Gods of Jade and Shadow(39)



The store was grand, but like many newer buildings in Mexico it was also a mishmash of styles, French rococo mixing with neoclassic, a little vulgar if one looked at it closely. Most capitalinos did not realize that the architectonic pretensions of the building were more nouveau riche than Art Nouveau, and, had this been explained to them, they would have denied the building had any deficiencies.

The store’s name was boldly emblazoned across the front, a clock marking the hour above it. Before its iron skeleton was erected a more modest three-story building had stood there, made of red tezontle, best suited for the soft Mexico City soil that had been, after all, a city of canals before the Spaniards filled up its waterways. But then Hauser and Zivy had that old house smashed and established the Esmeralda in its place, a store in which the distinguished consumer could order Baccarat crystal and elaborate music boxes. Inside, the building was all marble, glass, and dark wood, gleaming crystal and profuse decorations.

Hun-Kamé knew what he wanted, focusing on gold necklaces. Casiopea, meanwhile, looked at a heavy silver bracelet with black enamel triangles, of the “Aztec” style, which was much in vogue and meant to attract the eye of tourists with its faux pre-Hispanic motifs. It was a new concoction, of the kind that abound in a Mexico happy to invent traditions for mass consumption, eager to forge an identity after the fires of the revolution—but it was pretty.

“You should try it on,” said the saleswoman, smelling a commission.

“I couldn’t,” Casiopea said.

“I’m sure your husband will think it pretty.”

“He is not my husband,” she replied.

The saleswoman gave her a funny look, and Casiopea realized she must think she was Hun-Kamé’s mistress. How embarrassing!

Casiopea tugged at her hair, self-conscious. She had informed Hun-Kamé she’d have to go to a hairdresser that same day, since her work with the scissors had been poor. She’d look like a flapper now and they’d think her a loose girl. The saleswoman probably judged her a tart already.

It was very important not to be a tart. But she was already wearing skirts that showed her legs. What were the other requirements for such a designation? Did it matter if she wasn’t one but merely looked the part?

“If you like it, you should take a closer look at it,” Hun-Kamé said, hovering next to her.

“It’s expensive.”

“I already bought an expensive necklace, a bracelet is no concern.”

She tried it on and then he asked. “Would you like it?”

“Truly?” she replied.

“If you wish it,” he said, signaling to the saleswoman, who took the bracelet and began to place tissue paper in a box.

“If I wore it in Uukumil they’d say it’s gaudy and the priest would chide me.”

“You’re not in Uukumil.”

Casiopea smiled at him. The saleswoman placed the lid on the box and she gave Casiopea a curious look. She was probably confused, trying to determine if Casiopea was a mistress already or a would-be one, meant to be seduced with nice jewelry.

“Thank you,” Casiopea said when they left the store. “I’ve never owned anything of value and nothing this pretty.”

In the middle of the street a policeman was directing traffic, looking bored, while she looked nervously at the semaphore and the multitudes around them, trying to determine at which point it was safe to cross the street. She eyed the streetcars fearfully and the automobiles in wonder, and someone behind shoved her aside, eager to get to the other side of the street. She was confused by the city and its incessant activity, but also happy and grateful for Hun-Kamé’s company. She thought of him as her friend.

It was not the gift that had prompted this, but their daily interactions, his politeness, which were quickly endearing him to her. This was hardly surprising considering how few friends Casiopea had. There was her mother, who with her never-ending optimism helped the young woman face each day. Casiopea’s female cousins tended to ignore her. When she was younger she had been able to play with the children of the maids and the other boys and girls in town, but as she matured everyone grew distant. Her grandfather was the cause of this, since he didn’t want any grandchild of his, however nominal, in the company of “rabble.”

Casiopea, caught in this in-between state, focused on her chores instead of socializing. In her spare time, she looked to books or the stars for company.

To have someone at her side was alien and yet a delight. There was joy in the quest, now, the joy of her nascent freedom and his company.

“It is of no consequence,” he replied.

“It is to me,” she said. “And I want to say…of course I want to say thank you, even if I have no idea why you even bothered with it.”

She smiled. In return, he gave her a smidgen of a smile, so tiny she felt she might have to cup it in her hands to keep it safe, or the wind might blow it away.

The Lord of Xibalba did not smile often, and he did not laugh. This does not mean he did not find amusement in certain things. It was a dry sort of amusement, which was not polluted by mirth. That he smiled now was because he was dislocated, altered and altering, and due to the mortality creeping in his veins. But it was also because, like Casiopea, he had been alone for a very long time and found an amount of comfort in the company of another being.

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