Several miles from town, a sixteen-passenger bus heaved and struggled as its driver went higher and higher up on a road that zigzagged every couple of minutes. There were hairpin turns and several places where he stopped and honked before proceeding around a blind curve with a sheer drop-off ten feet from the road. Every time he came to a straight stretch of highway, he glanced at his passengers. He was worried about them but even more about the bus. The people weren't old - they appeared to be in their fifties - but some of them had complained of light-headedness as they'd boarded in Guatemala City. The elevation was high there, but they'd been steadily climbing for hours. He didn't want anyone getting sick on board. His boss would be very angry if he brought back a dirty bus, so any problem meant Carlos would be scrubbing and disinfecting tonight instead of having a cerveza and pollo con mole with his family.
Today his job was to take nine passengers and a local guide from Guatemala City to Chichicastenango. It was only a seventy-five-mile trip, but with the mountain roads it took three hours on a good day. And today was good in name only - it was Good Friday - but the traffic had been a nightmare. It would only get worse - he knew what lay ahead once they crested the mountain and went down into the town itself.
The problem was that Holy Week was a time of festive celebration for the locals. The focal point - the Church of Santo Tomas Apostol in Chichi - was a religious center for both Mayans and Catholics. They worshipped together in harmony today just as they had done since the Spanish arrived in the 1500s with the new concept of a deity - Jesus - in whom you must believe to go to Heaven. Some natives accepted Catholicism more readily than others, and even today many Mayans interjected ancient practices into their views of being a Christian. It all worked out, although tourists often found the clash of faiths bizarre.
The vast crafts market ensured that every weekend was crazy with visitors, but Holy Week was tourism on steroids. Today the town of fifty thousand was packed with ten thousand visitors, and that made travel a nightmare. The ancient streets weren't wide enough for cars and trucks in the first place, and many people thoughtlessly parked wherever they could, blocking intersections, steps and doorways. Once all the close-in parking was gone, hundreds of people left their vehicles in fields at the edge of town. The narrow sidewalks couldn't handle the throngs, so they used the streets to get to the square. They blocked vehicular traffic and simply ignored the incessant honking of trucks and vans fruitlessly trying to get out of town. Traffic got clogged up and finally came to a stop, including the bus filled with American tourists.
It had taken Carlos an hour to go seventeen miles from the main highway to the top of the mountain and another hour to get three more miles to where they sat. And this was the end of the line for now. Two blocks ahead a procession moved slowly down the middle of the street. There were three huge heavy wooden platforms, each borne by perhaps twenty strapping young men. Each platform contained life-sized scenes - statues of the Virgin Mary and Christ, angels and saints - all beautifully painted and decorated. As the procession moved toward the church several blocks ahead, a hodgepodge band of boys playing old musical instruments tooted noisy, discordant sounds, and bystanders bowed and cheered when the revered statues moved by.
The passengers had grumbled as the sun dropped lower and lower toward the mountains while their bus didn't move.
"How far is the hotel?"
"Why didn't we take a different route?"
"I need to use the restroom."
The young guide spoke to the driver for a moment in Spanish and then picked up his microphone. "Folks, I know you're getting tired and just think how frustrated our driver, Carlos, has been having to deal with all this traffic." He was doing his job, trying to make sure the passengers knew it wasn't the driver's fault so he would get a tip when they got off, but by now Carlos and the guide knew there wouldn't be any. These people were pissed off and they wanted to be at their destination with no more waiting. It was always the same way with impatient Americans, he thought.
"As you can see, we have arrived in Chichi during Holy Week, a festive time for the local people. The driver can't take us any closer to our hotel. The congestion in the streets between here and the town square will only get worse. I'm going to suggest something, if you're up to it. We are eight blocks from our hotel and it's directly down this same street. You can't miss it and I'll be leading you - it's the Hotel Santo Tomas on the right side. You don't need to take anything with you - the streets are packed and we will bring your suitcases and carry-ons to the hotel once Carlos can park the bus. Keep an eye out for pickpockets; you're an easy target since you're Americans. Most people are here for family and celebration, but there's always the opportunist in the crowd." He winked and laughed but got no smiles in response.
One woman spoke up angrily. "I didn't pay good money to be told I'm going to have to walk through a bunch of pushy locals to get to the hotel. You have to take us there, so I'm staying on the bus."
"That's certainly an alternative," the guide replied, keeping his voice calm and upbeat even though he was as tired of his guests as they were of the situation. "Just so you will know, here is what will happen. I am going to get off the bus and walk to the hotel with those who wish to come. You are free to stay on the bus. Once he can move - and I don't know when that will be - Carlos is going to go to the first intersection that is wide enough to turn. That will be a couple of blocks or more because the streets here are very narrow. Once he turns off this crowded street, he will find a place as close to the hotel as possible to park the bus. He will call me and I will arrange men from the hotel to bring your luggage. You are welcome to stay on the bus, but you must understand that it could be another hour - maybe two - before he parks, and even then, you could have several blocks to walk to the hotel."
As everyone began gathering their belongings, the complainer's husband, Stanley, said, "Goddamn it, Sandra, get your ass up and get off the bus. We paid twenty thousand dollars apiece to get here and I'm not sitting any longer. I'm going to the hotel and having a drink." There were murmurs of agreement from the others.
The guide was astonished at what he'd heard the man say. What had these people paid that much money for? Undoubtedly these weren't typical tourists. What were they going to do here that cost twenty thousand US dollars?
He said, "If everyone's ready, let's go. As you exit the bus, please remember Carlos and what a great job he did getting us here."
"Yeah, great job getting us halfway here," someone muttered as people exited with their small carry-ons. They took the essentials - passports, money, credit cards and the like - and left the rest for delivery to their rooms later.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When the guide led them into the beautiful oasis that was the Hotel Santo Tomas, many of them were vociferously complaining about their short walk. These people weren't that old, the guide reflected, but none was in great physical shape. He had been worried some might have problems walking on the cobblestone streets full of pushy revelers, but everyone arrived without incident. He passed out room keys and most of them headed straight to the bar. Others went to their rooms to relax before dinner and a few headed to the crowded market in front of the church two blocks away. The huge platforms that had been carried through the streets now sat in front of the church, where the local people, many dressed in brightly colored clothing, were enthusiastically worshipping the effigies of the saints and the holy family.
The exhausted driver and guide finally delivered the suitcases around nine, receiving words of gratitude from all but the few they had already identified as the complainers. Every tour had one or two and this one was no exception.
Next morning the bus riders dribbled into the dining room for the complimentary breakfast buffet. Sandra Oblowski, the most vocal protester on the bus yesterday, took a seat with her husband and immediately waved her hand in the air.
"What does it take to get some coffee around here?" she yelled across the room to a young server, who rushed
over with a carafe.
"Leche?" the girl asked, holding up a small pitcher.
"If that means milk, give me some. Is it too much to ask these people to speak English?"
"Lighten up," her husband, Stanley, said resignedly. "She's only doing her job."
"Actually, now she's standing over there talking to a waiter and ignoring all of us. If that's her job, she's really good at it."
I'd pay ten thousand dollars more for this trip if they'd take out your vocal cords, Stanley thought to himself. He had put up with Sandra's mouthy attitude for thirty years and knew anything he said wouldn't do any good. He should have left her years ago, but instead he'd just settled in for the ride. First it was the kids that kept them together; then he had a big surgery and needed someone to help him get around; then it was just easier to stay than to go through the hassle of splitting everything up. He hoped this thing they'd signed up to do in Guatemala would give her the same positive results it apparently had done for others. Otherwise he was spending forty thousand dollars for what could be a lot more years of hell.
"Do you think that girl's here already?" Sandra asked as she looked around the room. There were children seated at several tables already, and more were coming in.
"Keep your voice down. I don't have any idea. Do you know what she looks like? Or how old she is?"
"No. I suppose she's an American teenager, but I don't know for sure. They never show you a picture or anything. The information just talks about her powers."
"You signed us up to pay all that money and you don't know jack shit about her," he observed.
"We can get it all back if we're not satisfied. You know that. We've been over this a thousand times, thanks to your skepticism. Why don't you have a positive attitude for a change?"
He looked up at her. She really has no idea what a bitch she's been all these years, he thought as he went back to his breakfast, hoping maybe he could finish uninterrupted for once in his life.
Suddenly she spoke in a stage whisper. "Could that be her?" She nodded toward the dining room's entrance.
A beautiful girl stood in the doorway, holding the hand of a much older man. Unlike other children in the room who were dressed in shorts and T-shirts, she was wearing a lacy white dress that fell to her ankles and a pinafore. She was old-fashioned in a refined, pleasant way. The gentleman - that was a perfect word for him - was wearing a baggy suit that looked thirty years old. His jacket and pants hung from his gaunt frame like cast-off clothes on a scarecrow.
The two went past the Oblowskis’ table and took an empty one nearby. The girl smiled at Sandra as they passed but got nothing in return. The wheels were turning in Sandra's head.
"It couldn't be her," she decided. "How old do you figure that girl is - nine or ten? There's no way that's her."
Stanley didn't think so either, but he didn't say anything. Sometimes when he agreed with her, she changed her mind just so she could argue. He simply wasn't in the mood today. He just wanted to get this over with and go back to New Jersey. They finished their breakfast in silence.
The nine Americans had been told to meet in the lobby at 8:45. Once they were all gathered, their guide led them to the bus, asking them to leave the front rows open.
"Where are we going?" someone asked.
"We're going up into the mountains about fifty kilometers from here. I've personally never been where we're going, but it should be very scenic and beautiful. The trip will take about an hour."
The passengers selected seats, made themselves comfortable and heard the driver fire up the engine. The ones seated on the right side of the bus - the one next to the sidewalk - saw the girl in the white dress and the old man come down the stairs to the bus. They spoke briefly with the guide, he stepped aside and the two newcomers boarded. The girl slipped into the front seat by the window and her companion sat beside her. The bus pulled away from the hotel and drove down the street, which was thankfully empty this morning.
"I knew it!" Sandra said, jabbing Stanley in the ribs hard enough to make him wince.
"Really?" he replied. "I thought you said that couldn't be her. She was too young, you said."
She wasn't going to let her husband win this one. "Later I decided it was her. And I was obviously right."
_____
Yesterday Brian had arrived in Guatemala City. His driver Paco had taken him directly to Chichicastenango, where they encountered the same clogged streets and festivities that the bus riders had found. He'd left the car, hoisted his backpack and rolled his suitcase a mile to the hotel. The driver would stay with friends and take him back in a day or so. By the time he checked into his room, it was after eight. He had a meal in the dining room and went to bed, tired after a long day.
He came down to the lobby early the next morning to take advantage of the only Internet connection in the hotel. He sat at a table opposite the front desk with his laptop and coffee. As he knocked out some work, he glanced now and then at people walking about. Several groups met up with guides and went off for day trips or local tours. Another group met their handler and boarded a tour bus idling on the curb just outside the hotel.
He saw a child and a much older man walk through the lobby, hand in hand. There was something so strikingly different about them that several people turned to watch. She was a beautiful girl with skin the color of light chocolate and she was dressed in what at first glance appeared to be a costume, a long, lacy Victorian-style dress under a white pinafore. Her companion, a dark-complected man with strong facial features, was wearing period attire as well. His suit was worn but perhaps once had made him look dignified. His white shirt and dark blue tie finished off the picture of a man from a period long ago, now old and stooped but still proudly displaying his bearing and demeanor. What this unusual pair was doing in a tiny mountain town in Guatemala was a question on the minds of everyone who saw them. They walked carefully down the front steps and talked to the guide on the sidewalk. He stepped aside and they boarded - two unusual additions to a busload of baby boomers. None of my business, he thought about the odd situation as he went back to his emails.
Oliver had sent him all the way to Chichicastenango for one single, potentially important meeting. He opened his presentation and went through it again. He picked up the photo of Oliver's Black Cross replica and practiced his pitch, knowing he likely had one chance to make a case.
Shortly before eleven he walked to the church. He walked into a side courtyard and through a low doorway. Once inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sanctuary was smaller than the big-city cathedrals, but its walls still soared nearly thirty feet to the beamed roof above. The interior was dim and gloomy; the only light came from a few stained-glass windows and a sea of candles on the floor and railings.
As in most Catholic churches, the figure of Jesus hung on the cross above the altar in the chancel. But for a worshipper to go down the aisle and bow in front of Christ, one had to make his way through a blanket of pine boughs and kernels of grain on the floor and step over offerings of liquor and corn that were placed next to candles here and there. Family members brought these offerings in remembrance of their ancestors - Maya and Spanish alike - some of whose bodies were buried beneath the floor.
"Donde esta Papa Rodriguez?" he asked a young man sweeping the floor.
The boy pointed to the front of the church. "El esta aqui." He is here.
He walked toward the altar and saw a priest arranging candles on a table. He was facing away, so Brian took a seat in the first pew and waited. Soon the priest turned, noticed him and walked over.
"Señor Sadler?" he said, offering a handshake. He was at least in his seventies, much older than Brian had expected. He flashed a welcoming smile.
"Father Rodriguez, how did you know who I was?"
"Several ways," the priest replied in decent English. "First, no worshippers ever sit in the front row. It's a kind of rule, I think! Second, you don't look like most of my parishioners." He
swept a hand around the room and Brian saw a half-dozen people kneeling and praying. All appeared to be locals.
"Father, I really appreciate your agreeing to meet with me, especially during Holy Week. I know you must be busy."
"It's my pleasure. Let's go to my office and see what I can do for you. It will allow us not to interrupt the people who wish to pray in silence. I can give you only a few minutes - there's a Mass at noon - but I'll listen to why you came and perhaps I can be of service. When did you arrive in Chichi?"
"Yesterday. It was a busy day here!"
"Good Friday? One of the busiest. That will continue today and especially tomorrow, on Easter Sunday. Holy Week is the town's biggest festival of the year. People come from far and near to be with their families. School is dismissed, shops and factories are closed, and everyone celebrates. It can be frustrating for tourists, but it is a wonderful time for our people and they enjoy it very much."
The priest asked if Brian had other business in Chichi and was surprised to learn his sole purpose for coming all this way was for this appointment.
"Shall we begin?" the old priest said after the pleasantries were concluded.
Brian started the speech he'd practiced over and over. "I'm looking for a cross, a very old one that once may have belonged to Columbus - Cristobal Colon." He watched the old priest shift imperceptibly in his chair, leaning slightly back as if to distance himself from the conversation. His smile disappeared, replaced by tight lips and a trace of a frown. His body language indicated he knew something about this.
"Colon was never in Guatemala," he replied quietly. "Why do you seek something of his here?"
The Black Cross (Brian Sadler Archaeological Thrillers Book 6) Page 8
