The Mayan Codex

35

Sabir sat down on the motel walkway. He hunched forwards like a man with stomach cramp and rested his head on his knees. Would he never again manage to sleep a night straight through? The constant waking up and drifting off was draining him of his strength. And yet he feared pills and their effects – he had seen what they had done to his mother.

The temperature on the outskirts of Corpus Christi at 2.30 that morning was a balmy twenty degrees, and Sabir could clearly pick up the scent of the sea on the incoming breeze. When he straightened up he could hear the surf pounding against Padre Island, and the shriek of distant seabirds as they fought over a school of sardines.

He sat for a long time listening to the murmurings of the night, secretly hoping that Lamia would come out and join him, just as she had done two nights before. He regretted having drawn away from her when she had reached out to comfort him, and he was looking for an opportunity – any opportunity – of putting things right with her again.

If only Calque would begin snoring. Or sleepwalking. Or throwing himself around in his bed. But when Sabir had tiptoed out of their communal bedroom, the former policeman had been sleeping like a well-fed baby

As far as the trip was concerned, the three of them appeared to have settled into a comforting routine, sharing jokes and playing car games. Somewhat to Sabir’s surprise, Calque was wildly competitive in anything that involved intellectual exercise, to the extent that he would even bend the rules a little when it suited him. Sabir had decided that this might have something to do with Calque’s previous profession as a policeman, but he kept the thought firmly to himself. One consequence, though, was that there had been no opportunity for any private conversation with Lamia.

Sabir was just about to head back inside and try for a little sleep when the door behind him opened. Lamia edged through it, one hand held up to shade her eyes against the glare of the safety light.

Sabir did his best to mask his delight at her miraculous reappearance. ‘Don’t tell me. Calque has started snoring again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why are we whispering? Nothing will cut through that racket of his and wake him up.’

Lamia laughed. She had brought a blanket out with her, as before, but this time she settled herself on it, with her legs drawn up and to the side, and then folded it across her like a four-leaf-clover. She was wearing an old-fashioned flannel nightdress, and Sabir found himself marvelling anew at her unselficonsciousness. Lamia was unlike any French woman he had ever met in that respect, in that she appeared to have so convinced herself of her fundamental undesirability that, beyond making sure that she was neatly turned out, her fashion sense erred disarmingly on the side of a studied and rather grey neutrality.

‘So what’s new?’ Sabir grinned at her, not really expecting a serious answer to his question.

Lamia shook her head. ‘I haven’t told Calque yet. But this afternoon, as we were driving through Houston, I am convinced that I saw my sister Dakini following us in a car.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

‘I couldn’t be sure, because she was wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap.’

‘Dark glasses and a baseball cap?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t sound much like her, does it? I’ve since managed to convince myself that I was wrong. Which I probably am. But Dakini has a face that, once seen, is never forgotten.’ She blushed and turned away, as though fearing that her own face might reasonably be considered to fall within that category as well.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, in addition to having very long hair – I mean really long, falling to well below her waist – Dakini also has a sort of unfortunate rictus to her features, that gives her a malevolent look, as though she is permanently angry.’ Lamia hesitated, uncertain whether to go on. Then she sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder about Madame, my mother, endlessly adopting children with disastrous tics or disabilities. Why did she never have us seen to? Surgically, I mean? In Rudra’s case she could have had his club foot treated. And in Berith’s case his harelip. I agree that Athame’s near dwarfism is incurable, as is Alastor’s cachexia, and Aldinach’s hermaphroditism. But she could have put Asson on a diet, instead of encouraging and funding his gourmandism – I mean they now say that excess weight is not necessarily genetic, don’t they?’

‘Then why didn’t she? Have you treated, I mean?’

Lamia let out another long sigh. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She must have wanted us this way. We must have suited her.’

Sabir shook his head despairingly. He glanced over at Lamia, but she was avoiding his eyes. ‘Can’t you have your face fixed now? There have been enormous advances in dermatology since you were a child. Surely there’s something that can be done?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m scared to. Haemangiomas like mine need treating early. The longer you leave it, the more danger there is. If they catch you as a baby, they can sometimes use liquid nitrogen on the discoloration. That is not available later, however. Because my haemangioma did not threaten a vital organ, the nuns simply left it – or so I was told – hoping that it would go away of its own accord. But it didn’t, as you can see. Maybe they even thought that as God had made me this way, who were they to change it? Nowadays, to treat it, they would have to use steroids, or interferon, or a pulse-dye laser treatment. In my case, because of the sheer size of it, they might even have to operate, with all the associated risks. I might end up looking even worse than I do now.’

‘You don’t look bad now. In fact I think you’re beautiful.’

‘Thank you, Adam. But I’m too old to believe in fairytales any more. I’m twenty-seven. Not eleven.’

Sabir sensed that it was time to change the subject. ‘What about the twins?’

Lamia shrugged. ‘At least Madame, my mother, had the grace to have them surgically parted. Or maybe, come to think of it, that was the nuns too? Either way, I’ve seen the scars on their torsos. I believe they must have shared a kidney or something when they emerged from their mother. Now they merely share an attitude.’

Sabir laughed, although he didn’t really find the twins in the least amusing. ‘Do you love them? I mean, do you love any of them? Your mother? Or your brothers and sisters?’

Lamia appeared to consider for a moment. ‘There was a time when I was close to Athame. She is the one of my sisters who suffers from dwarfism. I mean she isn’t really a dwarf, she is just very small indeed. She suffers from Ellis-van Creveld Syndrome, like some of your Amish people over here. She’s a polydactyl, too.’

‘A what?’

‘She has twelve fingers.’

‘Jesus. And she uses them all?’

‘As well as you or I.’

‘And are you still close to her?’

‘We fell out over my attitude to the Corpus. I’ve been steadily easing back on my commitment for some years now. None of the others suspected, because they were not close to me – but Athame understood. And she couldn’t condone it. She believes the Countess, my mother, to be a sort of goddess figure. She worships her, like the Jews of the Old Testament worshipped graven images – the golden calf, or what have you. She believes the Countess to be a sort of golem. And sometimes I think she’s right. My mother is not entirely human. It is perfectly feasible that some force created her out of primeval clay, and simply gave her the face and body of a normal human being. To trick people.’

‘To trick people? How?’

Lamia met Sabir’s eyes straight on for the first time. ‘Into believing that she was like them.’