No Job for a Lady (21 page)

They stop conversing and Traven looks at me. “He recommends foie gras, salad nicoise, roasted quail with cherries, garlic
pommes frites
—”

“
Frijoles con queso, cebollas,
and tortillas. With salsa,” I add.

Traven purses his lips and nods. “Beans with cheese, onions, tortillas, and salsa.”

The waiter gives a worried look and rattles something off to Traven.

“He wants to know if you’re certain—”

“Yes. Tell him I’m a peon at heart.”

He does—at least I understood that the word
peon
was used in his statement to the waiter.

The waiter leaves, shaking his head.

Traven chuckles. “He has to speak to the chef. But I can assure you they will accommodate you. However, I have to warn you—they won’t have your selection in the kitchen unless it’s left over from lunch served to the staff. They probably will send someone to the marketplace to get your dinner.”

Oh my, I hope he is wrong. One of the first things I noticed when I went out today was that on almost every street corner, women were on their knees, mashing corn between smooth stones, making it into a thick batter, and finally shaping it into round, flat cakes. I was shocked when they spit on their hands to keep the dough from sticking. They fry the tortillas in a pan of hot grease, kept heated by a few lumps of charcoal.

I love tortillas, but, like eating a chicken leg, I don’t need to know how it got to the table.

What also amazed me is that both the rich and poor buy and eat the street-made tortillas, unmindful of the way they are made. But it is a bread that Americans must be educated to. Many Americans surprise the Mexicans by refusing even a taste after they see how they are made. When one elderly tortilla lady offered me one, I couldn’t refuse. With that look on her face, I felt like I was insulting her. To my surprise, it was delicious.

“What brings a German here to Mexico and not to Egypt to dig up the past?”

“In my case, a lust to experience life in many directions. I was a deck officer on a steamer, but I jumped ship in Alexandria and met an archaeologist at a hotel. He invited me to go up the Nile with him to Luxor and a dig in the Valley of the Kings. I believe the main reason for the invitation was because of security. I know how to shoot a gun.

“As you probably know, most practical archaeology is learned in the field rather than in the classroom. I discovered I liked digging up the past and learned quickly on the job. But I soon found that the Egyptian field was too crowded with university archaeologists being financed by wealthy collectors and rich museums. It takes wealthy backers to dig in Egypt, because the fees paid to the government are high and digs normally take years. The progress is counted in years because the easily found artifacts have long since been removed. Years on a single dig to find a few artifacts was too slow for me.”

“Then why are you still an archaeologist?”

“It got in my blood. I relish restoring the past, finding objects built by human hands a hundred or a thousand years ago and still in good condition. When I handle relics, I sense a little bit of the maker in them.

“I heard from other Europeans about how free and open Mexico is, and their colorful history is not well known. So I decided to give it a try. And I’m very glad I did. There are still political and bureaucratic bottlenecks to deal with, but the fees are minimal compared to those in Egypt and there’s little competition.”

He shrugs and gives a slight look of frustration. “That was five years ago. It’s still a struggle, but there are some wealthy collectors of Mesoamerican artifacts, and I have made a connection with one.”

“And who is this wealthy collector?”

“Ah, Miss Bly … It is Miss, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and will stay that way for a while longer. I’m busy building my career.”

“Smart woman. I also am too busy building my career to consider other pleasures.”

“You’re avoiding my question.”

“No, just not answering it.”

“And why not? A man of means is helping you uncover the past. I’m sure he would appreciate some publicity, giving him credit for using his money for some good.”

Traven shakes his head. “No, archaeological digs are a cutthroat business. Where to dig and who will pay for it are trade secrets that are fiercely guarded and defended. It’s a treasure hunt and is as closely guarded as a pirate’s treasure map.”

“Or an old prospector’s one.”

Here I go again. It just popped out, but I could see from his face that I had hit right on the nose the reason he invited me to dinner.

37

My peon’s dinner is served on silver plates and looks fit for a queen. And it is delicious. The chef added a sweet corn tamale that is delectable.

However, my comment about the prospector hung over the meal like the proverbial “skeleton at the feast,” adding a sprinkle of suspense to the dinner because neither of us addressed the remark, letting it dangle in front of us but just out of reach.

We both had custard for dessert, he a French crème brûlée and I the Mexican flan with caramel poured over it.

When the plates were cleared, Traven suggested a spicy chocolate drink made from cacao that has peppers added.

“Mexico produces the finest chocolate drinks in the world from its cacao trees. It’s an ancient drink that predates the conquest. They say Montezuma drank a couple dozen cups a day.”

“Maybe he should have given Cortés a cup of it with some hemlock sprinkled in.”

“All right, you win.”

“What have I won?”

“That I have to volunteer information before you do. You deliberately avoided following up with your comment about the prospector, waiting to see if I would crack first.”

“Isn’t that why you invited me to dinner? To pump me about what I know about Howard, the prospector, treasure hunter, camp cook, whatever he is or was, and his map to Montezuma’s hoard?”

“In my defense, I am only half guilty. I invited you to dinner because you are an attractive woman and I wanted to know more about you and the challenging career you have chosen. And I wanted to know more about the prospector.”

“Why are you interested in him?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Fräulein? He was a treasure hunter. I am a treasure hunter. That is what an archaeologist does—he seeks buried treasure, though not for the same reasons as those who hunt only for precious metals. If Montezuma’s treasure does exist, it would be a great archaeological find.”

“I’ve been told that you can buy a map like his, if he really did have one, for a peso on the street.”

“True, and I’ve been offered ones that appear so genuine that only the fact there was no treasure where they showed proves they are frauds. No, it’s not the map that first caught my interest, but the jaguar.”

“Really? Well, you are the first to have any interest in that subject. The consensus is that I was hallucinating. Too much champagne.”

“I believe you saw a were-jaguar.”

I almost choke on the chocolate drink. Besides Gertrude, he is the first person to just blatantly say the word, and he wants to talk about it. This is both interesting and puzzling, but I’m cautious about launching into the subject, saying things that might get back to Don Antonio. The subject isn’t really settled in my mind, either. The fact is, I’ve seen two different creatures—one was an obvious mask and the other I don’t know how to describe except that it was infinitely more frightening.

“Nellie, I’m not suggesting that you saw some mythical beast of the night.”

“Than what are you saying?”

He proceeds to tell me pretty much what I had already heard from Gertrude—that the Cult of the Jaguar was formed to drive out the Spanish after the conquest and that from it grew legends about magician-priests who could shape-change into the big jungle cats.

“In Nahuatl, the Aztec language, the priests able to transform into jaguars were magicians called
nawals.
Many people believe
nawals
still exist. Mexico is still very primitive in most rural areas, with people having some beliefs not much different from those of their Aztec ancestors.”

“Do you believe these shape-changing magicians really exist?”

“I’ve seen ones villagers claim are
nawals,
but I’ve never seen anyone change shape from man to beast. But as I said, there are plenty of people in this country who do believe it, more than you’d find in Europe, where many people believe werewolves exist.”

“Are you telling me that a
nawal
killed the prospector?”

“Someone killed the prospector. You saw a struggle. And accusations that you had had too much champagne are nonsense. No one wants to believe you saw a creature, because they would have to admit there actually is a spirit world where things they don’t understand exist.” He hesitates. “As for who attacked the man…” He shakes his head. “I leave open the possibility that there are things I’ve never seen that can only be described as bizarre, but I also only acknowledge what my five senses tell me. The only transformation from man to jaguar I’ve seen has mostly been accomplished by street entertainers.”

“‘Mostly’?”

We are already speaking in a low tone, and he lowers his voice even more to a very confidential note.

“Mexico has not been kind to its rich archaeological treasures. Like Egypt and other poor countries with a glorious past, it has permitted foreigners to come in and take them.”

He has dodged my question, but I let it go for the moment. He obviously doesn’t want to address it yet. “Like someone taking the Liberty Bell from America or the Magna Carta from England?” I ask.

“No, not at all. The historical treasures of rich nations are not just guarded; they are protected from thieves, negligence, and the ravages of the elements. That isn’t the case in nations where most of the people are desperately poor and the preservation of artifacts takes bread from them. In this country, it’s not unusual for a farmer to break up an ancient monument containing irreplaceable artwork to build a rock wall.

“And before you pass judgment on me and archaeologists around the world who find ancient artifacts and ship them home, keep in mind that most of those irreplaceable, often priceless relics wouldn’t survive if they were not removed and safely stored in museums and private collections outside the poor country where they are being battered.”

There’s logic to what he’s saying. But in a perfect world, the rich people and institutions would build museums in the poor countries to shelter the antiquities. That way, people could see their own glorious past and maybe get a spark of pride from it. However, I don’t want to antagonize him with my egalitarian ideals when he hasn’t finished telling me about bloodsucking creatures of the night, so I nod my head in vague agreement.

“I apologize,” he says. “I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent, but this is something I have been struggling with ever since I got involved in archaeology. Are you familiar with the concept of
mordida
?”

“No.”

“
Mordida
means ‘bite.’ It’s a bribe given to a public official, like a judge or tax collector, to avoid fines and taxes. A system of that oils the wheels in this country and most other poor countries. In the case of antiquities, we pay the bite to get permits granted so we can excavate ruins and ship out what we find.”

I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Don Antonio gets
mordida.
If Traven’s rich “angel” is an American, it’s almost certain that Traven is shipping the relics through El Paso. They wouldn’t get through if Don Antonio gave it a thumbs-down.

“We don’t take everything. Only the best,” Traven continues. “I can see from the look on your face and the way your hands are wringing that napkin that you are considering strangling me for being a thief of history. But please take into consideration that what I don’t save will probably end up on the rubble pile of history.”

“I understand. You are a great humanitarian who is saving the history of Mexico by sending it to a rich foreigner who will show it only to his family and close friends, none of whom, I presume, is Mexican or has even visited the country. Is that about the sum of it?”

“Fair enough, Fräulein. Without the sarcasm.”

“So what does the money bite and saving history’s relics have to do with an old prospector and were-jaguars?”

“May I give you some advice before I respond to your cross-examination? Don’t even think about entering the diplomatic corps. I suspect you would start more wars than avoid them.”

I can’t help but laugh, not a “ha-ha,” but nice laughter of relief. “You’re right, Traven. I’m tired. And achy. I feel as if I’ve been put through a wringer. I apologize.”

“Fair enough. But you still think I’m a scoundrel. Perhaps you should come out to Teotihuacán and see for yourself the state of preservation of Mexican antiquities.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Let me know if you decide to come and I will make the arrangements. In regard to the prospector, I would greatly appreciate if it you would tell me exactly what you saw. I heard only the barest details on the train.”

“Because no one believed me.”

“Exactly. In return for taking the trouble to educate me, I will share information with you.”

“Fair enough.” And I go into all I remember to describe what I saw that night.

“And you’re certain it was a face, not a bag on his shoulder?”

“Absolutely. But it might have been a mask.”

“That’s what I am wondering. I take it you haven’t seen the performers who portray Aztec Jaguar Knights for the tourists in the main square. You should have a look and see if there is any similarity.”

“I’ll do that. I also saw something else. After I defended your donkey, when I was going back to the train, someone was watching me.”

“Someone dressed as a jaguar?”

“I don’t know how to put it, but there was something, someone … scarier, more chilling. More like … like…”

“A man-beast.”

“Yes. At least not an obvious mask.”

“That is what I want to share with you.” Traven looks at me intently. “I told you we get official permission to remove antiquities by paying
mordida
to officials. But there are some elements of society that want to stop us.”