“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.”