I shut the door and turn back to Roger. “You almost did it.”
He cocks his head and stares at me. “Did what?”
“Got me to like you. Fortunately, once again, you showed your true colors.”
35
“You had us greatly concerned,” Don Antonio says when I am seated at a corner table of the hotel café, where lunch is served.
The café is closed, but the consul general is important enough to get the three of us a table and refreshments.
Gertrude gives no clue that she has discovered once again that I am a fallen woman. To the contrary, from the glint in her eye and small, secretive smile, I do believe her opinion of me as an independent woman has risen to new heights.
“I was notified by the police department, but that word came only a short time ago,” Don Antonio tells me.
I explain what happened, giving them the short version: I fainted from the sun and dehydration. I don’t know what the police told him, but I hope it wasn’t any more than what I offered, because I fear that Don Antonio will escort me to the train station and give me a one-way ticket to El Paso if he believes I am fantasizing about being attacked by bizarre mythical creatures from Mexican history.
It’s evident from his rather official tone that I am on probation. If he knew what Gertrude knew about my “morals,” he’d have me on that train pronto.
“How is your room?” Don Antonio asks. “Is it comfortable? The city is crowded, but I could—”
“It’s okay, Uncle,” Gertrude says, interrupting him. “I saw it. Very comfortable.” She gives me a smile.
Damn—damn—damn. I know she’s only trying to help, but I would have complained about the room, in the hopes of getting one where I didn’t have to sleep on the floor.
He draws on his cigar and eyes me narrowly through the smoke. “The note from the chief of police said you were hallucinating when you arrived there from the hospital.”
Taking a deep breath, I try to keep my voice calm and not reveal my panic as I give him a version of the truth. Not knowing how much he knows puts me in a bad spot. If he catches me in a lie, I’m doomed.
“I’m so embarrassed. All those stories about strange creatures on the train. I’m not exactly sure what I told the doctor or the police, but I think the heat and not being used to this high altitude affected me. I’m sure they got an earful of hallucinating gibberish.”
I hope I was vague enough not to excite his interest further on exactly what I did say.
“I can understand that,” Gertrude pipes up. “It was a really strange journey—that old prospector going missing and all that. Then there’re all the walking horrors on the streets as the town gets ready for the Day of the Dead. It’s completely understandable. I think we should get together tomorrow, Nellie.” She turns to her uncle and gives him a loving smile. “You’ll give us a list of nice things to see, won’t you, Uncle?”
“Oh course, my dear.” He smile and nods, but there is something in the way he stares at me with half-closed eyes that makes me nervous.
“Great! You get a good night’s sleep, Nellie.” She gives me a wink. “We’ll meet up in the afternoon. I have a commitment for lunch, but I will come by about two.”
I let out a little sigh and tell them truthfully, “All I want to do for the rest of my time in Mexico is see the many wonderful things the country has to offer and share them with my readers.”
It isn’t just a little bit of sugar for Don Antonio. The truth is that I have no intention of getting into any more messes, and I decide to cement this by taking a bold step.
“Would you do me a great favor?” I ask Don Antonio. “I am so thrilled about what I’ve already seen, especially the delightful festival honoring the dead that’s coming up, would you mind reading my first article before I wire it to my paper?”
I am so pleased with myself for figuring out a way to reassure him of my good intentions so I don’t get thrown out of the country, I grin like a banshee.
“Of course, señorita. It will be my pleasure. In fact, it will be my honor to assist you with all your articles. I will instruct the post office that your transmittals must all come through me first.”
Now I’ve really done it. Me and my big mouth.
36
As I reach the bottom of the hotel stairs at dinnertime, the man who tried to whip the donkey and who came to my aid on the street is waiting.
“Fräulein, what a pleasure it is to see you again.”
He kisses my hand.
“Nice to see you, too … when I’m not lying on the ground.”
He chuckles. “The sun, the water…”
I groan. “If I hear about the sun or anything else one more time, I will run out of this hotel screaming.”
He stares at me, speechless, and I give him a smile to break the ice I’ve created. “Guten Abend, Herr Traven.”
“Ah, I see you also speak German. You are a woman of many talents.” He smiles and takes my hand as we head for the dining room.
“Thank you, but I must warn you, I speak very little of your language. Muy poquito, as the Mexicans would say. Where I’m from, we have German-speaking neighbors who are called Pennsylvania Dutch. Don’t ask me why they’re called Dutch. From Deutsch, I guess. It’s from them I have picked up a few phrases. Very nice people. And they don’t whip their animals.”
“Are you ever going to forgive me for that moment of frustration?”
“It’s the donkey’s forgiveness you should ask for.”
“Good enough. After we have dinner, I will find a jackass and beg for absolution.”
“There may be one right here in the hotel I could introduce you to.” I am thinking of Roger, of course.
We are seated before I ask him a question that’s been puzzling me. “I’m curious. Is Traven your first or last name?”
“Both. It keeps things simple.”
It always intrigues me when people are vague about their names. This usually means they have a good reason—often connected to avoiding the police. I’d like to know what his is.
“No. I’m not on the run from the police.”
“You read minds?”
“Only through a person’s eyes. I saw the thought churning in your brain.”
“And what is a gentleman from Germany doing with pack animals in rural Mexico?”
“I’m an archaeologist, conducting a dig. And you are in Mexico for…”
“I’m a foreign correspondent for The Pittsburgh Dispatch. But I’m sure you already knew that.”
“Yes. I heard about you on the train.”
Oh great.
“I can see your mind working again, Nellie. In answer to the question in your head, yes, I heard that you are a hysterical woman who was seeing things because she had too much to drink. Champagne, I believe. A good vintage, I’m told. But I also heard that the American man—someone called him a gold prospector—you saw go off the train actually was missing.”
“Then you must have also heard that because of my fragile female constitution, I suffered such severe mental trauma that I was imagining strange creatures that attack and kill people.”
“Something of that nature. But after verbally dueling with you over a donkey, I don’t believe you are any more fragile than anyone else who witnesses traumatic events.”
I sit back as if I am relaxed, but I can’t help but tense up. I don’t know how to take him. He’s not taunting me. To the contrary, I get the impression that he’s opening the subject for discussion. There is something behind the dinner invitation besides inquiring about my health after the incident today. But I don’t know where to direct the conversation, because I know almost nothing about him. I don’t want word to get back to Don Antonio that I talk incessantly about Mexican creatures from nightmares.
“I want to thank you for your assistance today. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”
“You would have been all right. Not speaking the langu
age fluently would have posed something of a problem, but Mexican people are generally quite helpful and would have gotten you to the hospital. But I was happy to be in the area. Fortunately, the artifacts I brought from my dig are stored near where you fainted.”
Well, that answers one of my questions. I suspect he knew I was going to ask how he happened along; otherwise, he wouldn’t have offered the information.
The waiter arrives and converses in Spanish with Traven. This is fine with me because it gives me a breather. Things are moving too fast. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth about his being in the area when I passed out, but I also have no reason to doubt him … except that it is a coincidence. And I don’t like coincidence.
They stop conversing and Traven looks at me. “He recommends foie gras, salad nicoise, roasted quail with cherries, garlic pommes frites—”
“Frijoles con queso, cebollas, and tortillas. With salsa,” I add.
Traven purses his lips and nods. “Beans with cheese, onions, tortillas, and salsa.”
The waiter gives a worried look and rattles something off to Traven.
“He wants to know if you’re certain—”
“Yes. Tell him I’m a peon at heart.”
He does—at least I understood that the word peon was used in his statement to the waiter.
The waiter leaves, shaking his head.
Traven chuckles. “He has to speak to the chef. But I can assure you they will accommodate you. However, I have to warn you—they won’t have your selection in the kitchen unless it’s left over from lunch served to the staff. They probably will send someone to the marketplace to get your dinner.”
Oh my, I hope he is wrong. One of the first things I noticed when I went out today was that on almost every street corner, women were on their knees, mashing corn between smooth stones, making it into a thick batter, and finally shaping it into round, flat cakes. I was shocked when they spit on their hands to keep the dough from sticking. They fry the tortillas in a pan of hot grease, kept heated by a few lumps of charcoal.
I love tortillas, but, like eating a chicken leg, I don’t need to know how it got to the table.
What also amazed me is that both the rich and poor buy and eat the street-made tortillas, unmindful of the way they are made. But it is a bread that Americans must be educated to. Many Americans surprise the Mexicans by refusing even a taste after they see how they are made. When one elderly tortilla lady offered me one, I couldn’t refuse. With that look on her face, I felt like I was insulting her. To my surprise, it was delicious.
“What brings a German here to Mexico and not to Egypt to dig up the past?”
“In my case, a lust to experience life in many directions. I was a deck officer on a steamer, but I jumped ship in Alexandria and met an archaeologist at a hotel. He invited me to go up the Nile with him to Luxor and a dig in the Valley of the Kings. I believe the main reason for the invitation was because of security. I know how to shoot a gun.
“As you probably know, most practical archaeology is learned in the field rather than in the classroom. I discovered I liked digging up the past and learned quickly on the job. But I soon found that the Egyptian field was too crowded with university archaeologists being financed by wealthy collectors and rich museums. It takes wealthy backers to dig in Egypt, because the fees paid to the government are high and digs normally take years. The progress is counted in years because the easily found artifacts have long since been removed. Years on a single dig to find a few artifacts was too slow for me.”
“Then why are you still an archaeologist?”
“It got in my blood. I relish restoring the past, finding objects built by human hands a hundred or a thousand years ago and still in good condition. When I handle relics, I sense a little bit of the maker in them.
“I heard from other Europeans about how free and open Mexico is, and their colorful history is not well known. So I decided to give it a try. And I’m very glad I did. There are still political and bureaucratic bottlenecks to deal with, but the fees are minimal compared to those in Egypt and there’s little competition.”
He shrugs and gives a slight look of frustration. “That was five years ago. It’s still a struggle, but there are some wealthy collectors of Mesoamerican artifacts, and I have made a connection with one.”
“And who is this wealthy collector?”
“Ah, Miss Bly … It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and will stay that way for a while longer. I’m busy building my career.”
“Smart woman. I also am too busy building my career to consider other pleasures.”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“No, just not answering it.”
“And why not? A man of means is helping you uncover the past. I’m sure he would appreciate some publicity, giving him credit for using his money for some good.”
Traven shakes his head. “No, archaeological digs are a cutthroat business. Where to dig and who will pay for it are trade secrets that are fiercely guarded and defended. It’s a treasure hunt and is as closely guarded as a pirate’s treasure map.”
“Or an old prospector’s one.”
Here I go again. It just popped out, but I could see from his face that I had hit right on the nose the reason he invited me to dinner.
37
My peon’s dinner is served on silver plates and looks fit for a queen. And it is delicious. The chef added a sweet corn tamale that is delectable.
However, my comment about the prospector hung over the meal like the proverbial “skeleton at the feast,” adding a sprinkle of suspense to the dinner because neither of us addressed the remark, letting it dangle in front of us but just out of reach.
We both had custard for dessert, he a French crème brûlée and I the Mexican flan with caramel poured over it.
When the plates were cleared, Traven suggested a spicy chocolate drink made from cacao that has peppers added.
“Mexico produces the finest chocolate drinks in the world from its cacao trees. It’s an ancient drink that predates the conquest. They say Montezuma drank a couple dozen cups a day.”
“Maybe he should have given Cortés a cup of it with some hemlock sprinkled in.”
“All right, you win.”
“What have I won?”
“That I have to volunteer information before you do. You deliberately avoided following up with your comment about the prospector, waiting to see if I would crack first.”
“Isn’t that why you invited me to dinner? To pump me about what I know about Howard, the prospector, treasure hunter, camp cook, whatever he is or was, and his map to Montezuma’s hoard?”
“In my defense, I am only half guilty. I invited you to dinner because you are an attractive woman and I wanted to know more about you and the challenging career you have chosen. And I wanted to know more about the prospector.”
“Why are you interested in him?”
“Isn’t it obvious, Fräulein? He was a treasure hunter. I am a treasure hunter. That is what an archaeologist does—he seeks buried treasure, though not for the same reasons as those who hunt only for precious metals. If Montezuma’s treasure does exist, it would be a great archaeological find.”
“I’ve been told that you can buy a map like his, if he really did have one, for a peso on the street.”
“True, and I’ve been offered ones that appear so genuine that only the fact there was no treasure where they showed proves they are frauds. No, it’s not the map that first caught my interest, but the jaguar.”
“Really? Well, you are the first to have any interest in that subject. The consensus is that I was hallucinating. Too much champagne.”
“I believe you saw a were-jaguar.”
I almost choke on the chocolate drink. Besides Gertrude, he is the first person to just blatantly say the word, and he wants to talk about it. This is both interesting and puzzling, but I’m cautious about launching into the subject, saying things that might get back
to Don Antonio. The subject isn’t really settled in my mind, either. The fact is, I’ve seen two different creatures—one was an obvious mask and the other I don’t know how to describe except that it was infinitely more frightening.
“Nellie, I’m not suggesting that you saw some mythical beast of the night.”
“Than what are you saying?”
He proceeds to tell me pretty much what I had already heard from Gertrude—that the Cult of the Jaguar was formed to drive out the Spanish after the conquest and that from it grew legends about magician-priests who could shape-change into the big jungle cats.
“In Nahuatl, the Aztec language, the priests able to transform into jaguars were magicians called nawals. Many people believe nawals still exist. Mexico is still very primitive in most rural areas, with people having some beliefs not much different from those of their Aztec ancestors.”
“Do you believe these shape-changing magicians really exist?”
“I’ve seen ones villagers claim are nawals, but I’ve never seen anyone change shape from man to beast. But as I said, there are plenty of people in this country who do believe it, more than you’d find in Europe, where many people believe werewolves exist.”
“Are you telling me that a nawal killed the prospector?”
“Someone killed the prospector. You saw a struggle. And accusations that you had had too much champagne are nonsense. No one wants to believe you saw a creature, because they would have to admit there actually is a spirit world where things they don’t understand exist.” He hesitates. “As for who attacked the man…” He shakes his head. “I leave open the possibility that there are things I’ve never seen that can only be described as bizarre, but I also only acknowledge what my five senses tell me. The only transformation from man to jaguar I’ve seen has mostly been accomplished by street entertainers.”
“‘Mostly’?”
We are already speaking in a low tone, and he lowers his voice even more to a very confidential note.
“Mexico has not been kind to its rich archaeological treasures. Like Egypt and other poor countries with a glorious past, it has permitted foreigners to come in and take them.”
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