No Job for a Lady (23 page)

“Stealing them is a more accurate description, señorita. It’s a battle to get pieces into this little museum before they are put on a train to the United States or on a ship to Europe.” He gestures at the stone edifices. “These are ones I won the race with. But so many others, often the very finest antiquities, leave the country, with custom officers looking the other way.”

He rubs his thumbs and fingers together in a universal gesture of money. “
Mordida.
The curse is not just of Mexico but of all the countries of Latin America.”

Bribery of public officials certainly isn’t unknown in the States, but
mordida
appears to have been made a part of the national culture here—so much so that’s it’s done without affecting one’s conscience.

“If I wanted to sell some of the finest pieces in here to foreigners, I could indeed build a proper museum. But for what purpose? I would have lost some of our history that no money could replace.”

“Is the archaeologist Traven one of those removing historical artifacts from the country?” I already know the answer, but I’m curious about his opinion of the man.

“All archaeologists are thieves.”

Well, that’s a blunt reply that says little. “What made you take on what must be a thankless task of preserving your country’s physical history?”

Being a person who is driven to accomplish something of importance—something that makes a difference, especially for women—I always wonder what the fire is in the belly of others who take on extraordinary tasks.

“I started working for a foreign archaeologist some years ago. I had been a schoolteacher, but I knew little about the amazing history of my
indio
ancestors. However, besides my own language, I spoke English and Nahuatl. The
indio
tongue helped not only in dealing with workers, many of whom know little Spanish, but also in reading the hieroglyphic word pictures of the Nahuatl-speaking Aztecs.

“I grew angry as I watched so much history Mexican children would never know disappear because the only evidence of it was being exported to faraway lands.” He grimaces with distaste. “I was more disgusted with the greed and corruption of my own people than with the foreigners’.

“They didn’t care that these pieces of history belonged to all of us—those alive today and to our descendants a thousand years from now. It is the duty of every generation to preserve our cultural treasures and pass them on so future generations can admire and, more important, learn from them.”

“So you started a museum, a vault to store them in so they would be safe, and began gathering pieces.”

He chuckles. “The road was a bit more twisted than that. At a foreign archaeologist’s dig, we came across a particularly fine specimen of Quetzalcóatl, the Feathered Serpent.” He walks me over to a motif that appears to come off a wall. “This snarling snake is an example of the god, but the piece we found was a statue of its head several feet tall and in fine condition. That night when the piece was sitting on a wagon waiting to be carted to the train station for a trip across the border, I got on the cart and drove it to
el presidente
’s palace here in the city.”

“What a wonderful story! And I imagine that was the first piece for your museum. May I see it?”

“I’m afraid not. I was arrested for theft. But, señorita, some good did come out of my rash act. The piece never left Mexico, though it also has never seen the inside of a museum. It now protects the doorway to
el presidente
’s hacienda.” He shrugs philosophically. “But my effort attracted the attention of several wealthy people who have since helped me save more pieces of our history.”

Another man, younger than the curator, enters.

“Ah, señorita,” the curator gives me an apologetic smile, “my assistant José is back. I have an important matter that requires my immediate attention. José will finish the tour of our house of antiquities. Your pardon,
por favor.
” He turns to José before leaving. “Show Señorita Bly our collection.”

“My pleasure. This way, señorita.”

José’s breath smells like tacos and beer. While Torres is dressed in a very simple manner—loose white cotton pants and shirt and sandals, similar to how I’ve seen peons dressed for church—José’s hair is unkempt, as are his clothes. No doubt a person of José’s questionable character is all the museum can afford.

“Is there something in particular you would like to see, señorita?”

“Yes. Montezuma’s treasure.”

“Ah! When you find it, call me. I will help you carry it.”

“For the museum?”

“Of course.” He grins. “After I buy a grand hacienda and the finest horses in all Mexico, all in the line of the battle stallion Cortés himself rode into battle.”

“Actually, there is something I want to see. A were-jaguar.”

I watch his face as I speak. His eyebrows go up, but his features reveal little—he has too much beer in his belly to show any more emotion than an intoxicated smirk.

To my surprise, he says, “Come, I will show you.”

He takes me into a room filled with more statues that have either a missing finger, arm, leg, foot, head, heads, or all of these—and with chips all over them. None is in perfect condition, but like a child with a defect, that makes them all the more beautiful.

I follow him over to a green stone head.

“This is your were-jaguar.”

The hair on the back of my neck goes straight up and my right knee starts shaking. The features are not those of the circuslike masks that I’ve been told street entertainers wear.

It’s not a mask at all.

Rather, the shape of the head is pretty much human—or at least humanistic. No one would confuse the features for those of an animal. Heinous, for sure. Something from the dark side of nature, or more likely some dreaded other world. But the animalism to be found in it is subtle—square lines of the jaw, fat lips above teeth that are not fangs yet are meant for more ripping than what people can do. And the eyes: The almond-shaped eyes don’t stare; they pierce. They entrap me, locking me in a stare-down with the stone entity.

I’ve seen the creature before—in the fog, after I chastised Traven about the donkey. And now I’m certain I saw the same creature or its brother yesterday after my mind was robbed by what I still believe to be a mind-stealing opiate.

“Ugly, no?” José says.

“I don’t know if I would call it ugly. It’s not pleasant to look at, that’s for sure. Monstrous, perhaps. Like the werewolf, it’s neither really man nor beast, but a miscue by nature.”

He nods as if he understands what I am talking about, but I think I have rambled beyond his comprehension of English.

“José, what can you tell me about were-jaguars?”

“They are creatures of the night left over from the days of our Aztec ancestors.
Indio
magicians eat mushrooms and turn into the creatures during the hours of darkness. They drink the blood of children and flay their skin like Xipe.”

“Xipe?”

“An Aztec god who skinned himself alive in order to be reborn. Aztec priests used to skin some sacrifice victims and wear their skin. The lucky ones just got their hearts ripped out.”

“I’ve been told the Aztecs killed thousands every year. I can’t help wondering how the people felt when they walked up those pyramid steps, knowing that their hearts were going to be ripped out.”

“They had joyous thoughts because of dream dust.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a powder mixed together by
indio
magicians. It makes a person helpless but happy.”

“Helpless and happy…” Those neck hairs rise again as I feel angry and puzzled. “How was it applied?”

“The murals I’ve seen show a priest shaking the dust in the face of a victim before the person starts up the pyramid stairs.”

“A priest or a little girl with a bunch of flowers.”

“Señorita?”

“Nothing.” I smile thinly. “Just thinking aloud.”

As we walk along, he tells me about various relics, but my mind is churning. Dream dust. Were-jaguars.

“Here is Montezuma’s treasure.”

His words jerk me out of my concentration. “What did you say?”

“This is called a calendar round.” He points at a round stone with markings. “It was used by the Aztecs to tell the date, as we would use a calendar. The most famous one is said to be made of solid gold.”

“On top of the Pyramid of the Sun. And it disappeared.”

“
Sí,
señorita. And I have a map that shows you where it is. I will sell it to you for a mere five pesos.” He laughs at his own joke.

“What about the Cult of the Jaguar? Do you know about that?”

The pleasant alcoholic buzz he’d been glowing with suddenly disappears. He straightens up and glances around.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Uh-huh. I pull five pesos out of my pocket. “I’ll take some information instead of the treasure map.”

He licks his lips. “I … I don’t know.”

I count another five pesos into my hand. “The Cult of the Jaguar.”

I hold out the money and he grabs it and puts it in his pocket.

“You must not tell my uncle.”

Well, that explains how he managed to get this job.

“I won’t tell your uncle.”

He shoots a look around to make sure we are still alone. “No one talks about the cult.”

“Are they afraid?”

“Afraid?” He shrugs as he contemplates the question. “Perhaps. Mostly, it is taboo because it will bring bad luck. Some say the cult doesn’t exist. Others say that it is still here, willing to murder to protect Mexico.”

“What do you say?”

“Me? I say nothing.” His voice drops to a whisper. “If you want to know about the Cult of the Jaguar, you will have to speak to La Bruja.”

“Who is La Bruja?”

“A witch.”

“Are you serious?”

“They say she is a
nawal,
a priestess of black magic who is able to shape-change. That’s why they call her La Bruja. You understand? It means the witch?”

I hadn’t understood, but I get it now.

“Her real name is Princess Doña Marina.”

“Is she a real princess?”

Another shrug. “Who knows? She says she’s a descendant of Aztec royalty and named after the famous Doña Marina. You know who that is?”

“Tell me.”

“Doña Marina was an Aztec girl sold into slavery and given to the Spanish upon their arrival. She was not only able to learn languages quickly but was very intelligent, too. Cortés called her a princess and used her as his interpreter. She was not actually a princess, though she might have been of the minor nobility.

“She warned Cortés of plots against him by
indio
leaders who claimed to be his friends. They say that without Doña Marina, Cortés would have been murdered by
indio
chiefs who pretended to be his allies and the conquest would have failed.”

“How do I find this Doña Marina? La Bruja.”

“It’s not possible, señorita. No one with good sense would seek her out.”

“No one has ever accused me of having good sense. So how do I contact her?”

“I honestly don’t know. I have heard she lives somewhere near Teotihuacán.”

“Do you—”

He backs away, shaking his head. “No, señorita, that is all I have to say. I know no more.
Nada.
”

Stuffing pesos in the donation box as I race out, I hurry to the taxi I have waiting. I want the cabbie to take a circuitous route back to the hotel and I don’t want to be late for lunch with the fabulous Lily Langtry.

As he pulls away, we go by a luxury carriage also in front of the museum. I’m sure there couldn’t be two exactly alike, so I’m certain it’s the one loaned to Gebhard and Langtry by
el presidente.
The rig sits by the curb, empty except for the driver, who is asleep.

Lily would be back at the hotel, still engaged in the hours of preparation I’m sure she goes through whenever she appears in public, so Gebhard must be paying a visit to the museum.

I wonder … was the urgent matter the curator had to attend to a visit by the American millionaire?

Here to make a donation?

Or make a purchase?

AZTEC GOD

(
Six Months in Mexico
)

40

José watched as his uncle escorts the
norteamericano,
Frederic Gebhard, to his fancy coach.

He had not heard what the two men were discussing, but neither his uncle nor the wealthy foreigner appeared to be in a good mood when they walked by him on their way to the carriage.

The money the young woman had given José is burning a hole in his pocket, but his hopes to sneak out and visit a cantina are squashed when his uncle intercepts him as he prepares to leave.

“Get in here,” Torres snaps.

The bad humor José noticed about his uncle when he was with the foreigner is almost volcanic as he follows him into a room.

Torres whips around to confront him. “What did you say to the woman—the reporter?”

“Reporter?”

“Yes, you idiot! She is a newspaper reporter. What did she ask you about?”