Ice Shock(42)

Benicio bursts out laughing. “Yeah, you’re the ideal couple …”

There’s something about his tone I don’t like. It’s as if he thinks she’s too good for me. But I shrug it off. “Well, it’s the twenty-first century; she can do what she likes.”

“That’s Ixchel all the way,” Benicio says, with an emphatic nod. “She’s gonna do whatever she likes.”

Sourly, I ask, “I suppose she has a university degree already at fourteen?”

“No, she doesn’t have a ‘degree.’ She finished high school, though. She was gonna study ancient writing.”

I don’t say anything else. No wonder she doesn’t want anything to do with me; in educational terms, I’m years behind Ixchel.

“Would you like to go see her?”

“In Veracruz?”

“Sure, why not? You’ve told Montoyo everything you know and he’s not so happy for you to chat with people here. Blanco Vigores had a chance to catch up with you … Montoyo seems kind of surprised that Vigores already knew you were here, by the way. Montoyo surprised by something—that’s always nice to see …”

I interrupt, “Montoyo didn’t set that up?”

“Nope. Blanco just turned up! Imagine that. He even behaved like it had all been arranged with Montoyo.”

“Why would it be?”

“Didn’t Carlos tell you? Vigores left instructions that whenever you are in Ek Naab, he wants to know about it.”

I reflect on that for a bit. “No, he didn’t tell me. Wonder why not?”

“That’s Carlos. Always likes to be in control.” Benicio sighs contentedly. He seems to be relishing the chance to get out of Ek Naab. “Yup, I’d say you’re all done in Ek Naab for now. And with a very good excuse for a little trip.”

I think about the postcards. This is my chance to find out if Ixchel has been sending them—and if so, why.

“All right, you’re on. Let’s go to Veracruz.”





20


Benicio parks the Muwan on an isolated spot on the beach a few miles north of the city. They call it the Emerald Coast of Mexico, maybe because the sea is green, not blue. The beaches at Veracruz aren’t very crowded. On a clear day you can see the oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. Approaching Veracruz, we walk along the beach, sniffing the air, picking up a petrochemical stink from the sand.

I’m surprised when Benicio tells me that Montoyo not only gave permission for us to visit Ixchel but thought it was a good idea.

Still trying to matchmake us, obviously. What a waste of time. Even if I were into it, Ixchel never would be. She’s made that pretty clear.

In Veracruz, Benicio takes me to the central plaza, the zocalo. Colonnades line the square on two sides, in front of what I’m guessing is a town hall. There are tall, dense palm trees with thick, drooping fronds providing plenty of shade from the pale afternoon sun. A vendor calls, “Ices, ices, I’ve got mango, guanabana, coconut.” On the shiny marble tiles of the square, old couples are dancing to piped music. We stop and watch for a moment. They dance slowly, with tiny yet stately movements. It’s not a dance I’ve seen before. Benicio tells me it’s called danzon.

At one corner, behind an arched colonnade, is the old-fashioned café where Ixchel works. Inside it’s spacious, lots of old wood stained deep and dark, round wooden tables and a long wooden counter. Behind that there’s some antique-looking coffee-making equipment, all polished copper and brass.

Benicio orders coffee at the bar and Ixchel brings us two glasses containing about an inch of dark-brown syrupy liquid. When she sees him she immediately grins, throws her arms around his neck, and hugs him. With me, she looks suddenly frosty. Sullenly, we kiss each other on the cheek, saying hello.

In her waitress uniform, Ixchel looks older and prettier than when we met in the jungle that time. She’s wearing a black miniskirt with a little white apron, a tight white blouse, and flat black shoes. Her hair is longer and pinned back with a couple of chopsticks. She looks tired and flustered, but there’s a bit of color in her cheeks.

Benicio clinks his glass with a spoon. A waiter in a white jacket arrives with a huge silver pot of hot milk. He pours milk into our coffee from a height, frothing the milk as it falls. Benicio smacks his lips when he tastes the coffee. “Worth the trip just for the coffee!” Ixchel brings us club sandwiches, bottles of Sunkist, and glasses crammed with ice. She asks permission to take her afternoon break at our table.

Benicio’s in a good mood, which I really don’t understand. I feel miserable every time I think about Montoyo’s face when he saw the symbol of the Sect of Huracan. I guess Benicio doesn’t have any idea how bad it is that I let Madison’s group get hold of pages of the codex.