by Jon Voelkel
“Are there any hotels in Maya mythology?”
“No, but did you notice the name of our room? It was called the Ak’bal Suite. Ak’bal is Mayan for ‘darkness.’ When the Hero Twins went down to Xibalba, the Death Lords set a series of tests for them—and their first test was in the Dark House.”
“That’s all you’ve got? You can’t blame the Death Lords for a power cut. The power goes out all the time in this country. And it’s hurricane season. And this is a new building. Doors jam. Fuses blow. It happens.”
“But it only happened in our—”
Max put his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening. I don’t want to hear any more about the Hero Twins or the Death Lords or the ancient Maya. It’s the first time I’ve ever won anything and I just want to enjoy my prize.”
“But you can’t ignore—”
“Yes, I can. I can ignore anything I want to. Especially the fact that I nearly ate a cockroach. So can we please change the subject?”
“Okay. But keep your wits about you. I’m telling you, this place is not what it seems.”
“You sound like Lord 6-Dog.”
“I wish he was here. He’d agree with me, for sure.”
“Yeah, and then you could both watch the Conspiracy Channel on TV.”
“Is there one?”
“No, I’m being sarcastic.”
They went back up to the lobby, where they found the concierge playing dice with the bellboy. He looked surprised to see them, but quickly jumped to his feet. “Is everything to your satisfaction?”
“No,” said Max, “it isn’t. My door got jammed, the power went out, the phone doesn’t work, and the room is crawling with cockroaches.”
“How unfortunate.” The concierge’s eyes narrowed. “And yet here you are.”
“I broke down the door,” explained Lola.
The concierge pursed his thin little lips. “On behalf of the management, let me express our most sincere apologies.”
Lola pounced on his words. “Who is the management? Who’s in charge here? Who owns this hotel?”
The concierge ignored her questions. “I deeply regret that you have not enjoyed an optimal guest experience. I will send Maintenance to your room immediately. Meanwhile, may I offer you some refreshments? An ice cream, perhaps?”
“We’re not children!” snapped Lola. “You can’t make everything better with ice cream.”
“Ah,” said the concierge, “but you’ve never had ice cream like this. It’s all homemade, here on the premises. And we’re famous for our unusual range of flavors.”
“I’d like an ice cream,” said Max.
Lola rolled her eyes. “There’s a surprise.”
“It might take away the taste of cockroach.”
“All right. I suppose you’ve earned it.”
The concierge clasped his hands together unctuously. “If you’ll follow me to the elevator, our ice cream parlor is on the fifth floor.”
“It better be good,” muttered Lola.
“Good?” The concierge smiled, showing his sharp little teeth. “I think you’ll find it’s to die for.”
“Fifth floor,” announced the elevator boy.
Max and Lola stepped out of the elevator into what looked like a cave.
“What is this place?” asked Max. “It looks like a cave.”
“It’s our jungle-themed pool and beach,” replied the concierge. “We modeled it on one of San Xavier’s famous cenotes. Most tourists are too scared to venture into the real thing, so we provide an authentic cenote experience.”
Max and Lola looked around in disbelief. It was the least welcoming swimming pool that either of them had ever seen. The walls were faced with slimy green stones, and the water was green with algae. The so-called beach was a thin strip of black volcanic grit around the rocky edge of the pool. There were no sun loungers or deck chairs, just a line of boulders, each one topped with a small brown plastic crocodile.
Max thought back to the day he’d first met Lola. They were being pursued by Antonio de Landa and they’d escaped down an underground river. They’d ended up in the cenote underneath the Pyramid of Chahk, the rain god. That had been a beautiful place, with clear blue water sparkling in a shaft of sunlight—nothing like this grim and airless cavern filled with stagnant sludge.
A very large, very sunburned, very bald man waddled up to the water’s edge. His belly hung over the top of his floral swim shorts as he dipped a toe into the murky pool. “It’s freezing!” he exclaimed.
“We call it refreshing,” the concierge corrected him.
“This is supposed to be a luxury hotel,” complained the man. “I expected a heated swimming pool.”
“Expect the unexpected, that’s our motto,” said the concierge as he pushed him off the side.
The man hit the water and disappeared from view.
Max gaped at the concierge in disbelief. “What did you do that for?”
“I did him a favor. He needed help taking the plunge.”
The man’s bald head popped up like a beach ball. “I can’t swim!” he screamed, flailing around wildly, then suddenly realized that the water was shallow enough to stand up in. “What are you waiting for?” he said to Max nastily. “Give me a hand.”
Max couldn’t quite reach, so he grabbed a toy crocodile to extend his grasp. He held it by the tail, intending to use it as a pole, but the creature swung its head around and tried to bite him.
“It’s alive!” he yelled in surprise, dropping it into the pool.
For one serene moment, the bald man and the crocodile faced each other.
Then the man redoubled his panic, while the crocodile—no doubt planning its attack—floated like a log nearby.
Quickly, and with a great deal of splashing, during which they both got soaked, Max and Lola pulled the man out of the water.
Lola handed him a towel. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m not all right! What kind of place is this?” He jabbed a finger at Max. “You threw a crocodile at me!”
“I didn’t throw it. I dropped it.”
The man spit out a mouthful of pondweed. “I could have been eaten alive! I’m suing you for everything you’ve got!”
The concierge, who’d been busying himself with setting out towels, was entirely unconcerned for his guest’s plight. He pointed to a sign on the wall: “All patrons swim at their own risk. You signed the waiver when you checked in. And if I could draw your attention to the small print, veterinary fees will be added to your bill should any of our creatures be traumatized by contact with you.” He sniffed. “I’m no expert, but that crocodile does not look happy.”
“Do you work in this madhouse?” the bald man asked Lola.
She looked horrified. “No! We’re visitors like you.”
“Well, take my advice and leave while you still can!”
“Have a nice day,” called the concierge as the man stormed off. He turned to Max and Lola. “He’ll treasure the memory when he gets home. Now, who’s ready for ice cream? Follow me.”
“This has to be the worst hotel in the world,” whispered Lola as the concierge led them around the pool toward the back of the cave.
“It makes Doña Carmela’s seem like the Ritz,” agreed Max, thinking about the shabby little place where they’d stayed in Spain.
There was a buzzing in the darkness at the far end of the cave, and a red neon sign reading ICE CREAM flickered to life.
“Come in, come in,” called the concierge. “We’re a little early, so you’ll have to serve yourselves.”
Max could have punched the air with joy. Ever since he was little and he’d read a book about Curious George being left in sole charge of an ice-cream parlor, he’d dreamed that the same thing might one day happen to him.
And now that glorious day had arrived.
He entered the store with a proprietary air. As the concierge buzzed about, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers to find bowls and spoon
s and jars of cherries, Max strutted around his domain of dairy desserts. He was relieved to note that it looked clean and free of cockroaches, all scrubbed white tiles and gleaming stainless steel.
But it was missing one important detail.
“Where’s the ice cream?” he asked.
“They keep it in the main freezer overnight.” The concierge pointed to an enormous white door at the back. “It’s the largest refrigeration unit in San Xavier. I suggest you have a look inside and help yourselves, while I go and soothe my crocodiles.”
Max rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist. “Come on, Monkey Girl, I’ll invent a new sundae for you. Something with peanuts and bananas.…”
Lola grabbed a checkered cloth from a table and wrapped it around her like a blanket. “Lead on,” she said.
The freezer room was a maze of steel shelf units, each one stacked with tubs bearing handwritten labels.
“So what’s your favorite flavor?” Max asked Lola as they walked down the first aisle.
“I don’t care. Just hurry. I’m freezing.”
He looked at the stack in front of him. “How about Grasshopper Pie?”
“I thought you were squeamish about eating bugs.”
Max laughed. “It’s just a name. It’s green ice cream made with mint and chocolate.”
“Here’s ‘Termite Tamale,’ ” read Lola. “That must be the San Xavier equivalent to your Grasshopper Pie.”
“Tamale ice cream? That’s nasty,” said Max. “Almost as bad as my mom’s idea for pizza-flavored gelato. Did I tell you about that? It’s partly why we ended up back in San Xavier. It all started when we were in Venice.…”
There was an unreal quality to sound in the freezer, everything muffled by a thick layer of frost. As Max walked along telling his story, he didn’t notice that Lola was no longer behind him.
It wasn’t until he’d passed Molten Larva, Rocky Toad, and Dung-Beetle Delight, and stopped dead in front of Slugs ‘n’ Sprinkles to comment to Lola that there was something very off-putting about the names of these flavors, that he realized he was talking to himself.
“Monkey Girl?” he called. “Where are you?”
He was shivering himself now. His clothes, still damp from when the tourist had splashed him, were starting to freeze solid. He needed to get out.
His hands were too cold to carry a tub of ice cream, so he decided to eat whatever was closest to the door. But where was the door? He tried to navigate by remembering which flavors he’d already passed, but nothing looked familiar. Tarantula Truffle? Mealworm Mocha? Cricket Crunch? He definitely hadn’t seen any of those before.
He jumped up and down on the spot to shake off his dusting of frost. He was beginning to feel like a piteously underdressed Arctic explorer. Was it possible to catch frostbite in an ice-cream fridge? This was insane. Was it snowing in the fridge? It was like Boston in midwinter. Icicles hung from the ceiling, as sharp as daggers.
“Lola! Where are you?” Snowflakes landed on his tongue as he called her.
And there she was.
Her dark hair flecked with snow, her cheeks flushed pink from cold, and a red-checkered tablecloth gripped tightly around her, she appeared out of the whiteness like a girl in a fairytale.
“I … lost you,” she said, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.
They huddled together for warmth as they tried to find their way out, and for one crazy moment Max wondered if they might actually perish like this, frozen together like human Popsicles.
“Grasshopper Pie!” yelled Lola. “Over there! That’s the way we came in!”
Glowing with relief, she threw a celebratory snowball at Max (her first ever), and he gleefully retaliated.
His aim went high and he hit a large icicle.
With a low moan, the icicle snapped off and fell, cutting straight through the air. It landed at Max’s feet, embedding itself in the snow like a butcher’s knife. A crack spread through the icy ceiling and set off a chain reaction. Next minute, Max and Lola were dodging a volley of icicles, each one as lethal as a sharpened lance.
They emerged white-faced from frost and terror. In a triumph of hope over experience, Max was clutching a tub of Grasshopper Pie. But, in his heart of hearts, he knew before he opened it that the grasshoppers would be real.
“I’m sure they’re very nutritious,” said Lola.
Max silently replaced the lid.
The concierge smirked when he saw their frigid faces. “It looks like you made yourselves at home. I trust your hunger for ice cream has been sated?”
“We got lost,” said Max. “And we’re frozen.”
“Here.” The concierge threw them some towels. “Wrap yourselves in these and let’s get going. We don’t want to be late.”
“Late for what?” asked Lola as he hurried them back to the elevator.
“Feeding time.”
“You mean lunch?” asked Max hopefully.
“You’ve just had ice cream,” said the concierge. “Surely you’re not hungry again already?” He turned his attention to Lola. “Have you ever seen a real, live jaguar?”
“Of course I have.”
“Up close?”
“With binoculars!”
“Today, on our VIP Backstage Tour, you may approach as close as you wish.”
Lola stopped in her tracks. “Don’t tell me you have a jaguar in captivity?”
The concierge smiled proudly.
“But they’re an endangered species,” Lola pointed out. “You’re not allowed to catch them.”
“Quite so. Normally, we shoot them and sell the pelt. But this fellow is quite possibly the last one in this area. We realized he was worth more alive than dead.”
“What a heartwarming story,” said Lola sarcastically.
“Thank you,” said the concierge. “And our compassion has paid off. He’ll be our number-one tourist attraction when he masters the balance ball. How’s that for a happy ending?”
Lola mimed clapping her hands. “But what will you do when your number-one tourist attraction dies of old age and there are no more jaguars to replace him?”
“We’re ahead of you on that one. We’ve just bought a lion from a traveling circus. They couldn’t afford the meat bill anymore, but that’s not a problem for us—with our never-ending supply of tourists.”
“You’re not going to feed the tourists to the lion?” asked Max.
The concierge looked guilty. “I meant, um, of course … a never-ending supply of tourist money,” he corrected himself, not very convincingly.
“But wait,” objected Lola, “lions are from Africa. You don’t get lions in Central America.”
“Most tourists don’t care. They just want to see animals. And between you and me, Africa’s fauna is more exciting than anything you find in San Xavier. Nobody’s going to get rich off a cage of spider monkeys, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” said Lola, “I don’t know what you mean.” Max could tell that she was working hard not to lose her temper.
“In this business, you’ve got to think big. Between you and me, we’re planning to turn the parking lot into a game reserve. Lions, giraffes, elephants, zebras, maybe throw in a few kangaroos—how do you like that idea?”
Lola chose her words carefully. “I’m speechless.”
While the concierge jabbed at the elevator button, Lola hung back to talk to Max in whispers. “Can you believe they’ve put a jaguar in a cage? We have to rescue him.”
“No,” said Max. “Please don’t do this.”
“I’ve got a plan. I’m going to commune with his spirit.”
“Please don’t.”
“I read about it in a book. If it works, the jaguar will let me pluck out one of his whiskers and we’ll be bonded for life. You have to empty your mind of human thoughts and get in tune with the natural world. Then you become one with the jaguar.”
“What if the jaguar wants to become one with you by eating you?”
“I’m in big trouble.”
“Hurry up!” called the concierge, holding the elevator doors for them. “Feeding time waits for no man—unless that man is the food!”
“Welcome to backstage at the Grand Hotel Xibalba!” The concierge made a grand bow as they exited the elevator on the second floor.
RESTRICTED ACCESS—EMPLOYEES ONLY read the sign on the double doors that blocked their way.
The concierge stabbed a code into a keypad on the wall, and the doors swung open. “This is where the magic is made. On this floor, we have our offices, our kitchens, our storerooms—and, our next port of call, the hotel menagerie.”
“Menagerie? You have more animals than just the jaguar?” asked Lola.
“But of course. Tourists expect variety in our shows. We have monkeys, snakes, parrots, a tapir, and we’re always looking for more jaguars. You wouldn’t believe how hard they are to find.”
Lola said nothing, but Max could see her fists clenching and unclenching. He guessed that it was taking all her self-control to keep herself from punching the concierge.
For his part, he was still perplexed. “I don’t get it,” he said to the concierge. “Why would you keep animals inside the hotel, when the jungle is all around you?”
The concierge looked at him like he was mad. “After a late night in the casino, you can’t expect guests at San Xavier’s premier hotel to get up at dawn just to catch a glimpse of a monkey’s rear end! Mother Nature is too inconvenient and unpredictable. We bring the wildlife to the guests—and teach it to do tricks.”
He pushed open another white door.
“Of course, the menagerie is like a locker room. In here, the animals are off duty. I assure you that they are much more interesting when they are performing—some of them even wear costumes.”
Max gasped. The room in front of him was the saddest place he’d ever seen. And he wasn’t even sensitive like Lola.
Cages lined the walls. And in each cramped cage huddled a bird, mammal, or reptile—each creature radiating unhappiness. Spider monkeys whimpered and hugged themselves. Parrots pecked out their own feathers. And crammed into a cage hardly bigger than its body was a tapir like the one that had run out into the clearing the night Max and Lola had met up at the Black Pyramid.