“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.”
34
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.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look around you. Where do you think the money came from to build such a fine town? This place used to receive all the goods from Europe, from Cadiz via Cuba. And from here they’d be taken down the river, to towns in the south of Mexico. It was a thriving port. But that all ended when the railroad came. By the 1960s—when I met Arcadio—it was much as you see now. Not as pretty—they cleaned the town up around ten years ago. No; back then we didn’t even have the daily bus of tourists. It really was little more than a ghost town.
“Anyhow, Arcadio and I became friends. It’s because of him that I decided to settle here, much later. Because not long after we met, he did something rather extraordinary.”
She stops talking as we reach the door of her house. It’s about five blocks from the town center, painted powder blue with white pillars at the front. The entire street backs the river.
Inside, the house is furnished entirely with heavy oak furniture, carved and varnished in the old colonial style. There are plants everywhere—hanging in baskets from the ceiling, on raised metal stands, in chunky glazed pots.
This is too easy. It doesn’t make sense. How can this sweet old lady be the secret informer behind the postcards?
On the wall are paintings of fruit, of deserted cobbled streets baking in the afternoon heat, and of the fishing boats at the edge of the River Papaloapan. When Susannah sees Ixchel looking closely at them, she smiles.
“You like art, my dear?”
Ixchel turns to face her, expressionless. “You painted these?”
“Yes, I did. That’s what I do now—I’m a painter.”
“Did you ever paint him?” I say. “Arcadio?”
“I tried. He never would let me. He hated to have his photo taken too. I used to laugh at him, tell him that he was just like those Native Americans who believe that the camera captures your spirit. He’d get all grumpy and say that there was a good deal more at stake than his spirit.”
I touch the cool whitewashed plaster of the walls, thinking.
What if this has nothing to do with my father? What if it’s a trap?
Susannah perches on the long sofa in front of a glass coffee table. We do the same. I guess Susannah’s about to launch into her tale of this extraordinary thing that Arcadio did, when Ixchel says, abruptly, “So, why did he tell you to send those postcards?” Susannah turns to her in surprise, as if she’s a little disappointed.