by Curses!
"Yes, yes, but you're the only one who's disturbing their bones and the dust of their bodies, and the curse specifically mentions—"
"I remember the curse,” Gideon said with a sigh. The conversation was showing no signs of improving. “But whoever jumped me last night was a human being with a snootful of wine. And he grunted like anyone else when he got hit, and then scuttled off in a highly corporeal way."
Her splotchy face had set while he spoke. She was, he saw, giving up on him. And not a moment too soon, as far as he was concerned.
She nodded sadly at him before turning away. “All right, Dr. Oliver, but don't say I didn't try to tell you. The second phase of the curse has come to pass. You know what's in store next. The—"
"Wait,” he said, holding up his hand like a traffic policeman. “I don't think I want to know."
When she left he found that his headache was back. He swallowed a second dose of aspirin and walked out on the balcony to take advantage of the nonexistent breeze. He stood quietly at the railing, looking absently down at the foliage. Surely there couldn't be anything in what Emma had said? Not in the way she meant, of course—but was it conceivable that there was a connection between the attack and the curse? That someone might actually be trying to make it look as if—
Behind him he heard the front door of the room open.
"Hello?” Julie's voice. He perked up at once. “Is my husband in there somewhere under all that paper?"
He smiled and went back in. “Hi, coming to check up on me?"
"Yes, are you glad to see me?"
He kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Mm, you bet I am."
"Besides,” she said, “I couldn't face another turkey sandwich for lunch. I thought maybe you'd buy me a square meal in the dining room."
"You're on. How'd the dig go this morning?"
She had gone into the bathroom to wash her hands. “Fine,” she called over the running water. “Oh, your friend Stan Ard came prowling around looking for you, slavering to get a scoop on what happened last night. I told him I had no idea where you were.” She came out toweling her hands. “And the state police are already on the scene, you'll be happy to know."
"You mean they're here about last night?"
"Yes, and that note under the door. I spent half an hour—” There was a crisp doubletap at the door. “That must be the inspector, right on cue."
"The inspector?"
"Inspector Marmolejo. He said you know him."
"I do,” Gideon said, heading for the door. He was surprised; he hadn't expected the Chichen ltza guard to forward a report so promptly. Or a full-fledged inspector to hustle right out.
"Why don't we ask him to join us for lunch?” Julie said. “He seems like an interesting man."
"Oh, he is,” Gideon said. “He is."
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Chapter 13
* * * *
When Gideon had last seen Inspector Javier Alfonso Marmolejo of the Yucatecan State Judicial Police, he had been Subteniente Marmolejo, a puckish, elfin subordinate officer involved in the investigation into the stolen codex. He had been used by his pompous superior for little besides translation; his English was excellent. ("It's because so many of our crimes involve Americans,” he had explained to Gideon with sly ambiguity.)
In those days, pseudo-military dress and titles had still been in vogue for Mexican police officials, but Marmolejo, alone among his bemedaled, mirror-booted colleagues, had dressed as neatly and inconspicuously as a salesclerk. Now, having risen in the world, he had not changed his style; he wore the openthroated, outside-the-belt white shirt called the guayabera, neatly pressed pale-blue trousers, and well-cared-for oxfords on small feet that barely reached the floor when he was seated.
Although he was not yet fifty, the passage of almost six years had wizened the mahogany-skinned Marmolejo, leaving him with a radiating network of foxy wrinkles around his eyes, so that he was looking a little less like an elf these days and a lot more like a wise old monkey. He had changed in his manner too; increased rank had brought with it a mantle of assured, easygoing authority.
Not that he had lacked an aura of authority in 1982, despite his junior level. There had been times when the police operation had teetered on the edge of burlesque under the fat and incompetent colonel who was in charge; but always, one way or another, the level-headed Marmolejo had been able to bring things back from the brink before they collapsed into opera bouffe.
"A very nice dining room,” he said as they sat down at their table. “I always like to come here."
The Mayaland's restaurant was the coolest place in the hotel, an airy, tiled room a full two stories high, with thick white walls and great, dark, burnished ceiling beams of ceiba wood. Outside the screened windows was a long gallery with a vine-covered trellis that threw leafy, green-tinted shadows onto the walls. Beyond that was the bright blue swimming pool, hugged by a mounded, lavish landscape of tropical plants.
The only thing wrong with the room, from Gideon's point of view, was the enormous mural that covered one end wall; a vivid rendition of the Mayan corn-god legend, painted in garish purples and bloody reds, and full of naked, huge-breasted women, along with human heads hanging from trees by their hair and other unpleasantnesses that were part of the Mayan creation myth. Accurate enough, but hardly a stimulant to the appetite. Gideon and Julie always made sure to face away from it, as they had today, but Marmolejo had seated himself so that he was looking directly at it, and he gazed upon it now with contentment and affection. But of course Marmolejo himself was half Mayan, which no doubt made a difference.
"Well, Inspector,” Gideon said as the waitress set down a platter of lobster pate and crackers, “I'm glad to see you again, even if I had to take a few lumps to do it."
Marmolejo murmured his agreement and nodded affably, removing the unlit, half-smoked cigar from his mouth and laying it carefully in an ashtray. Gideon smiled to himself. Marmolejo's ever-present cigar was rarely alight, and then only briefly. There had been a running joke in the old days as to whether he owned more than one of them, or simply struck the same one in his mouth every morning and put it on the bedside table when he went to sleep at night.
"You're feeling all right now?” the inspector said.
"Fine. A few bruises."
"Good.” He spread a cracker with pate, then bit into it with relish. “I understand you couldn't see your attacker. You couldn't identify him if you were to meet him again?"
"No, I couldn't see anything at all."
"You can give us no clues? You noticed nothing?"
Gideon hesitated. “Well—"
"Why don't you ask the inspector whether Mexicans say ‘ow'?” Julie asked brightly.
Marmolejo had shrewd, narrow eyes set so far apart above his flat nose they seemed to look around you on both sides. He raised his eyebrows, drooped his eyelids and looked around either side of Gideon. “That sounds interesting,” he said pleasantly.
"Julie,” Gideon said, suddenly unsure of himself—he hadn't, after all, had a chance to check this diphthong business in any of his reference sources—"I don't know that this is the time—"
"Come on, prof, put your theories to the test. Put your money where your mouth is."
Thus challenged, Gideon did. What, he asked, would Marmolejo be likely to say if somebody hit him in the stomach?
The surprised policeman paused while a Mayan waitress in a huipil took their orders. They all asked for the comida corrida, the blue-plate special: soup, red snapper with fried banana and saffron rice, dessert. And bottles of Leon Negra, a dark, musky local beer.
Marmolejo continued to wait until the waitress was well away. Then he asked Julie: “Do you happen to speak Spanish, Mrs. Oliver?"
"No, I'm sorry."
Marmolejo nodded and turned to Gideon. “What would I say if someone hit me in the stomach?” His long, narrow teeth gleamed in a sudden smile. “I would say 'Chinga to madre!' He made an emphatic ges
ture. 'Pinche madre!"
Julie looked at him inquiringly. “Do I want to know what that means?"
"They are old Mexican sayings,” Marmolejo said blandly. “Very difficult to translate."
Gideon laughed and explained that he didn't mean, what would he say; he meant, what kind of sound would he make.
"Ah,” Marmolejo said, “in that case I think I would say ay!'” He considered a little more. “Or perhaps 'ay-ay-ay!' It would depend."
"Nothing else?” Gideon asked.
"Well, with strong enough motivation, maybe 'hi-joie!' I feel certain that some time soon you will permit me to know where this is leading."
"You wouldn't say ‘ow'?” Gideon persisted.
Marmolejo's eyebrows inched up a little further. “'Ow'? No, never ‘ow,’ he said, pronouncing it as a very satisfactory “ah-oo” to Gideon's ears if not to Julie's.
"Ha,” Gideon said. When the sopa de lima came—a tangy chicken broth tongue-curlingly flavored with lime—they ate hungrily while Gideon explained.
"So,” Marmolejo said, “what you are saying is that this person who attacked you with a chain—"
"I think it was a chain. It sounded like a chain."
"—with what you think was a chain, was not a latino but a norteamericano."
Gideon nodded.
"But are those the only two possibilities? Could he not have been, oh, a German, an Englishman, a Dane? People from all over the world come here."
"I don't think so. I think he was an American."
"Because he said...” The inspector arranged his mouth delicately. “...'ow'?” It wasn't quite the American version, but it was close.
"That's right,” Gideon said, rising to the faintly teasing tone, and if you're in the mood for a lecture on comparative linguistics, I am prepared to explain fully."
"Say no,” Julie said from the side of her mouth.
"No,” said Marmolejo. “I will gladly take your word. But I have another question. You were unable to see your attacker, correct? Then how was it he could see you? Or does this require a lecture on the principles of light refraction, in which case I am again prepared to take your word."
Gideon laughed. In 1982 Worthy had summed up the striking incongruity between Marmolejo's dark Indian looks and his frequently elegant English. “You look at the man and you expect don’ got to show you no steenkin’ bedge,'” he had said. “Instead you get Ricardo Montalban."
"He was standing in the portico of the Temple of the Jaguars,” Gideon said, “blocked from the lights and facing the other way. He jumped me the moment the lights went out. His eyes wouldn't have had to adapt."
"Ah, yes, of course.” The inspector poured himself a second glass of beer and rubbed a lime wedge around the rim. The limes had been delivered with the beers. In Yucatan, there was very little that did not come with limes. “Other than the members of your expedition, have you seen anyone you know—any norteamericanos—in the vicinity?"
"No."
"Which would seem to lead to the unhappy conclusion that it is one of your colleagues who attacked you. No?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Did you see any of them there yesterday evening?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Would any of them wish to do you harm?"
Gideon smiled. “No, some of them are a little strange, but I haven't been here long enough to get anyone mad at me yet. Not that mad, anyway."
"Merely enough to tell you to leave Yucatan or die,” Marmolejo observed mildly. “I wonder if a little police protection, quite discreet, of course, might not be called for."
"No, thanks,” Gideon said with feeling. “If you mean having one of your men following us around and sitting on our balcony while we're sleeping, forget it.” He'd had police protection before; all in all he preferred being stalked by a would-be killer, particularly one who was as ineffectual as this one seemed to be.
"Gideon,” Julie said, “are you sure it might not be a good idea?"
"I'm sure we can be less intrusive than that,” Marmolejo said.
"I know, but—"
"You have your wife to think about too, Dr. Oliver. If there is danger to you, then also...” He raised his hand, fingers spread, and looked in Julie's direction.
He was right, of course, and it was more than enough reason to take precautions. Besides, Marmolejo would do what he wanted; he was merely being polite. Gideon gave in. “Okay, thanks, Inspector. I appreciate it."
"Good, but I would like your cooperation too. No more wandering off alone; no more climbing mysterious ruins by yourself in the dark. When you go to or from the hotel, it must be with others. All right?"
"Look, Inspector, I don't need—"
"He promises,” Julie said quickly.
"Fine,” said Marmolejo. “And I promise in return to have no men sitting on your balcony during the night."
While they made their way through the fish course Gideon told them about his talk with Emma.
"Emma Byers?” Marmolejo interrupted. “The woman with the red face? The large, powerful woman?"
Gideon understood what he was driving at. He had been thinking about it himself, particularly since his talk with Emma.
It was Julie who asked the question. “Gideon, is it possible that it was a woman who attacked you?"
"I don't know,” he said honestly. “I couldn't swear it was a man. It could have been a woman—a large, powerful woman."
"What about the voice?” Marmolejo said. “You heard him speak."
"I heard him—or her—grunt. It was voiceless, a whisper. It could have been either a man or a woman."
"But you said you smelled wine,” Julie said. “Doesn't that rule out Emma? Preston, too, for that matter? All they eat is seaweed and tofu."
"That doesn't mean they have anything against booze. I've seen them drink.” He shook his head abruptly. “No, sorry, Emma's peculiar, but I can't see her trying to bash my head in with a chain."
"That,” Julie said, “is because you hate to think you might have been beaten up by a woman."
This veiled slur obliged him to explain in some detail how he hadn't been beaten up at all but had actually come off pretty well, considering.
Marmolejo seemed to be thinking about something else while this was going on. “Tell me more about the curse,” he said. He listened carefully to Gideon's explanation, asking several questions and growing more grave with the answers. He asked for a copy, which Gideon promised to get for him.
At last the inspector pushed aside his empty plate and picked up his unlit cigar, tapping it absently on the rim of the ashtray. "Que cosa," he said softly, looking at the corn-god mural from under lowered lids that made slits of his eyes.
"Do you know what the local name is for Tlaloc?” he asked. “I don't mean the meridanos, I mean the country people, the yucatecos. They call it la ciudad de maldiciones, the cursed city. That is what they called it before any outsiders knew of it. That is what their fathers and grandfathers called it.” Solemnly, he stuck the cigar in his mouth. "La ciudad de maldiciones."
Gideon eyed him uneasily. Now what the hell was all this about? Marmolejo was an intelligent, practical man. Surely he wouldn't give any credence to a four-hundred-year-old curse.
Or maybe not so surely. Once, over brandies, he'd told Gideon about his extraordinary past. He'd been born in his Mayan mother's village of Tzakol, which Gideon had seen—a derelict little collection of shacks near the Quintana Roo border, where curses were no doubt as common and unremarkable as the pigs that sunned themselves in the middle of the muddy streets. When he was seven, his father had taken the family to Merida. By eleven, he was one of the army of kids selling walkaway snacks of coconut slices and peeled oranges near the mercado.
Against enormous odds he had gone through school and eventually saved enough to buy his way into Yucatan's then graft-ridden police department. Now, after the cleanup, his integrity and abilities had made him a high-ranking civil servant. He had attended
the University of Yucatan as an adult. He was one of the few provincial officials to have graduated from the new national police academy. He was an educated man.
But who knew how much of Tzakol he still carried with him beneath that rational, sensible surface?
He saw the way Gideon was looking at him and laughed. “Don't worry, my friend. I doubt very much if it was the gods who attacked you with a chain. If it was a chain."
"I'm glad to hear it,” Gideon said.
There was a booming splash from outside. The rain had come at last, crashing onto the surface of the swimming pool like a performing whale falling back into a tank, then setting up a tremendous thrumming on the water, the broad-leafed foliage, and the roof of the restaurant. Julie, who took pride in having grown up in the wettest micro-climate in the United States, had never seen anything like it, and watched with her mouth open.
"On the other hand,” Marmolejo said easily, reaching for his cigar, “I wouldn't go out of my way to annoy them."
With the downpour, the viscous humidity went out of the air, as if the rain had pounded it into the earth, and a luscious, blossom-scented breeze flowed into the dining room like balm onto a wound. They shifted in their chairs, bathing in it appreciatively. At Marmolejo's suggestion, they ordered coffee with their caramel custard. A few moments before, hot coffee would have been unthinkable.
"I want to show you both something,” he said. He set down his cup, and from the unoccupied seat at his right he took a paper bag and laid it on the table. Reaching inside with care he slid out an old Stanley pipe wrench, much used, its coating of red paint almost worn away.
"Do you recognize this?"
"I think so,” Julie said. “Isn't it one of the dig tools?” Gideon agreed that it was.
Marmolejo looked at Gideon. “It doesn't seem otherwise familiar?"
"Well, I think it's the same one we had in ‘82, if that's what you mean."
Marmolejo shook his head. That wasn't what he meant. He took hold of the heavy wrench carefully, not on the handle but near the loose jaws, and lifted it. He gave it a single firm shake.