Authors: Christopher Valen
“I can relate to that. I’m from Manizales, Colombia.”
“So what the hell brings a Minnesota detective from Colombia to Valladolid?”
Santana outlined the details of the case as they drove, especially his belief that Pérez and Mendoza had known each other as children in Valladolid.
At Nuevo Xcan they crossed the border between the states of Quintana Roo and Yucatán. The average forest height had gradually risen as they neared Valladolid. Though it was the dry season, the forest appeared to lose much of its scrubby look. Tree limbs became more slender, the leaves broader and thinner, the color a softer yellow-green rather than a hard, silvery gray. Trumpet trees appeared, their large palmate leaves shaped like a hand with thick fingers arising all around the palm.
Good idea to stay away from the water,” Montoya said. “You get
turista,
you will spend the whole day investigating
los baños
instead of the case.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“The Catholic Church keeps sacramental records,” Montoya said. “Primarily baptisms and marriages. If Julio Pérez and Rafael Mendoza were born in Vallalodid, then their names should be in the church register.”
Looking out the passenger side window, Santana spotted a black vulture along the shoulder eating road kill. “Pérez grew up in the
Sisal Barrio
if that helps,” he said.
“Then the
barrio
is where we will begin.”
S
antana got a room at the
El Mesón del Marqués,
a colonial style hotel on the plaza. The room had a high, beamed ceiling, heavy wooden furniture, air conditioning and a balcony overlooking the pool. He had promised Montoya he would meet him for dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, but not before he changed and cleaned up.
At 9:30 he was seated at a table with the Mexican detective in a courtyard with a bubbling fountain and a garden of hanging plants and bougainvilleas the color of blood.
Montoya ordered for both of them the
pollo pibil
, a regional specialty of chicken marinated in Seville orange and spices barbecued in banana leaves. They drank cold bottles of
Dos Equis
with dinner.
“You should try the
salsa habanera
,” Montoya said, pointing to a small bottle of ugly green sauce on the table. “It is made from the
chile habanero
.”
“Much hotter than
jalapeño
?”
“The Mayan name for it means ‘crying tongue.’”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“You know, John, many Mexican men say
salsa habanera
is better than great sex.”
“So why don’t you have some.”
Montoya smiled. “Nothing is better than great sex,
amigo
.”
“
Salud
,” Santana said, raising his beer in a toast.
“Y
ou want a
Cohíbas?
” Montoya asked, after they had finished their meals. “They are said to be hand rolled on the thighs of
Cubano
virgins.”
He inhaled deeply as he held the unlit cigar under his nose.
“No thanks. But I’ll take an after-dinner drink. Maybe a Kaluha.”
Montoya called the waiter and ordered two Kaluhas.
“So,” he said, lighting his cigar. “How is Colombia?”
“From what I read in the newspapers, not so good.”
“You have not been home recently?”
“Not recently.”
“And your family?”
Santana held Montoya’s gaze and then shook his head slowly.
“I see,” Montoya said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
The visit to Mexico was Santana’s one and only trip out of the States since he had arrived twenty years ago. He had dreamed many times of his country during his first few years in Minnesota, and he had continued to renew his passport, thinking he would return some day. But those dreams had come less frequently in the ensuing years until the memory of them had dimmed and finally faded away like a light from a distant shore.
“You know,” Montoya said, “I remember what it was like living in the States. A society where everything has a price but nothing has value. One has to wonder about the long term consequences of this thinking.”
“Ever been to Colombia?” Santana asked.
“No.”
“There’s your answer.”
Montoya thought about it for a while. “It is true that corruption has no borders,
amigo
.”
“What’s the crime rate in Valladolid?”
“Nothing like Mexico City, or Texas for that matter. Although I think Texas operates under the same Napoleonic Code. Guilty until proven innocent.” He smiled.
“Saves a lot of time,” Santana said.
“So does a well-placed bullet.”
Montoya took a long drag on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly. “I make no apologies for my country or myself. Unfortunately, when you combine a thirst for blood with poverty and corruption, it leads to many kidnappings. Especially of Americans.”
“It is the same in Colombia.”
“Ah, but Colombians are still more civilized. Your kidnappers do not send pieces of the victim to his family. Here it is common practice.”
“
Estamos cortados con la misma tijera
,” Santana said.
“Yes. We are all cut with the same scissors. I can see it in your eyes,
amigo
. Violence is like a shark swimming just below the surface.”
The Kaluhas arrived and Montoya made a Mexican toast. “
Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa’dentro
.” Up, down, in the middle, inside.
Montoya drank and then took a knife from the table and cut a narrow leaf from a nearby palm tree. In a few minutes, he had fashioned what looked like a green insect the length of his hand. He set it gently on the table directly in front of Santana.
“I’m reminded of the tale of the frog and the scorpion, John. Have you heard it?”
“No.”
Montoya said, “The scorpion asks the frog to take him across the river because he cannot swim. The frog believes the scorpion will kill him and refuses. The scorpion explains that it would be foolish to kill him because then they would both die. The frog agrees. Halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog. The stunned frog asks the scorpion why he stung him, knowing that they both will die. The scorpion replies, ‘It’s my nature.’ Violence is in our Spanish blood, John. It’s our nature. But unlike the scum we deal with, we’re able to control it.”
“Most of the time,” Santana said.
They drank in silence for a while until Santana said, “I remember a quote I read once that said in violence we forget who we are.”
“Perhaps during the act itself.”
“And after?”
He shook his head. “Afterward, if you forget who you are, you are lost.”
Santana took a long drink of Kaluha, letting the thick coolness of it mask the alcohol that burned his insides. “My partner back in Minnesota killed a suspect in a murder,” he said.
“Will your partner ever remember who he was before the shooting?”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is not a surprise,
amigo
. Most species will not kill their own kind. Killing causes a fever in the soul. But sometimes,” Montoya said, jabbing the air with the cigar, “there is no choice. Men kill in war. Men kill to save their own life or to protect the life of another. You either learn to live with the knowledge you have killed or you die with it.”
Santana knew Montoya was right. He knew it from the moment he first pulled the trigger and killed another human being. The shadow of death and violence had forever darkened his life and corrupted his soul. He lived with it because he had to. But living was never easy.
“You know,” Montoya said, “humans have spent the last five million years being aggressive. It is hardwired into our brain.”
“Survival of the fittest.”
“Exactly. We are competitive and territorial. There are those who say they would never harm anyone. That killing is never justified. But you ask a mother what she would do to protect her child? If she is honest, she will admit that she would kill to protect the life of her child. Violence is in all of us. The only thing that changes is the justification.”
“Violence is a much talked about subject in the States,” Santana said. “But not death.”
“
Si
,” Montoya said. “It is a society in search of the fountain of youth.”
He drank from his glass of Kaluha, puffed on the cigar, contemplating, before he continued.
“Mexicans celebrate
La Muerte.
Even in the States, they celebrate the Day of the Dead. One of my favorite writers, Octavio Paz, said that death is our most lasting love. I believe Paz writes the truth.”
Santana had not embraced death like Montoya, but he lived in its shadow whenever he carried his shield.
A trio of Mexican guitarists moved through the restaurant under the canopy of night. They were singing, “
Yo soy tú sangre mi viejo, soy tú silencio y tú tiempo
, I am your blood old man, I am your silence and your time.” The music and the words triggered pleasant memories of Santana’s past before violence cleaved his world in two.
“You like this music, John?”
“Yes.” He was feeling the languid effects of the long trip, heavy meal and drinks. “It reminds me of Colombia and my father. He loved the old music.”
When the trio finished playing, Santana thanked them and tipped them ten American dollars.
“It is good to be a tourist,” Montoya said, “unless you are in trouble with the law. You can be kept in jail here for up to thirteen months without bail or a jury trial. It is a long time to be in jail in any country, but a very long time in a Mexican jail. The courts are very hard on drugs and firearms, John. I assume you are carrying neither.”
“I’m looking for information, Carlos. Not trouble.”
“Good. Then tomorrow we will talk to a priest. See if we can find Pérez and Mendoza’s names in the church register. But for now, we will relax.” Montoya sat back in his chair. “Have you ever been in a
casa de piedra
?”
“A stone house?”
“It is more than a stone house. The Mayans call it Temazcal. A secret bath.”
“I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“Then you must have one,
amigo
. It will cleanse your soul as well as your body.”
T
he stone house was actually a small, stone hut with a palm-thatched roof and a blanket over the door located near the
Xkeken Cenote,
one of the cool, underground streams in Valladolid. Stones heated over a fire were placed in the center of the dirt floor and then doused with water creating a sauna-like effect.
Montoya said, “The Mayans are a very superstitious people, you know.”
“Just like Hispanics,” Santana said.
Montoya laughed. “What do you expect? Valladolid was the ritual and ceremonial center of their civilization. They called it Zaci. It means white hawk.”
They both were sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing only a towel wrapped around their waists. Beads of sweat ran down Santana’s forehead and dripped into his eyes.
Before entering the hut, they had been asked by an old Mayan Indian to make an offering to the gods to help guide them on their paths in life. The Indian stood over them now, striking them lightly with leaves made of sage and tobacco. The scent of each leaf permeated the moist, thick heat.
Santana closed his eyes. The only sound was the gentle rustle of leaves as they brushed against his skin. Time gradually became as ephemeral as the steam rising off the stones. Soon, a kaleidoscope of strange images appeared before his eyes.
And then he was on the bridge again.
Flames from a burning river of oil below charred the crosses, which served as bridge supports, and melted the fog that seeped off the snow surrounding him. A woman’s anguished voice called to him as she had called to him in a dream before. She was much closer to him now. Still, he could not move or feel. Yet, he could sense that there was someone else lurking in the shadows, someone with the woman. He knew he was neither awake nor asleep but floating just below the surface of consciousness. There were clues here in this netherworld if only he could see them. But as he concentrated harder, his eyes straining to see more than the shadows in the cold mist ahead of him, the delicate balance needed to remain in this state shifted suddenly, and his mind began the gentle ascent toward consciousness.
Chapter 20
DAY 7
S
ANTANA AWOKE WITH A START TO THE DIN
of chirping birds. He was lying on his hotel bed, looking at the lasers of early morning sunlight that pierced the small spaces between the blinds.
He sat up and placed his feet firmly on the floor. The sudden movement caused a blood vessel just above his left eye to begin pounding in rhythm with his heart. He remembered leaving the
casa de piedra
, swimming briefly in the cool waters of the
cenote
, and then riding back in Montoya’s Jetta to the hotel. He knew he had taken no drugs, yet his memory of last evening was like the lyric of an old, favorite song. Lost for the moment but not completely forgotten.
He showered, put on a fresh set of clothes and ate a breakfast of juice, fruit and eggs before meeting Montoya in the hotel lobby.
They were walking across the square near the hotel now, past flocks of flamingos, herons, cormorants and gray pelicans, and Mayan women selling handmade dresses, T-shirts, and silver and gold jewelry. The weathered, gray Cathedral of
San Gervasio
loomed like a mountain above the tree branches to the south. Like all Spanish colonial towns, Valladolid was built around a church and a square. The square was a large garden with cobblestone walkways and a fountain in the center. Narrow paths off the main walkways led to shady dead ends and white cast iron benches. Beneath large trees in the central square were chairs connected so that they faced each other. A young Hispanic couple was sitting in one, looking at one another, as if they were the last two people on earth.