by Lyn Hamilton
There were clowns on bicycles, their young children in the carrier baskets, balloons, people in fantastic headgear of all kinds. People were literally dancing in the streets. I looked on enviously, wishing this were another time or place where I could feel free to join in.
Suddenly there was a hush, then some nervous laughter. Out of a side street came someone dressed up as a priest, followed by a number of men dressed in army camouflage, carrying play rifles cut from plywood, their faces shrouded in black masks.
“Children of the Talking Cross,” people whispered, and soon there was a smattering of applause from the crowds. The men raised their rifles in a salute and joined the end of the parade.
Shortly thereafter, the federal police arrived, and I hastily pulled back into one of the dark side streets to stay well out of their view. As I did so I saw them hurrying to catch up with the revelers dressed as rebels. A few people, presumably the same ones that applauded the “Children,” hissed as the police went by. I didn’t hang around to see what happened, but I felt sorry for anyone audacious enough even to pretend they were rebels right now. The federal police did not appear to have a sense of humor.
Trying to put some distance between me and the police, I went down one of the back streets in the less salubrious part of town. I wasn’t sure exactly where I was, but I rounded a corner and found myself in a little square with a lovely tree and wooden bench in the center.
At one end of the square was a cafe“ with large barbecues set up out front. Smoke from the cooking filled the square and it smelled delicious. I realized I was hungry, and headed in that direction.
The cafe, open to the square with a palapa-style roof of interwoven palm fronds, was called Pajaros—Birds— for no apparent reason that I could see. The patrons of the place were predominantly white, Europeans and Americans, the Americans immediately recognizable by their baseball caps and cowboy boots. The women tended to fringed vests, short skirts, and cowboy boots of their own. There was an old-fashioned juke box at the back: Waylon Jennings wailed from the loudspeakers.
I sat at a small table in the corner and listened to a group of men at the next table talk about their adventures in ‘Nam. I had obviously found the place the ex-patriots in the area liked to hang out in the evening. At least being white here was not going to call attention to my presence.
The waitress brought me a beer, almost without my asking for it, and then told me to go and help myself to food. I went up to the barbecue grills, where a tall American, probably the owner, also dressed in cowboy gear which seemed to be de rigueur here, and a pair of mirrored sunglasses despite the dark, served me something wrapped in a banana leaf, a warm tortilla, and some refried beans.
Inside the green wrapper was chicken in a spicy red sauce, chicken pibil. I devoured it, using my fingers to finish the last of it off. The waitress smiled as she saw me. “It’s all you can eat,” she said. “Get some more.”
I thanked her, but I had an appointment, arranged in the note left for Isa, so I told her I’d just sit and finish my beer, and asked directions to a public telephone. She gestured to a dark corner. “The light’s out,” she said. “You’ll have to kind of feel your way. But the phone works.”
Since finding a phone that worked could be a challenge, I headed for the dark corner and fumbled around for some change, getting through to the Casa de las Buganvillas with some difficulty.
Santiago answered the phone.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Theresa!” he said. “How nice of you to call. Isa is right here.”
Theresa?
Isa came on the line immediately, “Hi, Theresa,” she said. “Glad to hear from you.”
“Is someone there—Martinez maybe?”
“Yes. We’re all terribly concerned about your recent illness. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “How’s Alejandro?”
“Mother has been to see him, and he’s having a rough time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. Anyway, you’ll be wanting to know about those investments you were thinking of making. Jean Pierre is right here.”
Jean Pierre came on the line.
“Hello, Theresa. I checked on those companies you were thinking of investing in, and you were right to be concerned. I would advise you against investing in them because their value has plummeted in the last year or two. The company has been resting on its laurels, as it were. The major shareholder and his family will have taken quite a substantial loss, I’m sure, and I wouldn’t want you to risk your money with them.”
“The major shareholder is Gomez Arias, I take it,” I said.
“That is correct.”
“Are you telling me someone has come up with a better windmill?”
“Not only better, but cheaper, if the rumors are to be believed. And frankly there is only so much call for the product these days. The market, quite frankly, is a diminishing one. On top of that, some of the other investments are being adversely affected, to say the least, by the volatile peso. The companies are rumored to be in serious trouble. And whether the rumors are true or not, the stock market believes them!”
“I see. Did you happen to have a look at the boards of directors of the three companies?”
“Yes, I did. Other than the major shareholder and his daughter, there are only a couple of names in common. No one whose name means anything to me, though.”
“Company executives?”
“Same again.”
“You’re terrific, Jean Pierre. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Isa would like to talk to you again.”
Isa came on the line. I could hear Santiago in the background talking to someone, probably Martinez. The conversation was an unpleasant one. I guess Martinez had discovered I wasn’t there, and Santiago was bearing the brunt of his anger.
“Take care of yourself, Theresa,” she said. “Call me again as soon as you can.”
“I will. And thank you, Isa, and your whole family. I hope I’m not causing you real grief with that horrible man.”
“Nothing we can’t manage,” she said, and we hung up.
I made my way back to my table and sat there finishing my beer, listening as the country-and-western music blasted from the speakers. The waitress came around with a pot of coffee, and I had some of that, too.
As I sat there another baseball-cap type arrived and pulled up a chair at the table next to me. He began to excitedly tell his companions about the parade and the arrival of the federal police.
“You shoulda seen it. Guys in the parade all dressed like Indie rebels. Cops arrive. Obviously they think these guys are for real.
“Maybe they are, too. Just when I think the feds are gonna smoke ‘em, they disappear, vanish more like, into the backstreets, like the VC in the rice paddies. It was somethin’ else!”
The others at the table were impressed. One of them said, “You know, I’ve been hearing that there really are guerrilla groups out in the woods here, training for a big revolution. Called Children of the Talking Cross. Tied in with the Zapatistas, you know.”
All nodded wisely. I thought of Alejandro training in the jungle. Too much of a stretch for me. But I was glad the rebel revelers got away.
One of my neighbors headed for the jukebox, and some more hurtin‘ music came on.
I’m not a particular fan of country music. Normally I can take it or leave it. But tonight it made me homesick for my little house, my family, Alex, my friends, my cat.
I ordered a Xtabentun, the local liqueur, then another. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to be one unhappy drunk tonight. Nobody talked to me. This seemed to be the kind of place inhabited by regulars. Strangers like me were viewed with curiosity, but left alone.
I thought about the Ortiz family. They were risking much talking to me with Martinez standing right there, but they had obviously planned what they would say, and carried it off with great panache. They were wonderful friends to have.
I
thought of the Gomez family, enjoying the good life, but for how long? Perhaps they were living off the Stratton family fortune. If that were the case, Montserrat might try being a little nicer to her stepmother.
Perhaps the thefts of the Maya pieces from the family collection were an insurance fraud. But why? It would be tough on Gomez Arias to give up any of his art collection, no doubt about that, but if times were tough, why not just sell a Matisse or two? That would provide enough to keep most of us going for quite a while!
But none of this was getting me any closer to finding what the rabbit wrote, only maybe a little closer to a motive for Don Hernan’s death.
Finally, about three a.m., I headed back to my horrible hotel, awash in self-pity. It had not been one of my better days. It had been Cib, a bad day in the Maya calendar, day of the owl, birds associated with the Lords of Darkness. The Lords obviously had had the upper hand today.
CABAN
I barely slept, when I did, I dreamed of enormous cockroaches heading my way. That’s what too much Xtabentun will do for you.
I got up early, and after another sponge bath in the sink in the room, the bathtub down the hall being absolutely unspeakable, I packed up my meager belongings and checked out. The clerk at the desk did not look at me as I handed over the key. Perhaps people who work in places like this learn not to scrutinize the clientele.
The streets were quiet, except for a few hardy souls out sweeping away the debris from the previous night’s celebrations. Most others would be sleeping off the night’s activities for several more hours.
As I stood on a corner a van pulled up, and a young man hurled a stack of newspapers in the general direction of a kiosk, then the van moved on.
It was the Merida paper, and while the kiosk was not yet open, I pulled off the top copy and left a few coins on the pile. I took the paper over to a little cafe where it appeared there might be someone prepared to get me some coffee, and opened it up while I waited.
The front-page story was still about the Children of the Talking Cross, but to my dismay, a lot of it was about me. A material witness had escaped custody, it said, and police were on the lookout for her. They even had my picture, a sad reproduction of my passport photo. Fortunately, I’d never thought my passport picture bore more than a passing resemblance, so I didn’t think I’d be recognized from that.
There was, however, a rather good description of me from the washroom attendant at the bus station, who told in graphic detail how she had found me in the washroom covered in blood. She told how she had helped clean me up, never once realizing I was a criminal on the run. The reporter implied I had acquired this in some unspecified, but clearly horrific activity, and there were some questions as to whose blood I might have on my hands.
If it had been someone else’s blood, I wouldn’t have required the iodine and Band-Aid, of course, but that thought had either not crossed the reporter’s mind, or it was a fact that interfered with a ripping good story.
In any event, I was described as the mysterious lady in black, and my attire was described in minute detail. If any of the guys at Pajaros read Spanish, I would be the topic of discussion at their table for weeks to come!
I still had a few hours to kill until the appointed time at the taxi stand, and while I didn’t know whether Major Martinez had figured out I was in Valladolid, I certainly couldn’t assume that he hadn’t.
I headed for the market area, usually a good place to get lost. The farmers, not influenced at all by Carnaval, were already at work selling their produce, and I just kept moving between the stalls as fast as I could.
I bought a straw hat with a large brim and pulled it down over my eyes. I was in jeans and a denim shirt, so I didn’t think I looked at all like a mysterious lady in black, just an ordinary tourist.
From time to time I could see police in the market area, but I just kept on moving, staying out of the bright sunlight, and trying not to call attention to myself.
About eleven a.m. I started to make my way back to the taxi stand, taking a roundabout route, and being careful not to rush around corners into the arms of the law.
When I got near the taxi stand, I stood in a darkened doorway and surveyed the scene. My driver was already there, still arguing with his younger brother. All looked reasonably normal.
I was about to step out of the darkness and make a dash for the taxi when I heard sirens, and a police car pulled up to the main door of the bus station, just a few yards from the taxi stand. Major Martinez himself jumped out of the cruiser. It would seem that he was a good investigator when he chose to be.
I quickly reversed direction, away from the taxi stand, but I could see a figure I recognized coming up the street from the opposite direction.
I ducked back into the doorway and pressed myself back as far as I could into the shadows. Within a minute or so, Lucas May passed my position, apparently without seeing me. I waited until he rounded the corner, then went as fast as I could in the opposite direction.
I passed through the little square where I had been the night before, past Pajaros, now locked up tight. I headed down another little lane, uncertain as to which direction I was going.
Eventually I came out to a main road, hailed a taxicab, and directed the driver to the only place I could think to go.
Almost an hour later the taxi pulled up at Jonathan’s little house and I made a dash for the door. It was opened by Esperanza, who looked genuinely pleased to see me. She led me to the little study off the bedroom where Jonathan was working. “I’m so glad you’ve come to me, my dear,” he said. “I was hoping you would.”
In short order my clothes were all handed to Esperanza for washing, and I found myself in a hot bath, bubbles almost overflowing the tub. Jonathan brought me a cognac—“It’s never too early in the day for Remy Martin,” he said—and sat on the side of the tub while I soaked.
Later, all squeaky clean, and wearing a white terry-cloth robe of Jonathan’s, I sat with him in the living room, the midafternoon sun streaming through the window.
Suddenly he crossed the space between us, knelt beside the sofa on which I sat, and took my hand.
“Lara, I really would like to help you. But you must confide in me. I don’t know what I am fighting here, and I must if I am to be of any use whatsoever.”
“Jonathan, I’ll tell you everything, I promise. But I really don’t know where to start.”
“Why not from the beginning?” he said.
“I guess the beginning is the call I received from Don Hernan to come here to help him find something— something he told me over the telephone was written by a rabbit.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what that is ever since. But as I told you a day or two ago, I think it is a hieroglyphic codex. I have no idea where it is, or how to find it. All I know is that two people have been killed—at least one of them on account of it.”
“Any idea who would have killed Don Hernan?”
“All trails seem to lead to Diego Maria Gomez Arias. He and Don Hernan had a fight over ownership of Maya artifacts; from what I can tell he is in grave financial difficulty and there is no question a Maya codex would be worth whatever the possessor asked, at least in some circles; and frankly he seems to be the kind of person who could manage to do this kind of thing.”
“All by himself, you mean?”
“No, I guess not. He doesn’t seem the type to do his dirty work himself. If I had to point a finger at an accomplice, I guess I’d say Major Martinez, but maybe that’s just because I don’t like him. Or maybe someone close to you, Jonathan,” I said, thinking of Lucas.
He looked surprised. “Perhaps the best thing then would be to try to find the codex,” he said slowly.
“That’s what I’m trying to do. I found the stub of what I think is a bus ticket to Valladolid in Don Hernan’s personal effects, so I went there…”
“And then?”
“And then… and then… Jonathan,” I said, “I am unbelievably w
eary. I really want to talk to you about all this. But first I need to sleep.”
“I’m sorry, my dear. I really am. How thoughtless of me!” he exclaimed, getting up and pulling me up off the sofa. “Come, get some rest. We’ll talk later.”
Just then he noticed the cut on my hand. “How did you do that?” he asked.
“Later, Jonathan,” was all I could manage.
And so with that, he led me to the bedroom and tucked me into bed. It was so soft and white and clean, I could have wept with sheer gratitude, and I soon felt myself slipping into sleep.
“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” I murmured. “Especially not Lucas.”