The Falling Woman (25 page)

I shook my head to clear it. "The facade's wrong. It should be more like the facade over the temple at Tulúm. Seashells and fishes."

He took the sketchbook from my hands. "Why do you say that?"

Why did I say that? Because I had been drinking and remembering a dream. Because the aguardiente hummed in my head. The past and present had momentarily crossed. I tried to smile, but my face was frozen. "Just a feeling."

He gave me a strange look. John did not like statements based on vague feelings. "I don't really have enough information to do a reconstruction drawing. I was just fooling around a bit."

"Nothing wrong with that," I said. "Nothing wrong with using your imagination."

An awkward pause. John held the sketchbook as if he did not know what to do with it and frowned at me. Finally Robin leaned over to him and gently took it, asking if she could look. Tony got up to light the lantern and pour me another cup of tea. And the conversation went on.

I sat at the edge of the circle of light, listening and watching the three of them. John relaxed again, after a moment. They were comfortable together: Tony and Robin joked about studying pots; John's arm rested lightly on the back of Robin's chair; now and then, she smiled at him or touched his hand lightly. I watched them, much as I watched shades of the past, an observer but not a participant. But somehow, I could not leave.

Much later, Robin and John left the circle of light, walking hand in hand toward the cenote. Tony poured me another glass of aguardiente. Sitting together in the circle of lantern light, watching the moths circle and tasting the bite of the aguardiente at the back of my throat, it seemed that there was something new between Tony and me, or else something very old that was stirring once again. Something was shifting uneasily beneath the surface.

I had another glass of aguardiente, leaned back, and closed my eyes against the lantern light. The brown liquor comforted me, slowing the beating of my heart, blurring the cries of insects and birds in the monte.

Tony's lawn chair creaked as he leaned forward to take his pipe from the crate. I heard the rustle of his tobacco pouch as he began the endless process of packing the pipe with tobacco and lighting it. The sweet scent of unburned tobacco hung in the warm air. I heard the scratch of a wooden match and smelled the sulfur when it caught, then the first smoke of the tobacco. Tony's voice was as rough and warm as a block of granite in the sun. "I've been drinking too much lately," he said softly. "I wanted to let you know that I'm cutting back."

I opened my eyes. The glass at his elbow was empty and his hands were busy with his pipe. I had noticed that he had not been sharing the aguardiente, but had thought little of it.

He glanced at me. "I know that you've been worried about it, about my drinking. It just got to be a habit after Hilde died."

I nodded, not knowing what to say. "I guessed that."

"It's a habit I'm breaking. I wanted to let you know that."

"Good."

His pipe had gone out and he began poking in the bowl with a burned-out wooden match. He was avoiding my eyes and I knew that he was edging around a difficult topic.

I waited for a moment, then asked, "What is it, Tony?"

"Diane told me that you asked her to leave," he said abruptly.

"That's so." I leaned back in my chair, feigning a relaxation I did not feel.

"Why?"

"It doesn't much matter, does it? She refuses to go."

He sat on the edge of the chair, his hands clasped before him, drooping between his knees. Behind him, the open doorway was a blaze of light. He stared down at his hands. "Diane said that the curandera told you to send her away."

"Does that sound like something I would do? Listen to the advice of a Mayan shaman?" I shook my head.

"Then why do you want her to go?"

"I thought she might want to see something of the Yucatan besides one little dig. Just a suggestion."

"She was pretty upset. She seemed to think that you really wanted her to go."

I shrugged angrily. "Yes, there are times that I would like her to go. She seems to expect something from me that I can't give her." I rubbed my hand across my forehead, wishing I could clear away the liquor and the fever and think straight. "She's trying to learn who she is and she seems to think I can tell her. I can't tell her anything."

"I think that sending Diane away would be a mistake," Tony said quietly. "I think that you want to run from a situation that you're afraid you can't handle. You're afraid of getting to know your daughter, afraid you will be hurt. But you can't go on being afraid forever."

"Tony," I said, leaning forward. "Tony, listen to me." I stopped. What could I tell him? Nothing. An ancient priestess of a long-dead moon cult is showing an unhealthy interest in my daughter. "I just have a bad feeling about this place. I think somehow it's dangerous for Diane, maybe dangerous for all of us. I can't control what's happening here."

"What is happening here?" he asked. "What do you see that I don't?"

I leaned back in my chair and looked down at my hands with their broken nails and old scars. "Can't you feel the danger?" I asked him. "I know you don't see things as I do, but you must realize that what you see is not all that there is to the world. There are always things just beyond your gaze when you walk alone in the darkness, or in the dim light just after sunset or just before dawn." I studied his face. "I guess you don't walk alone, not often. You keep people around you. Even when you are by yourself, you think about your friends, worry about them, keep them wrapped around you like a blanket that keeps you warm." I shook my head. "I live in a more solitary place."

"You don't have to," he said. He looked up at me and held out his open hands. "You don't have to be alone."

I shook my head.

"I think it was hard enough for Diane to find you once. If you send her away, you shouldn't expect her to try again."

"I don't expect anything from her."

"And from me?"

"Nothing, Tony. There's nothing you can do." His open hands were in his lap and I wanted to reach out to him, put my hands in his. But I was a danger to him. I would hurt him by being near. I clasped my hands in my lap and shook my head.

He looked up and hesitated. "Liz, we've known each other a long time. I've known ..." He stopped and started again. "Ever since I have known you, you've been watching things that aren't there. I accept that. It doesn't bother me. I have never mentioned this to you because I thought that if I did you would back away from me. I've always been afraid to talk about this." He was watching me steadily; he held his pipe, but his hands were still. "Do you believe that?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. In the monte, the crickets shrilled. Above us, the palm thatch hissed like a roof full of snakes. I could feel the touch of a breeze stirring the hairs on my arms, tickling my neck with loose strands of hair. The camp was very quiet.

"But lately I have heard you talking in Maya when you are alone—in your hut, out at the site. I wondered who you were talking to." His voice was very gentle.

The aguardiente had slowed my mind and body. I leaned toward him, cradling my cup in both hands.

"You don't have to worry about this, Tony. Like you said, I've been seeing people who aren't there for years. Why start worrying now?"

"Diane is worried about you," he said.

The sudden rush of anger was a product of the aguardiente; I knew that. "She told you that she was worried about my sanity, right?"

"She did mention that."

I leaned back in my chair, realized that one of my hands was gripping the other tightly, forced them to relax. "And what did you say?"

"I told her that you were no crazier than you had always been." He shrugged. "I think that's true."

"And how crazy is that?"

He looked at me steadily. "Depends on one's definition," he said. "I don't worry when you see people who aren't here. I only start to worry when you ignore people who are. I don't think that you should send Diane away."

I sat silent. The moon was up. I remembered my view of the moon from the ward. I could see it only if I stood on the back of one of the toilets and peered through a tiny grill-covered window. Clinging to the dusty ledge, I could watch the moon reluctantly lift her battered face over the horizon and gaze down on the earth. With the flowers that Robert brought me, I bribed another woman to keep watch at the door while I watched the moon rise. I could watch until I tired of the scent of urine and disinfectant, or until an orderly caught me and escorted me roughly to bed. I remembered.

Tony reached across the space between us to touch my hand, but I stood up and moved to the edge of the circle of light. I stumbled a little and put one hand on the chair back for support. The aguardiente had left my body heavy and my head light. When I turned my head, the world moved too quickly around me. "I don't mind being told I'm crazy," I said, looking out into the plaza. "I don't care what you think about that.

But I won't be locked up."

"What are you talking about, Liz? I didn't say anything about—''

"No, you didn't say anything." He was starting to stand, to move toward me, but I glared at him and he sat down again. "You think I've been crazy for years."

"You know better than that."

My hand was in a fist and my fingernails were etching painful crescents in my palm. The tension was all around me. I was afraid. No words came. When I groped for words, I thought of the great silence that surrounded the mounds at dawn, the scrabbling of the lizards on the rocks, the crying of birds in the monte, the hissing of grasses in a light breeze. No words.

"I'll stay," he said. "I've been battling shadows of my own for years. Fighting yours might do me good."

I felt empty. I heard my own words slurred by alcohol, remembered too vividly the stench of the ward. I looked at Tony, leaning back in his chair, and remembered Robert and the way he had comforted me when I was upset. "Don't worry about it," I said to Tony then. "I won't send Diane away. Don't concern yourself."

"Now wait," he said, holding out a hand. "Relax. Don't—"

"I said it's all right. Don't worry." I left him and returned to the safety of my hut.

Chapter Eighteen: Diane

A
t Barbara's suggestion, we left camp before dinner on Friday. We dined at Los Balcónes, a small restaurant on a terrace that overlooked Parque Hidalgo. From this vantage point, Barbara amused herself by watching the men who were watching the women in the square below. The men loitered on the benches and comers, discussing important things, gesturing and laughing. When a woman strolled past— especially a young woman—the discussion was disrupted. One man stared at her. Another man, noticing that his friend had been distracted, turned his head to see the source of the distraction. A third man saw the second man turn to look and followed suit. By that time, the first man had returned to the discussion, but a fourth man was just beginning to look. Whenever a woman, any woman, walked by, a ripple of turning heads followed her.

"Look," Barbara said. "Why don't you go down and walk through the square, and I'll check out the reaction? Then I'll go down, and—"

"I don't really feel like it."

"Yeah?" She stopped watching the men in the square for a moment. "You feeling sick?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

I shrugged. "I'm just pissed at Liz."

"Yeah? Why?"

"She wants me to leave the dig."

"Yeah? Where does she want you to go?"

"The Caribbean coast. Back to Los Angeles. Anywhere, she said."

"Why?"

I watched the men in the square. They had returned to an animated discussion. "She said ... this is weird, but she said that the curandera said that I should leave."

"Liz said that?"

"Yeah."

Barbara tapped her fingers restlessly on the table.

"Do you think ..." I hesitated, uncertain.

"What?"

"Sometimes she watches things that aren't there. Her eyes follow them, and when you look there's nothing there at all."

"I've noticed that. She has always done that."

"Sometimes, she talks to herself. I keep meeting her wandering around early in the morning and half the time she is talking to herself.''

"That's so."

"Do you think she's crazy?"

Barbara looked down at the square. The two flower-selling children were pestering a retired American couple in matching leisure suits. "She's not normal, but that doesn't mean she's crazy." She shrugged. "I mean ... who is normal? Those people?" She pointed at the retired couple. "I like your mother. She acts a little odd sometimes, but that's all right with me. I act a little odd sometimes. What did you tell her when she asked you to go?"

"Told her I wouldn't."

"And what did she say?"

"She said it was my responsibility."

"Sounds fair enough. So you're not going."

"I guess not."

For a moment we sat in silence. The bronze statue in the square caught the last rays of sunlight. A hammock vendor strolled through the square and hailed the retired couple without success.

"You know the night that we had a smoke down by the cenote," I said suddenly. "I met the curandera over by Salvador's hut. I wish I had understood what she said to me. She was pretty excited about something."

"You hang around this place long enough, and eventually you realize that you won't ever understand half the stuff that goes on around you. Even when you understand the words, you can't catch all the nuances."

Barbara shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it." She glanced at my face and reached across the table to pat my hand. "Why don't you just relax and enjoy your vacation. Don't worry about Liz. Things will sort themselves out."

We slept that night in real beds. Of course, we had breakfast at Cafetería Mesón, and of course Emilio and Marcos— "the boys" as Barbara had taken to calling them—showed up as we were drinking our coffee. Emilio bought a round of coffee and I tried to forget camp.