01 _ Xibalba Murders, The (19 page)

“For example?”

“The most likely one is that it was found in a cave near Tayasol, by grave robbers.”

“Where’s that?”

“Tayasol, or Tah Itza, was the last stronghold of the Itza before they were subdued by the Spanish in the late 1600s. It was located where the town of Flores in Guatemala is now.”

“So if it were in a cave, wouldn’t that take care of a lot of the problems—light, for example? The Dead Sea Scrolls were found in caves,” I said.

“Yes, but not the bugs, and certainly not the mold. The Dead Sea Scrolls were found in caves in a desert climate.”

“What about tombs? You’d think sealing them in tombs would do it, wouldn’t you?” I said, growing slightly impatient with all these musings.

“We might think so, but that has not proven to be the case. Books were very special to the Maya, so we would expect they were put in the tombs all right. Something to pass the time in eternity.” He laughed. “But they haven’t been found in tombs.”

“Tomb robbers?”

“Maybe, in some cases. But really, tombs are not that well sealed, and even if they are, there is a lot of air in them when they’re closed up. Damp air, at that. So the air and the pests just work away at the books in the tomb.”

He paused for a while, munching an enchilada.

“What we would be looking for would be an environment in equilibrium. Away from energy sources like light, heat, vibration, and other materials that would react with the book.”

He paused for a few seconds. “Ideally, we’d want our book sealed in a container, something waterproof and resistant to the alkaline environment.”

“What would that be?” I asked.

“Well, limestone itself, although it’s pretty porous. Most siliceous materials—ceramics, glass, and stone— would do. Jade survives nicely, as does flint, obsidian. Terra-cotta, too, although that may be too porous.

“It should be a small container. Not too much air. If it could be sealed, well, all the better. The idea here is for the environment in the box to come to equilibrium quickly and stay that way.

“So we’d say a box. A stone box. With only the codex in it. We’ve never heard of them making stone boxes, but why not? Maya scribes worked in stone all the time—the Maya built whole cities. So why not carve out a box of some kind?

“If we remember correctly, these codices had wooden or jaguar-fur covers. It would be better if they were not in the box with the paper. Too complicated when there are greater numbers of materials. They react differently and can affect each other detrimentally.

“What we’d really like would be to seal the box in plastic wrap. Won’t do, of course.” He laughed.

“So what would
we
seal it in, then?” I asked, falling into his particular speech affectation.

“We’d have to think about that for a minute. We wonder if the Maya had raincoats of any sort at that time. Cloth—they had cotton, I’m sure—coated in some substance to repel water. We used to think the Maya didn’t know about rubber, but recently there has been evidence that suggests they might have. Don’t know much about natural rubbers myself, what the long-term survival of natural rubber would be, so couldn’t say much about that. Maybe some kind of gum.”

He chewed on his enchilada some more.

“Waxes!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Of course! Much more waterproof than gums. The Maya were great beekeepers. How about beeswax? Gum elemi? It’s found in the Yucatan. Or candelilla wax. It’s from a weed native to Mexico. Even bitumen. It’s a natural asphaltic material we bet they knew about. Any of these could be used.”

“So are we saying that it is possible one might have survived, in reasonable condition, all this time?” I asked.

“Depends on our definition of reasonable. The Grolier is in terrible condition. Theoretically, though, it should be possible for one to survive in better shape than that. But we were researching the Grolier, were we not? Or perhaps we are looking for another!” he said slowly, excitement in his eyes.

“Only in theory,” I said, wondering if this conversation had gone too far.

I thanked him for his help and changed the subject as quickly as I could without looking too obvious. I could see I had not been that successful, so I excused myself and went looking for the washroom.

It was at the back of the restaurant, and on my return, I once again found myself witnessing, from the relative darkness of the restaurant proper, a scene between friends. As I watched, Ernesto reached out and put his hand on Antonio’s knee, and then quickly kissed him on the cheek. The Cafe Piramide was quite a romantic spot.

By the time I got back to the table, everything was back to a businesslike atmosphere. Both were discussing some research that was needed. But I understood a little better why Antonio had spent so much time helping the conservator find the picture of the vase with the rabbit scribe, and why Ernesto had been so helpful on first meeting.

I told them it was time for me to go, thanking Ernesto for his help and Antonio for lunch, and headed back to the inn. I made a slight detour, however, to the hospital where Dona Josefina still lay paralyzed. There was little or no improvement, the sister told me.

I sat by her bedside once again, holding her hand. I asked her if I should be looking for a fifth Mayan hieroglyphic codex, and she pressed one for yes.

I asked her if she knew where it was. She pressed two for no.

I wanted to sit with her a little longer, so I told her I had been to a spectacular party, and all about the house, the food, the guests, my new dress. But when I told her that it was at the Gomez Arias residence, she became agitated, so much so that I called the nursing sister to the bedside.

Sister Maria told me that she would take care of her, but that it would be better if I left. I did, much agitated myself. I did not wish to cause Dona Josefina grief, but I thought I needed to know what upset her about Gomez Arias.

All of this was forgotten, however, when I got back to the hotel. The Ortiz family was in considerable distress, to an extent that it took me a while to figure out what happened.

Major Martinez had arrived at the hotel with a warrant for Alejandro’s arrest, not just for the robbery of the statue of Itzamna, but for the murder of Don Hernan.

Ricardo Vallespino, Luis’s brother had also been charged, as were a couple of other students at the university. The police said these were the ringleaders of the Children of the Talking Cross. Luis, though dead, was named as a participant.

Alejandro had been led away in handcuffs. Once again I was confined to the hotel, as an important witness to some of these events.

IX

Our champions, the hero twins, after entering the realm of Xibalba by climbing down into a deep abyss and crossing a river of blood, are set a series of tests by the Lords of Darkness, any one of which would appear to mean certain death.

The first night they must spend in the Dark House, given one lit torch and a lighted cigar each, and told that the torch and the cigars must be returned in this same condition when the night is over. The crafty twins substitute a bright macaw feather for the torch flame, and fireflies for the cigar tips, and are able to return the objects as requested.

Next they enter the Razor House, but are able to persuade the knives not to cut them by promising them the flesh of animals. As a little added joke, they send an army of ants to take the flowers of One and Seven Death, two of the nastiest Lords of them all.

The next night’s trial is the Cold House, with freezing drafts and falling hail. With their powers, they simply shut out the cold.

Next is the Jaguar House, where ferocious animals are diverted by a pile of bones the twins give them to fight over.

The last, and worst of all, is Bat House, where monstrous snatch bats are sent to kill them. They survive by sleeping inside their blowguns. Hunahpu, however, sticks his head out a little too soon, and loses it to a nasty bat, his body still inside the blowgun. This will call for real ingenuity on the part of his brother, Xbalanque, but once again our twins win the day.

The test the twins never had to endure was trial by media.

Major Martinez’s face was much in evidence on the front page of every newspaper and relentlessly, every hour, it seemed, on television.

The way Martinez told it, Alejandro Ortiz and Ricardo Vallespino were key members of a terrorist group that stole works of art to support its nefarious activities. This group had its headquarters at the university, a place, Martinez noted often, that was always known for its subversive activities.

Three professors had also been arrested and charged as ringleaders of the terrorist group. The bewildered expressions on their faces, as they were shown being herded into police vans, spoke volumes.

Luis Vallespino, apparently, had also been one of the terrorists, but he had broken from the group and had tried to warn Dr. Hernan Castillo that “he had been marked for death”, Martinez said, because Don Hernan had, through his connections in the art community, figured out who the robbers were. Luis had been intercepted at the
museo
and had been murdered, possibly by his own brother, his body left on the roof.

The terrorists had then waited in ambush for Dr. Castillo and had murdered him, too. More arrests, Martinez hinted, were imminent.

It was all very neat, except for the fact that Don Hernan—as I knew and Eulalia Gonzalez could confirm—had not been murdered in the
museo.
I tried calling her at the morgue, but was told she had asked for, and been granted, an extended leave of absence from her job. I wondered if she had done this voluntarily and if she was okay.

Equally outrageous was the media coverage of the event. This was big news. The Children of the Talking Cross had captured the imagination of the public immediately following the theft of Itzamna from the bar. Many local pundits had voiced their opinions on the subject, many of them supporting the cause, if not the theft itself.

With the latest developments in the case—the allegations of murder of the young Luis Vallespino and one of Merida’s most distinguished citizens—these champions of the downtrodden were distancing themselves very quickly from their former proteges.

To ensure maximum coverage of the event, the local television station had set up a mobile unit right outside the Casa de las Buganvillas, the van, the satellite dish, and the cables making it almost impossible for vehicular traffic to get down the little street.

Every time anyone was audacious enough to leave or enter the hotel, the lights came on and cameras rolled. Not to be outdone, the local newspapers and radio stations also had reporters on the spot. Food carts moved in to supply them.

No effort was spared to plumb the depths of human misfortune. Reporters, in the absence of any real facts, desperately sought out details of Ortiz family life. Santiago’s diplomatic career was dissected, as was Isa’s business. Shots of her little factory in Merida were prominently featured.

Neighbors willing to parade themselves in front of the cameras were asked about the hotel, the Ortiz family, and most particularly Alejandro. One neighbor, a blousy woman by the name of Carmelita Chavez, was shown saying she had known Alejandro would come to no good ever since he had stolen an orange off a tree in her garden when he was eight.

The absolute depths were reached, I thought, when a prominent local psychologist was interviewed on a daytime talk show. Alejandro, he said, was suffering the effects of being the youngest son of a very successful man. He was probably the victim of paternal neglect, since his father was undoubtedly never home and therefore never gave his son the discipline and care he needed.

It was appalling.

We held a council of war about noon. Jean Pierre, Isa’s partner, flew down from Mexico City to be with the family. I called Jonathan. Both men ran the gauntlet of reporters and curious passersby to get into the inn.

Acting on the assumption that action was better than waiting, we assigned ourselves tasks. First we hired a security company to maintain order outside the inn, and to keep the reporters off the property. There was nothing we could do to keep them off the street.

Next we polled all the guests at the hotel to ascertain their wishes. For the temporary guests we found accommodation at nearby hotels. Some of the permanent residents chose to stay; others were able to lodge with relatives and friends. By late afternoon, all who wished to leave had done so.

Santiago’s condition, always exacerbated by stress, worsened. A doctor was called, but there was little he could do except tell him to rest.

Jonathan, I have to admit, was terrific in this situation. It was he, along with Jean Pierre, who got us all mobilized, and he was tireless in carrying guests’ bags to the end of the street, since it was almost impossible for taxis to make their way down the little street to the inn.

At one point in the afternoon, he pulled me into the empty drawing room for a hug and a little conference.

“Look, Lara,” he said. “We have to do something here. You must know more about all this than you are telling me. Why did Don Hernan call you down here anyway?”

“I really don’t know for sure, Jonathan,” I replied. “I’ve been trying to piece it all together myself, but really, he never told me anything, except that he was seeking what the rabbit writes.”

Jonathan looked at me as if I had lost my senses, of course.

“As I’ve been able to piece it together so far, I think what the rabbit writes must be a hieroglyphic codex, but where it is, I have absolutely no idea.”

“Interesting idea. Maybe Dona Josefina knows,” he said.

“I don’t think so. I’ve been to see her, and we’ve tried to communicate by a sign language of sorts.”

“Have you indeed?”

“Yes. She was able to confirm it is a codex Don Hernan was looking for, but not where it is located. I don’t even know if Don Hernan knew where it is.”

“Interesting,” was all he said.

Twilight arrived soon enough, and with it the relief I felt every day now when the sun went down. During the brightest hours of the day I found myself seeking out the shade and the darkened rooms of the inn, just waiting for the darkness.