He was the kind who could draw the eye to him irresistibly, so that at first I barely noticed what else was going on in his courtyard. Only when his servant finally managed to attract his attention again and get him to pause, stooping and frowning, while the little man explained who I was and why I had come, did I think to look around and take in my surroundings. They were remarkable.
The courtyard had a bare look. It was clear of anything that was ornamental or that did not obviously serve an immediate practical purpose. Even the idols were fewer in number than usual, although there clearly had been many more, for the walls were covered with bare plinths and empty niches. Curious though these were, I barely spared them a glance before gaping at the people. The place was crowded. It throbbed with so much activity it put me in mind of a beehive.
In one corner, boys stirred steaming pots of glue: liquid turkey fat whose vile smell suffused the whole space. They doled the stuff out into wide tortoiseshell bowls, which smaller boys carried to the women pasting freshly carded cotton on to maguey leaves, to the men who stuck broad, coarse heron and parrot and molted spoonbill feathers together to form the bases of patterns, and to a little group in the far corner who sat apart from everyone else. These last were the true craftsmen, whose task it was to select and place the most precious plumes, those plucked from the green trogon, the red spoonbill and the hummingbird, and the most prized and coveted of all, the long, shimmering tail feathers of the resplendent quetzal.
There were others whom the boys ran straight past, because their part of the process did not require glue: the women whocarded the cotton, creating layers so thin that a picture could be traced through them; the men who laid the cotton over the pictures the scribes had drawn, to trace their designs on to it; and those who carefully peeled the painted and glued cotton away from the leaves that had been used as backing.
From all this industry would emerge the fabulous, radiant, shimmering feather mosaics that were Angry the craftsman’s speciality.
He was striding in my direction now, his face dark and his brow creased in a frown that matched his name. Incongruously, two small, fat dogs trotted silently at his heels. They came and danced around my legs, growling at one another and sniffing and pawing at a loose thread hanging from the remains of my cloak while their master glared down at me.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded, adding, before I had time to answer, ‘I hear you know something about my daughter and my son-in-law. Tell me about it!’
I eyed his pets suspiciously, having always thought myself that the only place for dogs was in a nice hot bubbling stew with beans and chillies. ‘I went to see Skinny and his wife today …’
Angry interrupted me with a loud snort.
‘They told me you weren’t the best of friends.’
‘Did they, now?’ His face darkened. He glanced down at the dogs, as if noticing they were there for the first time.
‘Acamapichtli! Ahuitzotl! Come here!’
As the beasts trotted, whimpering, towards him, he bent down and scooped them up in a fold of his cloak. Then he turned away again, but only for as long as it took to catch the eye of his elderly servant.
‘I’m busy. Look after these two.’ He handed the beasts over with more tenderness than I would have thought him capableof. His servant held them at arm’s length as though he thought they were about to defecate all over him.
‘You must be fond of dogs,’ I observed.
Still looking away, the big man grunted. ‘My wife was. She bought a couple to breed from with the cloaks I gave her when we were married, and got quite successful at it, but for some reason none of hers ever ended up in the pot. Whenever we ate dog it always came from the market. I keep those two you saw for her sake. They’re the last of their line.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘When did you lose her?’
‘Three years ago. It’s none of your business. Tell me about my daughter.’
I told him about my meeting with Skinny and Butterfly, repeating the story I had offered them: that I was Kindly’s slave, sent by the old merchant to retrieve his property ‘They said Marigold and her husband disappeared on the night the costume went missing. Of course, I don’t know that your daughter had anything to do with the theft, but it would help if I could find her. Kindly is very keen to sort this out as quietly as possible.’
‘So you think I’ll help you find my daughter, do you?’
‘Or I could help you find her,’ I said coolly. ‘Skinny and Butterfly said she hadn’t come here. So I thought you might be anxious to know where she was, as well.’
There was a long, dangerous silence while he thought about what I had said. Then, surprisingly, he uttered a harsh, mirthless laugh.
‘I see what you’re about! I must be desperate to find my daughter and that wastrel of a husband of hers, and so if I don’t cooperate with you it’s because I’m hiding her, is that it?’ Suddenly he leaned towards me and showed me just how delicate those long, broad fingers were.
I was caught unawares. I stumbled back. Before I couldregain my balance Angry’s thumbs were pressing into my throat, one either side of my neck, and I was fighting for breath and struggling to keep my feet at the same time, while my hands flailed vainly in the air between us.
‘You’re strangling me!’ I gasped.
His face was so close to mine our noses almost touched. ‘So I am,’ he murmured nonchalantly. ‘A little more pressure and I’ll crush your windpipe.’
My knees were trembling and my eyes were straining to get out of their sockets. I tried to cry out but all I could manage was a feeble rattle at the back of my throat. There was a sound in my ears like waves crashing on a rocky beach. I began to feel dizzy.
Then I was on the ground, spluttering, coughing and choking, with one hand clawing at my bruised throat.
I lay groaning and shivering and willing my arms and legs to move so that I could get up and stagger away, out of the featherworker’s sight. When I shook my head to clear it a wave of pain and nausea swept over me. I retched feebly, but nothing came out. I slumped on the hard earth of the courtyard, seeing nothing, but distantly aware that I could still hear Angry talking.
‘No, Axilli, you don’t understand.’
‘But, Uncle, if he can help us find Marigold …’
The other speaker was a boy whose voice was on the verge of breaking. I twisted my neck cautiously until I could see them both.
‘If only you were right!’ the featherworker cried. ‘But he can’t. It’s too dangerous.’
From where I lay Angry and the boy who called him ‘Uncle’ were dark shapes against the bright afternoon sky Axilli, whose name meant ‘Crayfish’, was a slight figure beside his uncle’s bulk. He looked down, as though dejected.
I levered myself upright. ‘Dangerous?’ I said hoarsely. ‘Why? All we want is the costume back. Kindly will even pay for it. No questions asked.’
The big craftsman stared at me. ‘And you think Marigold has it?’
Before I could reply, he had turned his back. I watched him step delicately over a heap of discarded feathers to stand in front of the nearest wall. When he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly soft: so soft that I had to make an effort to hear him.
‘You see all these empty niches and ledges? She took all the idols with her, when they moved to Atecocolecan. She had to have them with her, you see.’
I scrambled unsteadily to my feet. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My daughter loved the gods, Joker, or whatever your name is. She feared them, but she adored them as well. Do you really think someone like that would steal the raiment of one of them?’
He gently laid one of his enormous hands on a ledge. Then a long, low sound escaped him: something between a sigh and a groan.