No Job for a Lady (24 page)

“Many things.” José is scared now. He knows he has repeatedly tested his uncle’s patience with his behavior and laziness. “But nothing of importance.”

“Tell me exactly what she asked about.”

“About Aztecs. Sacrifices. Dream dust—”

“She asked about the dust? You never volunteered it?”

“No, Uncle, I swear upon all that is holy, she asked me. I told her only that it’s a legend and no one knows for sure if it even exists.”

José can see that Torres doesn’t believe him.

“What did you tell her about the jaguars?”

“The jaguars?” José shakes his head. “Nothing, I told her nothing.”

The blow hits José across the side of his head without warning. His head is spinning and he staggers to his left, falling over a large stone relic of a frog god.

“Don’t ever lie to me again. Now get out of here.”

41

As my carriage makes its way down cobblestone streets, I think about what the assistant curator told me about how sacrifices were conducted in the days of the Aztecs.

Dream dust … so that is what I experienced. Knowing from firsthand experience what this does to a human—making you dreamy and feeling like you’re no longer attached to your body—I can imagine how easy it would be to have people stand in a long line that stretches out from a pyramid, waiting to be led up the stone steps to a slab at the top where they would have their hearts ripped out … and not put up a fight.

Closing my eyes, I imagine an Aztec priest dressed hideously in the skin that had been flayed off of someone earlier, bending over another victim, holding a sharp knife high in the air, then plunging the dagger down into the victim’s chest, slicing it open so the priest can pull out the helpless victim’s beating heart while he is still conscious.

Oh my God.
Those Aztecs were not gentle creatures.

What I find most interesting is how cleverly they kept the victims from rebelling.

Dream dust—shake a little in their face and the victims are in nirvana. Instead of kicking and screaming, they go peacefully to their slaughter. How despicable! They were tricked into believing they were in some wonderful place, when they were really in hell—which is where I landed after the girl shook the powder in my face.

My carriage comes to the Zócalo, the city square that is the heart of Mexico City. Before the conquest, this spot was also the center of the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlán. A grand cathedral of Christendom now sits where a pagan pyramid once stood. Not far from it is the palace of Cortés, where the Spanish governors of New Spain, the name given to Mexico by Spain during colonial times, held state and which later heads of the nation of Mexico used as their White House.

Today, I have not come for history. However, later I will follow up and do an article about this famous square. Right now, I am here to see a performance that I’ve been told occurs for tourists every day.

Looking off into the distance, I spot a circle of people watching two men in animal costumes fighting with swords. Good. This is what I have come to see.

With hand signals and mixed words of Spanish and English, I get my driver to move closer so I can have a better look. The swords are wood, with elaborate designs etched on them. The two fighters are dressed in cloth costumes of jaguars.

Gertrude told me that they represent Jaguar Knights, elite warriors who were the best of the Aztec fighting units. And that members of the Cult of the Jaguar also dressed as the knights when the cult was formed to drive out the Spanish and protect Montezuma’s treasure.

So who are the street performers imitating—the knights or the cult members?

As we get even closer, I fixate on the masks.

Oh my word.
Cold chills race up and down my spine as I watch them. “A goose walked over my grave,” my mother says when she gets the shivers. Not because the crude masks are scary, but because they’re exactly like the one I saw on the train when Howard was shoved off with his throat cut. So much for the wrinkled bedroll theory. And they bear no similarity to the features of the thing I saw later, outside the train. Interesting.

“Go to the hotel,” I tell the cabbie, motioning with my hands to keep moving when my command isn’t understood.

Sitting back in my seat, I realize I don’t know any more now than I did before I saw the street performers. But it’s clear that somebody was playing a game on the train—a deadly one, at that. And I don’t know the rules or even the other players.

One thing I can see through the haze created by the manipulations is that there was something almost theatrical about the attack on Howard, the prospector. Staged—like the show behind me. But now that I’m positive the attacker wore a mask, I know the hands behind the murder are very human.

Now, if I could just be as sure about what I saw outside the train.

As I lean back in the carriage, trying to clear my mind for my luncheon with the incredible Lily Langtry, my imagination starts running wild again, this time adding a couple more characters to the scenario.

If I’m right, her lover, Gebhard, was at the museum. There is nothing wrong with that. He might be interested in the museum—a donor. Still, too much of a coincidence for me, and I don’t like happenstances—like my being there researching were-jaguars and things that go bump in the night when Gebhard conveniently showed up. No, I don’t like it.

Like coincidences, unanswered questions are something I hate.

With luck, I will find out what he was doing there when I have lunch with his famous lover.

42

Pickles! I’m late. This is not the right way to make first impressions, especially with someone as singularly unapproachable as the Jersey Lily.

My carriage barely comes to a stop at the front entrance of my hotel as I’m paying my driver and dashing out. I rush by a group of people who are standing around, as if they are waiting for someone in front of the hotel entrance. As I hurry across the lobby, a woman is coming down the stairs—or I should say that she is moving with such elegance that she seems to be floating down.

Lily Langtry—the Jersey Lily.

She catches my eye and I throw up my hands and silently mouth, Sorry I’m late, and get a dazzling smile in return as I rush to meet her at the bottom of the stairs.

Her preference is for black dresses, and this one is simple. The material is satin, with pearls sewn around the neckline which is vee-cut, not showy, just enough to entice any man. It’s formfitting but not tight, just snug enough to show her curves. Since it is sleeveless, she has a soft white cotton shawl draped on her shoulders. From about her knees down, the dress flares a little but stops about two inches above her ankles.

She’s wearing a thin gold bracelet around her left ankle. It gives her a very attractive, if not sensual, look. I’ve never seen a bracelet worn that way before.

Her hair is gently piled on top, with little curly pieces slipping down on her soft white porcelain face, which makes her large oval eyes stand out.

No wonder men fawn over her.

“With your bubbling enthusiasm, you must be Nellie Bly, the young reporter I’ve heard so much about.”

“Guilty as charged.” Also guilty of beaming at the compliment—at least I hope it was a compliment.

“Shall we go? I have a carriage waiting for us. I hope you don’t mind, but instead of being cooped up in the dining room, I thought it would be much more delightful to have a picnic lunch while we see the Floating Gardens.”

I’m so excited at meeting a real celebrity that she could have told me we were having lunch at the dog pound and I would have been thrilled.

As we exit the hotel, I realize now why the people outside are standing around—they’re waiting for her. Obviously, word leaked out that she would make an appearance at this time.

They swarm around Lily, and I’m very impressed with how she handles them: She’s polite and friendly, making each one feel she’s noted his or her presence, even if it’s just by the briefest flash of a smile or wave of a hand.

One Mexican man, clearly quite wealthy, from his clothes, gives her a bouquet of white lilies and begs her to marry him. “I own a silver mine,” he tells her. “I will pave the way to the church with silver dollars for you to walk upon so your feet never touch the ground!”

Lily throws him a kiss. “Oh, darling, if only I wasn’t already spoken for.”

And we are off.

It is not
el presidente
’s carriage that has enough gold and silver trim to supply a mint, but one that is only slightly less extravagant, also with seats that are so soft and cushiony, I feel like I’m floating on a cloud. We have not only a driver but also a footman, who stands at the back of the carriage.

I’m in Cinderella’s coach and loving it. It’s amazing how riding in such an exquisite coach can make one feel like royalty. I can’t wait to tell Mother.

“I apologize for the crowd,” she says. “Unfortunately, a lack of privacy is the price of my modest fame. That is one reason why I wanted to go to the Floating Gardens rather than sit in the hotel dining room, being stared at like a fish in a bowl. No one will know me there. Oh my goodness, I forgot to ask you if you’ve already been there.… I just assumed you hadn’t.”

“No, I haven’t. This is perfect, because it’s one of the sights I want to see.”

“Wonderful.”

The actress looks fondly down at the lilies now lying by her side and smiles softy at them. “That was sweet of that man to give these to me.”

She gently touches them and then looks at me. “I wonder where he got them. They’re Jersey lilies, the symbol of Jersey and the source of my nickname. Sir John Everett Millais did a portrait of me and named it
A Jersey Lily,
and it just took hold. Did you know that the island of Jersey is just off the coast of Normandy, France?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, but continues. “It’s the largest of the Channel Islands and a British Crown Dependency, which we are very proud of. I had happy times there with my brothers.”

“How many brothers do you have?” I ask.

“Six, all older, except one, and he’s my favorite. Do you have any brothers?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I, too, have six, and my favorite is also the younger one. I think my brothers taught me more about how to survive in this world than my sisters.”

“Very true, and I assume you mean in this
man
-orientated world.” Her laugh is delicate. “Being the only girl, I became very tomboyish. My poor teacher couldn’t handle me, so they let me study with my brothers. It’s amazing how much more they teach boys than girls.”

It sounds much like my own upbringing. “How did you become an actress?”

“Oh”—again she laughs—“by mistake through my friends Oscar Wilde and Sarah Bernhardt. They talked me into it. And I’ve had a nice run. I’ve been on the stage mostly in Europe, of course, but I’ve been on tour in your country also and, I’m happy to say, very well received.”

“My librarian, Mrs. Percy, had the pleasure of seeing you in
As You Like It.
She is going to be thrilled when she hears I’ve met you, as will my mother and everyone in my town.”

“Where are you from? And please tell me how you became a newspaper reporter. I’ve never met a female reporter. I’m very impressed.”

I can’t help but blush. As Roger rudely pointed out, I’m known only to the city limits of an inconsequential town, but here I am, receiving a compliment from a woman who is rich and world-famous, beautiful and talented, and who has kings and rich playboys as lovers. She has the world at her feet.

Thrilled that she is interested in me, but afraid I might bore her, I quickly tell her about my hometown, how my father died suddenly, about my mother’s remarriage to an awful man, all of which left her in horrible financial straits and forced me to give up my schooling to work in a factory—which, strangely enough, led me to my job as a news reporter, despite my brothers’ feelings that reporting is a man’s job, not a woman’s.

“I’m not surprised your brothers were against it,” she says. “Even though my brothers love me dearly, they would be furious if I ever tried to enter their or any part of the male work world. You are a brave woman, Nellie.”

I don’t know what to say, which is so not like me. Instead, I just smile and blush, again. However, what I am thinking is that I’m not fortunate enough to have her beauty and talent, so I have no choice but to use my brain—it’s all I have.

She seems to be reading my thoughts, for she says, “For some reason, men have thought me beautiful, and I decided to use it to my best advantage. It started when I first came to London. As they say, I was ‘brought out by my friends.’ They took me to the theater, where, unbeknownst to me, a painter, Frank Miles, saw me and was smitten by me. So much so, he set out to discover who I was.

“Miles went to all his clubs and visited his artist friends, declaring he had seen a beauty, and he described me to everybody he knew, until one of his friends met me. He reported back to Mr. Miles, who came and begged me to sit for a portrait.

“I consented, and when the portrait was finished, he sold it to Prince Leopold. From that time on, I was invited everywhere and made a great deal of by many members of the royal family and nobility. After sitting for Frank Miles, I sat for portraits by Millais and Burne-Jones, and now Frith is putting my face in one of his great pictures.

“Men,” she says, laughing, “they’re so predictable. They will do just about anything for beauty, especially if other men have shown interest. My dear friend Oscar believes beauty is the most important thing in life. For some reason, possessing it makes them feel superior to other men.”

She laughs again and claps her hands. “I can’t believe how I am rambling on. Do you do this to everyone you meet? Make them confess, like they are in church?”

“Only people with fascinating lives.”

“Well, I can’t say how fascinating my life has been, but I personally am pleased with the knowledge that one of my ancestors is the infamous Sir Richard le Breton.”

“Who’s he?”

“One of the four knights who murdered Saint Thomas Becket. He delivered the final blow that chopped off his head. They believed their friend Lord William died of a broken heart after Becket refused to permit him to marry.”