By now, even Mexican television was reporting the reversals in the north, and when a still picture of Extepan was shown on the screen, my emotions were close to the surface. Naturally, Chicomeztli noticed immediately.
‘You care greatly for him,’ he observed.
‘We were betrothed before he left,’ I admitted.
Chicomeztli beamed. He got up from his chair and hugged me.
‘I am so sorry. And so happy for you both. It will all be well in the end, you will see.’
‘It has to be kept secret,’ I stressed. ‘Especially now. Only Motecuhzoma and Tetzahuitl know. It might endanger Extepan’s position even further if the news were made public.’
‘Of course.’ He seemed to wink at me. ‘Mum is the word.’
Next day, Chicomeztli brought me more welcome news: Bevan was returning.
I had not seen him in almost a month, and when I learnt that he would be landing at Cuauhtitlan Airport that afternoon, I decided to go and meet him. I needed to get away from the palace and the war, if only for a short while. I also felt that friendly overtures were necessary, in case he was still aggrieved with me.
Arrangements were made for a glidecar to bring him direct from the airport to a private mooring where I was waiting for him aboard a long low-slung motorboat. I intended to ferry him leisurely across the lake to Chapultepec, giving us time to be alone and renew our acquaintance.
As his glidecar drew up on the jetty, I was as expectant as any child anticipating a reunion with a rapscallion but good-hearted uncle.
When Bevan emerged from the car, I saw that his face and arms were brick-red from the sun. He wore a floppy white hat with navy flannels and a holiday shirt on which parrots and toucans disported themselves in radiant colour. His bulging travelling bag was slung over his shoulder.
He eyed me curiously as he was escorted aboard the boat.
‘Welcome back,’ I said with a smile.
I received only a grunt in reply.
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Good enough, I reckon.’
He moved to the bow of the boat, dumping his bag on one of the seats.
‘Catch any fish?’ I asked.
He took off his hat and mopped his forehead with it. ‘Spent most of my time drinking Marley’s and eating seafood salads.’
He let out a burp as if in emphasis. I sat down beside him as the boat was unmoored and we headed out into the lake.
‘I missed you,’ I said.
‘That a fact?’
He was making it difficult for me. I was determined to remain cheerful.
‘Do you like the launch? It was modelled after the old Aztec canoes.’
‘Executive barge, is it?’
‘Bevan!’
Only now did he look me straight in the face.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t want there to be any friction between us. Especially now.’
He was silent for a moment. ‘Been having problems, have you?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s just… you know, all the fighting in New England.’
One of the escort brought us a jug of iced lemonade. Our boat was heading south, shadowed by two motor launches. The escort were congregated at the stern with the pilot, out of earshot of us.
‘Do you know what’s been happening in the north?’ I asked.
Bevan stroked his misted glass. ‘I’ve got the gist of it. Number One Son in big trouble, is he?’
I didn’t know what to say to this. Bevan was obviously enjoying my discomfort. He swallowed his drink then proceeded to take off his sandals and socks. Rolling his trousers up to his knees, he perched himself on the edge of the boat and dangled his feet in the water.
The afternoon was bright and still, the lake tranquil.
‘Watch the ahuitzotl doesn’t eat your toenails,’ I remarked.
‘Missing him, are you?’
This threw me completely. ‘What?’
‘The man of the hour. Your favourite Mexican.’
I hid my face behind my drink. But Bevan wasn’t even watching me: he was staring out over the lake. We were hugging the western shore, and herons were congregated in the coastal marshes.
‘He proposed marriage to me,’ I said.
‘Did he now?’
‘I accepted.’
He flattened his sunhat on his head, tugging at the droopy brow.
‘That’s a turn-up for the book.’
‘Do you think I’m a traitor?’
His smile was like a sneer. ‘I think you don’t know the half of it.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He swung his feet out of the water. ‘Ever heard of Quauhnahuac?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘It’s a city. To the south of here.’
‘Your sister’s there.’
I just stared at him.
‘They never sent her to China.’
‘What?’
‘I got into the networks here, like you asked. They brought her here. To Mexico. It’s where she’s been all the time.’
I was staggered by this. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure, all right. It was all on file – dates, flights, even her address. They’ve put her up in an old Spaniard’s retirement home.’
It was not just the rocking motion of the boat which made me steady myself.
‘There must be some mistake.’
‘There’s no mistake.’
‘Was that what you were trying to tell me?’
He took a battered pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. They were Kingston Clouds, their smoke resinous and aromatic.
‘Wasn’t going to leave you a note about it, was I? Besides, I could tell something else had happened. You weren’t ready for it.’
Something in his face made me say, ‘Is there more?’
He nodded. ‘You sure you want to hear this?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Not on her own there, is she? She’s shacked up with somebody you know.’
Six
‘Why have we come here?’ Chicomeztli asked, not for the first time, as we disembarked from the transporter.
I led him down the street, an armed escort accompanying us.
‘There’s a place I need to see,’ I said.
We had arrived in the full heat of the day, and Quauhnahuac had closed its doors and shutters against the sun. The only person in evidence was a municipal worker, thrumming by in the shadows on a street-sweeper.
‘Your Highness is being very mysterious,’ Chicomeztli persisted, hastening to keep up with me as I hurried down the street.
‘Just be patient,’ I said, leading him down a broad avenue which debouched into the tree-lined central square of the city.
Directly across the square was the palace. It was smaller than I had imagined, Aztec in design but with Spanish features such as elaborate Isabelline balcony windows and a broad pilastered front doorway. I knew from Bevan that it had once been a residence of Hernan Cortes, whom the tlatoani Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin had installed there in recognition of his services to the Aztecs. It looked as much a fortress as a palace.
‘Do you know who’s living there?’ I asked Chicomeztli.
He looked at the palace, then at me. He frowned.
‘It is an historical place, not a public building.’
I was testing him, trying to find out how much he knew. He had readily arranged a flight to Quauhnahuac when I had urgently demanded one, even though I had not specified why. The truth was, I had no clear idea what to do now that we were in the city. Bevan’s revelations needed confirmation, but I was uncertain how best to go about this. I was urgent to know the truth, but I didn’t want to play my hand too soon.