family for, like, years?”
Again I nod. “My grandfather found the Calakmul letter – the one we deciphered. That’s how Dad started on his search for the Ix Codex.”
“But if your grandfather had the Calakmul letter, then maybe he was searching for the Ix Codex too.”
“That’s the whole point. Grandpa was hunting for the codex. Then Dad. Now me.”
Ollie punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Way to keep your family legacy going!”
“Some legacy,” I say. “They’re both dead. And still no codex.”
“Still,” she replies, “I wonder why your grandpa was looking for it.”
It seems pretty obvious to me. He was a museum curator, a seeker of rare Mayan objects.
“What does his museum say?” Ollie asks.
That was the odd thing. They’d denied all knowledge of him, right from the start.
“Abuelita – my grandma – she tried. Years back. She doesn’t even know where he really came from.”
Ollie’s eyes glisten. “Fabulous! And you know what else is interesting – the missing half of the Calakmul letter? Your dad must have had it once.”
“That’s what I think,” I say. “Or else how could he think he’d found the trail of the Ix Codex?”
Ollie goes quiet for a while, her eyes drifting off as she watches the capoeira players.
“So,” I tell her, “I’ve decided. I’ve got to find a way to go . . . to find Dad’s woman in Chetumal.”
“‘Dad’s woman’? I thought you were in denial about that. . .” she says with a sly smile.
“We’ll see. Maybe she’s a contact, something to do with the codex hunt.”
“From where? How many people do you think know about this?”
There’s Carlos Montoyo, we know that. He still hasn’t replied to my email, which has me more than a little spooked. Then there’s Ollie’s own theory – the CIA – or some US agency looking to cover up UFO incidents and evidence of alien-Mayan contact.
“Let me get this straight. You think that your dad went to Mexico, met with Montoyo and then disappeared?”
“Went looking for the codex. Then disappeared. The missing days – remember?”
I watch her as her mind computes away.
“Maybe Chetumal Lady knows where your dad went. Maybe she even saw Montoyo.”
I smile with satisfaction. “Bingo. Man, you’re brilliant.”
Then she asks me about Mum. I relate my discussion with the psychiatrist. He was just about OK with the idea of me going to Mexico – I told him I’d be staying with an aunty in Cancun who’d pick us up at the airport. For a minute I was worried that he’d ask for a phone number, but he seemed OK about it. I told him about my plan to confront the woman in Chetumal. (I didn’t mention the codex or any of the complicated stuff.) He saw how it would “resolve some key issues”. But as for Mum coming along – there was no way.
Ollie says, “Your poor mum. She’s had such a rough time. I bet she’d enjoy a trip to Mexico. But she could probably do without the stress of meeting your dad’s ladyfriend.”
Mum’s not being able to go ju
st makes me more determined to sort everything out. “You bring me back his ashes,” Mum insisted at my last visit, gripping my arm as I turned to leave. “Have them blessed in a church by a priest, then bring him back to me.”
When I tell Ollie this part, she frowns. “Creepy,” she says. “You’ll be, like, carrying your dad around.”
“Don’t remind me.”
And then Ollie hits me with her own bombshell.
“I’m coming with you,” she announces, with not a hint of a request. “Sounds to me like you could use the moral support.”
“What a mate you are.” I’m caught on the hop, but I’m thrilled and I don’t try to hide it. “You’re serious? I mean – you hardly know me.”
“It’s true. It doesn’t feel like that, though, does it?”
I’m relieved to hear her say that. It’s exactly what I think – but I didn’t dare believe that Ollie thought so too.
“You’ll need to ask your parents, though, won’t you?”
Ollie waves a hand. “That’s nothing. They’re always on at me to travel. They travelled all the time when they were young. We can get them to buy the tickets for us over the Web, in fact.”
I’m secretly relieved that I won’t have to use my mum’s credit card.
“Really? They sound really cool!”
“Yeah, they’re OK,” Ollie says, and she looks away, almost uninterested. Her eyes come to rest on Tyler. “Mind you, it could be dangerous.”
“No way to know what’s gonna go down,” I agree. “What about bringing Tyler along too? Capoeira moves can be wicked deadly, you know.”
Ollie raises an eyebrow. “‘Wicked deadly’? Maybe we should invite Tyler along.”
“Let’s do it.”
And with Ollie’s almost matter-of-fact comments, the summer horizon opens up. The three of us are off to Mexico, to crack open the mystery of my father’s murder, the identity of his Chetumal Lady and maybe even to find the Ix Codex. With my two mates with me, I feel like anything is possible now.
BLOG ENTRY: THE DOLPHIN HOTEL
Well, I should have dragged Mum along. It’s too great here, definitely beats summer in England. Sunny, bright blue skies and HOT! I almost feel like relaxing, just hitting the pool. But . . . there’s work to be done.
Hotel Delfin (Dolphin Hotel) in Chetumal is a tidy white hotel in a small seaside town. The beach here is made from dredged-up sand. It’s nothing to write home about, but works fine as a cooling-off point: a drop-in for anyone wants to explore beyond the mega-famous Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza.
We flew into Chetumal after a connecting flight from Mexico City. It’s only the second time in my life I’ve flown without my parents. The first time I was ten, and had to be accompanied by a stewardess the whole time, along with the other little kids. This time, because Ollie is sixteen, they let us travel with her.
I’m still the expert of the team, though. For one thing, I’m the only one of us who speaks Spanish. I quite enjoyed showing Ollie and Tyler around Mexico City Airport, where I’ve been almost every year since I can remember. I made sure to pick up Cinnabons before we boarded the domestic flight to Chetumal.
Ollie and Tyler admit that the warm, juicy, cream-cheese-frosted Cinnabons are the best cakes they’ve eaten, ever.
The hotel is on a main road, roughly a hundred metres from the beach. The lobby is small, marble-floored and only just has room for the reception counter and a small set of upholstered rattan furniture where people can wait. A ceiling fan moves the warm air around uselessly.
When we arrived, the place was deserted – we had to ring the bell for attention. A cramped little room off the lobby serves as the “Internet Café” – it’s where I am right now. In an alcove next to the reception area there’s an ice machine and a drinks machine selling Fresca and Delaware Punch. Grape soda – yum!
When I checked in, the receptionist (name badge said “Paco”) lingered over my passport. “Are you related to Professor Andres Garcia, also from Oxford?”
It’s not a big town, few enough places to choose from. Turns out that I’d chosen the same hotel as my father. Paco was tickled pink by the coincidence, but it didn’t strike me as so unusual.
You don’t find many Mexicans at the Hotel Delfin. It’s mostly ecotourists who want to hug trees in the rainforest, or tourists on the “Maya Route”. There’s something of an effort to provide a slightly “groovy” atmosphere. Hence piped jazz music in the central courtyard around the pool, and scattered gardenia petals floating on its clear blue water.
I can see why my dad chose it.
The grooviness of Hotel Delfin isn’t lost on Ollie. She smiles, amused, as we stand in the courtyard, taking a good look around.
“Stan Getz,” she says approvingly. “Nice.”
Back in our room, Tyler and I change into our boardies. I sit down to phone Detective Rojas, the Mexican policeman in charge of the murder investigation. Before we left Oxford, I managed to get through to the police station in Chetumal, trying to get hold of a name and address for Chetumal Lady. They weren’t willing to give out that information over the phone. “But phone Detective Rojas the minute you arrive in Chetumal. He will come to your hotel and take you to meet her. This is safest for you, for her.”
I’ve got my UK mobile phone, but the local Mexican call will cost me a small fortune if I use it. So I head for the lobby, to call from a payphone, when Tyler stops me.
He scowls. “Leave it out, just for a bit, hey? We need to cool off. Let’s have a laugh first.”
I hesitate. He has a point. It’s late; Rojas has probably gone home. The call can wait until tomorrow.
So we head for the pool, to enjoy the late-afternoon sun. Ollie emerges minutes later from her room. She’s changed into a pink sarong with matching bikini. She stands close to Tyler, dropping chunks of ice into tall glasses of fizzy grapefruit Fresca.
I leap into the pool and Tyler follows, landing on top of me. We begin to wrestle, glad to release some of the tension of the past couple of days. Ollie lowers herself gracefully into the water, where she watches us with a lazy gaze.
“Why don’t you two practise your capoeira?”
We stop grappling for a minute. Tyler eyes me expectantly. “How about it? I’m up for it if you are.”
“Or. . .” I say, “or we could order cheeseburgers with fries, and chocolate fudge sundaes, and eat them by the pool.”
Tyler groans with delight. “Mate, you’re so right. What are you waiting for? Call a waiter!”
“Cheeseburger, yuck,” Ollie says, wrinkling her nose. Then she perks up. “I’ll just have a piña colada.”
Everyone’s happy when I take their orders to the bar. Tyler’s standing with his back to me when I stroll back, and I can’t resist shoving him into the pool. He topples and lands with a spectacular splash. Ollie’s soaked but she’s laughing too much to care. For a second I wish we were just here to hang out by the beach and take in the sights. Why didn’t I ever think of bringing friends to Mexico before? It would have made things so much more fun.
We’re interrupted by a hassled-looking hotel porter who leans out of the lobby. He shouts in Spanish, “Someone’s looking for an English boy named Josh Garcia.”
I pull myself out of the water. I’m thinking that somehow, it has to be Detective Rojas. But when a young woman strolls into the courtyard, I just sense it: this is Chetumal Lady.
She’s dressed in tight white, low-rise Gap jeans with a jewelled belt and a strappy lime-green top that shows off a slender, deeply tanned, toned body. She walks effortlessly on high-heeled gold sandals. Her deep chestnut hair is long and sleek. She reminds me of a movie star.
She stops in front of me, pushes back her wide, tinted sunglasses.
“Joshua Garcia, right?” she says in Spanish. “Man, but I can read you like a book! The same hotel as Andres? C’mon up here and give me a kiss, willya?”
For a minute I just stand motionless, dripping, exchanging incredulous lo
oks with Tyler and Ollie.
I reply in Spanish with the line I’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“So you’re the woman who ruined my parents’ lives.”
The reaction isn’t what I expected.
“Don’t tell me you’re buying the same garbage the police are putting about,” she snorts. “Thought a guy like you would have more sense. Don’t you know Dad?”
“Dad. . .?”
“That’s right, hotshot. He’s my father, too. So what if he hadn’t got around to telling you and your mother about it? He was only a teenager. It doesn’t make him the world’s worst villain.”
“He’s your dad too?” I echo. “You’re my sister?”
She grins. “Now you’re getting it. That’s right, baby brother. So how about that kiss?”
She takes another step towards me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Oops,” she says. “You got some lipstick there.” I’m frozen, too surprised to react as she carefully wipes my cheek with her thumb.
Then she looks at me, and for a few seconds we just stare into each other’s faces. That’s when I know she’s telling the truth. No doubt about it – my dad’s eyes are gazing out at me.
I have a sister.
Nothing has prepared me for this. It is something I hadn’t suspected, even in the tiniest corner of my mind. I just stare at her in dumb shock.
“You feel it too?” she asks with a rueful smile. “It’s like some weird kind of mirror, isn’t it? A mirror of feeling, of sensation. That sense of being split in two. The very same thing happened to me when I first met Andres.”