Gods of Jade and Shadow(57)
“I dreamed you walked the Black Road of Xibalba,” he said. “I did not like this. It is a dangerous path. And I was glad when you woke me. It is not that I think you a coward, Lady Tun, it is that I wish you no harm.”
He slid his hand away, and she stared at the empty plate before her. “I suppose there’s nothing to do but hope for the best.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Hun-Kamé said thoughtfully, grabbing his napkin and unfolding it. A server had walked by and filled their glasses with water. Casiopea guessed they would begin the breakfast service soon.
“Have I told you,” he said suddenly, “how beautiful are the mountains in the east of my kingdom? They are made of different layers, first a layer of sturdy jadeite, then a layer of vibrant malachite, and finally a layer of pale pink coral. Even your stars would envy their beauty.”
It was a strange comment. Was he attempting to distract her? A light danced in his dour eye. It was muted. The light of a half moon instead of the sun, but it made her lean forward, quick and eager.
“You say that because you have not seen them streaking the sky,” she replied.
“Are they made of malachite and coral?”
“Well, no.”
“Then they do not compare.”
She smiled at Hun-Kamé. He smiled at her too. What was this? A simple act of mimicry? No. The smile, like his laughter, like the errant dream, came from his heart. Did he realize it? No. Does everyone who has been young and foolish realize the extent and depth of their emotions? Of course not.
What about Casiopea? Surely the sonnets, the turns of phrases in poems, had schooled her somewhat. But then, like him, she had lived vicariously, had seen the world from a distance. The yearning inside her was impossible, like when as a child she’d wished to pluck a shooting star from the sky; it was wildly familiar and new at the same time. And she didn’t want it; she could recognize a fool’s errand even if she could not name it.
The train pressed forward and the glasses tinkled and he looked at her as if he’d not truly seen her before. And maybe, he had not.
The heat in El Paso was different from the heat in Yucatán. It was a dry, crackling heat, slipping in under the collar of Casiopea’s dress, threatening to bake her like a loaf of bread. Men and women fanned themselves with their hats, with newspapers, as they made their way through customs. It was a long wait. Prohibition had turned many a law-abiding citizen into a smuggler of spirits. A case of whiskey bought for thirty-six dollars in Piedras Negras or another northern town could fetch thrice that price in San Antonio. And there was always a fellow willing to attempt to introduce many a weird artifact into the United States, especially exotic pets—a man was caught attempting to carry a Chihuahua in his luggage, while another drugged six parrots to keep them quiet during the crossing. More than a dozen passenger trains stopped daily in El Paso, and that meant customs agents.
Casiopea watched the people ahead of them, standing on her tiptoes, trying to measure the length of the line. She was nervous. She loathed the prospect of being asked questions in a language she did not understand, although, she imagined, it would not be too difficult to fetch someone who knew Spanish, if the necessity arose. Many of the people in the city hailed from Mexico. Some had come because they had been pushed by the revolution, others had been there since the time when the territory was still part of Spain, and others were recent additions: priests and nuns escaping the government’s persecution as well as Cristeros intent on one day becoming martyrs.
The line moved forward and it was their turn. When the agent spoke, she discovered she knew what he was saying; more than that, she could answer him. The words came to her as easily as if she’d been speaking English for ages.
The agent nodded at them and let them through. Outside, the sun blaring at them, Casiopea blinked and turned toward Hun-Kamé.
“I understood what he said,” she told Hun-Kamé. “How is that possible?”
“Death speaks all languages,” he replied.
“But I am not death.”
“You wear me like a jewel upon your finger, Casiopea,” he said and offered her his arm with a practiced aloofness. She took it, her hand careful as she touched his sleeve.
They made their way to the Plaza San Jacinto. The locals called it the Alligator Plaza for the critters that swam in a fenced pond there. All streetcar lines went down this square; it served as the town’s beating heart, and the hotels clustered around it.
There were several places where a visitor could lodge in comfort these days. El Paso had ballooned in the past decade, transforming from a rudimentary collection of businesses and scattered homes to a full-blown city. The Sheldon, a four-story redbrick building that faced the plaza, was one of the best-known hotels in the American Southwest. During the Mexican Revolution, both journalists covering the happenings and revolutionaries involved in the fray lodged there. And the year before the Hotel Orndorff, also located by the plaza, had opened its doors, astonishing everyone with its extravagant price tag. This was the place Hun-Kamé picked for the duration of their stay. They booked adjacent, though not interconnected, rooms, as had been the case in Mexico City, and the front desk employee handed them their keys.
As soon as Casiopea reached her room, she proceeded to take a shower. This was her favorite amenity at the hotels: the nice bathrooms and the hot shower. She changed into a clean dress, realizing she must send her other clothes to be washed. Then she knocked on Hun-Kamé’s door.