No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  He has dodged my question, but I let it go for the moment. He obviously doesn’t want to address it yet. “Like someone taking the Liberty Bell from America or the Magna Carta from England?” I ask.

  “No, not at all. The historical treasures of rich nations are not just guarded; they are protected from thieves, negligence, and the ravages of the elements. That isn’t the case in nations where most of the people are desperately poor and the preservation of artifacts takes bread from them. In this country, it’s not unusual for a farmer to break up an ancient monument containing irreplaceable artwork to build a rock wall.

  “And before you pass judgment on me and archaeologists around the world who find ancient artifacts and ship them home, keep in mind that most of those irreplaceable, often priceless relics wouldn’t survive if they were not removed and safely stored in museums and private collections outside the poor country where they are being battered.”

  There’s logic to what he’s saying. But in a perfect world, the rich people and institutions would build museums in the poor countries to shelter the antiquities. That way, people could see their own glorious past and maybe get a spark of pride from it. However, I don’t want to antagonize him with my egalitarian ideals when he hasn’t finished telling me about bloodsucking creatures of the night, so I nod my head in vague agreement.

  “I apologize,” he says. “I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent, but this is something I have been struggling with ever since I got involved in archaeology. Are you familiar with the concept of mordida?”

  “No.”

  “Mordida means ‘bite.’ It’s a bribe given to a public official, like a judge or tax collector, to avoid fines and taxes. A system of that oils the wheels in this country and most other poor countries. In the case of antiquities, we pay the bite to get permits granted so we can excavate ruins and ship out what we find.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Don Antonio gets mordida. If Traven’s rich “angel” is an American, it’s almost certain that Traven is shipping the relics through El Paso. They wouldn’t get through if Don Antonio gave it a thumbs-down.

  “We don’t take everything. Only the best,” Traven continues. “I can see from the look on your face and the way your hands are wringing that napkin that you are considering strangling me for being a thief of history. But please take into consideration that what I don’t save will probably end up on the rubble pile of history.”

  “I understand. You are a great humanitarian who is saving the history of Mexico by sending it to a rich foreigner who will show it only to his family and close friends, none of whom, I presume, is Mexican or has even visited the country. Is that about the sum of it?”

  “Fair enough, Fräulein. Without the sarcasm.”

  “So what does the money bite and saving history’s relics have to do with an old prospector and were-jaguars?”

  “May I give you some advice before I respond to your cross-examination? Don’t even think about entering the diplomatic corps. I suspect you would start more wars than avoid them.”

  I can’t help but laugh, not a “ha-ha,” but nice laughter of relief. “You’re right, Traven. I’m tired. And achy. I feel as if I’ve been put through a wringer. I apologize.”

  “Fair enough. But you still think I’m a scoundrel. Perhaps you should come out to Teotihuacán and see for yourself the state of preservation of Mexican antiquities.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Let me know if you decide to come and I will make the arrangements. In regard to the prospector, I would greatly appreciate if it you would tell me exactly what you saw. I heard only the barest details on the train.”

  “Because no one believed me.”

  “Exactly. In return for taking the trouble to educate me, I will share information with you.”

  “Fair enough.” And I go into all I remember to describe what I saw that night.

  “And you’re certain it was a face, not a bag on his shoulder?”

  “Absolutely. But it might have been a mask.”

  “That’s what I am wondering. I take it you haven’t seen the performers who portray Aztec Jaguar Knights for the tourists in the main square. You should have a look and see if there is any similarity.”

  “I’ll do that. I also saw something else. After I defended your donkey, when I was going back to the train, someone was watching me.”

  “Someone dressed as a jaguar?”

  “I don’t know how to put it, but there was something, someone … scarier, more chilling. More like … like…”

  “A man-beast.”

  “Yes. At least not an obvious mask.”

  “That is what I want to share with you.” Traven looks at me intently. “I told you we get official permission to remove antiquities by paying mordida to officials. But there are some elements of society that want to stop us.”

  “The Cult of the Jaguar?”

  “Perhaps. I haven’t seen what you saw on the train or outside the train, but I have been having trouble at the dig. Workers have been scared off. I’ve had to hire guards. And rumors are swirling. There are claims that were-jaguars were seen.”

  He shakes his head. “After years of digging at a number of different sites in the region, this came up suddenly after I relocated to Teotihuacán a few months ago.”

  “Maybe you’re close to something that somebody wants to protect.”

  “If that’s the case, they know more than I do. Teo is the largest and most important archaeological site in Mexico, but most of its relics are too large to move.”

  He stares at me for a moment. “You keep nodding your head and pursing your lips as if you’re mulling over something—what?”

  “Try this on for size. You think the old prospector really did have a map because there was no reason to kill him unless he did. And you’re wondering if that map showed Montezuma’s treasure as being in Teo. And if he said something about Teo to me.”

  “Did he?”

  He deserved an answer for helping me on the street, and I gave it. “No. But I have one more impression. You’re wondering if you’re going to be murdered by zealots who want to keep the country’s antiquities from being stolen by foreigners. Besides the fanatics dressing up as were-jaguars to scare off your workers, you’re worried that they might come around one day and have you make a blood sacrifice.”

  I sure know how to say things that bring a conversation to a complete halt.

  38

  I stop at the front desk to speak to the night clerk after parting from Traven and getting my hand kissed again. I like the way Europeans treat women, though I’ve heard they often behave more chivalrously toward other women than toward their own wives.

  Even though our conversation ended abruptly, I was able to ask Traven if his hotel, which is up the street from mine, had any empty rooms—I was thinking maybe I’d get lucky and find a room for Roger. No such luck. As far as he knew, the hotel was full up.

  “Where can I find information about the Aztecs, Montezuma, and antiquities that predate the conquest?” I ask the clerk. “A library won’t do. I can’t read Spanish.”

  He ponders the question for a moment. “Museo Azteca.”

  Ah. An Aztec museum. Perfect. Why didn’t I think of that? If tourists go there, someone must speak English. He writes down the address so that I can give it to a cabbie in the morning.

  “Gracias.”

  Usually, I would bounce up the flights of steps, but tonight I’m bushed. I still feel like I’ve been put through a laundry wringer and every ounce of energy I had has been wrung out—again.

  I’m not surprised, yet I’m disappointed to find Roger still in residence, asleep on top of the covers with his clothes on when I enter. A book on his chest indicates he’d been reading before dozing off.

  I hold my tongue and refrain from saying something caustic about his earlier promise to find another room even if he had to sell his body on the streets. Those weren’t his exact words, but the tho
ught reflects my own feelings as to what he should resort to in order to get out of my room, if he is a gentleman.

  “Message slipped under the door.” He nods at a pink envelope atop the blankets I will use again to sleep on the hard floor.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Brilliant deduction.”

  I ignore his sarcastic remark and pick up the envelope. My name is written on the top of fine stationery in an elaborate swirl. “From Gertrude,” I mutter to myself.

  As I slip the note out, my eye goes to the bold signature at the end of the short note before I even read the contents. I gasp.

  “What’s the matter?” Roger bolts up on the bed. “You all right?”

  “Lily Langtry.”

  “What about Lily Langtry? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did she die?”

  “She’s inviting me to lunch.”

  He stares at me for a moment, as if he’s unable to grasp what I said. Then slowly and mechanically, he says, “Lily Langtry invited you to lunch.”

  “Lily Langtry invited me to lunch.”

  It’s unbelievable. I check the envelope and note again in case I made a mistake. No question. It’s signed with her name. And the stationery must have cost a pretty penny. It has to be from her.

  “Why?” Roger asks the question, but it is the same one buzzing in my head, except his tone implies that she has contacted me about scrubbing her floors rather than about my being a newspaper reporter.

  “No doubt she found out that I am also staying in the hotel,” I say haughtily, “and wishes to have me interview her for an article. People in Pittsburgh are quite familiar with the who and what of London, Paris, and New York.”

  “Well, I would think so. I’m sure that Nellie Bly of The Pittsburgh Dispatch is known all the way to…” He grins. “The city limits?”

  * * *

  I’VE NEVER BEEN ONE to be in a sweet disposition when I wake in the morning, especially when I’ve had broken sleep. This morning, I’m in a particularly foul mood. I had been asleep only a couple of hours when I felt something much larger than a cockroach sitting on top of me.

  When I struck a match from the box I keep next to me to check on crawling critters, I found myself staring into the shiny eyes of a gray mouse. He probably was more scared than I was, but I sent him flying.

  Had it been a rat, I would have marched downstairs and slept on a lobby couch if the clerk couldn’t find me a room, but I was raised on a farm, and house mice I can handle. However, that little mouse spiked up my adrenaline and getting back to sleep was impossible. Instead, my mind kept running my conversation with Traven over and over through my head. It didn’t set right with me. And neither does an invitation from one of the most famous and glamorous women in the world. Why does she want to have lunch with me?

  The sarcasm from that bastard snoring on the only bed in the room hit home. It would be a cold day in hell before a woman with her international stature gave an interview to a girl reporter from a newspaper known far and wide … in Pittsburgh.

  Some game is being played—cat and mouse. Or is it jaguar and Nellie?

  It started on the train with a man being killed and then tossed off by what appeared to be a creature of the night. And it followed me to a gruesome attack on a cobblestone street in Mexico City. Now an invitation arrives that both excites and thrills me.

  In all honesty, I should be dizzy with pleasure at the prospect of interviewing Lily Langtry, and I am—if I just knew what the invitation is for. I don’t think one of the world’s most famous actresses wants to talk about were-jaguars with me. Montezuma’s treasure would be another thing. Being rich and having everything never keeps people from wanting more.

  To quote Shakespeare or someone else wordy like that, methinks that there is a game afoot here and I am a pawn about to be the sacrificial lamb.

  Or … maybe I am just being paranoid and the woman actually does want some publicity about her Mexico trip. Maybe she doesn’t know that Pittsburgh is not a hub of the universe.

  And maybe I am kidding myself.

  Instead of puttering around leisurely in the morning, which I normally do to bring life back into my mind and body, I quickly get up and hurry out the door before Roger wakes up. Not only does his presence put me in more of a sour mood but I may strangle him.

  39

  A cabbie deposits me in front of a building that looks more like a palace than a museum.

  The outside walls are thick masonry, but they are a unique and stunning reddish color. The main entrance and portal are done in a grayish white stone, as is the central balcony. The elaborate portals are Baroque. But what interests me most is that the columns rest on clawed feet that have above them netherworld lionlike stone faces that appear to leer up at anyone who enters.

  Squatting down, I examine the not quite human faces to see if they have the jaguar features I’ve been encountering.

  “Buenos días, señorita.”

  I look up, to find a tall and lanky elderly gentleman with bushy white hair that is pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Buenos días, señor. Uh, hablas Inglés?”

  “Far too little now that we get occasional norteamericano visitors,” he says with only the slightest accent, “but I spent some time in Texas. Forgive my manners.” He politely gives me a hand to help me up. “I have not introduced myself. I am Francisco Guerrero y Torres, curator for this museum.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Nellie Bly.” I choose not to tell him I’m a newspaper reporter, out of fear that it would put him on guard and make him less inclined to speak uncensored.

  “What brings you to our museum, Señorita Bly?”

  “The love of history. I’d like to increase my very inadequate knowledge of Mexican history prior to the conquest. I was told your museum holds some of the finest pieces of Mexican art.”

  I hadn’t been told anything of the kind, but I hope my compliment will open the door. His answer surprises me.

  “Then you must allow me to give you a personal tour.”

  “I’d love that. What are these creatures at the foot of the columns? Are they jaguars?”

  “No, jaguars are the jungle cats only of the New World. These are not Mexican, but European. They are called chimeras. You probably best know them as gargoyles. The creatures were designed to frighten away evil spirits so they wouldn’t enter a building. Protectors, you might say.”

  He points at a symbol on the wall of the entrance. “However, this is definitely Aztec.”

  It appears to me to be a drawing of part of a head, but without a face. Very plain and simple, it looks as if a child could have scribbled it.

  “As you know,” he continues, “the Aztecs used picture writing. This is the name glyph of Montezuma the Second, the emperor who thought Cortés was a returning god. The symbol shows a crown, nosepiece, ear spool, and speech scroll. When it appears in print or on a wall, you know it is the emperor’s name.”

  The museum entryway opens to a Spanish-style courtyard that is large enough to fit the Cochran’s Mills house I lived in until I was six. It is two-storied, with the rooms of the upper level set back from a wide balcony with a black wrought-iron railing. The balcony is supported by the columns of a veranda that runs the length of the ground floor. Brilliant red bougainvillea interlaced with fragrant white jasmine covers the veranda railing and races up the columns.

  The courtyard is paved with light gray tiles that have a brownish tint. In the center is a fountain where a stern Neptune is attacking a sea monster with his three-pronged spear as pink and white water lilies float on the pond’s surface.

  The only evidence that we are in a museum rather than in the home of an aristocrat are stone edifices of the past that are lined up in front of the veranda all the way around the courtyard.

  At first glance, it is obvious that the relics of a grand past have not been treated well by man or time. They are chipped and broken, not unlike the archaeological treasures I’ve seen in bo
oks from other civilizations. But even though the pictures I’ve seen of the Venus de Milo in Paris show both of her arms broken off, the Aztec warrior nearest me looks worse for wear even though he’s missing only one hand. With many chips and dirt and dust still encrusted, he conveys the impression that he had returned battered from a battle he didn’t fare well in.

  Broken pieces of what had been statues of people, animals, and creatures from nightmares are rather haphazardly scattered about. There is neither order nor serious care given to any of these relics. Quite sad, but I suppose the fact that they have been taken from farmers’ fields and brought within the museum walls are the most that can be done in this poor country.

  The courtyard, fountain, and building itself all have something of a look of abandonment—that at some time in the distant past, they became dilapidated as the ordinary upkeep was ignored by the owners. Yet still, there is a tattered but elegant beauty to the mansion, like a rose pressed between the pages of a book and forgotten.

  “The museum occupies only the courtyard and some rooms on the ground floor,” he tells me as I look around. “The second floor is the residence of the family who own this grand house. They are the descendants of the conquistador who built it after the conquest. As a warrior of the conquerors, he shared in some of the great wealth Cortés and his small army of Spaniards gathered. Many of the conquistadors or their descendants built fine houses like this in the city or on the vast haciendas they were awarded.

  “The house has been passed down from generation to generation, but times have changed and they can no longer afford the upkeep, so they are letting us use the bottom half. Fortunately, a few of my countrymen still treasure their glorious history enough to generously pay the rent.”

  From the state of the maintenance and the lack of care given to the antiquities, it is pretty obvious that the donors are either not that rich or not that generous.