Looking down from twenty thousand feet, it is not difficult to imagine the water-lily monster resting in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, the sky serpent arching over it from horizon to horizon. In a way, I was disappointed when the aircraft left the forests of the Maya world behind and began the descent into Merida.
I deplaned rapidly, clearing customs without incident. Having done this several times before, on buying trips, I was quickly able to negotiate my way through the throngs of hawkers and hustlers promising everything from cheap lodgings to a good time, then was pleased to see Isabella, the Ortiz’s daughter, waiting for me. She must have flown down from Mexico City when she heard I was coming.
Isabella, Isa for short, and I have been friends for twenty-five years, ever since my father, who had spent his career with the United Nations, was posted into Mexico. We, my parents and I, spent two years there, and Isa and I, growing up together through a couple of awkward teen years, became fast friends.
Isa has built a highly successful business in Mexico City by adapting the classic women’s attire of her native Yucatan, the embroidered huipil, to more modern tastes. Her beautifully designed women’s clothing has struck a chord with Mexican women and her face and her fashions now regularly grace the covers and pages of haute couture magazines. She has a new partner in life, Jean Pierre, a French banker posted to Mexico, who is also her unofficial business manager.
“Bienvenidos, welcome, Lara.” She smiled, giving me a big hug and handing me a bouquet of birds of paradise. “We’re all so pleased you’ve come to visit.”
I dumped my ugly duffel bag into the back of her Mercedes convertible—clearly business was good—and we headed for her family’s little inn, the Casa de las Buganvillas, literally the house of the bougainvilleas. It is on a quiet little side street off the Paseo de Montejo, and the place I always stay when I’m in Merida.
One enters by way of a curved stone staircase lined with colorful tiles in blue and white, then through hand carved wooden doors into a cool and dark domed entranceway. The floors are tiled in terra-cotta, the walls textured plaster in the colonial style. Wooden ceilings are hand-painted in traditional designs and the halls and entranceway lit by large wrought-iron and blown-glass candelabras.
The inn is the ancestral home of the Ortiz family. Burdened by a house far too large to be practical, and with Santiago Ortiz Menendez away for much of the time for his work in the Mexican diplomatic corps, Francesca Ortiz began first to take in the odd lodger, then gradually to transform the house into the wonderful inn that it is today.
There are still reminders of the grander times. The reception desk is just that—a huge old carved desk that had been brought by the Ortiz ancestors on a Spanish sailing ship. Santiago Ortiz Menendez sat there now, smiling his welcome. He retired early from the diplomatic corps, felled by a debilitating degenerative muscular disease. He was now in a wheelchair, still managing to run the hotel from this post.
I leaned over to kiss him on both cheeks, European style. His many years in the diplomatic corps still clung to him with a kind of formality that he used in speaking with everyone, including his two small grandchildren.
“We are very honored to have you here with us again,” he said gravely, “and we look forward to catching up on news of your family and your work.
“No doubt, however, you have had a long day, and would like some time to rest and refresh yourself. I do hope we will have the pleasure of serving you in the hotel dining room? Yes? About nine we will expect you. Dr. Castillo has said that he will, with your permission, join you for the evening meal. The family would also be most pleased if you would join us for a late coffee in our private quarters. My wife is eager to see you and hear news of your parents.”
He handed me the key to my room. I was pleased to see that it was my favorite, the end room on the second floor overlooking the back courtyard. A young man I had not seen before, possibly one of the Ortiz extended family who get their start in the business world by helping out at the hotel, took my duffel bag and led the way up the stone staircase to the second floor.
Once the door had closed behind him, I crossed to the window and pushed the shutters back. The room overlooks a courtyard in the center of which is a small pool, presided over by a terra-cotta statue of a Maya god. Even in the fading light of early evening, I could see the glorious purple bougainvilleas after which the inn had been named climbing up the whitewashed walls of the courtyard.
Over to one side I could see the roof of the veranda, bleached oak trellis supported by columns of local cantera stone. The tables on the veranda were already set for cena, the evening meal, and Norberto, the Ortiz’s older son, was already there, checking every detail, even though dinner, in the Spanish style of eating late, was at least two or three hours away.
Sitting on airplanes and in airports must qualify as one of the most tiring activities one can undertake. In any event, knowing that dinner was a few hours away, I stretched out on the bed, and soon fell into a heavy sleep.
As I drifted off, however, I thought I heard an argument, two or possibly three men in the courtyard beneath my window, speaking in a language I didn’t understand. It was neither English nor Spanish, but probably one of the Mayan languages, of which there are many. It sounded like a serious argument, but I had no idea what it was about.
I awoke with a start, the phone ringing beside me. It was Dr. Castillo, telling me that he had been delayed and regrettably would be unable to meet me for dinner. He was heading out of town, he said, but would be in touch on his return to reschedule our meeting.
“I regret I must postpone our meeting this evening, amiga, but I assure you it is for a good purpose,” he said.
“I know that you will pass a pleasant evening with the Ortiz family, however.
“Let us just say the plot thickens!”
And with that he quickly rang off.
I had a shower to try to chase the cobwebs and the gloom away. My afternoon nap had not exactly been restful. I was depressed at the thought of having to eat alone, and annoyed to think I had dropped everything to fly thousands of miles to chase a writing rabbit!
I finished unpacking. One downside to having a successful fashion designer as a friend is that it does remind you, from time to time, of the inadequacy of your wardrobe. Mine these days relied rather heavily on denim, black, and khaki. I call it my student uniform. My neighbor Alex insists I dress like that to keep men away, and perhaps I do. I pulled out an off-white silk blouse and a pair of taupe gabardine trousers. They would have to do.
As I reached the top of the stairs leading down to the lobby, I saw Isa and her father, deep in quiet conversation, her dark head bent toward his. There was an air of tension about them both, somehow, but as I started down the stairs they broke off the conversation. She was smiling, but I could not help feeling something was not quite right with my friends.
Norberto led me to the candlelit veranda and a table overlooking the courtyard. It was the table, he told me, that Dr. Castillo had reserved for the evening, and that he had asked that I be brought a bottle of wine of my choosing, as an apology for his delay.
Sipping a glass of white wine, Calafia from Mexico’s west coast, I looked around at my fellow guests.
Despite my earlier gloom on the subject, I actually enjoy eating in restaurants by myself from time to time. I often amuse myself by speculating on the lives of the other diners.