We lay in the sun and chatted. Barbara had a sharp eye and a sharper tongue and she was quite amusing at the expense of the others.
After an hour or so, we heard shouting and laughter on the trail. A group of Mexican boys, ranging in age from five to fifteen, came scrambling down to the cenote. Barbara and I watched them swim for a time, but packed up to leave when the older boys started a contest to see who could make the biggest splash by leaping into the water from the sheer rock face. The rock where we were lying was right on the edge of the splash zone and retreat seemed the wisest course.
‘It belongs to them the rest of the year,’ Barbara said as we headed back. ‘We only borrow it.’
‘Do they live near here?’
‘Up at the hacienda, I think. You know, the ranch out by the highway. In the middle of the henequen fields.’
‘Long walk down here,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘When there’s only one place to swim, I suppose it doesn’t matter much how long the walk is.’
The camp was quiet. Tony sat in the shade by his hut, a drink balanced carefully on the arm of his lawn chair. My mother was apparently working on her book – I could hear the tapping of her typewriter. Barbara declared that the only thing worth doing was taking a nap. I borrowed a book from her, took a seat in the shade at one of the tables, and settled down to read.
Chickens scratched in the dirt around me, clucking bemusedly to themselves. A small black pig lay by the wall near the kitchen, taking a prolonged siesta. I could hear the cook’s daughter singing to herself. She was just on the other side of the wall, scratching in the dirt with a stick. I could not understand the words of the song. They could have been nonsense or they could have been Maya. When she peeked over the edge of the wall, I smiled and said, ‘Buenos días.’ She ducked back behind the wall and was silent for a few minutes. Then I heard the scratching of her stick in the dirt and she returned to her song.
The first chapter of Barbara’s book gave a general history of the Mayan empire, profusely illustrated with photos of Chichén Itzá and Uxmal. Dzibilchaltún was mentioned as the oldest continuously occupied site, but the text included no photos. I understood why.
The Maya had occupied the Yucatán peninsula since 3000 BC. They absorbed several invasions from Mexico. From the book, I got the impression that the Maya’s strength was not in their military prowess, but in their ability to absorb invaders, adopt some of the new customs, retain some of their own. For the most part, they held their own until the Spanish came along. The Spanish conquistadors overcame the Mayan armies; the Catholic Church subdued the survivors. The friars seemed, from the book’s account, to be concerned with saving the heathens’ souls even if that meant ending their lives.
I took a break and drank a glass of water from the barrel in the shade. I considered going back to the cenote for another swim, but the prospect of the long, hot walk discouraged me. The plaza was hot, even in the shade. Tony had gone into his hut for a nap or another drink, I supposed.
The second chapter described the Mayan view of time, saying that the philosophy of time was an essential part of their way of thinking. The book failed to make it seem at all essential. I had read the first paragraph over three times and was considering a stroll through the ruins, when the jeep drove up in a cloud of dust. Carlos and Robin were sitting in the front seat; Maggie was alone in the back. ‘Hey, Robin,’ I heard Maggie say, ‘let’s take this stuff to the hut and go for a swim.’
The two women headed off together with their laundry bags, never looking back at Carlos. I suppressed a grin and looked back down at my book, considering the comments that Barbara might have on this particular sequence in the courtship rites.
I tried to concentrate on the book, but the description of the Mayan calendar was as dry as my throat. I had moved on to the second paragraph, but it was little better than the first. Cycles of twenty days made a month; eighteen months made a year. Each day had a name and the Maya believed that each day was the responsibility of the god of that name. There seemed to be an inordinate number of names and gods and cycles.
‘Would you like a beer?’ I looked up. Carlos was holding out an open bottle. The brown glass was beaded with condensation and a wisp of cold vapor curled from the open neck. Carlos set it on the table in front of me without waiting for my answer. He sat in the chair across from me and took a long drink from his own bottle.
I put the book down and took a long drink. The bottle was cold in my hand and the beer was cold running down my throat. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That was a quick trip to town.’
He nodded and grinned. He was tanned and handsome, and he knew it. He wore white shorts and an air of confidence. He pushed his chair back away from the table and propped his feet up on another chair. ‘Just long enough to do laundry and have an argument.’
‘An argument? What about?’
He seemed at ease, sleek and content as a well-fed cat. ‘I got myself in trouble with Maggie by commenting on how pretty you are.’
‘Barbara mentioned that you liked trouble,’ I said.
He glanced at me, then threw back his head and laughed. ‘I suppose I do,’ he said. ‘I seem to find it often enough.’
‘Are you sure you don’t go looking for it?’ I asked.
He shrugged, still grinning. ‘Could be. You are pretty, though. You’re from Los Angeles, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I spent about five years in Los Angeles. I’m from Mexico originally, Mexico City. L.A.’s a nice town. Why the hell did you decide to spend your vacation in this godforsaken spot?’
I did not look at his face; I considered the condensation on the beer bottle. One drop traced a path through the other drops and reached the table. I shrugged. ‘I really just wanted to spend time with my mother.’
‘I see.’ He turned the book, which I had set down on the table, and read the title. ‘I would have thought you knew all this already. Being Liz’s daughter.’
‘I don’t know much at all,’ I said. ‘This is my first dig.’ On the wall by the kitchen, a small blue lizard marked with yellow stripes was sunning itself. The black pig shifted its position, sighed, and continued its nap. I could still hear the little girl singing softly. The chickens were scratching in the dirt. I watched the chickens and regretted having accepted the beer. I did not want to talk about my reasons for coming here.
‘Why don’t you tell me something interesting about the ancient Maya?’ I asked.
I could see him weighing possible comments. ‘Your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen,’ he said at last.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘That has nothing to do with the ancient Maya.’
‘That’s true.’ He paused, and when he spoke again, he spoke slowly, as if choosing each word with care. ‘The ancient Maya carved elaborate ornaments of jade using nothing but stone tools. The jade that they carved was just the color of your eyes.’
I couldn’t help smiling a little. ‘A little better. Try one more time, and leave my eyes out of it.’
He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it, studying my face as he did so. Then he said, ‘The people who have put their minds to translating the Mayan hieroglyphics have come to the conclusion that many of the symbols are puns and puzzles. “Xoc,” for example, means “to count.” It is also the name of a mythical fish that lives in the heavens. So the Maya used the head of the fish to represent counting. But since the fish was difficult to carve, they substituted the symbol for water, since that’s where fish live. The symbol for water is a jade bead, since both are green and precious. So jade means water means fish means to count.’ Carlos paused, took a drag on his cigarette, and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘And as confusing as all that sounds, it is simplicity itself compared to the mind of a woman.’ He tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked at my face. ‘Is that better?’