“We have the benefit of this book only because in the middle of the sixteenth century, it was transcribed into the Roman alphabet by a young Quiche nobleman, and a copy has survived.
“The other post-Conquest books we know about are those of the Chilam Balam, which are, I gather, books of the jaguar prophet. I didn’t do much research on these, since you told me to skip them, so I’ll mention only that these are also probably fragments of earlier pre-Conquest stories, they, too, are in European script, and they are named after the places they are kept.”
“What about even earlier books than these, Alex?”
“Now this is where it gets really interesting. There are only four Maya books in the world today in the original hieroglyphics.
“I was surprised how few there were—imagine judging our civilization on just four books!—until I read about the infamous friar Diego de Landa, who, with some of his colleagues in Christ, took it upon themselves to systematically wipe out all the Maya hieroglyphic books. He wrote to the King of Spain at the time saying something to the effect that since the books contained superstitions and falsehoods of the devil, they had burned them all. Any Maya caught with one of these texts risked torture and death.
“The four hieroglyphic books, called codices, are named for the places they were first exhibited. Three are in Europe: the Dresden Codex, the Paris Codex, which you can see under glass in the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, and the Madrid Codex. They all contain information on gods and rituals and all are in a very fragile state.”
“And the fourth?”
“The Grolier Codex. In some ways it is the most fascinating. It turned up recently, very recently, in codex terms—1971, actually. There is a story that it was found in a wooden box in a cave in Chiapas by looters, and was held by a private collector in Mexico for at least three decades before it surfaced at the Grolier Club.
“These codices are made of paper of some sort. How long do you figure something made of paper would last in the humidity of that climate? And yet the Grolier Codex has been dated to the early thirteenth century, thereby making it the oldest of the four! Many thought it would not be possible for it to have survived so many centuries outside the controlled environment of a museum, but the texts I’ve researched give the impression that its age has been established through carbon dating, and that it is authentic. It is in very bad shape, though.” “So what would these books look like?” “They were written on long strips of paper folded like screens, kind of accordion-pleated, with a cover of wood or fur. You read through the stack from top to bottom, I think.”
I thought of the rabbit scribe on the piece of pottery at the museum. He had appeared to be writing on a stack of folded paper, and there was a spotted material that covered it top and bottom.
“So one of these books would be exceptionally rare.”
“Absolutely! Imagine a literate civilization reduced to only four books! What would ours be? A volume of Shakespeare, a book on physics by Stephen Hawking, the Bible, a book of poetry or philosophy?
“Anyway, that discussion is for another day. Let me tell you what I’ve found out about the people you asked me about. Gomez Arias. Pretty much what you told me yourself. Born in Merida, lived much of his childhood in Panama. After his father died when he was in his early teens, he ran away from home, or his mother kicked him out, depending on which account of his life you believe.
Worked at various menial jobs, until he made a lot of money, a fortune I’d say, in water systems.
“Owns a number of companies. He seems to like naming them after himself and his daughter. There’s the Hotel Monserrat, Monserrat Shipping Lines, and something called DMGA Investments, which I gather invests the profits from his other enterprises.
“Three marriages, one to Innocentia, one child, the aforementioned Monserrat; the second to an Englishwoman, Sharon, ended in divorce after a year and a half. No children. Currently married to Sheila Stratton, wealthy American socialite. They’ve been married five years, also no children. He likes art and blondes, I’m not sure in which order.
“Jonathan Hamelin. Cambridge-educated archaeologist. Has published some papers in various scholarly journals. Worked in the Yucatan for the last six years. Credited with some interesting archaeological discoveries, the most recent in a site near Tulum. Seems to have had some bad luck with some of his finds, though. Grave robbers always seem to be a few steps ahead of him. One of the objects he was looking for, a jade mask, turned up in a private collection in Europe not long ago.
“Good family, apparently. Seat in the House of Lords. Although they don’t appear to be wealthy. Family home has been given to the National Trust. His parents have the use of it until they die, then it becomes the exclusive property of the trust. More family status than cash, I would say. Probably broke, but in an aristocratic British sort of way.
“Lucas May. Now this one is a cipher. Studied archaeology both in Mexico and at the University of Texas. Interned at the Museo National de Antropologia in Mexico City ten years ago. After that, absolutely nothing. No papers, no attendance at conferences, no archaeological discoveries.
“Major Martinez. Strange. Up until about five years ago he appeared to have a distinguished career with the federal police. Much-decorated hero, in fact. He was a member of an unofficial antiterrorism squad that captured one of the leaders of a group of Indian rebels.
“Then he got involved in a nasty little affair at one of the archaeological sites. Seems there was this lovely little local market in the shadow of the ruins. The government went and built another marketplace about half a mile away. The local people didn’t like it—it sounds like a concrete bunker to me, so I can sympathize.
“Anyway, the locals refused to move. I gather nothing happened for a while. But then one day the bulldozers arrived, accompanied by the federal police, Major Martinez in command; machine guns at the ready. The locals were given forty minutes to vacate the marketplace… one can only imagine the hysteria.
“Martinez took his assignment very seriously. One could say way too seriously. By the end of the day, the old marketplace was gone, absolutely flattened. I’m sure the authorities regarded it as a job well done, but a couple of people got hurt, badly hurt—a really brutal affair— and there was a public outcry. The government went looking for someone to blame, and Martinez ended up the villain.
“He kept his job, but seems to have been assigned to lesser cases from that moment on, like the theft of a statue from a bar, cases you would think would have been beneath him. He’s a bitter man, no doubt.
“That’s about it!”
“Thanks, Alex. You are a wonder. This is really helpful.”
“If you need any more, call me. My computer stands at the ready!”
Later Jonathan called to say he’d have to be in Merida in the late afternoon, and could we meet for dinner. He treated me to the dining room of the Hotel Montserrat, a rather extravagant affair that must have set him back a bit and something of a surprise considering how annoyed the young woman after whom the hotel was named had been when he had refused a nightcap the previous evening.
At some point during the meal, our conversation turned to his work at the site.
“Someone was telling me that you’ve had some problems with grave robbers on your digs,” I said, recalling what Alex had told me earlier in the day.
“Rather!” he said. Then, losing his air of British detachment: “Bloody pigs! Sorry for the language.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You don’t want to know. Do you, really?”
“Sure. I’m fascinated by this stuff.”