Tess blinked. Could she be hearing right?
Will looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Maybe you have come across it in your research for the WOOSH guide, but Monument Six at the Mayan site of Tortuguero distinctly refers to the ‘Descent of the Nine Foot Tree God’ on December 21, 2012.”
Glancing out the side window at the trees whizzing by them, Margie added, as matter-of-fact as if she were talking about what they were going to have for dinner, “We’ve been promised a private viewing of one of the skulls, and we are looking forward to being able to communicate with the extraterrestrials who are referred to in many of the Mayan texts. Supposedly it works almost like a video screen, and you can see into the past as well as the future.”
Oh. My. God. What the hell is this?! Just when Tess had been starting to relax, thinking she was on solid ground, Margie and Will proved to be completely out of their minds. And they seemed so normal! A wave of alarm surged through her body, and she felt herself, once more, down the rabbit hole. (She was almost starting to feel at home down there.) Aloud she stammered, rather incoherently, “What … you say that … I’m sorry, what?” She instinctively glanced at the car door. They were going pretty slowly, due to the bad road with its frequent dips and speed bumps. It might not be that hard to jump out. But where would she go? She was not quite sure how far she was from a major town.
Then, just when Tess was wondering if her heart would ever start beating again, Will and Margie burst out laughing.
“I’m so sorry, Tess, we should not have done that to you!” Margie said.
“Yes,” Will chuckled, “I think Mexican living has permanently warped our sense of humor.”
Margie turned all the way around in her seat so she could talk to Tess. “The truth is, Will has landed this completely weird project to depict several of these skulls. He got it partially because of his end-of-the-world series, and partially because of our contacts among the Maya.”
“Just call me the Indiana Jones of visual arts,” Will sang out, taking a turn a little too sharply, causing Margie to grab onto her headrest.
“Will! Watch it, please!” They went on to explain that Will had indeed been commissioned by an organization of Mayan “priests” to witness whatever phenomena were purported to be happening with the skulls, and then portray the images artistically, for the edification of the rest of the world. But, while Will said he “did not totally reject the remote possibility” that one of these skulls could produce some kind of effect in the hands of the right Mayan shaman, they were taking the whole project with many, many grains of salt. In fact they both thought it was pretty crazy. It had just been too lucrative and interesting a commission for him to turn down. Tess felt dizzy, but laughed weakly. Will smiled as he steered the car onto an exit ramp. “It’s going to be my first work of sculpture and painting combined. The whole thing is going to be so totally out there, I’m hoping to create a media frenzy.” He looked over to grin at Margie, who turned back around in her seat, refastened her seat belt, and leaned her head back on the headrest in a gesture of weary tolerance. But Tess couldn’t help noticing she also rested her hand on his, atop the stick shift.
When they arrived in Morelia, Tess was nervous but excited to meet their friend, whom they referred to as “Tata” (which was Mayan for “grandfather”). “Not to be confused with ‘La Tuta,’ who is the head of a quasi-religious drug cartel active in the area.” Will smiled, but Tess was determined not to let him scare her again. “The only bad thing about this trip is that we are going to be here for such a short time, and there are so many things to see in this town. At least we can show you the cathedral lit up at night.”
As it turned out Tata Alejandro was not only Mayan, but a well-respected Mayan elder, or spiritual guide. His full name was Alejandro Dan Rios Sha and he was staying in Morelia while he was giving a series of lectures at the Universidad Michoacana. He was a tiny old man with a wrinkly, friendly face, dressed in an ordinary navy blue cotton shirt and khakis (Tess had somehow expected him to be dressed in beads and feathers). The four of them had tequila, tacos and enchiladas placeras, and outrageously delicious guacamole at a small restaurant frequented by a lot of students. Alejandro spoke mostly in Spanish with Will and Margie, so Tess spent her time observing the other diners—laughing groups of young people arriving, greeting one another, moving chairs to let more people into their groups. They could almost have been Columbia students at one of the hangouts on Broadway back home.
Occasionally Margie would translate some of Tata Alejandro’s conversation for her: “He says that the recent Michoacan violence—you know, the drug cartels—is just another sign of the coming of the Fifth Age.” … “He’s talking about the ancient wise ones from the Pleiades, who will return again on what he calls Day Zero.” … “He says a period of turmoil will be followed by harmony, and a realignment of the human mind.” Funnily enough, Tess accepted all this as she never would have if she were in New York. She didn’t believe any of it, but neither did it particularly weird her out. She listened to the ideas that resonated with her, and let those parts of it in: “loving respect for all beings, in preparation for the coming period of transition,” “new dawn,” and “world renewal.” Hey, that sounded okay to her. And Alejandro had the kindest, most twinkly eyes she had ever seen.
When they went back to Alejandro’s apartment after dinner, Tess was taken aback at how plain it was, but Will explained that it was borrowed, just for the time he was teaching in Morelia. The place did have a musty, faintly pine-like smell, which Margie told her was copal, an incense often used in Mayan rituals.
Tess slept surprisingly well on a rather uncomfortable couch in the living room, and the next day she felt unexpectedly buoyant. Alejandro took her hands in his sandpapery ones upon their parting and said to her in English, “You must to be awake, be hearing—and so important—to be active, for the time to come. When the computer crash, you must to reset computer. The world shift that comes is a … correction; it is to reset balance between masculine and feminine.” Then he smiled and tapped her sharply on the top of the head with two fingers, which made her feel like giggling. “You go see butterflies now. You fly with them. You be transformed!”
Once they arrived at the Sierra Chincua butterfly reserve in Angangueo, Tess knew she had made the right decision coming with Will and Margie. She would not have given up the experience for anything. The monarch butterflies reminded her of Hitchcock’s The Birds, except it was the Disney version. It was unearthly, magical, supernatural; the butterflies blanketed the ground and completely covered any small patches of vegetation that lined the paths. They did indeed hang from the leaves of the trees, bending the limbs, so that all you could see was the flickering vibration of orange, like sparkling orange water. They would take off in waves, as if they were moving on cue to music. And when they moved off a tree en masse, it was if the tree had come to life like some creature in a fairy tale. You could hear their wings, there were so many of them. When they bumped you, it was like being tickled by angels.
In the midst of this natural wonder, everything that was bad or negative in her life seemed to flutter away. There was only now; the only things that existed were the beautiful miracle of the monarchs, and the other human beings who were lucky enough to be there watching them alongside her. She could not remember when she had felt such a deep sense of contentment.
***
The Museo Nacional del Antropologia in Mexico City was huge. Tess wandered in awe through thousands of years of history, past the endless sculptures, murals, carvings, facades, and artifacts, keeping Margie and Will in sight. Margie and Will, her wonderful two new friends. After four days of traveling with them she felt she had known them forever.
I guess life really is what happens when you are making other plans, Tess thought, staring at a particularly scary sculpture of Quetzalcoatl, “the feathered serpent,” protruding from one side of the huge Teotihuacan Temple. She was starting to appreciate Margie’s phi
losophy that everything happens for a reason, and if you go with the flow, the flow will carry you where you need to be. She smiled to herself. She imagined what Ginny would say if she were to spout this belief to her: “Sure, just go with the flow, and you’ll soon find yourself down the drain.”
Tess trailed behind Margie and Will, trying to absorb the exhibits as they passed, but her feet were tired and her mind felt overfed. Finally they were in the Mexica Hall and Tess found herself gazing at the enormous Sun Stone. Tess had known that the Piedra del Sol was big, but the way it loomed over everything in this immense hall made it seem ominous. But she was aware that she’d probably been influenced by all the doomsday web sites and videos, which always seemed to be accompanied by the image of this stone.
“One of the things that drove me crazy about WOOSH,” Will said, his arms folded across his chest, “was their blind adherence to so many non-facts. This Sun Stone, while amazing, is, of course, only loosely connected to the Maya. It was used primarily for sacrifices to the sun god, by the Aztecs. The calendar around the edges was there really to tell them when it was time to have a sacrifice. And yes, of course, they inherited the knowledge for calendar keeping from the Maya and Olmec people, but the whole long count calendar—the 5,125-year one, the one associated with all the 2012 predictions—isn’t even depicted here.” Margie gave Will one of her long suffering looks that said he was talking too loudly, or too much, and turned away to look at some stone carvings inside a glass case. Will and Tess followed.
They had stopped outside the servicio des señoras for Margie, who’d had a beer at lunch, which was apparently unusual for her. (“Now I know why I don’t do that more often,” she had laughed). There were a few minor sculptures exhibited in between the ladies’ and men’s rooms. One of them was carved from green stone. Idly, Tess looked down at the plaque:
Jade Scarab Beetle, Mayan, circa AD 800. Probably used for ceremonial purpose. Scarabs utilize the power of the sun by rolling up their eggs in mud or dung. The hot sun bakes the little mud balls, essentially incubating the eggs. Thus, not only is the scarab a symbol of ingenuity, and of the power of the Sun, it is also symbolic of rebirthing into a new dawn of life.
“Wow, I did not know they even had beetles back then,” remarked Tess. Then she felt stupid. Of course they had beetles. What was everyone always saying about how insects were going to outlive humanity?
“You know who is completely and utterly obsessed with scarab beetles?” Will piped up right behind her. “The infamous Wayne Orbus.”
“What?” Tess said. “He is? Really?” It was hard to imagine the professorial bald Brit she had seen in the video being interested in beetles.
“Oh yeah,” Will said. “Big time. He’s got ’em all over the place. Raises them on his place in England. It’s totally creepy. I wish I had been able to take pictures of his compound the time I was there. It’s really out there. Like a James Bond movie … so many wild things, contraptions he’s invented … . But the beetles …” Will closed his eyes and shook his head. “He has been studying different kinds of beetles since his days at Oxford. That was part of why he got thrown out of there, or so the rumor went. His goddamn beetles kept getting loose.” Will motioned to Margie, who had just emerged from the ladies’ room.
“Wow. Huh.” Tess looked at Will in amazement and then turned back to stare into the square glass case. The oval green-colored stone beetle, about a foot high, was carved primitively but accurately. Embedded in a pedestal base so that it was standing up on its end, the scarab looked like a turtle, or even a miniature round human. She found it oddly threatening. Almost like it might start walking toward her.
A walking beetle. All at once a jolt went through her body as if she had touched a live electric wire with a wet finger. The book! The missing book that had contained the computer plague blueprints. It had been called something like The Wyoming Walking Beetle and Other Mending Tips. Wayne Orbus, counting on the world ending, obsessed with beetles … . But it had to just be a strange coincidence. Didn’t it?
Chapter Ten
It was 5:15 p.m. on a rainy Tuesday in early March, the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub was almost empty. It would not fill up until about 6:30.
“Well, if it isn’t the long lost Tess Eliot,” Richie called out when he spotted her at the door. “I was wondering if we were ever going to see you again.”
Tess almost ran to the bar, so happy she was at the welcoming sight of Richie behind it. He had on a pink and red flannel shirt which had a sort of retro look to it, with the sleeves rolled up over his thick forearms. His hair and beard appeared to have been recently trimmed; he was a little less shaggy than usual. Tess thought he was looking like a very neat lumberjack.
“I haven’t seen you since Christmas!” he said, a huge smile on his face. “What’s the deal, anyway? One minute I’m helping you put a bed frame together and the next … . So, once you got want you wanted from me, that was it? You don’t call, you don’t write … .” He set two beer mugs down on the bar hard, as if he were really pissed. But his eyes were twinkling. “I thought maybe you’d found someone who pours a better cocktail. Or that you’d moved to Hollywood with that man of yours.”
Tess climbed up on the bar stool, balancing on one knee so she could reach over the bar to hug Richie. His beard was soft and scratchy like Irish wool. His skin smelled like … soap and something else. Fresh sawdust? She felt practically giddy to see him. She had not realized how much she had missed him. How much like coming home he was.
Tess had not been to the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub since the day Richie had helped her put the frame together. She hadn’t wanted to face him. She felt she’d used up all her “he done me wrong” jokes with the Matt situation, and that there was a fine line between being a wisecracking “dumpee” and being a pathetic two-time loser.
Of course in hindsight her embarrassment over Peter seemed ridiculous. Why had she imagined Richie would judge her? He would have just poured her a drink and told her, “Darling, men are beasts.” On the plane home from Mexico City she had thought about how much she was looking forward to going back to the Scrub-a-Dub-Pub. And so Tess had arranged to meet Ginny—whom she had not seen in weeks either—here after work. It would be Ginny’s first visit to the pub.
Forty minutes later Tess and Ginny were sitting on stools facing each other across the corner of the bar, sipping from their glasses in deep concentration. Richie watched them closely as they drank.
“It’s called a Dryer Martini,” Richie told them.
“Well … it’s certainly good, Richie,” said Tess tentatively. “But … it’s just a martini without any vermouth, right? As in, you know, a glass of gin?” She took another sip.
“Oh, but no, it has the ‘dryer sheet’ in it. Can’t you taste it?” Richie frowned slightly from beneath his red beard.
“The what?” said Ginny, picking up her glass and squinting at it. “Oh, yeah, there it is! It’s so sheer I didn’t notice it was even in there. What is it? I hope it’s not a real dryer sheet, is it?”
“It’s an ultra-thin shaving of ginger,” Richie said proudly.
“Mmmm!” murmured Tess, taking another taste from her glass. “I thought it was just a spicier brand of gin. Hey that is nice.”
“I was going to call it the Dry Cleaner, but I thought that might be going too far,” said Richie. Ginny winced and nodded in agreement.
“Hmm. You could make it with vodka and call it the Absolutely Dry Martini,” Tess piped up.
“You see?” he said, wagging a finger at her, before leaving them to go take an order on the other side of the bar. “You see why I’ve missed you?”
“He is so nice,” Ginny said effusively, waving her hand for emphasis in a reckless way that made Tess instinctively reach out to make sure she didn’t knock either one of their glasses over. Ordinarily Ginny wouldn’t have considered ordering a martini, but Richie insisted they both needed to test out his new recipes, scheduled to go on the bar menu next week. “Te
ss, no wonder you spend your whole life in here.”
“Oh, stop it! I haven’t even been in here since before Christmas.”
In a few minutes Richie was back. “Tell you what, I’ll make you guys a White Wash next. I need someone to try that out.” Tess started to signal surreptitiously that Ginny needed to stop, but Richie winked at Tess. “Don’t worry, it’s mostly milk.” He added that tomorrow he was going to invent a special drink in honor of Tess’s return, made with tequila, lime, and Jarritos soda, which he was going to call the Mexican Shrinker.
“Perfect,” laughed Tess. “Since I got back from Mexico, I feel like there was this long-term knot in my stomach—which was always there before, or at least as long as I can remember—that has shrunk down so much that now, it’s almost gone. In fact, I think it is gone.”
Ginny waved her glass in the air, spilling a little on the bar. “My knots are all gone too, but I think it’s probably the Dryer Martini at work.”
“No, but really, I feel as if I could … as if I could do something, I don’t know, not just get through everything … ,” Tess insisted, blotting the tiny spill with a cocktail napkin.
“I like the way that sounds,” Richie said to the ceiling, as he organized the glasses in the overhead rack.
“I hate to say it, Tess, but it may just be jet lag and vacation afterglow,” laughed Ginny. “For a whole week after I got home from Spain I was dancing around the kitchen with Bill. Even when he was standing still in the kitchen making coffee, I was dancing. It drove him crazy.”
Tess had only been back in New York for a few days. She couldn’t believe how new everything looked to her, as if she had been away a year instead of two weeks, and as if everything had somehow been altered slightly while she was gone. Her apartment looked like a magazine ad instead of the usual clutter she saw it as (okay, maybe it was not House Beautiful, but at least it was House Cool); the old books and knickknacks seemed like wonderful flavors in a creative soup, rather than the clogging mess she had felt they were before she left. Carmichael, who had been fed by the doorman in her absence, looked like a silver lion-god, moving gracefully through the sunlight pouring down on the blue and red Turkish rug.
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