He gave me a look that I could not interpret, tossed a few coins on the table to pay for his beer, and hurried from the restaurant.
Well, that was brilliant! I told myself. He knows all you know, and you know nothing more than you did before. Furthermore he’ll never tell you what he knows because now he is convinced you’re a nasty old cow!
I paid for my meal and grabbed a taxi for the museo. I made the driver stop about a block away, and walked the rest of the way.
I paid my admission, made a pretense for a few minutes of looking at the exhibits, then, as I had the day before, ducked through the door on the top floor marked prohibido entrar and very quietly let myself into Don Hernan’s office, carefully locking the door behind me. I did not want to be surprised by anyone, least of all Major Martinez.
Despite the fact that he was well past retirement age, the museum board of governors had let Don Hernan keep his little office in recognition of his contribution to Maya studies in general, and his generosity to the museum in particular. Many of the exhibits on the floors below would not have been possible without his donations.
It wasn’t much of an office really, just a dark little cubbyhole at the end of a long hallway on the top floor. The little room still reeked of the cigars he indulged in, and I very quietly unlocked the window and opened it a few inches to allow in some air.
There was not much light in the room, in part because of the gloominess of the day, but I was afraid to turn on the reading lamp. It would have been quite obvious, I thought, if anyone came into that dark hallway.
I could feel my face flush in mortification at the mere thought of being caught searching the office. Whatever would I say? I wondered. That Dr. Castillo had sent me to get something for him? And what would that something be? Indeed, when it came right down to it, what on earth was I doing here and what exactly had I hoped to accomplish? To find a road map pointing to his precise location? I felt a rush of annoyance at myself. Don Hernan had said he was going out of town and would call on his return. He did this all the time; at least he used to. He was probably just fine, and I was being silly.
But there I was, burdened by this niggling anxiety about the old man. I’d already committed a felony, minor though it might be, letting myself into this office without permission, so perhaps I’d just carry on, I reasoned.
I looked around. The room was much as I remembered it: stacks of books and papers everywhere, the odd pottery shard scattered on the desk. It was going to be difficult to find anything in this clutter, but I was able to locate his desk diary, a logical starting point, very quickly.
There was a comfortable ledge by the window, which led, as is typical in many old buildings, to a fire-escape landing. After momentarily pondering the idiocy of having a fire escape off a locked room, I began to look at the entries in the diary made in Don Hernan’s spidery scrawl.
I was just settling in nicely when I heard footsteps in the hall.
I stood motionless, hardly daring to breathe. The footsteps stopped right outside the door. I heard the rattle of keys as first one, then a second was tried in the door. I had no doubt that one would fit, and I looked frantically around the room for a place to hide.
At that moment there was a loud rumble as the rather antiquated freight elevator just down the hall groaned into use. Whoever was outside the door stopped fiddling with the lock and stood still. This person, or persons, apparently wished to be caught in this office as little as I did.
As the freight elevator clanged and rumbled I carefully slid the window open and crawled onto the fire escape, sliding the window down behind me. As I did so I heard the lock click and sensed rather than saw the door begin to open cautiously. I pressed my back to the wall to one side of the window.
It was a few minutes before I was able to regain a shred of composure and, standing as still as possible, to take stock of my surroundings. This was no easy task because I am not good with heights, and standing on an open fire escape, even on a building as low as four stories, makes me very uncomfortable at the best of times, which clearly these weren’t.
Looking to the right and down, I could see that this was the kind of fire escape where, presumably to discourage burglars, the stairs do not go right down to the ground, but lead instead to another window two floors below.
I did not relish the thought of climbing into someone’s office. It was an academic point anyway, because to get to the stairs I would have to cross in front of the window. Since the window was open slightly, I knew that the unwanted visitor was still there, systematically searching the office. It did cross my mind that it could be Dr. Castillo, but I decided that he would not have had to try so many keys to get in, neither would he be searching his own office quite this methodically.
Looking straight down, I could see that I was on the back side of the museum, in an alleyway of sorts, which opened onto a larger street. Across the alley was another building, windowless on this side. My imagination, overactive at the best of times, began to see accomplices in the shadows of the alleyway.
The longer I stood there, the worse it got. The spurt of adrenaline that had got me out the window so quickly was now contributing to what I can only describe as a full-fledged panic attack. My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure it could be heard in the office, and I couldn’t seem to get enough air no matter how often or how deeply I breathed. I tried concentrating on remaining motionless and breathing normally, but I felt overwhelmed by the need to get away from my precarious and exposed position on the fire escape, no matter what the risk.
A small rational part of my brain was still functional and assessing my situation, I guess, because I became aware that I was leaning against something uncomfortable, which I eventually realized was an iron ladder. By craning my neck, I could see it led to what appeared to be a flat roof. As slowly and quietly as I could, I turned, put one foot on the first rung, then moved in slow motion to the second.
I was very close to the top of the ladder when I hit a loose step, which clanged, metal against metal, in what seemed to me to be the loudest noise in the world.
I heard someone start to raise the window, and with my last ounce of strength I hauled myself up and over the top to lie facedown on the gravel surface of the flat roof. I remained there, absolutely still, imagining someone coming out on the fire escape and up the ladder. But no one did, and after what seemed an eternity, I heard the window close, and a loud click as it was locked shut.
After several more minutes of motionless existence, I rolled onto my back and sat up. Over my shoulders I could see a large metal tank next to a brick wall, which I took to be the top of the elevator shaft.
I began to edge my way back toward the tank, thinking it might afford me some protection. I felt even more exposed on the roof than I had on the fire escape, and I wanted to huddle in a corner until the danger had passed. I thought if I could get to that tank, I could rest in its shadow, and figure out where to go next.
My hands were bleeding from pushing myself along on the stones, but eventually I felt my back touch the tank. I tried to wedge myself in tight against it. But as I reached out, my hand touched another, cold as death.
KAN
I carry a picture in my mind now, of Hernan Castillo Rivas, on this particular day. It is Kan, day of the lizard, symbol of the Maize Lord, bringer of abundance.
As I have reconstructed events, Don Hernan is sitting in a cafe in a dusty little village on a dirt road leading to nowhere.
The village consists of the tiny cafe“ in which he sits, a one-pump gas station, and a couple of stores. One of these is a souvenir shop, a triumph of hope over reason, since few tourists come this way.