The Falling Woman

by Pat Murphy

  ‘What does that mean – bandit?’ Emilio asked, stirring his coffee.

  Barbara grinned and shook her head.

  He looked up at her, pouring more sugar into the pale brown coffee. ‘I think you like this bandit,’ he said. He set down the sugar and grinned at Marcos. ‘We will have good luck today.’

  In the end, we all went to Chichén Itzá: Barbara, Emilio, Emilio’s hammocks, Marcos and I. Emilio hailed a German couple on the steep stone steps of an ancient pyramid and sold them two hammocks on the spot. He dickered with an elderly couple in the shade of the feathered serpent columns that topped the Temple of the Warriors. He haggled over a hundred pesos on the steps to a platform carved with jaguars clutching human hearts. He offered a man a good price, a very good price, on the steps that led to a crumbling stone dome. Grass grew between the stones of the steps.

  Barbara took to hailing the young male tourists herself. ‘Hey,’ she called happily to two blond college students. ‘Want to buy a hammock?’ They stopped to talk in the shade of a massive structure that was little more than a tumble of stones. A dark passage that led to the inner recesses of the structure smelled faintly of rot and urine. The blond man in the University of California T-shirt bought a matrimonial hammock at twice Emilio’s usual rate.

  Emilio led us into Old Chichén, the older portion of the site where the monte had been cut back but the buildings were unrestored. In a secluded corner beyond the main ruins, out where the only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the monte, we smoked a joint and listened to the birds call in the trees. Then Barbara insisted that we had to go see the Sacred Well.

  Marcos led the way. Emilio had his arm around Barbara and they strolled slowly, stopping to look at carved stones and buildings. We passed a stone wall where each limestone block had a relief carving of a skull. The blocks were carefully stacked so that row upon row of grinning skulls watched us as we bought soft drinks at a refrescos stand and walked to the Sacred Well to drink them.

  We sat at the edge of the precipice, where we could look down on the green water, a small pond far below. Emilio rested his head on Barbara’s lap. Blue-green birds with long tail feathers – Marcos called them motmots – skimmed over the water’s surface and perched in the trees that clung to the crumbling limestone cliffs on the far wall of the well. The drop to the water looked like more than a hundred feet. Marcos pointed out the platform from which the Mayan priests threw gifts into the well, a small ledge of limestone on the south side.

  ‘They threw people in, didn’t they?’ I asked lazily, leaning back against a boulder.

  Marcos nodded. I squinted at the ledge. I wouldn’t want to dive from that height, let alone be thrown. Marcos offered me a cigarette, then lit one for himself. The cliffs shimmered in the sunlight and the dope made the world brighter. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Marcos said.

  I nodded, my eyes still half closed, still watching the ledge. I saw something move there: a flash of blue the color of the Virgin Mary’s robes, something falling. Then Marcos took my hand, leaned over, and kissed me gently, blocking my view.

  Back at the hotel that evening, Barbara and I compared notes. On the drive back, Marcos had asked me if I wanted to go to the beach at Progreso with him on Sunday. Barbara said that Emilio had asked her if she wanted to go swimming at the village well at Tixkokob. ‘Sounds like the theme is “divide and conquer,”’ Barbara commented.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  She shrugged. ‘I said I’d go. It’s a chance to see a Mayan village with a native guide. And the village well sounds safe enough. Happy children playing in the water. Village women washing their clothes against the rocks.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ I lay back on the bed and tucked my hands behind my head. ‘A rare anthropological opportunity.’ The ceiling fan rattled rhythmically, like a boy running a popsicle stick along a picket fence.

  ‘That’s right.’ She kicked off her sandals and sat on the edge of the other bed. ‘Look for trouble and sometimes you find it. Let’s go for it. What trouble can you get into at a well in the heart of a rural village? Or at a public beach?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out.’

  The bus to Progreso was of the same vintage as the cross-town bus. It stopped a block from the beach.

  Beneath an overcast sky, an endless line of palms marched alongside the white sand. Coconut hulls and broken seashells washed in the surf with the crowds of laughing brown children. Young men were courting teenage girls by chasing them into the water. An older woman was splashing herself while standing in thigh-deep water. The little skirt on her one-piece swimsuit lifted when the waves hit and hung limply around her thighs when the water retreated. Each time the water reached her, she called to her husband in excited Spanish.

  The sun was hiding, and the colors seemed muted and dull: an amateurish watercolor where paints had become muddy. Near the shore, the water of the gulf was the color of turquoise, an opaque milky blue. Farther out, it darkened to green, I could not see beneath the surface.

  My mother would see this beach in a different way. What would she see? Mayan women collecting shells to be carved into jewelry. Mayan men drying salt for trade. Would she have seen the woman falling from the platform at the sacred well?

  ‘Qué piensas?’ asked Marcos. He was walking beside me.

  I shrugged.

  ‘You don’t know what you are thinking?’

  ‘I can’t explain.’

  We kept walking. As we walked farther from the bus stop, we left the families behind. There were only a few couples strolling along the beach. Marcos put his arm around my waist. He stopped beside a palm tree that leaned away from the ocean, reaching toward Mérida with grasping fronds. ‘Want to sit in the sun?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  He rubbed suntan lotion on my back, his hands lingering longer than necessary, carefully stroking the lotion into the skin along the edge of my bikini. He began rubbing lotion on the backs of my legs and his hand dipped between my legs and pressed against me with a gentle insistent caress. The other hand stroked my back.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, rolling away from him.

  He smiled. ‘I like you very much. You make me a little crazy.’ He looked around us. The nearest family was a few hundred yards down the beach. ‘No one saw. It’s all right.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ He reached out and ran a hand along my shoulder and arm until he reached my hand. ‘I like you very much. We could have a good time together.’ He smiled at me brilliantly and squeezed my hand. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Not likely.’

  ‘Porqué no? Why not?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem like a good idea.’

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘You don’t know what you think.’ He released my hand and lay back on the sand, tucking one hand behind his head. ‘You make me a little crazy.’

  I lay on my back and closed my eyes. The surf washed in a steady rhythm.

  ‘What have you found, out where you are digging?’ he asked.

  I told him about the stone head, the manos and metates, the tomb site.

  ‘When I was a little boy, I found a very old pot in the fields near my grandmother’s house. A very old pot, with paintings on the sides. I took it home to my grandmother, and she said that I must take it back to the fields. She said it was very bad luck to take it from the old ones, very bad. I went back to the field and buried the pot.’ I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. ‘If I found that pot now, I’d sell it to someone like your mother for lots of money. I wouldn’t worry about bad luck.’

  I lay on my back, listened to the surf, and worried about bad luck.

  ‘Your friend Barbara will have a good time at Tixkokob,’ Marcos said. ‘You and I could have a good time too. Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to,’ I said.

  ‘You want to.’

  I shook my head and listened to the surf wash the beach clean.

  ‘Qué
piensas?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m thinking about my mother.’

  ‘Why are you thinking of your mother?’ I believe that Marcos was growing impatient with me. He wanted me to be thinking about him, not about my mother.

  ‘She doesn’t want me to come back to the dig.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The sunlight was warm on my eyelids. ‘She is afraid of something. She won’t say what. I think she’s like your grandmother. She’s afraid of the old ones.’

  ‘Your mother is afraid of the old ones? She’s crazy.’

  I opened my eyes to protest and saw the old woman standing by the surf. She was dressed in blue and in her hand she held a conch shell. I turned to Marcos to ask him if he saw her too. He leaned toward me, forcing me back down on the sand. I felt a warm strong hand on my breast and another between my thighs and he leaned on me, kissing me hard on the mouth. ‘You’re crazy too,’ he said. I pushed him away and he laughed. The woman was gone.

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘At your hotel, we will have a good time. I like you very much.’

  I left him on the beach and went swimming in the warm murky water of the gulf, swimming far away from the beach and looking back at the line of palms, the strip of white sand. Floating on my back in the blood-warm water, I admitted to myself that I was afraid of the strange apparition in blue. I was afraid. I was haunted by a Mayan ghost and I felt very much alone.

  As a child, I had played tag with other neighborhood kids on summer nights. As the sunlight faded to darkness, we would go on playing, but the nature of the game changed. The kid who was It would not chase the rest of us – he would slip into the shadows and sneak up on people, appearing out of the darkness like a ghost. I remember jumping at shadows, thinking that each one was going to tag me. I felt like I was playing night tag now, fighting with shadows that appeared and disappeared.

  Eventually, I had to swim back to the beach. Marcos smiled when I came back, and said that he was sorry, that he would not try to kiss me again. I lay in the sun for a time, but I felt nervous, on edge. I kept glancing toward the water, expecting to see the woman. She did not reappear, but I could not relax.

  We ate dinner at a small restaurant by the beach and took the bus back to Mérida.

  Of course Marcos was playing a game. The name of the game was get the gringa into bed. I told him so on the bus back to Mérida. ‘I don’t know the rules to this game you’re playing. And I don’t play games when I don’t know the rules.’

  ‘You think I’m playing games? I’m sorry you think that.’ He sat in silence for a while, staring out the window. When we stopped in Mérida, he stood abruptly and headed for the door. ‘Come on. I will take you to your hotel. No games.’ I followed him, saying nothing.

  Early evening and the shadows were thick in Parque Hidalgo. ‘Why won’t you sleep with me? What are you afraid of ?’ he asked me as we walked.

  I shrugged. I looked in the shadows for the old woman, but I did not see her. But I could not stop looking.

  ‘Maybe I won’t see you again,’ Marcos said. ‘You don’t know what you want, so maybe I won’t see you anymore.’

  ‘As you like.’ I was watching the shadows. It seemed to me that there were too many of them, more than other evenings. The lights of the Cine Fantastico sign scarcely penetrated the gloom. A beggar woman in the square called out to me and I jumped, startled. When I gave her a coin, my hand was shaking. I did not know why I was afraid. Nothing had happened. The woman had not threatened me. No reason.

  Marcos followed me into the lobby of the hotel and up the stairs to my room. The shadows were darker here, gathering in the corners like dust. The hallway was stuffy, and the shadows crept like rats along the baseboards.

  The room was dark. Barbara was not back yet. I unlocked the door but did not step inside, reluctant to venture into the shadows.

  ‘You see,’ he said, ‘Barbara is not home yet. She is having a good time at Tixkokob. We can have a good time too.’ He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me close to him. I saw the shadows moving and I let him hold me and kiss me on the neck. I wanted protection; I wanted comfort.

  Through his jeans and my thin dress, I could feel his cock pressing against me. ‘Marcos,’ I said, ‘wait.’

  His hand pressed against my ass, rubbing me against him. ‘You want it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a good time.’ He half lifted me through the open door and pushed it closed behind him with one foot. The shadows were all around us and I clung to him for protection.

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Barbara will be back.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Don’t be afraid. It’ll be all right.’

  His hand left my back and undid the top buttons of my dress. He fumbled inside, pushing aside the top of my bikini and cupping my breast, rubbing his thumb over the nipple until it hardened under the pressure. My breath came faster and the shadows seemed far away.

  ‘Yes, I like you very much,’ he said, bringing one hand under me and pushing me down on the bed, taking my breast into his mouth and sucking gently, then harder. I moved against him. I felt warm and the shadows were very far away. He teased the nipple with his teeth. He ran his other hand up my thigh and under my dress, reaching inside my bikini. He had unbuttoned my dress to the waist and pushed my bikini top up around my neck. Both nipples were erect, and he pinched them between his fingers. The fingers of his other hand were inside me, urgently rubbing, stroking.

  He lifted the bikini top over my head and pulled the dress down over my shoulders, dragging it under me and stripping away my bikini. The bed creaked when he stood and turned on the ceiling fan. He left his clothing in a heap on the floor and lay on top of me. My hips rose to meet him when he cupped my breasts and thrust deep inside me. The rattle of the ceiling fan drowned out the squeaking of the bed and the sound of my breath coming faster and faster.

  I woke up when Barbara came back. The ceiling fan still turned. ‘Hey,’ she said softly. ‘It’s time to go back.’

  I lay still for a moment, pretending that I was still asleep and thinking about the Caribbean coast, the place my mother wanted me to go. Pure white beaches where there were no shadows. Then I sat up and shook my head. ‘How was the village well?’

  She shook her head and flicked on the light switch. ‘The village well is tucked away in a secluded limestone cave. No laughing children. No village women. I had to throw Emilio in to cool him down.’ She turned her head and I saw two bright red hickeys on her neck. ‘But not until after he had made his mark.’

  ‘You decided you weren’t going to sleep with him?’

  ‘I actually think he likes it better this way,’ she said. ‘It’s a power game, and sleeping with him would end the game. I think.’

  ‘We’ll find out.’ I stretched beneath the covers. ‘I slept with Marcos, so the game may be over.’ The shadows in the room were just ordinary shadows, nothing more.

  ‘Yeah?’ Barbara perched on the edge of the bed. ‘So how was it?’

  I frowned. My memories were a jumble of shadows and urgency. ‘A bit quick for my taste.’

  ‘Ah, those hot-blooded Mexican men,’ she said.

  I got out of bed. I showered and dressed while Barbara camouflaged her hickeys beneath a layer of calamine lotion. We drove back to camp through the evening gloom.

  19

  Elizabeth

  Sunday was Etz’nab, a day of pain and sacrifice. I woke up feeling dizzy and aching, with no appetite for breakfast. I lingered in my hut, avoiding Tony, until late morning, when I went for a walk to the tomb site. En route, I saw an old man stirring a ceramic pot that was warming over a small fire. The resinous scent of sap filled the air. The woven cloth bag that lay on the ground beside him was dusted with dark blue clay; the carved wooden stick with which he stirred the pot was tinted a vivid blue.

  Blue is the color that the ancient Maya painted the cakes of incense that they burned in ceremonies. Blue is the color they paint the victims that are sacrificed to hono
r the gods.

  I did not like the look of the old man and his pot of paint. I walked past quickly and did not look back.

  The students dragged into camp that evening, battered by civilization. On every dig there are times like this. People are weary from the rigors of field camp and dissatisfied with the limited civilization within reach. Relationships grow strained. Maggie and Carlos were squabbling because a casual fling had gone on too long; Robin and John were clinging together because departure and separation were approaching too fast. Field school had only three weeks to run.

  Diane and Barbara came in late. I was sitting in the plaza when they returned, drinking still another pot of hot tea. Diane said hello, then headed for the hut. She seemed quiet, dispirited, but I did not pursue her. I did not know what to say to her.

  Monday was Cauac, governed by the celestial dragon who brings tempests, thunder, and wild rains. I woke before breakfast and went walking. On the way to the cenote I saw a stoneworker chipping thin blades of obsidian, ceremonial blades of amazing sharpness. He smiled as he worked and I did not stop to watch him.

  At breakfast on Monday there was little talk, but that little was stormy. Barbara had misplaced the rope she used for site mapping on survey and there was no peace until she found it, coiled in a corner of Tony’s hut where she had dropped it on Friday. The survey crew stumbled out of camp half an hour late.

  John and Robin had apparently disagreed over something – I could not guess what – and they ate in silence. John left early for the tomb site; Robin strode off to the lab. Tempers were short and people were itchy and restless.

  I went to the tomb site at nine and found John shaking the sifter. He wore a red bandanna tied over his nose and mouth to block the clouds of dust that rose as he shook the rectangular screen, sifting potsherds and stone chips from the dirt. When I hailed him, he laid the sifter down, waited a moment for the dust to clear, then pulled down the bandanna, exposing clean skin. ‘We’re finding chips of flint,’ he said. ‘And a few large potsherds. And we have something that looks a hell of a lot like a wall.’