Casiopea pretended she hadn’t heard the words, ducking her head, but she’d heard and Martín had heard…Why couldn’t you be a boy?
The beating Casiopea received from Grandfather did not satisfy Martín. Nothing could satisfy him. He quivered in his bed as the doctor examined him and rubbed an ointment on his face. A man, overcome by a girl. Because at fifteen he had considered himself a man already, and suddenly he was reduced back to infancy. He saw the disgust in his grandfather’s face, the veiled smiles of the servants, the scorn there, hidden and quiet and real, and he felt such utter shame.
He hated her from then on. It was not animosity or the scuffles of youth; he could not stand her.
Although, if he admitted it to himself, the trouble had started before, that day when he returned from school. But he did not like to think of it. Somehow the physical beating was a better start to the animosity. It justified it more neatly. She’d started it.
In dreams, she hit him with the stick and Grandfather laughed. Martín twisted and turned and muttered in his bed, her name on his lips.
* * *
—
Martín disliked the city when he saw it at night, and his impression did not improve once the sun was out. He thought it was too large and indifferent to him, that here he was nobody, while in Uukumil he was Young Mister Leyva, people tipping their hats at him when he walked by.
Martín’s brain was rather dismal in its ability to imagine anything that was not solid and palpable, but he did fantasize about success. These were coarse dreams of money, nebulous power, undisputed respect. In Mexico City Martín felt the metropolis dwarfing him and his desires. He did not enjoy it.
Early he rose and went to station himself outside the Hotel Mancera, thinking he might wait to see if Casiopea would come out. She did and walked in the company of a man in a navy jacket, dark-haired. It was Hun-Kamé, no doubt. They went into a store and then separated—which suited Martín’s purposes perfectly—at which point she headed to the hairdresser.
He caught her when she came out, her hair shockingly short. He disliked her look at once and even more the way her eyes darted up to his face, concerned but not as afraid as she ought to have been.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I could say the same thing,” he told her. “Your mother’s been worried sick, you did not even leave a note, and Grandfather will not shut up about you.”
This much was true, but he said it in order to admonish and mollify her, not because he cared to inform her about the state of affairs in Uukumil. He thought if he could make her feel guilty, he might get her to agree to the meeting.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made anyone uneasy,” Casiopea said, and she did look honestly pained, but then she frowned. “How did you know I was here? I’ve told no one.”
“You didn’t think you could steal—”
“Steal? I didn’t steal anything,” she replied, interrupting him.
“You did, you stole some bones that were locked in an old box and now we’ve got hell to pay for it.”
They were standing in the middle of the street. Martín maneuvered his cousin aside, so that they were now under the awning of a store, which offered more privacy.
“What do you mean?” Casiopea said.
“The Lord of Xibalba, Vucub-Kamé, is upset. He’s angry at Grandfather, at your mother, at me, at every single Leyva.”
“You had nothing to do with it.”
“Try telling that to a god.”
His words were having the expected effect. Casiopea lowered her eyes, her lips pursed.
“I’m sorry. But I don’t see why you are here,” she muttered.
“He’s sent me.”
“Vucub-Kamé?”
“Yes, of course. Didn’t you wonder what would happen to us when he learned what you’d done?”
“I…I had no choice,” she protested. “But if you must blame someone, you can blame me.”
“What good do you think that might do? He is upset.”
“But—”
“However, Vucub-Kamé did say he’d be willing to listen to your side of the story.”
Someone came out of the store and elbowed Martín away. He frowned, and would have barked a nasty word or two at the fool who dared to push him like that, but there was no chance of it. Blasted city with its rude citizens, Martín would swear no one could recognize him as a man of good breeding in this place, not with this smelly stew of unsuitable people.
“My side of the story?” Casiopea repeated.
“Yes. He wants to speak to you. Casiopea, you must say yes. If you decline, who knows what ruinous future awaits us. Grandfather served Vucub-Kamé, and that is how we came to be so well positioned in Uukumil. He is our protector.”
“He’s certainly never behaved like my protector,” Casiopea replied.
“Cousin, I realize we’ve done you a bad turn. But I promise you that if you talk to him, all of that will be in the past, and upon your return home, with me, you’ll have a rightful place in Uukumil, as it should have been from the beginning.”
Although not terribly imaginative, Martín did have a natural talent for pushing people’s buttons and understanding their moods. He was a manipulator at heart, and though he had a difficult time establishing true intimacy with others, he could pretend it. Therefore, he had considered what the best way to speak to his cousin might be, and he had decided he must be firm, but also promise a reward that could soften her. The lure of a social position, a place in the family, those were to him the most natural appeals. After all, he was highly aware of the pecking order and he imagined others were as well.
“I am sure Vucub-Kamé could be made to understand that we are innocent, that we have not willingly betrayed his trust. Grandfather will be very grateful if you make the Lord of Xibalba see this.”
“Hun-Kamé is the Lord of Xibalba,” she said.
“He was. Not anymore. Casiopea, you do not owe him anything, but you owe the family your loyalty. You are a Leyva,” he concluded.
The girl was stunned by the speech. He saw her shrink, her shoulders falling, her whole frame becoming smaller. Martín smelled success. Years bullying Casiopea had done the trick, made him aware of how to shove the girl around. But then she raised her head, eyes brighter than they should have been.
He had not recalled—had not wanted to recall—the rebellious streak that marked his cousin, how once in a while she talked back at him or muttered under her breath. That rebellion was in full bloom now as she straightened up and threw him a cold, determined look.