by M. G. Harris
“Well, congratulations. Lived here most of my life; wish I could say that. But I guess I’ll always be a gringo round here.”
That gets a smile out of us. The American lady puts down her book, and gives Ixchel and me a long, thoughtful glance.
“Now,” she says, in neatly clipped tones, “if I were to ask you a rather surprising question, you think you could stay calm?”
I say, “I could try.”
Ixchel looks from the lady back to me.
The American seems to think about our responses for a minute, then gives a short nod. “All right, that seems fair enough to me.”
We watch her expectantly.
“Now. If I were to ask you,” she says slowly, “if your name were ‘Josh’, what in heaven’s name would you say to that?”
Ixchel grows very still next to me. I swallow. “I’d say . . . that yeah, it is.”
The lady gives another quick nod, as if mentally ticking something off a checklist. “And if I were to say that your second name is ‘Garcia’, now: what then?”
I stare. For ages. Then I say, “You sent the postcards.”
Slowly, she closes her eyes, nodding. “That I did.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked me to.”
I’m completely confused. “Who did. . .?”
“A certain Mr Arcadio Garcia, young man. He was most insistent that I wait at this table for you, every day in this month, until you arrived. I promised him I would, not that I knew what I was promising, and so I have.”
“You have . . . what?”
“Waited for you,” she says, simply. “Because he asked me to. And here we all are.”
“Who’s Arcadio Garcia?”
“I’d guess he was your grandfather,” she says. “Going by age and looks.”
“My grandfather was Aureliano Garcia. And he’s been dead for forty years.”
The lady’s face drops. “Forty years? Are you sure?”
“It’s about that long. . .”
“Forty years ago . . . well, heavens be, that explains most everything.”
I think for a second, dredging up a faint memory. “Is Arcadio a common name in Mexico?”
She frowns. “Not really. . . Why?”
It strikes me as odd that “Arcadio” is the name signed in that book by John Lloyd Stephens, the one Tyler and I found in that Jericho bookshop – the one that Simon Madison stole. But I don’t say any more – things are weird enough as it is. . .
I’m feeling more exasperated by the second. I don’t know exactly what I expected to find in Tlacotalpan – something on the lines of a disguised NRO agent who’d decided to go rogue and leak the secret of what really happened to my dad. Definitely not a sweet old American lady, ordering tea and discussing my ancestors.
“You said ‘that explains everything’. What does it explain?”
“For that, my darlings, you’ll have to come to my home.”
After lunch, the lady, who says her name is Susannah St John, leads us through the deserted streets of Tlacotalpan to her house. We walk at her pace: nice and slow. And she tells us the story of her and Arcadio.
“I met Arcadio here in Tlacotalpan. Right there in the refresceria where we all met, just now. He ordered a beer. I was with my friend from the hospital, Veronica, another nurse like me. We’d been at a nursing convention near Veracruz, and were enjoying a day trip on the last day.” She smiles at the memory. “We were eating ice cream. I couldn’t help looking at him, and so of course, he looked back at me.”
I interrupt. “Why couldn’t you help it?”
A blush appears in her cheeks. “Well, he was a handsome young fella in his thirties, of course. With a definite family resemblance to Josh. Except that Arcadio had the most compelling blue eyes. And he leaned over to me and said, in the most perfect English, ‘Excuse me, ladies; I’d be delighted to invite you both to a cup of tea.’”
Her eyes sparkle. “My, what a charmer he was. He said he was a historian, educated in England and the United States. He was visiting Tlacotalpan as part of his research into the decline in influence of the state of Veracruz.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look around you. Where do you think the money came from to build such a fine town? This place used to receive all the goods from Europe; from Cadiz, via Cuba. And from here they’d be taken down the river, to towns in the south of Mexico. It was a thriving port. But all that ended when the railroad came. By the 1960s – when I met Arcadio – it was much as you see now. Not as pretty – they cleaned the town up around ten years ago. No; back then we didn’t even have the daily coach of tourists. It really was little more than a ghost town.
“Anyhow, Arcadio and I became friends. It’s because of him that I decided to settle here, much later. Because not long after we met, he did something rather extraordinary.”
She stops talking as we reach the door of her house. It’s about five blocks from the centre: a powder-blue-painted house with white pillars at the front. The entire street backs on to the river.
Inside, the house is furnished entirely with heavy oak furniture, carved and varnished in the old colonial style. There are plants everywhere – hanging in baskets from the ceiling, on raised metal stands, in chunky glazed pots.
This is too easy. It doesn’t make sense. How can this sweet old lady be the secret informer behind the postcards?
On the wall are paintings of fruit, of deserted cobbled streets, baking in the afternoon heat, and of the fishing boats at the edge of the River Papaloapan. When Susannah sees Ixchel looking closely at them, she smiles.
“You like art, my dear?”
Ixchel turns to face her, expressionless. “You painted these?”
“Yes, I did. That’s what I do now – I’m a painter.”
“Did you ever paint him?” I say. “Arcadio?”
“I tried. He never would let me. He hated to have his photo taken, too. I used to laugh at him, tell him that he was just like those Native Americans who believe that the camera captures your spirit. He’d come along all grumpy and say that there was a good deal more at stake than his spirit.”
I touch the cool whitewashed plaster of the walls, thinking.
What if this has nothing to do with my father? What if it’s a trap?
Susannah perches on the long sofa in front of a glass coffee table. We do the same. I guess Susannah’s about to launch into her tale of this extraordinary thing that Arcadio did when Ixchel says, abruptly, “So, why did he tell you to send those postcards?” Susannah turns to her in surprise, as if she’s a little put out.
“Well, my dear, I don’t know why. I didn’t even know who Josh and Eleanor Garcia were until I met you both today.”
“I’m not Eleanor,” Ixchel says. It’s the second time I notice a sharp edge to her voice.
Susannah raises an eyebrow. “Well, I didn’t want to mention it. But you don’t really look like brother and sister.”
“Eleanor is my mother,” I say. “And I’ve never heard her mention a relative called Arcadio. My grandfather was Aureliano.”
“You already said that, dear,” Susannah says mildly. “But Arcadio’s instructions were pretty mysterious from the beginning. To start with, there was just a parcel. It said – To be opened on April fifth, 1968. Now, can you imagine? To be given a parcel like that, in 1965? I thought it a wonderful joke. Until the day rolled along, of course.”
Her expression becomes solemn. “The date doesn’t mean anything to you?”
We both shrug, which earns a disappointed sigh from Susannah.
“It’s the day after Martin Luther King, Jr was assassinated, of course. So, imagine my astonishment when I opened the letter to discover two more envelopes. And a letter.”
She opens a drawer in the coffee table, takes out a yellowed sheet of paper and begins to read from it. The letter is covered with scratchy handwriting, barely legible to me, at least. I can’t help but notice that there’s anothe
r sheet of the same paper still in the drawer, also covered in the same handwriting.
“Dearest Susannah,
Yesterday, Dr Martin Luther King died after being shot on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee.
I chose this date because it was necessary for me to prove to you that I have a way of knowing about events in the future. I often cannot use this knowledge to prevent events as terrible as this.
But there are a very few in which I am able to intervene. It’s crucial that you believe me. Because I’m going to ask you to do something which could be important to the whole world.
I beg you to follow my instructions precisely. In the envelope labelled ‘Postcards’, you will find eight postcards. Each card is written, addressed and dated. All you need do is to buy stamps and send the postcards on the dates written on each card.
Please deliver the second envelope directly into the hands of a British teenager, Josh Garcia, aged fourteen, whom you will meet in the corner café in Plaza Hidalgo, Tlacotalpan, in which you and I first met.
Josh will be accompanied by a young lady of similar age. They will meet you around midday one day in the month when you start sending the postcards. They will not know you, nor be expecting to meet you.
Please be kind enough to explain to them how you have followed my instructions, and then present Josh with the second envelope. Please be sure to see that he DOES NOT open the envelope in your house, but instead folds it and places it in his front trouser pocket.”
Susannah puts the letter down on her lap and looks from me to Ixchel.
“So, youngsters. Does this mean anything to you?”
Ixchel shrugs, eyes wide with wonder. I watch her closely – she seems genuinely to have no idea. Susannah notices that I don’t look quite as baffled.
“Josh. What do you say about all this? I’m getting the feeling that you’re not altogether surprised.”
“It’s not that. . .” I begin, but Ixchel’s already eyeing me with suspicion. “It’s more that – I have some idea who Arcadio might be.”
Susannah says, “Like I said – your grandfather?”
“When did you last see Arcadio?”
“1967.”
“Then . . . I dunno . . . maybe. It could be. I don’t know why he’d change his name. He died forty years ago, round about, but I don’t know exactly what year. It could be him.”
But I’m thinking of another possibility. Just the idea that I may have found proof for Montoyo’s crazy-sounding theory makes my skin jangle with electricity.
Arcadio had to be someone who would know about the future and the past. Someone who could write in English. The kind of guy who could easily pass himself off as a historian.
The more I think of it, the more excited I get. It would explain the mysterious note from “Arcadio” to John Lloyd Stephens in the book we found in that shop. The shopkeeper said that “Arcadio” couldn’t possibly have heard of Tikal in 1843, because the Mayan city hadn’t been discovered.
But if Arcadio was a time traveller from the future. . .
Ixchel points at the other sheet of paper in the drawer. “Is that the next page?”
Susannah shuts the drawer with a snap. Her eyes register annoyance, but she keeps her voice soft. “The second page, my dears, is of no concern to either of you. It’s a private message from Arcadio to me.”
“And the second envelope?”
“The second envelope, of course, I keep in the safe. Now, I’ll ask you both to excuse me while I go upstairs to fetch it.”
As Susannah disappears up the marble staircase, I turn to Ixchel. Her hair, swept back in that neat ponytail, gives her an air of smugness that I’m only now noticing.
“What’s up with you?”
Ixchel frowns.
“You’re being weird,” I continue. “Don’t you like her?”
“It’s not that,” Ixchel says. “But this is all so . . . bizarre. Being here. Her. The way she seems to think she knows your family. Is this what you expected?”
I have to admit honestly that it isn’t.
Susannah returns with a long white envelope. On the front, in capital letters, is written:
FOR JOSH GARCIA – DO NOT OPEN UNTIL YOU LEAVE TOWN.
She hands it to me with just a hint of hesitation.
“This is yours, I believe.” I take it from her hands, watching as her eyes glaze over with sadness, glistening with tears. She sniffs, pulls out a Kleenex from a pocket in her dress and presses the tissue to her eyes. “Mercy, I didn’t expect this.” She tries to smile, which seems quite an effort. “Kids, I’m sorry. Guess it’s been a long wait. It’s just a little sad to let go of this famous message; this message I’ve waited most of my life to deliver.”
My fingers play with the envelope, resisting the urge to tear it open.
“Now fold it,” Susannah says with a nod, blowing her nose. “And into your front pocket with it. That’s it.”
There’s a knock at the door. Susannah looks surprised.
“Seems a little early for the bridge club.” She walks towards the door.
Ixchel and I stare at each other. Ixchel whispers, “How did ‘Arcadio’ know you would even exist? How can he predict the future? Is he some sort of prophet?”
It’s tough not to be able to talk about what Montoyo and I discussed about the Ix Codex. I feel like it’s getting to be too much to ask of Ixchel, to keep her so much in the dark. But how can I even suggest time travel without talking about the Ix Codex?
From the entrance hall, we hear Susannah talking softly in Spanish. She keeps saying “Yes, Father”, and “Well, of course, Father, I’d be delighted to help.” And in between, there’s a man speaking Spanish in a low, rapid voice. I put a finger to my lips, signalling to Ixchel to be quiet. I grab her hand and sidle cautiously towards the opposite end of the room, where French windows open on to a tiny walled garden, walls of deep blue lined with pink bougainvillea. The garden is no more than two metres across. Opposite is a carved oak door.
“What is it?” Ixchel whispers.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Something feels wrong.”
I try the handle of the French window. It’s open, sliding smoothly on oiled runners.
Susannah and the man at the door are coming into the main part of the house. At first glance, I’m relieved – it’s only the Dominican priest we saw in the central plaza. But the second he yanks his sunglasses off, I stop being distracted by the white-and-black habit.
Facing me, with a hard gaze of triumph, is Simon Madison.
I don’t stop to return Madison’s stare, or to answer Susannah’s astonished cry of “Hey! What’s going on?!” I don’t think for a millisecond about fighting him. Grabbing Ixchel, I’m through the open windows, across the patio and through the oak door in the garden wall.
Susannah tries to stop him, but Madison grabs her arm and flings her aside. But she delays him for a few, crucial seconds. We spill out into the street, another cobbled alleyway just as empty as the last. Running, I hunt desperately for anywhere we could hide. There’s nothing in this street, so I make a sharp turn into a crossing alleyway. Ahead I see a handwritten sign outside one of the houses: Mini-Zoologico de Tlacotalpan.
And more importantly – an open door. We dive in. There’s no way Madison could have seen us yet – he hasn’t caught up to the turn-off in Susannah’s street.
Ixchel and I bolt into the house. We dash through corridors lined with faded photos, handicrafts, rifles, old military uniforms; the tiny museum all passes in a blur.
And then we’re in a huge patio crammed with low palm trees. Creeping plants cut out the sunlight, casting a forest gloom. On the right-hand side are a collection of cages, like you’d find at a zoo. From somewhere in the dense foliage of the trees, parrots squawk. An enormous golden eagle peers down at us from the perch on the roof, where it looms, wings tightly folded. A stork wanders right up to me, looks me up and down. For a second I think it’s about to p
eck at my hands.
Ixchel and I cast glances around. Looking for another way out.
A white-haired old man comes ambling in. He’s dressed in a loose white guayabera shirt and wears a tatty straw hat. He stops next to the stork, staring at the two of us as he puffs on a cigar.
“Enjoying the mini-zoo?” he asks, in lilting Spanish.
“We just got here,” I tell him. I’m still a little out of breath.
The old gent shakes his head regretfully. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea to me. There’s a young fella in the house, just got here. A priest. Looks innocent enough, oh yes. But he’s no priest – he’s a bad ’un; I can tell. I can sniff ’em out, see. Trapping animals gives you a nose for the wrong ’uns. I’d sooner tackle one of my crocodiles than one like him. And crocodiles can be mighty tricky.”
