by jeff brown
4
The Mayan Temple
Stanley had traveled more than most people his age. And although he enjoyed visiting faraway places, it was not always easy. For instance, airmail was sometimes warm and uncomfortable.
But the journey to see La Abuela was more difficult than any Stanley had ever taken. On this trip, he did not have the luxury of waiting patiently in an envelope, or of being rolled up and placed on the back of a horse.
On this trip, he walked. He walked, and walked, and walked. Guided by Eduardo and three others—little Isabel with her wide eyes, and the tall boys named Esteban and Felipe—Stanley walked until he thought his legs would crumple.
Finally, on the third day, Stanley was so tired, he started seeing things.
“I must be back in Egypt,” he mumbled. “I see a pyramid.”
Eduardo grinned. “We are not in Egypt,” he said. “That is a Mayan temple.” He slapped Stanley excitedly on the shoulder. “We are getting close!”
Stanley stared up at the enormous pyramid rising out of the jungle. It was different from the ones in Egypt. It appeared that there was a giant staircase on each side. And all of the steps led to one place: a small, rectangular building on top.
Isabel ran ahead and started up the steps. Esteban and Felipe followed her.
Eduardo slowed his pace to walk alongside Stanley. “This was once a royal city,” he explained. “There were roads, a palace, and aqueducts to carry water. For two thousand years, the Mayan empire stretched from here to Honduras. The Maya were scientists and mathematicians. They made a calendar that is more accurate than ours today. They figured out how long a year is on the planet Venus. Apart from ruins like these, only their descendants remain.”
At the base of the pyramid, Eduardo turned and leaned in close to Stanley. “And La Abuela is one of them.”
“Pardon moi.” A tall man with a thin mustache held out a camera to Stanley. He wore a white shirt that had two rows of buttons down the front. “Would you take my photo?” he said with a smooth French accent. “This is a very special day for moi.”
“Sure,” said Stanley. This was the first tourist other than himself he’d seen the whole trip.
“Say cheese!” Stanley said.
But instead of smiling, the man frowned like a clown. “No, no, no,” he sang. “Cheese is not the ingredient we had in mind.”
Two other men emerged from the jungle—one short and fat, the other bald and muscular. Both wore the same uniform as the first man. Stanley noticed an insignia on the breasts of their white double-buttoned shirts. They looked like chefs. In fact, the bald one was holding what appeared to be a long kitchen knife.
“Spies!” realized Stanley.
Eduardo turned and sprinted up the pyramid toward Isabel, Felipe, and Esteban. The man grabbed Stanley’s arm before Stanley could follow.
“I am not a spy!” the man spat. “I am the great four-star Chef Lillou of Bourgogne! Reynaldo is my sous chef. Patrice, my saucier. We know nothing of spying. We know only cooking!”
“And carving,” said bald Reynaldo ominously, rubbing the blade of his knife with his thumb.
“Why are you standing there?” Chef Lillou barked at his staff. “Get those children!”
As the saucier and the sous chef charged past, Chef Lillou turned Stanley horizontally, tucked him under his arm like a loaf of French bread, and started up the steps after everyone else.
“What is an American flat boy like you doing in this part of the world?” he said, his arm tight around Stanley.
“Just visiting.” Stanley gulped.
The chef snorted. “Is that so? Well, I have been trying to visit La Abuela for nine years,” he said. “Except no one knows where she lives.”
Isabel screamed as, halfway up the pyramid, Patrice the saucier grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her in the air, her legs kicking furiously.
“Nine years away from my restaurant,” Chef Lillou continued. “Nine years in pursuit of perfection. But today, my persistence pays off. Because you and your friends know where La Abuela lives, don’t you? She lives at the top of this pyramid. You led us right to her!”
Someone whistled behind them. Chef Lillou swung around, and Stanley swung with him.
It was Carmen del Junco!
“Bonjour, madame,” Chef Lillou began smoothly.
“I do not think this is your pyramid,” Carmen said calmly. “I do not think this is your country. And I do not think that is your flat boy.” She came toward them.
Chef Lillou gave a signal. The other spies dropped the children they were holding and charged back down the steps toward Carmen.
Carmen did nothing. Nothing, that is, except take one very small step to the left—and then to the right—and then wiggle her hips ever so slightly.
The sous chef and the saucier lunged, but missed her completely.
“Oomph!”
“Ow!”
“Adiós,” Carmen said as they tumbled down the steps.
Only Chef Lillou remained, with Stanley under his arm. Carmen stepped toward them.
“Please, madame. Come no closer!” the chef said, brandishing the upper half of Stanley’s body in an attempt to ward her off.
Carmen was now less than three feet away. She winked at Stanley.
In one graceful motion, Carmen bent at the waist and grabbed Stanley’s hands. She pulled him from the chef’s grasp and spun around like a dancer. Stanley’s feet sailed through the air. Completing their round, his shoes hit Chef Lillou square in the middle of his crisp white chest.
“Zut alooooooooors!” the chef cried as he crashed all the way down to the bottom of the pyramid.
The children cheered as the chef and his staff scampered back into the jungle.
They all hugged Carmen.
“You were wrong to go off without telling anyone,” she said. She repeated herself in Spanish so that Isabel, Esteban, and Felipe would understand. Isabel’s eyes welled up with tears.
“Now, you must return home. I will take Stanley from here.”
“But we are so close!” said Eduardo.
Carmen lifted her eyes to the low building at the top of the pyramid.
“It is lucky you were not closer,” she said. “Or La Abuela’s secret would be a secret no more.”
5
The Plunge
Carmen waited until the other children were out of sight before continuing up the steps with Stanley.
Stanley wished she hadn’t sent his friends away. “Why couldn’t they come, too?” he sulked.
“Because they could not,” Carmen declared.
“They were just trying to help,”
Stanley said. “They came all this way, and you made them stop just steps from La Abuela’s house. It’s not fair.” He kicked a step hard with his toe.
“Stanley,” Carmen said. “How did you become flat?”
“The bulletin board over my bed squashed me in the middle of the night,” Stanley grumbled.
“Was that fair?” said Carmen.
“No.” Stanley shook his head. “It wasn’t fair at all. People make fun of me. They stare at me. Sometimes I wish it had been my brother, Arthur.”
Carmen nodded thoughtfully. Together, they climbed the last step. Stanley took a moment to straighten himself and flatten his hair before stepping inside to meet La Abuela.
“Hello?” Stanley called, leaning through the archway. “¿Hola? La Abuela?”
His voice echoed from one end of the building to the other. It was empty. There wasn’t even any furniture.
“Where is she?” Stanley said.
Carmen walked across the floor. She turned to face Stanley, her silhouette framed by an archway identical to the one they had entered.
“When I was your age,” Carmen said, “only boys were matadors. Even then, I knew I wanted to fight bulls. I cried very much, because it was not fair. It was not fair that I was a girl. It was not fair that I had this body.
“But th
en, someone very wise told me a secret. And now I will tell that secret to you: It is not what you have that matters,” said Carmen. “It is what you do with it.”
She beckoned for Stanley to come and look.
Stanley gasped. There were no steps down the other side of the pyramid. In fact, there was no other side to the pyramid at all. There was only a cliff that dropped from this side of the building like a huge wall, all the way down to a blue pool of water far, far below.
The green of the jungle made a blanket over the land. Stanley felt as if he could see for miles.
“So where does La Abuela live?” he said.
“I don’t know,” said Carmen.
“What?”
“No one has ever been able to go beyond this point to find her. I know only that the water leads to her.”
“But how are we supposed to get down to the water?”
“We are not,” said Carmen. “You are.”
Stanley was speechless.
Carmen’s dark eyes twinkled. “What are you going to do with what you have, Stanley?”
Stanley peered over the edge. He could not float down like a kite, because there was no wind. And this was nothing like Niagara Falls, which had been an accident, in any case.
In a flash, Stanley knew what he had to do.
He took several big steps back.
“Buena suerte,” Carmen whispered. “Good luck.”
He took three deep breaths.
And then he ran and dived over the edge.
6
La Abuela
Stanley had seen Olympic divers on television: their bodies perfectly straight, their hands like arrows piercing the water. Stanley made himself as flat as he could. The wind rushed around his ears. The side of the cliff blurred before his eyes.
He barely made a splash.
Stanley shot toward the bottom of the water like a bullet. Suddenly, he noticed an underwater cave to his left, swarming with fish. He went for it.
Inside, Stanley knew he couldn’t hold his breath much longer. His hands broke the surface and hit the cave’s rocky ceiling.
There wasn’t nearly enough space for his head.
How am I going to breathe?! he thought in a panic.
Then he remembered Carmen’s voice: What are you going to do with what you have?
Stanley swung himself into a back float. His flat body barely rose above the surface. The ceiling of the cave was inches from his nose.
He gulped the air hungrily.
A current began pulling him along. It started gently and then got faster. Soon, Stanley felt like he was riding a water slide—except it was pitch-dark, and all the sides were covered with sharp rocks.
The current rose to a roar. He swung into the wall and scraped his leg. Stanley cried out.
Vroosh. He shot out of the cave.
Stanley found himself in a calm, clear pool of water shallow enough that he could stand.
Around the pool was a small field of herbs, planted in rows.
And at the edge of the field was a tiny cottage.
Stanley walked ashore, careful not to step on any of the plants. He was about to knock on the door when it opened.
A very small, very old woman stood before him. Stanley swallowed hard. “La Abuela?” She was smaller than Stanley was, with big cheeks and short gray hair. She wore a colorful dress and a patterned scarf around her neck.
She looked at him curiously.
Stanley reached into his pocket for Carlos’s letter, but all he found was a few soggy bits of paper.
“I’m not a spy,” Stanley said quickly.
Without responding, La Abuela reached for his hand. She raised his arm before her eyes and turned it this way and that, examining its shape.
Then she turned her gaze to Stanley’s face. Stanley held his head high so she could look.
When he looked down again, La Abuela’s eyes were moist, as if she were about to cry. Her lips quivered.
“Estaba esperándole,” she said. “I have been waiting for someone like you.”
Stanley was about to ask what she meant when he heard a series of splashes—one, two, three!
“Oui!” a familiar voice said triumphantly. “We have arrived at last!”
Somehow, Chef Lillou and his spies had followed Stanley!
7
The Secret
Chef Lillou burst into La Abuela’s cottage, dropping his climbing harness and his scuba tank in the middle of the floor. He looked around the dim room.
“Where is she, you little crêpe?”
Stanley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said, shrugging.
The chef walked over to the lumpy bed. “You cannot fool Chef Lillou,” he said. “She is hiding beneath these covers!” He whisked the blankets off. Nothing.
He held a finger in the air. “She is in the closet!” He bounded over to a wardrobe and threw it open. Empty.
“She’s gone,” Stanley said. “I came all this way just like you, and she’s not even here.” He pointed to the scrape on his leg and frowned. “Now I can barely walk.”
“Do not look for sympathy from moi,” Chef Lillou waved his hand in the air. “After that woman on the pyramid, I have more bruises than an overripe tomato.” He scanned the room one more time.
“I do not care,” he said, sticking his nose in the air. “Outside is an entire field of La Abuela’s secret ingredient. I have spent nine years seeking perfection, and now I have found it. I will be the greatest chef in history!”
He marched into the field, leaving the door wide open. Stanley leaned forward to see. Chef Lillou bent down, plucked a green leaf, and held it up to his nose. He inhaled deeply.
“Chef,” called Patrice the saucier, “do you smell what I smell?”
The chef furrowed his brow. “This smells like common coriander.”
“No, not coriander,” said Reynaldo. “It is cilantro, I think.”
“Coriander and cilantro are the same thing, you fool!” Chef Lillou cried. “It is the most common spice in all of Mexican cooking!
“This isn’t the secret ingredient,” he choked.
And with that, the great Chef Lillou of Bourgogne burst into tears.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he whimpered.
“No, no, no, no.” “Do not cry, chef,” Patrice said as he patted Lillou’s shoulder. “We can still make a unique pesto.”
“I just want to go home to my restaurant,” the chef blubbered.
“That sounds like a good idea,” said Reynaldo gently.
Reynaldo and Patrice put the chef’s arms around their shoulders. Together, the three of them walked out of the field, to return to France at last.
Stanley waited until he could no longer hear voices. Then he carefully peeled himself from his chair and turned around.
“Are you okay?” he asked La Abuela, whom he had been covering the entire time.
She nodded, a smile breaking across her face. She burst into laughter and leaped from the chair. Together, she and Stanley did a little dance. She finished by kissing him wetly on the cheek.
Stanley pointed out the door. “So that’s not the secret ingredient?”
La Abuela giggled. “The secret is not the ingredient,” she said in her broken English. “It is what you do with it.” Her eyes sparkled.
Stanley suddenly understood: It was La Abuela who had told Carmen the secret that made her a great matador.
La Abuela walked into the field and plucked a handful of cilantro from the ground. She took Stanley’s hand, turned it palm up, and placed the herbs on the flat of his arm. Then she took his other arm and pressed it on top of the first.
“Now,” she said. “Rub as hard as you can. I will get the salt.” She ran inside.
Stanley started rubbing. His arms got hot with friction.
Suddenly, Stanley smelled something familiar. It was a smell he knew from his mother’s kitchen.
It was the smell of his last breakfast at home
.
Stanley breathed deeply. It was the most delicious smell he had ever known.
8
The Last Bullfight
Four days later, the applause was building at the Plaza de Toros in Mexico City. The great matador Carmen del Junco waved hello to her fans as red roses flew from the stands to dot the ground at her feet.
An announcer’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker. “¡Y bienvenido Stanley Llano!”
“That’s me, Flat Stanley!” realized Stanley. He was stationed behind a wooden slat door at one end of the ring. He put on his biggest grin, pushed open the door, and trotted out.
The crowd leaped to its feet.
Carmen took his hand, and Stanley gave a dramatic bow. In his new satin spandex jumpsuit, he looked like a giant piece of shiny red paper folding itself in half.
“You know, it is a myth about bulls and the color red,” Carmen had said when she presented the outfit to him as a present. “Bulls can’t see different colors at all. It is movement that makes them charge.”
Carmen now took Stanley’s other hand as the bull rushed into the ring.
A hush fell over the crowd as everyone took their seats.
Carmen winked at Stanley, just as she had before rescuing him on the steps of the Mayan temple. Then she grasped his other hand, lifted him off the ground, and gave him a little shake. The bull did not look very happy to see Stanley. Its muscles rippled. Its hooves thundered in clouds of dust.
Stanley gulped and squeezed his eyes shut.
Suddenly, a hysterical shriek pierced the air. “STOP THAT BULL!”
I know that scream, thought Stanley.
He opened one eye. With a shrug, Carmen calmly lifted him onto her shoulders and stepped aside to let the bull pass.
