by Lyn Hamilton
“Gracias,” I said, and Jonathan and I headed back up to the entrance.
“What was that all about, may I ask?” he said as we left that horrible building to breathe real air again.
“I wanted to ask her for more information about what happened to Don Hernan,” I said.
“Shouldn’t this be left to the police?”
“I have a bad feeling about Martinez’s investigation of this case. I think in his haste to wrap up a high-profile case like this one—Don Hernan has, after all, an international reputation in his field—he’s prepared to overlook some discrepancies.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the scene of the crime. About as basic a detail as you can get, wouldn’t you say? When we went to identify the body, Martinez said that Don Hernan was probably killed in his office, but I don’t think that’s right. There was dust all over his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. You don’t get that kind of dust on you working at your desk. I got the impression Eulalia Gonzales didn’t think he was murdered in his office, either. Don’t you have to wonder why Martinez would insist that he was?”
“You may be being unfair to the police, Lara. Maybe Martinez just isn’t saying anything publicly. I’m going to take you back to the hotel. You should get some rest after this ordeal.”
Part of me agreed with him. In any event, I had another plan. So I let him drive me back to the hotel. On the way back, he reached over and squeezed my hand.
“When this all settles down, let’s keep that date we had for a day out in the country again, just the two of us.”
“Great idea,” I said, hoping he meant it.
I spent the rest of the day helping the Ortiz family make the funeral arrangements. The police had promised to release the body that evening, and the funeral was to be two days hence.
We all turned in early, exhausted beyond words. Dona Josefina had retired to her room before I had returned to the hotel. I did not see her that evening.
I set the alarm for three a.m., and it took me a minute or two to get my bearings when it went off. Then I was back in the black clothes. This was a task that required going out the window again. I did not wish to be seen leaving the hotel at this hour.
I figured the museo was less than a mile from the inn. Not wishing to flag down a cab, I jogged, keeping to the residential streets as much as possible and clinging to the shadows. When I reached the museo, I hid in the little garden at the back while I caught my breath. I could see no sign of police—no cars, no guards.
I still had the key to Don Hernan’s office, and since there was only one key at the hotel, I was reasonably sure it was a master. It was marked museo, not office, and Don Hernan had been executive director of the museo. I carefully made my way to the back door.
In a couple of seconds I was inside and moving up the stairs as quietly as I could. When I got to the top floor, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I could see police tape across the office doorway, but no guard was posted. The police work there had by and large been done.
I crept down the hallway. It was very easy to slide under the yellow tape and let myself into the office. I had brought a flashlight from the kitchen at the inn, and I did a quick sweep of the room. No eyeglasses. No cane. Only the sad chalk outline where the body had been found.
The diary, which I had dropped in my haste to escape on my last visit, was wedged between the window ledge and a filing cabinet, and had obviously been missed in a cursory police search. I grabbed it, and then retraced my steps, pausing at the museo door to make sure no one was outside before stepping into the plaza.
By four-thirty I was back in bed. But I did not sleep. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Up to this point, I’d been tinkering around the edges. But it was like trying to stick your toe into the water just above Niagara Falls. You could not help but be swept away. In this case, I found myself being pulled inexorably into a world of masks, a world of evil. Perhaps, I thought, I was about to live my dream of my first night in Merida, falling into the black world of Xibalba where the Lords of Death await.
Why did I go willingly?
Maybe some recessive impulsive gene surfaced in me at this late stage. Maybe all the hurt and resentment of the past year or so got focused on these events. Or maybe I just got mad.
I think, though, it was something more fundamental:
Don Hernan had called me amiga. He’d thought he needed a partner in this undertaking, and he’d called on me.
I guess I just had to do something.
The next day, Lamat, a day associated with the rabbit, was as good a day as any to start. I’d have to solve the riddle, find the rabbit, and follow it wherever it took me.
I’d already committed at least one illegal act—theft— and from a murder scene at that. Better make that two. I’d withheld information about a crime, the robbery in the bar, from the police. Before this was played out, there might be more.
This would not make the federal police, particularly Major Ignacio Martinez, happy.
I decided that when it came right down to it, I didn’t much care what Major Martinez thought.
LAMAT
It is the bottom of the eighth inning of the final ball game between the mythic Hero Twins and the Lords of Xibalba. It does not look good for our heroes. The evil lords have cut off Hunahpu’s head and have substituted it for the ball!
The other twin, Xbalanque, however, has a plan of his own. Taking a leaf from the Xibalbans’ book, he asks a rabbit to wait in the bushes near the edge of the ball court and then lobs his brother’s head in that direction.
The rabbit, in a star turn if ever there was one, bounds away right on cue. The Xibalbans think the rabbit is the head, of course, and run shrieking after it. With the Xibalbans thus distracted, Xbalanque has time to replace Hanahpu’s head. Victory over the Xibalbans is near.
Rabbits pop up everywhere in Maya mythology and history, I found as I worked my way through the reference library at the museo. It was a tedious process. The museo, a private institution, always suffered from inadequate funding, and while the office was the proud owner of a new computer, and the collection itself was gradually being cataloged electronically, the reference-library contents were still cataloged on little cards in little drawers.
Other rabbits I found that day: there is a ruin of a classic Maya structure called Muyil on the eastern coast of the Yucatan peninsula, south of Tulum Pueblo. Muyil means the “Place of Rabbits.”
The Moon Goddess, a young woman sitting in the crescent of the moon, is often shown holding a rabbit, according to the texts. This is probably because the Maya discerned the outline of a rabbit in the dark areas of the full moon, just as we think we see a man.
Rabbits are also listed in Friar Diego de Landa’s Relation de las cosas de Yucatan, a document the infamous Spanish priest wrote in 1566 to defend himself against accusations that he had been too harsh in his treatment of the Maya—even for the times of the Inquisition! He describes the local hare as large and good to eat.
I even found a traditional recipe for rabbit cooked in sherry, tomatoes, and jalapeno peppers.
As far as I knew, none of these rabbits was known to have written anything.
The library at the museo was a dusty, airless old place with only one window, presided over by one Senor Dr. Antonio Valesquez.
Valesquez struck me as the quintessential librarian, a man with an obsession about order, procedure, and silence. I don’t expect anyone ever called him Antonio in that place.
I got an early start, and learning that Dona Josefina was still indisposed, due to the shock of Don Hernan’s death, made my way directly to the library when the museo opened at nine. Exactly at the appointed opening time of nine-fifteen, Valesquez opened the library doors, a most unusual occurrence in Mexico.
Considering the events of the last few days, this punctuality was particularly surprising, but Valesquez was not the type of person to let a murder or two disrupt the order of
his day. Fiftyish, with a shock of gray hair and a habit of absentmindedly picking imaginary lint off everything, he looked at me over the tops of his reading glasses and stated quite firmly that this library was for serious research only, and not open to the general public.
Fortunately I had brought my University of Toronto student card, which identified me as a graduate student in Mesoamerican studies. That was enough to get me through the door, but not as a welcome guest.
“Senor doctor,” I began. I found myself whispering as he was, even though only two of us were in the room. “I am doing a research paper on natural symbolism in the Maya pantheon, and was directed to you as a possible source of material.”
“And who might have directed you here?” He sniffed.
“Dr. Hernan Castillo,” I lied. I’d rehearsed this lie, as usual, and it slid off my tongue with amazing facility. “Dr. Castillo has been most helpful with my research, which he felt was an unusual subject that held much promise. I’ve had several conversations with him from Toronto, and I hoped to be able to speak with him on this visit, but have been unable to reach him,” I continued.
It looked for a moment as if Valesquez’s composure would crack, but his library training took over.
“Dr. Castillo has met with an unfortunate accident,” he said, ignoring as I had the lurid headlines on the front pages of all the local papers. I made suitable noises of surprise and regret.
“While his expertise clearly exceeds mine manyfold,” he went on, “I will assist you in any way I can. What particular natural symbolism are you interested in?” he whispered.
“Rabbits,” I said.
He nodded gravely. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. I expect one gets all kinds of weird requests in a library such as this. He showed me to the card catalog and led me through it. As he spoke he patted any index card foolhardy enough to be even a millimeter out of line back into place.
“Everything here is cataloged by subject and author using the Dewey Decimal System. I am personally familiar with most of the books here, and can direct you to some to begin your work. Rare books and first editions are available only on special request, in writing, to my office. No book may be removed from the premises. And of course, no food or drink is allowed here,” he concluded.
He didn’t need to tell me this. There were signs everywhere.
I made my way to a table at the back of the room protected by the book stacks and pulled out a chair. It made a scraping sound as it slid against the marble floor, and brought the inevitable “look” from the librarian. I would obviously have to mind my library manners here.
After a couple of hours I had found the rabbits I’ve already mentioned, and had several more books to work through. It was laborious work hand-copying anything I wanted to remember. There was no photocopier in sight and I was afraid to ask if one might be available. Clearly I was here on sufferance, and I didn’t wish to wear out my welcome.
I still had not told anyone about the writing rabbit, and I would have dearly liked to ask advice from someone more knowledgeable in this field. My study had been restricted to the Mayan language, to hieroglyphics, and while one inevitably learns a great deal about a civilization this way, my studies were still at a very rudimentary level.
The only two people I knew who would know more about this than I, now that Don Hernan was gone, were Jonathan and Lucas.
And what did I know of them, other than that both were archaeologists? Jonathan Hamelin was British— Cambridge University, he had said—pale and aristocratic in bearing, wore nice shoes, and rented a nice little house. I also liked holding his hand.
Lucas May? The dark, brooding one. I knew even less about him. According to Isa, he didn’t have nice shoes, and I was inclined to agree with her low opinion of his conversational skills. I had no idea where he lived or where he’d studied archaeology. I had a sense of something hidden, something deep, but it was a feeling only. He also had a nicely ironic smile, infrequently though it appeared.
For a few minutes I was lost in reverie, watching dust motes floating in a beam of light from the lamp on the table. Dr. Valesquez appeared soundlessly at my table and whispered that he was regrettably closing the library, but would reopen between four and six p.m.
I was amazed that almost three hours had passed and dismayed that I was no closer to the writing rabbit. I thanked him for his assistance, for which I received a courtly bow, and told him I would return at four.
I made my way down the back staircase, and moments later was blinking in the now unfamiliar sunlight like some lizard whose dark hiding place has suddenly been uncovered.
I did notice, however, that while one might need a key to get in, one merely pushed a bar on the door to get out. So if you were up to any skulduggery after hours, you had only to hide in the museo until closing, then let yourself out at your leisure.
I wandered rather aimlessly to pass the time until the library reopened, and soon I found myself in the market area, absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells, as always almost overwhelmed by the colors, so intense to my northern eye.
It was the time of Carnaval, Ash Wednesday fast approaching, and brightly colored masks and capes were prominently displayed. Here once again the old and new worlds coexisted. While Carnaval may have Christian beginnings, the costumes were decidedly Maya—monkey beings, creatures of a previous Maya creation, and various representations of Xibalbans with grotesque horned masks. One enterprising shopkeeper was offering for sale a Children of the Talking Cross costume, complete with black bandanna and wooden rifle.
There were stalls piled high with fruits and vegetables, some familiar, others not; the heaps of dried peppers, large and dark, intense in flavor I knew; the Mexican tomatoes, tomatillos, small green fruits with a natural brown tissuelike wrapping; the prickly nopales, cactus-type vegetables whose needles must be removed before they can be used in salads and moles; the pungent spices—epazote, achiote, or annatto seeds, cumin, chili, and saffron.
Tired of wandering, I eventually stopped at a little cafe for a Mexican sandwich, a torta, stuffed with frijoles— refried black beans—avocado, and anejo cheese, and an order of jalapeno peppers, stuffed with cheese and shrimp and lightly fried.
The air was pleasantly hot, and as I sat there I tried to sift through the patterns within patterns in this situation in which I found myself.
A very public robbery and two murders, and there seemed to be threads, however tenuous, linking all three events.
First the robbery. Alejandro was surely involved. It took place in the bar of a hotel owned by Diego Maria Gomez Arias. The object stolen is a statue that Hernan Castillo and Gomez Arias had argued about in the recent past. It is stolen by a self-defined terrorist group called the Children of the Talking Cross. But whoever heard of a terrorist group that steals statues from bars? Bank heists, skyjackings, car bombs, maybe. But theft of pre-Columbian carvings?
The murder of Luis Vallespino. Luis’s brother is a friend of Alejandro, and Montserrat, Gomez Alias’s daughter, attends the funeral. And of course, Luis is found murdered on the roof of the museo, of which Gomez Arias is on the board of directors, as is Don Hernan, who was also a staff member and important benefactor.
Don Hernan’s murder. Occurring somewhere else, perhaps, but he ends up in his office at the museo with a jade bead in his mouth, the significance of which I did not understand. He’s looking for something, which is obviously Maya, since he made it clear that whatever it was fit in with my university studies, and it was important enough for him to ask me to come to Merida.
Don Hernan used to work with Gomez Arias, but they had an argument. Gomez Arias is a compulsive collector. Could the two men have been looking for the same thing? And if so, exactly how far was Gomez Arias prepared to go to get it?
There had to be something or someone linking all of these things. Right now that appeared to be me. I’d come here at Don Hernan’s request, I’d witnessed the robbery, I’d found Luis Vallespino’s bo
dy. I was actually becoming sympathetic to Major Martinez’s interest in me.
I wandered back to the museo, pausing once again for a few moments in the small rear garden, thinking about the times I had spent with Don Hernan. I was trying very hard to remember the good times, and put the sights and smells of our farewell, in the basement of the morgue, behind me.
As I stood there I saw Antonio Valesquez let himself in at the back door, the one I’d made use of a couple of times myself. I wondered how many people had a key to that door.
I once again wandered into the building and arrived just as Valesquez, punctual as ever, opened the library doors. A new stack of books was on the table at the back.
“More rabbits,” was all he said. This dark little corner was beginning to feel like home, and soon I was attacking the books with renewed enthusiasm. While I worked, Valesquez continued his librarian tasks of bringing order to the room and discouraging visitors.