"I think it was a chain. It sounded like a chain."
"-with what you think was a chain, was not a latino but a norteamericano."
Gideon nodded.
"But are those the only two possibilities? Could he not have been, oh, a German, an Englishman, a Dane? People from all over the world come here."
"I don't think so. I think he was an American."
"Because he said…” The inspector arranged his mouth delicately. “…'ow'?” It wasn't quite the American version, but it was close.
"That's right,” Gideon said, rising to the faintly teasing tone, and if you're in the mood for a lecture on comparative linguistics, I am prepared to explain fully."
"Say no,” Julie said from the side of her mouth.
"No,” said Marmolejo. “I will gladly take your word. But I have another question. You were unable to see your attacker, correct? Then how was it he could see you? Or does this require a lecture on the principles of light refraction, in which case I am again prepared to take your word."
Gideon laughed. In 1982 Worthy had summed up the striking incongruity between Marmolejo's dark Indian looks and his frequently elegant English. “You look at the man and you expect don’ got to show you no steenkin’ bedge,'” he had said. “Instead you get Ricardo Montalban."
"He was standing in the portico of the Temple of the Jaguars,” Gideon said, “blocked from the lights and facing the other way. He jumped me the moment the lights went out. His eyes wouldn't have had to adapt."
"Ah, yes, of course.” The inspector poured himself a second glass of beer and rubbed a lime wedge around the rim. The limes had been delivered with the beers. In Yucatan, there was very little that did not come with limes. “Other than the members of your expedition, have you seen anyone you know-any norteamericanos -in the vicinity?"
"No."
"Which would seem to lead to the unhappy conclusion that it is one of your colleagues who attacked you. No?"
"Yes, I guess so."
"Did you see any of them there yesterday evening?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Would any of them wish to do you harm?"
Gideon smiled. “No, some of them are a little strange, but I haven't been here long enough to get anyone mad at me yet. Not that mad, anyway."
"Merely enough to tell you to leave Yucatan or die,” Marmolejo observed mildly. “I wonder if a little police protection, quite discreet, of course, might not be called for."
"No, thanks,” Gideon said with feeling. “If you mean having one of your men following us around and sitting on our balcony while we're sleeping, forget it.” He'd had police protection before; all in all he preferred being stalked by a would-be killer, particularly one who was as ineffectual as this one seemed to be.
"Gideon,” Julie said, “are you sure it might not be a good idea?"
"I'm sure we can be less intrusive than that,” Marmolejo said.
"I know, but-"
"You have your wife to think about too, Dr. Oliver. If there is danger to you, then also…” He raised his hand, fingers spread, and looked in Julie's direction.
He was right, of course, and it was more than enough reason to take precautions. Besides, Marmolejo would do what he wanted; he was merely being polite. Gideon gave in. “Okay, thanks, Inspector. I appreciate it."
"Good, but I would like your cooperation too. No more wandering off alone; no more climbing mysterious ruins by yourself in the dark. When you go to or from the hotel, it must be with others. All right?"
"Look, Inspector, I don't need-"
"He promises,” Julie said quickly.
"Fine,” said Marmolejo. “And I promise in return to have no men sitting on your balcony during the night."
While they made their way through the fish course Gideon told them about his talk with Emma.
"Emma Byers?” Marmolejo interrupted. “The woman with the red face? The large, powerful woman?"
Gideon understood what he was driving at. He had been thinking about it himself, particularly since his talk with Emma.
It was Julie who asked the question. “Gideon, is it possible that it was a woman who attacked you?"
"I don't know,” he said honestly. “I couldn't swear it was a man. It could have been a woman-a large, powerful woman."
"What about the voice?” Marmolejo said. “You heard him speak."
"I heard him-or her-grunt. It was voiceless, a whisper. It could have been either a man or a woman."
"But you said you smelled wine,” Julie said. “Doesn't that rule out Emma? Preston, too, for that matter? All they eat is seaweed and tofu."
"That doesn't mean they have anything against booze. I've seen them drink.” He shook his head abruptly. “No, sorry, Emma's peculiar, but I can't see her trying to bash my head in with a chain."
"That,” Julie said, “is because you hate to think you might have been beaten up by a woman."
This veiled slur obliged him to explain in some detail how he hadn't been beaten up at all but had actually come off pretty well, considering.
Marmolejo seemed to be thinking about something else while this was going on. “Tell me more about the curse,” he said. He listened carefully to Gideon's explanation, asking several questions and growing more grave with the answers. He asked for a copy, which Gideon promised to get for him.
At last the inspector pushed aside his empty plate and picked up his unlit cigar, tapping it absently on the rim of the ashtray. "Que cosa," he said softly, looking at the corn-god mural from under lowered lids that made slits of his eyes.
"Do you know what the local name is for Tlaloc?” he asked. “I don't mean the meridanos, I mean the country people, the yucatecos. They call it la ciudad de maldiciones, the cursed city. That is what they called it before any outsiders knew of it. That is what their fathers and grandfathers called it.” Solemnly, he stuck the cigar in his mouth. "La ciudad de maldiciones."
Gideon eyed him uneasily. Now what the hell was all this about? Marmolejo was an intelligent, practical man. Surely he wouldn't give any credence to a four-hundred-year-old curse.
Or maybe not so surely. Once, over brandies, he'd told Gideon about his extraordinary past. He'd been born in his Mayan mother's village of Tzakol, which Gideon had seen-a derelict little collection of shacks near the Quintana Roo border, where curses were no doubt as common and unremarkable as the pigs that sunned themselves in the middle of the muddy streets. When he was seven, his father had taken the family to Merida. By eleven, he was one of the army of kids selling walkaway snacks of coconut slices and peeled oranges near the mercado.
Against enormous odds he had gone through school and eventually saved enough to buy his way into Yucatan's then graft-ridden police department. Now, after the cleanup, his integrity and abilities had made him a high-ranking civil servant. He had attended the University of Yucatan as an adult. He was one of the few provincial officials to have graduated from the new national police academy. He was an educated man.
But who knew how much of Tzakol he still carried with him beneath that rational, sensible surface?
He saw the way Gideon was looking at him and laughed. “Don't worry, my friend. I doubt very much if it was the gods who attacked you with a chain. If it was a chain."
"I'm glad to hear it,” Gideon said.
There was a booming splash from outside. The rain had come at last, crashing onto the surface of the swimming pool like a performing whale falling back into a tank, then setting up a tremendous thrumming on the water, the broad-leafed foliage, and the roof of the restaurant. Julie, who took pride in having grown up in the wettest micro-climate in the United States, had never seen anything like it, and watched with her mouth open.
"On the other hand,” Marmolejo said easily, reaching for his cigar, “I wouldn't go out of my way to annoy them."
With the downpour, the viscous humidity went out of the air, as if the rain had pounded it into the earth, and a luscious, blossom-scented breeze flowed into the dining room like balm onto a wound. They shifted in their chairs, bathing in it appreciatively. At Marmolejo's suggestion, they ordered coffee with their caramel custard. A few moments before, hot coffee would have been unthinkable.