I looked at my two companions. Jonathan seemed quite startled. Lucas was as impassive as ever. But there was a look in his eyes that if I had to identify, I would call admiration.
All thoughts of Carnaval pranks were dispelled when the federal police arrived shortly thereafter.
The policeman in charge of the investigation was not, in my opinion, someone in whom anyone would wish to confide. Tall and thin, with an impressive mustache, he had a certain lean and hungry look, to borrow a phrase, a kind of hardness about the eyes, whether from a streak of cruelty or merely bitter disappointment, I couldn’t tell.
I’m not sure what there was in his manner that made me dislike him so quickly. Perhaps it was his peremptory way of dealing with all of us, the patrons of the bar, or an undercurrent of brutality in the way he dealt with staff, the hotel’s and his own. Or the arrogance with which he announced to us all that the guilty party—and here he looked at each of us in a way that implied that each of us in our own way was guilty—would be quickly apprehended.
Jonathan and Lucas, who seemed to be well known to the police, were called upon to identify which object had been taken, then all patrons were interviewed briefly and asked to leave an address and phone number where they could be reached, and permitted to leave.
Afterward Jonathan walked me to a taxi. He had been asked by the police to stay behind to assist with the investigation. The media had already arrived, and crowds of reporters and spectators milled outside the hotel.
“I’ll repeat my question,” I said. “Should those pieces not be in a museum?”
“Touche!” He smiled.
“I’m serious. How does Gomez Arias get away with keeping pieces like that in a glass case in a bar?”
“Maybe he wants to share his collection with the public.”
“The public, by and large, does not get into his bar,” I said acidly. “More likely he wants everyone who comes here to know he can afford them. It will be interesting to see if he can afford to lose them.”
With that, we shook hands and I took the taxi back to the Casa de las Buganvillas. By the time I got back to the hotel, the news was already out, and the place was abuzz.
A rather sullen Alejandro was staffing the front desk with his father. He warmed slightly when he saw me. “Caught a glimpse of you on television,” he said.
Suddenly I was exhausted. Even dinner seemed too much of an effort. I told Alejandro of my adventures, and he suggested that a bowl of his mother’s sopa de frijol, black bean soup, be sent up. I gratefully accepted.
I showered, then answered the tap at the door. It was Isa bringing the sopa, fresh cheese, and crisp tortillas. After setting out the meal on a side table by the window, she pulled up a chair, saying, “Okay, tell me everything.”
I laughed with relief. It was just like old times. I told her what had happened.
“We’ve been watching it on television,” she said. “A group calling itself Children of the Talking Cross has claimed responsibility, saying it will be returning the statue to its rightful owners, the Maya.”
“This Children of the Talking Cross—is this a, well… a mainstream terrorist group or something? I’ve never heard of them.”
“No one has, as far as I know,” Isa replied. “I certainly haven’t.”
“Did they identify the statue?” I asked, thinking of Jonathan and Lucas.
“Yes, there were two archaeologists—were they your friends?—right on the scene. They said it was a carving of the feathered serpent god, Itzamna.”
After Isa had cleared away the dishes and gone downstairs to join her family, I climbed gratefully into bed.
Despite my fatigue, sleep did not come easily. I found myself on the horns of a dilemma. I was guilty of a rather major error of omission in my report to Isa. The big question was should I tell Isa that despite the mask I had recognized Alejandro in the Ek Balam? Should I tell him? Should I tell the federal police? I remembered my impression of the policeman. On that score at least, I rather thought not.
Along time ago I had a boyfriend who described everyone he knew as a car. The worst thing he could think to say about someone was that they were an economy van.
I was, he told me, a ‘56 Thunderbird convertible. Not being much into cars, vintage or otherwise, I wasn’t sure what that meant. One day, a couple of years after we parted company, I saw one, silver, on a revolving platform at a classic car show. Maybe he had liked me more than I realized.
Anyway, while I can barely remember what this guy looked like, he has left me with this particular way of categorizing people. Isa, for example, is the kind of car she drives. Elegant and snappy, a Mercedes 580SL convertible.
Jonathan? A British racing green Rover, leather upholstery. Refined, expensive in an understated way, and maybe just a little pretentious.
Lucas? I wasn’t sure about him just yet. But whatever the model, the color would have to be black.
Waiting at the reception desk as I went downstairs the next morning to scrounge a cup of coffee was the person I had already come to think of as a Mack truck. The kind that roars up on your bumper so only the silver grille, like rows of sharks teeth, shows in your rearview mirror. Convinced that any moment you will be squashed like some insignificant bug on its front bumper, your relief is palpable when eventually it roars past, causing your car to jerk and lurch in its wake.
It was the investigating officer, one Major Ignacio Martinez, I had learned the previous night. Clearly this was a man who shot first and asked questions later, who made up his mind about the guilty party very early in an investigation, then went to great lengths to prove it, regardless of evidence to the contrary.
And the person he had decided was guilty of stealing the statue of Itzamna, I was soon to learn, was Dr. Hernan Castillo.
I had awakened late. The day was gloomy, fitting for Akbal, a day of evil and darkness. I had not arrived at any resolution of my dilemma of the night before, but when I saw Martinez standing at the reception desk, I thought my problem had been solved, though in the worst possible way.
But Martinez was not looking for Alejandro, he was looking for me. And it was Don Hernan he wanted to talk about.
We went into a small sitting room off the lobby.
“What brought you to Mexico, senora?” he began.
“I’m on a break from my studies, a holiday.”
“What made you choose Merida as your destination?”
“I’m studying Maya history and languages,” I replied.
There was a pause.
“I think you are not being entirely, shall we say, comprehensive, in your answers to my questions. Now, why would that be?”
“Perhaps you are not asking the right questions,” I snapped. “What exactly is it you want to know?”
“I want to know the whereabouts of Dr. Hernan Castillo, and I believe you have the answer,” he said.
Whereabouts? This man watches too many movies! I thought.
“What in heaven’s name does Dr. Castillo have to do with this? Surely you cannot think he has anything to do with the robbery. He’s a well-respected scholar.”
“I believe I am the one authorized to ask the questions, senora, not you. Do I think he walked into the bar and took the statue personally? No, I do not. But yes, I do think he is involved. He and Senor Gomez Arias had an argument over the stolen sculpture, in fact only a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t know where he is,” I replied. “I do know that he would not have anything to do with something as shabby as this.”
He ignored the last comment. “But you did come to Merida to meet him, did you not?” Obviously either Jonathan or Lucas had been more “comprehensive” in his testimony than I had been.