Invisible City (9 page)

The dream of the misty lakeside straw hut with its cold,
unmoving death scene—like nothing I've ever seen. It feels otherworldly. Disturbing.

That date turning up in the Calakmul letter—December 22, 2012—and the mention of the “end of days.” Written about in the Book of Ix—the Ix Codex.

And those words together. Bakab. Ix.

Summon the Bakab Ix.

What—or who—is the Bakab Ix?

Could it really be the guy in my dad's photo? I'm feeling more and more like I've stepped out of reality.

Later that morning I'm at school for a computer class. But this close to the end of term, it's pretty freestyle. Most of us just surf the Web. I Google “Bakab.” The Bakab is a figure from Mayan mythology—one of four sons of the Mayan deity Itzamna. Itzamna is one of the top gods as far as Mayan deities go—the bringer of writing and agriculture to the Maya people. Only the Creator Gods are above Itzamna. In Mayan mythlogy, Itzamna married a goddess named Ixchel. They had four sons, who were named Ix, Cauac, Muluc, and Kan. The Bakab Ix must be one of these guys.

Why would someone want to summon a Mayan god? Is it some weird occult thing?

After school I take the bus up to the hospital. I'm hoping to hear that Mom's coming home this weekend. The attendant tells me how much better she is; they've changed her medication; it's very light now and she's “more herself again.” He lets me into
her room, but she's asleep. Fine—I'm pretty zoned myself. I lie down for a little nap in the second bed. And I'm out in seconds.

Sometime later I'm vaguely aware of someone fumbling through my schoolbag. I'm still half asleep, and in that state all I'm thinking is that it's fine; Mom's always searching for neglected letters from school. Then there's a long silence. Mom remains quite still.

I wake up to find her staring at a photograph in her hand. It's
that
photo—the one I found in Dad's office.

Mom's tone is bewildered. “Where did you find this?”

“Dad gave it to me.”

Sharply she replies, “No, he didn't.”

I pause, surprised. “He did.” It's a small lie, I decide, a detail.

“He kept that photo on him. He was never without it.”

“Why?”

“If he really gave it to you, he'd have told you what it meant to him.”

I stay quiet. No doubt about it—she's sounding much better.

“So you lied to me.” It isn't a question. “I found it in his college office. I went there to get some books.”

“Why?”

“Just … because I wanted to learn about Mayan hieroglyphs.”

“Why?”

I groan, fall back onto the bed.

“Jeez, Mom. Wow, you really are sounding like your old self! Look, it's to do with the Mayan codex Dad was after. Okay?”

Mom looks puzzled.

“You do remember me telling you about the codex he was searching for?”

She says yes. But I'm not convinced.

I snap, “Come on, Mom, we've been through this.” Then I remember where we are. And I'm filled with regret.

Mom stares at me with a searching expression. “You tell me why you're so interested in that photo and I'll tell you what it meant to your dad.”

“Okay. Only …” I hesitate. “You're not going to like it.”

“Why, are you going to lie to me again?”

“No, it's just that … well, you're going to think it sounds stupid.”

“Try me.”

So I tell Mom about the dream. I tell her everything, with every detail I can remember. Relating it, I feel my spine prickle. And when I come to the end of the dream, I say, “Then he looks at me and he says …”

“‘Summon the Bakab Ix,'” says Mom.

“How?” I whisper. “How could you know?”

“Because I've heard this before,” Mom says simply. “Your
father had the exact same dream. All his life. Since he was a little boy. And he never, never understood it. It obsessed him. Andres researched the myth of the Bakabs. Wrote lots of papers about them. He wasn't any closer to understanding the dream. Then, about a year ago, his mother wrote to him. The man who raised him, whom he called ‘Papa,' wasn't his real father. That kind of family secret—it's not unusual, especially in a Catholic country like Mexico. Young women who got pregnant out of wedlock didn't broadcast it then, and they still don't. She married a close family friend and that was that—they forgot about the real father. You certainly didn't go telling your children that they were illegitimate.

“But she's getting old, so she decided to come clean with Andres, to admit the truth. She told him that his real father was a museum curator, a man she met when she was nineteen. At least he said he was a museum curator. He was the man in this photo. He was looking to buy old manuscripts from local collectors and take them back to his museum. One thing led to another between the two of them. Then one day he just upped and disappeared. Your grandmother—Abuelita—called the museum he said he worked for, but they'd never heard of him. No one had. He arrived as if from nowhere and went back the same way. This photo of him was the only evidence Abuelita ever really had that he'd ever existed. That and your father, of course.”

I have no idea what to say.

Mom continues, “Your dad was raised by the man who was
kind enough to marry Abuelita. He never knew or suspected. Then, when he was about ten or eleven, he began to dream about the man in the hut. And ‘Summon the Bakab Ix.' It haunted him. When he discovered that the man in his dream was really his father … well …”

She pauses, seems wistful at the memory. “He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It was as though a missing part of him had been found. But it still didn't make sense of the dream.”

Then she turns, stares intently at me for a second, and asks, “Josh, did Dad ever tell you about that dream?”

I shake my head. Seems like Dad had been pretty close-mouthed about the whole matter.

“Then,” Mom says quietly, “how can this be happening to you too?”

I was desperate for a bit of normality, so I let Tyler persuade me to join the capoeira players in a demonstration for the Summertown Arts Festival. We set up outside the bank on a sunny Saturday morning by the curious Summertown residents. A light breeze blew the last of the loose cherry blossoms from a nearby tree and they drifted over us like snow. Mestre Ricardo took the berimbau, the main musical instrument we use in capoeira; I took the pandeiro drum. The whole group stood in
a circle as we drummed up a crowd with a song. Pretty soon supermarket shoppers were crossing the road to watch us launch ourselves in combat. In capoeira, the trick is to just skirt the edges—no contact. It's a flirtation with violence, a ballet. The beauty of the game lies in the controlled, acrobatic restraint of the players.

After a few turns I was up against Tyler. We'd rehearsed the cue. As the
roda
struck up with the song “Capoeira O Le Le,” we began.
Ginga, handstand, au malandrau, cocorinha, armada, queixada
. I executed my moves perfectly, just as we practiced. Then Tyler left the script and pulled out some style moves—a headspin, a handstand whirl. I could see him grinning at me, thrilled to have caught me off guard. From then on we improvised; we dropped into the music's groove.

That Tyler—he's a show-off. But he knows how to please an audience. The crowd loved it.

Then Ollie turned up. And the subject turned to the codex …

I glance around the faces, hoping to see Ollie—and then there she is. Luckily, Tyler's also thrown off balance at the sight of her. With her eyes on us our pace picks up a notch. I can feel my skin warming where her gaze lands.

“That was coolness,” she says afterward, grinning. Tyler has another bout to prepare for, and he strips off to the T-shirt underneath.

“He's in good shape,” she remarks to me as Tyler takes up his position against Mestre Ricardo.

I sigh. “Yeah. I know. He'll probably be selected for the British team.”

“I should hope so,” she says. “He's terrific!”

It's definitely time to change the subject. “So guess what,” I say. “I've found out something about the man in my dream.”

Ollie swivels around, eyes wide. “Go on.”

“He's my
grandfather
,” I tell her. “My secret grandfather. Turns out that Dad was illegitimate. His mother only confessed
to Dad about a year ago. She sent him a photo of his father. And that's how I know. Dad's father—he's the guy from my dream.”

Well, that does it. I have Ollie's undivided, even fascinated, attention.

I glance at Tyler, who completes a series of intricate moves, a breathtaking sequence of handstand whirls, headspins, and a clock movement. He's not improvising against Mestre Ricardo, I notice. Each time the players attack, they plant precisely aimed blows within inches of each other's bodies. The crowd surrounds us even more densely. They murmur their appreciation.

Ollie stands next to me, lost in thought. “So in your dream,” she says, speaking very slowly, “you're seeing the death of your own grandfather?”

I nod. That's it exactly—like a premonition. Only it's already happened.

“And
he
is asking for the Bakab Ix?”

“Right.”

“Wow.” Her voice drops to a breathless whisper. “So this Mayan thing—it's been going on in your family for, like, years?”

Again I nod. “My grandfather found the Calakmul letter—the one we deciphered. That's how Dad started on his search for the Ix Codex.”

“But if your grandfather had the Calakmul letter, then maybe he was searching for the Ix Codex too.”

“That's the whole point. Grandpa was hunting for the codex. Then Dad. Now me.”

Ollie punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Way to keep your family legacy going!”

“Some legacy,” I say. “They're both dead. And still no codex.”

“Still,” she replies, “I wonder why your grandpa was looking for it.”

It seems pretty obvious to me. He was a museum curator, a seeker of rare Mayan objects.

“What does his museum say?” Ollie asks.

That was the odd thing. They'd denied all knowledge of him, right from the start.

“Abuelita—my grandma—she tried. Years back. She doesn't even know where he really came from.”

Ollie's eyes glisten. “Amazing! And you know what else is interesting—the missing half of the Calakmul letter? Your dad must have had it once.”

“That's what I think,” I say. “Or else how could he think he'd found the trail of the Ix Codex?”

Ollie goes quiet for a while, her eyes drifting off as she watches the capoeira players.

“So,” I tell her, “I've decided. I've got to find a way to go … to find Dad's woman in Chetumal.”

“‘Dad's woman'? I thought you were in denial about that …,” she says with a sly smile.

“We'll see. Maybe she's a contact, something to do with the codex hunt.”

“From where? How many people do you think know about this?”

There's Carlos Montoyo, we know that. He still hasn't replied to my e-mail, which has me more than a little spooked. Then there's Ollie's own theory—the CIA—or some U.S. agency looking to cover up UFO incidents and evidence of alien-Maya contact.

“Let me get this straight. You think that your dad went to Mexico, met with Montoyo, and then disappeared?”

“Went looking for the codex.
Then
disappeared. The missing days—remember?”

I watch her as her mind computes away. “Maybe Chetumal Lady knows where your dad went. Maybe she even saw Montoyo.”

I smile with satisfaction. “Bingo. Man, you're brilliant.”

Then she asks me about Mom. I tell her about my discussion with the psychiatrist. He was just about okay with the idea of me going to Mexico—I told him I'd be staying with an aunt in Cancún who'd pick us up at the airport. For a minute I was worried that he'd ask for a phone number, but he seemed okay with it. I told him about my plan to confront the woman in Chetumal. (I didn't mention the codex or any of the complicated stuff.) He saw how it would “resolve some key issues.” But as for Mom coming along—there was no way.

Ollie says, “Your poor mom. She's had such a rough time. I bet she'd enjoy a trip to Mexico. But she could probably do without the stress of meeting your dad's lady friend.”

Mom's not being able to go just makes me more determined to sort everything out. “You bring me back his ashes,” Mom insisted at my last visit, gripping my arm as I turned to leave. “Have them blessed in a church by a priest, then bring him back to me.”

When I tell Ollie this part, she frowns. “Creepy,” she says. “You'll be, like, carrying your dad around.”