The Xibalba Murders

CIMI

CIMI. Another death day. The Popol Vuh, the great epic of the Quicho Maya, portrays a mythic battle between the Lords of Death, denizens of an underworld called Xibalba, and the Hero Twins. The Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque, offspring of the Maize Lord and a banished underworld princess, play a ball game with the Xibalbans by day and submit to a series of tests by night.

They survive tests of fire, rain and hail, bats, razor-sharp stones that come to life and try to slash them. One is beheaded; they are drowned, their bones ground up and thrown into the sea. In the end, of course, they outwit the Lords of Death and rise through the earth into the sky to become the sun and the moon. In so doing, the heroes are said to have brought hope to the world: a soul called to Xibalba can defeat the Lords of the Underworld as they did, and triumph over death.

Today, although I do not know it yet, is Don Hernan’s last, the day that his soul enters the maw of Xibalba and begins his personal battle with the Lords of Death. He dies without finding what he sought.

That he does so on Cimi, the day of the human skull hieroglyph, would have seemed only natural to the ancient Maya.

But his death is anything but natural. Whichever human emissary of the Lords of Xibalba has been the cause of his death has a sense of history—and theater.

today I was once again confined to barracks, as it were. Isa and I had a late breakfast with Francesca and Santiago in the kitchen while Santiago told me of the efforts to have me sprung from captivity again.

I myself made a call to the Canadian embassy in Mexico City, and after several infuriating attempts to get through the bureaucratic morass, I found someone, a Margaret Semple, who had worked with my father several years earlier and said she would get right on this.

Knowing that “get right on this” in Mexico meant something different and more protracted than the same statement back home, I decided to relax and enjoy the day with the Ortiz family.

Alejandro was in the hotel, and he looked pale and withdrawn, not the least the cocky kid I’d had a short beer with a couple of days earlier. That morning he had attended the funeral of Luis Vallespino with a group of his friends, and the experience had obviously subdued him.

“I’m sorry I was so rude to you the other day, Alejandro,” I said to him when we had a minute alone. His eyes teared up a little. “I am terribly worried about Don Hernan. I don’t know what any of this is about, Alejandro. But I will remain silent, I promise you. I just wish you’d talk to me about it.”

His mouth moved as if he were about to speak, but then he turned and walked away.

Later Isa and I swam in the pool in the courtyard, sunned ourselves, and gossiped, supervised, in a manner of speaking, by Dona Josefina, who, in keeping with her epithet, The Empress, regally surveyed the comings and goings of everyone from the shade of the veranda.

“Okay, Isa, tell me about the boyfriend.”

“He’s lovely. He’s a banker, but not too stuffy. From France. Fortunately for me he got posted to Mexico two years ago. We met shortly after he got here. With the Mexican peso as volatile as it is, I don’t think he regarded this as a plum assignment. Now the question is what we will do if he gets called back to Paris?”

“What kind of banking does he do?”

“Currency, international transfers of money for large accounts. That kind of thing. He’s been very helpful with my business actually. He’s always giving me advice as to when to buy and sell US or Eurodollars. He’s very talented.”

“Talented and… ?”

“Cute. Maybe even adorable, what can I say? Very French, very charming, very funny, nice dresser. And he gets along with my family; even Alejandro. But your turn. Where are we, exactly, on the subject of our two archaeologists?”

“Actually I was thinking about Alejandro. He’s rather quiet these days, isn’t he?”

“Yes, we’re concerned about him. I think this is the first funeral he’s ever attended. Luis, as I told you, was the younger brother of a friend of Alejandro’s, Ricardo Vallespino. I didn’t know they were such good friends, just part of the same circle, but I suppose at that age, death, particularly such a violent one, always seems remote.

“But don’t try and change the subject. Back to the archaeologists!”

“I’m not sure, I guess. You know my history with men as well as anyone, Isa. I always go for the cads. So what should we think would you say?

“Well, there’s no question which one is the better conversationalist. Or the better dresser. Gucci loafers, no less!”

“That’s good, is it?” I asked, grinning. Isa thought I knew absolutely nothing about fashion, and I loved to tease her, and she me, about it.

Isa sighed. “Lara, your knowledge of fashion is appalling. I really will have to take you in hand. G-U-C-C-I. Italian, trendy, expensive. Jonathan is unquestionably the best-dressed archaeologist I’ve ever seen. Even his casual clothes are Savile Row. He’s also the better conversationalist. Lucas isn’t exactly wordy, is he?”

“No, but he dresses like an archaeologist. I don’t suppose there is any point in asking who, where, or what is a Savile Row?”

Isa treated my question with the contempt it deserved. “I think we can safely assume Jonathan is not living off an archaeologist’s salary. He must be independently wealthy, upper-crust, Oxford-educated, old school tie, tea parties at Buckingham Palace, that sort of thing. I think we should make inquiries.”

Just then Norberto came over with a tray with two margaritas for us. “On the house.” He smiled. “Mother says to just get whatever you want to eat from the kitchen. She’s gone to pay her respects to Luis and Ricardo’s mother.”

“Have you heard anything more about the police investigation, Isa?” I asked after Norberto had gone back inside.

“The police are saying it was some kind of gang war,” Isa replied.

“That may be what they are saying officially, Isa, but as I told you, Major Martinez has hinted—more than hinted—that Don Hernan is involved.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Try telling that to Martinez. And Luis was found on the roof of the museo. How on earth would a gang war put him there?”

We both pondered that for a while.

“Isa, I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“I need an address and directions to the home of Diego Maria Gomez Arias.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“His name or rather the initials D.M.G.A. appear rather often in Don Hernan’s diary, if I remember correctly.”

“How are you going to—the tree!”

I nodded.

Later that afternoon she went out, and returned in an hour or two.

She handed me a slip of paper with an address and a hand-drawn route map. She also slipped me a set of car keys.

“You’ll need transportation,” she whispered conspiratorially. “My car will be on the side street by eleven p.m. I’ll go stay with friends for a couple of hours, then pick it up on the way home and drive it to the garage.”

The day dragged on after that, except for the time when Jonathan dropped in for a drink, “to visit die prisoner,” as he put it. We had a pleasant visit, but he couldn’t stay for dinner. He had work to do, he said. I looked at his shoes with new respect. Italian, trendy, expensive…

We watched the television news in the kitchen. The death of Luis Vallespino had caused an outpouring of rage and grief in the city. His funeral had made the news, and was obviously well attended. I scanned the crowd for signs of Alejandro, but did not see him.

Right after eleven, I turned out the light, put the dark pants and sweater on again, and crawled out through the bathroom window as I had previously.

I had to wait up in the tree until a couple out for a stroll passed by, then I was down and around the corner.

The Mercedes was there, as promised, and I pulled away as quickly as I could.

Isa’s directions took me north on the extension of the Paseo de Montejo to a part of town known to be the haunt of the nouveau riche and famous. When the henequen trade had dried up, victim of the arrival of man-made fibers, and the upkeep and modernization of the houses on the paseo became too expensive for succeeding generations, the rich moved north along the road to Progreso.

Indeed, if you take the Plaza Major as the heart of Merida, the farther north you go, the wealthier the residents. The Gomez Arias family lived well to the north, out beyond even the country-club set. The houses out here were enormous, and even though it was now about eleven-thirty, almost all were still ablaze, a testimony to the Mexican penchant for staying up half the night.

I was glad to have the Mercedes. There were several private security personnel on patrol, some in cars, some on foot with dogs. The Mercedes, in this neighborhood, raised no suspicions.

I had a little trouble finding my way through the winding streets, but eventually I pulled up at the gate of the palatial estate Diego Maria Gomez Arias called home. I pushed a button at the entrance and spoke my name into a little box, asking in what I hoped was impeccable Spanish for a brief meeting with Senor Gomez Arias. There was a lengthy pause, during which I got to consider how silly this all was. Of course they would not open the gates to a stranger at eleven-thirty at night.

I was about to give up and go back to the hotel, fearful the dogs had been called, when the huge wrought-iron gates began to swing open.

I piloted the Mercedes along a sweeping drive, the headlights illuminating bushes of hibiscus that must have been absolutely gorgeous in the light of day.

The house itself struck me as rather odd for Merida, its architecture more English or French manor house than traditional Spanish: portico entrance, leaded glass windows, none of the tilework or heavy wood carving I would have expected.

This impression was borne out when the door was opened at my ring, and I was ushered into a spectacular mirrored black-and-white marble-tiled foyer. The maid who opened the door was also dressed in black and white, and looked rather disdainfully at my attire. At least all in black, I, too, matched the decor. I was left to cool my heels for a while.

This gave me plenty of opportunity to gawk. A huge crystal chandelier graced the entranceway, a circular staircase curved up one side of the foyer, and to my right, a door led into what I was soon to learn was a sitting room.

The walls were all mirrored, and in a decorating affectation I have never liked, pictures were hung against the mirrors, held there by thin wires from the ceiling. The paintings were nonetheless impressive. One was, I was almost certain, a real Picasso, another a Matisse. Seflor Gomez Arias was obviously doing quite nicely, thank you. And he had good taste in art.

Another door to the left opened to a dining room, complete with another crystal chandelier. Both fixtures were so large I wondered if Don Diego Maria had borrowed a couple of spares from the ballroom of his hotel.

After a few minutes I heard someone descending the stairs. It was not Don Diego, but instead a smart-looking woman of about forty who clutched the banister in one hand and a martini glass in the other.

She made her way down the stairs with some care.

She was attractive in a kind of beige way: beigy-blond hair that she wore long and pulled back, a creamy beige sweater that I could only assume was cashmere, and a beige suede skirt.

“Sheila Stratton Gomez,” she said, addressing me in Spanish. “Diego’s wife. His third wife, to be precise. And you are… ?”

“Lara McClintoch.”

“With a name like that, you must speak English, thank God. Come in,” she said, beckoning in the general direction of the door to the right. She was wearing very high heels, the kind men love but give me vertigo. I couldn’t imagine how she could walk in them, even at the best of times. And judging by the martini glass and her general unsteadiness, these were not the best of times.

“You’ll have a drink, of course,” she said when we were seated in large crushed-velvet armchairs in front of a large marble fireplace of baronial proportions. I gathered she wanted another one.

The maid reappeared, and Sheila Gomez ordered a white wine for me, another martini for herself.

While she addressed me in English and was clearly an American, she ordered the drinks in formal Castilian Spanish, a language I find exotic when spoken by a native, but from someone like Sheila, who obviously learned it later in life, it always sounds affected. Her current tipsy state only exaggerated the rather lisping quality of her speech.

“My husband is not at home. How may I help you?” she said when the drinks arrived.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said, “and I had hoped Senor Gomez Arias might be able to help me.”

“How deliciously mysterious,” she said. She had a little trouble with deliciously. “Tell me more.”

“I’m trying to find Senor Hernan Castillo. I came to Mexico at his request a few days ago, but he phoned the first evening to say he had been called away, and has not been heard of since.”

“Don Hernan. A lovely man. Cultured, kind. I was so sorry when he stopped coming here. He used to come for dinner quite often. We talked about New York, Boston, my hometown of Philadelphia. Don Hernan was very interested in things American, you know. A lovely man,” she repeated.

“When and why did he stop coming here?” I asked, trying to focus the conversation a little before the next martini took effect.

“About a month or so ago, I think. He and Diego had an argument of some sort—they were in Diego’s study with the door closed, so I don’t know what it was about, but it sounded unpleasant,” she said.

“Did your husband and Don Hernan have business dealings?” I asked.

“I think so. Diego is on the board of directors of the museum. Beyond that, Diego does not talk to me much about his business. I’m the trophy wife, you know. Good American family, by which I mean wealthy. I’m brought out on ceremonial occasions only,” she said bitterly.

I made sympathetic noises of some kind.

“He’s not a bad man, really. I know he has a reputation for ruthless business dealings but…” She trailed off.

We both heard someone out in the hall. A young, very attractive woman in her mid-twenties, I would say, dark hair and eyes, looked in. She seemed vaguely familiar. She glanced at the martini glass in Sheila’s hand, then briefly at me, and left without a word.

Sheila looked alarmed.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Montserrat, Diego’s daughter by his much-loved first wife. They fight all the time, but he adores her.”

“He named the hotel after her, I take it,” I said.

“Yes.” She paused and then giggled into her martini glass. “At least I hope that’s the way it worked. It wouldn’t be very nice for a girl to be named after a hotel, now, would it?

“Actually, she is the manager of the hotel and vice-president of some other businesses Diego owns. He is very proud of her.”

“She doesn’t look like her father, does she?” I said, thinking of the rather unattractive man in the Ek Balam.

“No, she takes after her mother, Innocentia, who died when Montserrat was very young. Her mother’s picture is all over the house.” Sheila looked as if she were going to start sobbing in an alcoholic haze.

“Tell me about your husband’s businesses,” I said, trying to drag her back from the brink of self-pity. “He owns a hotel, obviously.”

“Yes. His original business, the one that made him rich, though, is water.”

“Water, as in—”

“As in the stuff they make ice for martinis out of.” She giggled again. “Well, have you seen much in the way of fresh water around here? The water for this city comes from the aquifer beneath the city.”

“The windmills!” I said, remembering this significant feature of the city when I had first come here as a young girl.

“Right. All of Merida’s water used to be brought to the surface by the windmills you saw everywhere. That’s why it was sometimes called the City of Windmills. Diego’s father died when Diego was quite young, and I guess his mother didn’t feel an education was important for the youngest in the family. Diego is essentially self-taught. He recognized that the water supply here is always a problem, so he learned all about soil mechanics, the underground rivers and everything, and invented a more efficient windmill—sort of like building a better mousetrap—and the rest, as they say, is history. When Merida switched to a city water system, Diego bought up the old windmills for a song, converted them, and sold them for a premium in the countryside.”

“How does he feel about the theft of the statue from the bar?” I asked.

“He is devastated. It was one of his favorite pieces. Actually, Diego and Don Hernan had an argument over that very statue one night at dinner.”

I waited while she took another sip of her martini.

“There is one thing you need to know about Diego to understand him. It is not enough for him to admire rare or beautiful things. He must possess them. And the rarer they are, or the harder to obtain, the more he wants them.

“You must have noticed this house. Rather different from the neighbors‘, wouldn’t you say? He saw this little manor house on a country estate in England. The owner, some English earl or something, said it had been in the family for centuries and there was no way he would sell.

“But Diego managed it—found out something about the earl—one would rather not know what—that convinced him to sell.

“Then Diego moved the building, stone by stone, to his property here, and had it reassembled. Fortunately he also owns a small shipping company!” She laughed.

“And then there’s me. We met at an official dinner at the governor’s residence back home. Diego was a guest of the governor. I was married at the time, but that didn’t stop Diego. He pursued me with an enthusiasm that was very flattering. Now I am one of his possessions.”

“And Itzamna, the statue?”

“Apparently it was really very old, and a very sacred relic for the Maya. Don Hernan had always felt objects of such antiquity belong in museums, not private collections. After several visits to U.S. museums, he was also coming around to the view that something he called comanagement—sharing ownership of and responsibility for an artifact between an institution like the museo and the people to whom it had originally belonged—was the way of the future.

“Anyway, Don Hernan had heard about the Itzamna and had mentioned it to Diego. Both men went after it, for the reasons I’ve told you, and Diego got to it first.

“It was the beginning of the end of the friendship, and a very sad day for me.”

Sheila looked at her empty martini glass and rang the bell for the maid. But instead of the maid, Montserrat appeared. “I believe you’ve had enough, Sheila,” she said.

Sheila looked cowed. Montserrat nodded in my general direction and left the room again.

“Perhaps it’s time I left,” I said, stating the obvious. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“I don’t suppose you’d come again,” she said rather wistfully.

“I’d like to,” I said, momentarily forgetting I was under house arrest.

“Where would I find you?”

“Casa de las Buganvillas.”

“Where Don Hernan lived. I’ve heard it’s lovely.”

We shook hands and I headed back down the drive and then toward the hotel. I did not have to ask why Sheila had let a total stranger into the house late at night. This was one very sad and lonely woman.

But there was something about our conversation that was nagging at me as I drove back to the hotel. I was about halfway back when I realized that she had spoken about Don Hernan in the past tense the whole time.

And I remembered where I had seen Montserrat. On television, in the crowd at Luis Vallespino’s funeral.

I parked the Mercedes on a side street, crept stealthily along the sidewalk, climbed the wall into the tree, and then slipped through the window onto the chair in the bathtub.

It was then I noticed the light shining in under the bathroom door from my room. I opened the door with real apprehension.

Isa was sitting on my bed, her eyes red from crying.

“Don Hernan is dead,” she said.