Ice Shock (24 page)

“What's the plan when we get to Tlacotalpan?” asks Ixchel, sucking juice through a straw.

I've tried not to think about this all night long. It hasn't been too hard—there have been other things to distract me. The biggest one—time travel. Did Montoyo actually say that? It was only a couple of days ago, but already the memory feels foggy, distant.

He couldn't be serious. Could he?

I've been trying to think of any other explanation for why the codices are written in English. But I guess anything I come up with, the Mayas in Ek Naab will have thought of.

Itzamna was a time traveler
… ?

It sounds too ludicrous. But then I ask myself—what is the Revival Chamber? Is it the time-travel device?

Is Itzamna still floating around somewhere in time?

Ixchel's voice interrupts my thoughts. “You know what I'm thinking about?” she says.

“Nope.”

“I'm wondering about Chan and Albita. Why do you think they appeared to us in our dream?”

“How should I know? I don't even really know if that's what happened.”

“What? You know it did.”

“If they did, then it must have been to show us the way out of there.”

“So we didn't end up trapped down there, like Albita?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah.”

“And you don't think there's maybe another reason?”

I shrug, clueless. What's she getting at?

Ixchel yawns, begins to speak in a dreamy, faraway voice. “I've never been in a haunted place before, you know. We bury the dead of Ek Naab far from the city, in a cemetery on a hill surrounded by an orange grove. They don't come anywhere near us. We visit them on the Day of the Dead, and that's it. It seems to keep them happy. They spend all their time in the sun, after all.”

I don't really know what to say to that. Somehow, telling her that I don't believe in ghosts seems like a dumb thing to say.

“Are your parents still alive?”

“My father is.”

“But not your mom?”

Ixchel lowers her eyes for a second, and with a tiny movement, shakes her head.

“Oh,” I say, struggling for words. “I'm sorry. I didn't know. Is … is that why you ran away? You don't get along with your dad?”

“It's more complicated. My mother died years ago. My father has a new wife and we don't get along so well.”

I think about my own mother. I hadn't ever really considered that she might marry again.

“I think I'd like it if my mom got married again,” I say. “She gets pretty sad sometimes. It would be good if there was someone else around for her.”

“Sure. That's how it seems. Until it actually happens to you. Until they marry an evil witch.”

“You think your stepmother is an evil witch?”

“Yup.”

“Like in fairy tales?”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Snow White' … stuff like that.”

“I haven't read it.”

“Well, neither have I, not actually read it. But you've seen the Disney movie, right?”

“What's ‘Disney'?”

“Unreal.”

“What is?”

“That you've never heard of Disney. What did you do for fun growing up?”

“Play, swim, learn to cook, and read and study … play piano, and … I don't know, the usual things. What's ‘Disney'?”

I shake my head in wonder. “Man! We really don't have much in common, do we?”

She gives me a sad smile. “That's right. You see my problem with this whole arranged-marriage thing?”

“Can I ask you … is there a boy you like in Ek Naab?”

“You think I'd leave Ek Naab if there was some boy I liked?”

“I don't know. If you weren't allowed to go out with him, maybe.”

“I don't like having my life controlled, okay? That's it. This Disney movie, for example. Maybe I'd have liked to see it, you know? Maybe it's good, maybe not. But I'd like the choice. I'd like to live in the real world. Not locked away—like in a convent.”

“You know what a convent is, though?”

“Of course! They made me learn all about the history of Mexico. Didn't they think that one day I'd want to see all these places for myself? It's a crazy way to live.”

“You should definitely see a Disney movie,” I tell her. “At least, you've got to see
Toy Story 2
.”

“
Toy Story 2
,” she repeats thoughtfully. “I'll add that to my list.”

I turn away and look through the bus window. The road is narrow, with sugarcane growing right to the edge of the asphalt. A faint morning mist floats above the surface of the road, barely a yard thick. The sky is gray, but the clouds look wispy, as if the sun could burn them away by lunchtime. I watch as a falcon—or some other bird of prey—hovers high above the reeds for a moment and then plummets into the cane field.

Ixchel may be pretty different from me, but we have at least one thing in common.

We've both lost a parent
.

Like me, Ixchel goes quiet. She finishes off the crumbs from her Gansito, licks melted chocolate from her fingers.

Not long afterward, we arrive in Tlacotalpan. I've been trying to avoid Ixchel's question, but she has a point.

We've followed the instructions in the postcard message.

So—what now?

The dozen or so passengers empty out at the bus station, Ixchel and I among them. Everyone else seems to know where they're going, with their chickens in cages, but Ixchel and I just mill around.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Give me a few minutes,” I say, staring hard at a street map on the wall of the bus station. The truth is that I've got no idea.

I squint as I gaze around, use my hand to shade my eyes against the sharp white light. I've never seen a Mexican town that looks quite like this. Wide, potholed avenues, no cars; neat grass lawns and old buildings with colonnades. The walls are brightly colored—ice-cream pink, butter yellow, peppermint green, candy-apple red.

But where are the shops, the traffic, the bustling tourists, the townsfolk? It's only noon, yet it feels like everyone's gone home for a siesta. It's like a ghost town—if ghosts lived in ramshackle, quaint-old-town splendor.

We turn in to the fanciest town plaza I've ever seen. Apart from us, there are a couple of backpackers taking photos of the Asian-looking gazebo in the middle of tall palms, hibiscus bushes, and smaller trees. Behind the central garden is a church, painted in gleaming white and gray, with a picture-postcard bell tower. A Dominican priest wearing sunglasses and a white habit with a black cloak makes his way, head bowed, toward the church.

A middle-aged guy in an apron opens up a café on one corner of the square. He drags white plastic tables onto the marble tiles outside. He must have turned on some music, because out of the blue, the square echoes with the tinny noise of an old-fashioned bolero: a romantic singer crooning over woodwinds, scratchy brass, and bongo drums. It's like we've stepped back in time—I don't even know how long—fifty years?

“So … ,” Ixchel says, turning to me.

I keep my eyes on the café, trying to ignore her. She's dying to hear me admit that I don't have a clue what to do. I don't want to give her the satisfaction.

“Any smart ideas?”

“Let's ask at the café.”

“Yes, but … ask
what
?”

“I don't know … let's ask about the postcards. See if they know someone who's interested in Mayan sites.”

Ixchel ponders. “I guess it's a place to start.”

It's obvious she's not impressed.

“Look,” I say, “whoever sent those postcards wanted me to come here.
They are watching
—which means it may not be safe to come up to us.”

“Who's
they
?”

“The NRO,” I reply, a bit surprised.

“Really? Not the Sect?”

“Outside of Ek Naab, only the NRO has Muwans. My dad was captured by people flying Muwans—the NRO.”

“And you're sure the Sect doesn't have them?”

I'm exasperated. “Why would Madison bother chasing me in a car if he had a Muwan?”

Ixchel shrugs. “Hey, I'm just asking. You seem to make many assumptions …”

As we're walking over to the tiny café, a fair-haired, older lady emerges from around the corner. She's heading for the café too and beats us to it. She takes a seat at one of the two outside tables under the arches and calls out in Spanish, “Some Manzanilla tea with my quesadilla, could you, Victor?”

We sit at the opposite table. I can't help glancing at the lady. From her accent, I'd guess that she's not Mexican—probably American. I think she's in her sixties. She's about the same height as my mom, with very short blond hair that's obviously been colored. She's dressed in a light floral dress with a knitted shawl. Her skin is very pale, arms slightly freckled, her face soft, with peachy cheeks. She wears just a
hint of makeup, and lipstick. After staring out at the plaza for a minute, she takes a paperback book from her shoulder bag and starts to read.

Victor the waiter comes out with his notepad and pencil stub, asking for our order. We order
sincronizados
—grilled ham and cheese in tortillas—and bottles of apple soda. I count my money. I have enough for one more round of restaurant snacks, bus tickets, and that's it. When Victor's gone, I look across at the woman.

And then she looks up from her book, straight into my eyes. I've never had a complete stranger stare at me that way before. Her gaze bores deep into me. She tilts her head to one side, as if considering.

“Excuse me,” I say in English, “are you American?”

She pauses for a long time, pursing her lips. “That I am, young man. And I'm betting that you're British; am I right?”

“Yeah,” I say. “And Mexican too.”

“Well, congratulations. Lived here most of my life; wish I could say that. But I guess I'll always be a gringo around here.”

That gets smiles out of us. The American lady puts down her book and gives Ixchel and me a long, thoughtful glance.

“Now,” she says, in neatly clipped tones, “if I were to ask you a rather surprising question, you think you could stay calm?”

I say, “I could try.”

Ixchel looks from the lady back to me.

The American seems to think about our responses for a minute, then gives a short nod. “All right, that seems fair enough to me.”

We watch her expectantly.

“Now. If I were to ask you,” she says slowly, “if your name were ‘Josh,' what in heaven's name would you say to that?”

Ixchel grows very still next to me. I swallow. “I'd say … that yeah, it is.”

The lady gives another quick nod, as if mentally ticking something off a checklist. “And if I were to say that your last name is ‘Garcia,' now, what then?”

I stare. For a long time. Then I say, “You sent the postcards.”

Slowly, she closes her eyes, nodding. “That I did.”

“Why?”

“Because he asked me to.”

I'm completely confused. “Who did?”

“A certain Mr. Arcadio Garcia, young man. He was most insistent that I wait at this table for you, every day this month, until you arrived. I promised him I would, not that I knew what I was promising, and so I have.”

“You have … what?”

“Waited for you,” she says, simply. “Because he asked me to. And here we all are.”

“Who's Arcadio Garcia?”

“I'd guess he was your grandfather,” she says. “Going by age and looks.”

“My grandfather was
Aureliano
Garcia. And he's been dead for forty years.”

The lady's face drops. “Forty years? Are you sure?”

“It's been about that long.”

“Forty years ago … well, heavens, that explains most everything.”

I think for a second, dredging up a faint memory. “Is Arcadio a common name in Mexico?”

She frowns. “Not really; why?”

It strikes me as odd that “Arcadio” is the name signed in that book by John Lloyd Stephens, the one Tyler and I found in that Jericho bookshop—the one that Simon Madison stole. But I don't say any more—things are weird enough as it is.

I'm feeling more exasperated by the second. I don't know exactly what I expected to find in Tlacotalpan—something along the lines of a disguised NRO agent who'd decided to go rogue and leak the secret of what really happened to my dad. Definitely not a sweet old American lady ordering tea and discussing my ancestors.

“You said ‘that explains everything.'
What
does it explain?”

“For that, my darlings, you'll have to come to my home.”

After lunch, the lady, who says her name is Susannah St. John, leads us through the deserted streets of Tlacotalpan to her house. We walk at her pace: nice and slow. And she tells us the story of her and Arcadio.

“I met Arcadio here in Tlacotalpan. Right there in the
refresceria
where we all met, just now. He ordered a beer. I was with my friend from the hospital, Veronica, another nurse like me. We'd been at a nursing convention near Veracruz and were enjoying a day trip on the last day.” She smiles at the memory. “We were eating ice cream. I couldn't help looking at him, and so, of course, he looked back at me.”

I interrupt. “Why couldn't you help it?”

A blush appears in her cheeks. “Well, he was a handsome young fella in his thirties, of course. With a definite family resemblance to you. Except that Arcadio had the most compelling blue eyes. And he leaned over to me and said, in
the most perfect English, ‘Excuse me, ladies; I'd be delighted to invite you both to a cup of tea.'”

Her eyes sparkle. “My, what a charmer he was. He said he was a historian, educated in England and the United States. He was visiting Tlacotalpan as part of his research into the decline in influence of the state of Veracruz.”