Of course he tattled on her, told Grandfather Casiopea was being disrespectful again, and after that was accomplished he went in search of entertainment, as if to reward himself. There was a single, lackluster cantina in town. He did not frequent it because it was unseemly for the grandson of the most important man in Uukumil to show his face there. Instead, he socialized with what passed as the cream of the crop of their town. The pharmacist and the notary public, who also served as the haberdasher, organized games of dominoes at their homes on certain nights of the week, but Martín was often bored when he attended these gatherings. Casiopea could play both chess and checkers, but she was better than him at these pursuits, and since he did not like to be beaten by anyone, especially a girl, he did not deign to play with her.
He made up his mind and walked to the pharmacist’s home. With mechanical rigidity he sat around the table with the other men, watching as one of them emptied the box with the game pieces.
Rather than being upset at the monotony of this game, he was soothed by the familiar faces and rituals. Unlike Casiopea, who had grown disenchanted with the town, with the sameness of expressions, he was comforted by its familiarity.
By the time Martín went back home and saw Casiopea walk across the interior patio, headed for bed, no doubt, he was in a hazy, pleasant state of mind, and being the kind of drunk who naturally engages in multiple apologies when inebriation erodes his defenses, he spoke to her.
“Casiopea,” he said.
She raised her head. She didn’t look at him with a question in her eyes, like others might, but stared at him instead.
When he’d been a boy Martín had feared the monster that dwelled under his bed, pulling his covers up to his chin to stay safe. Martín had the nagging suspicion that as a child his cousin had feared nothing, and that she feared nothing now. He thought this was unnatural, especially for a girl.
“Casiopea, I know the old man is punishing you, and I have to say it’s a raw deal. Do you want me to ask him to let you come with us tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she spat back.
Martín was incensed. Casiopea loved to push against him, to disobey him, to speak in that insolent tone of hers. How could he be kind when she was this willful? It had been wrong to even consider extending her this courtesy.
“Very well,” he told her. “I hope you enjoy your chores.”
He left her with that. He did not consider that his attempt at an apology had been insufficient, nor that Casiopea had a reason to be curt with him. He simply catalogued this conversation as another mark against his cousin’s character and went to bed without regrets. If she wanted to martyr herself while the rest of the household enjoyed a day of merriment, let her be.
It was T’hó before the Spaniards stumbled upon the city—once glorious, then ruined, as all earthly things must be ruined—and named it Mérida. The vast sisal plantations made the hacendados rich, and great houses rose to mark the size of their owners’ fortunes, replacing mud-splattered streets with macadam and public lighting. The upper-class citizens of Mérida claimed the city was as fine as Paris and patterned Paseo Montejo after the Champs-Élysées. Since Europe was considered the cradle of sophistication, the best clothing stores in Mérida sold French fashions and British boots, and ladies said words likecharmantto demonstrate the quality of their imported tutors. Italian architects were hired to erect the abodes of the wealthy. Parisian milliners and dressmakers made the rounds of the city once a year to promote the latest styles.
Despite the revolution, the “divine caste” endured. Perhaps no more Yaquis were being deported from Sonora, forced to work the sisal fields; perhaps no more Korean workers were lured with promises of fast profits and ended as indentured servants; perhaps the price of henequen had fallen, and perhaps the machinery had gone silent at many plantations, but money never leaves the grasp of the rich easily. Fortunes shifted, and several of the prominent Porfirian families had married into up-and-coming dynasties; others had to make do with slightly less. Mérida was changing, but Mérida was still a city where the moneyed, pale, upper-crust citizens dined on delicacies, and the poor went hungry. At the same time, a country in flux is a country padded with opportunities.
Casiopea tried to remind herself of this, that here was her chance to see the city of Mérida. Not under the circumstances she had imagined, but a chance nevertheless.
Mérida was busy, its streets bustling with people. Everyone walked quickly. She had little time to take in the dignified buildings. It was all a blur of color and noise, and sometimes clashing styles, which testified to the tastes of thenouveau richewho had built the city: Moorish, Spanish, quasi-rococo. She wished to grip the god’s hand and ask him to pause to look at the black automobiles parked in a neat row, but did not dare.
They passed the city hall, with its clock tower. They crossed the town square that served as the beating heart of Mérida. They went around the cathedral, which had been built using stones from Mayan temples. She wondered if Hun-Kamé would be displeased by the sight of the building, but he did not even glance at it, and soon they were walking down side streets, farther from the crowds and the noise, leaving downtown behind.
Hun-Kamé stopped before a two-story building, painted green, restrained and proper in its appearance. Above its heavy wooden door there was a stone carving, a hunter with a bow aiming at the heavens.
“Where are we?” she asked, feeling out of breath. Her feet hurt and her forehead was beaded with sweat. They had not eaten nor traded words during their trip. She was more exhausted than alarmed at this point.
“Loray’s home. He is a foreigner, a demon, and thus may prove useful.”
“A demon?” she said, adjusting her shawl. It was filthy with the dust from the road. “Is it safe to see him?”
“As I said, he is a foreigner and so he acts as a neutral party. He will not have any allegiance to my brother,” he replied.
“Are you certain he is home? Perhaps we ought to return later.”
Hun-Kamé placed a hand against the door, and it opened. “We enter now.”
Casiopea did not move. He walked ahead a few paces and, noticing she was not following him, turned his head.
“Do not sell him your soul and you’ll be fine,” he said laconically.
“That sounds simple,” she replied, with a tad of a bite to the words.
“It is,” he said, either not registering the sarcasm in her voice or not caring.
Casiopea took a deep breath and stepped inside.
They went down a wide hallway, the floor decorated with orange Ticul stone, the walls painted yellow. It led into a courtyard, a vine-entangled tree rising in a corner and a fountain gurgling at its side. They walked into a vast living room. White couches, black lacquered furniture. Two floor-to-ceiling mirrors with ebony frames. White flowers upon a low table. The only word to describe the room wasopulent, though it was not like her grandfather’s home. She thought it bolder, minimalist.
