“Then it is accepted and arranged. Go back to your rooms. He will be there.”
Though the words were uncomplicated and mundane, Casiopea knew by now that every sentence spoken might carry hidden, magical meanings, and so it was in this case.
Zavala raised a glass, as if toasting them, and smiled at her. “You must know, dear girl, that Vucub-Kamé can be kind. Up to a certain point. But if you two force his hand…then it’s the Black Road. Tell me, honestly, do you fear death?”
Her eyes darted away, and she took Hun-Kamé’s hand in one fluid motion, rising to her feet with the quickness of an arrow.
“I think we should dance,” she said. It was the first thing that popped into her head, the excuse so that she wouldn’t have to answer the question.
Casiopea guided him toward the people dancing without sparing Zavala a single look. She felt her conviction faltering when he placed a hand against her waist. She did not know the steps to the song, which was slow and sweet, like syrup. She wanted to look down at her feet, to make sure they were moving in a somewhat coordinated motion, but she knew this would seem clumsy. Not that he was looking at her: his head was raised, as if peering above her shoulder.
“Your brother made me an offer today,” she said, finding a rhythm. “He spoke, somehow, through my cousin, and promised glory or gold. And he showed me, too, what might happen to me. He showed me death and Xibalba.”
“He has the power of prophecy, but not all his visions come to pass,” Hun-Kamé said.
“But I had already dreamed it, before, during the journey.”
He’d not been worried before, but now a frown creased his brow. His mouth grew tight.
“I am afraid,” she said. “You were right, if I was a hero I’d know this is the way things go. I wouldn’t hesitate to risk my life to save the land, to save you. I’d charge ahead. But I’m scared, and if we go up those stairs…maybe I won’t refuse him a third time. And…and so I wish we could just keep dancing.”
Hun-Kamé did not reply, sinking into one of his hard silences. She might have been worried if the music hadn’t been so divine, the swaying to the song so languorous. Had she not wanted to dance? Not quite to this song, not quite in this ballroom next to women in silks with diamonds in their hair and men with their bow ties and crisp jackets; these were unexpected elements to her fantasy. And of course she had never pictured her dance partner when she chanced to think of dances. She’d swatted the idea away too quickly, and her partner remained an amorphous figure. Even if she’d been able to picture a boy, he would never have come close to the man guiding her in the dance.
Therefore she danced, because she’d desired the dance and because if she paused to rest she might begin questioning herself. Do you fear death? Yes, she did.
Hun-Kamé danced, she thought, to distract her. Or else, to show them all—Vucub-Kamé, Zavala, Martín—his disdain, his aloofness.
But when she chanced to look aside, catching a glimpse of their reflection splayed across a mirror, she did not observe any disdain or aloofness.
In Uukumil, when she’d gone to fetch a few items from the general store, on an occasion when she forgot to bring her shawl and conceal her hair with it, she’d caught the eye of one of the boys who worked there. He was the shopkeeper’s assistant, and on that summer day he was carrying a heavy sack of flour in his arms. When she walked in and began reading out the list of supplies, he lost his hold on the sack and dropped it, the flour spilling over the floor. Casiopea remembered three children, who were also in the store, giggling at the mishap, and she’d blushed because the boy had stared at her. Not a normal stare, if there was such a thing, but a startling look of eagerness.
Casiopea recognized the look on Hun-Kamé’s face: it was that same look, more engrossed if anything, heavier than the brief flicker of a look she caught in Uukumil before she mumbled an apology and stepped outside the store.
This look went to her head. It was stronger than the champagne and she gripped his hand tight and she would have stumbled if he hadn’t held her against him.
“I wish we could keep dancing too,” he said.
They walked up the stairs of the hotel, avoiding a group of drunk patrons who, between giggles and shoves, were making their way down the wide staircase. It was a somber march for Casiopea and Hun-Kamé, almost funerary. When Hun-Kamé placed the key in the door’s lock, she thought to turn around.
But they’d danced, and now they were here, and they needed to keep going.
He turned the key.
Shadows had invaded the vestibule. Hun-Kamé and Casiopea walked into one of the bedrooms, and there were pools of darkness so vivid they looked liquid, as if someone had left a window open and the night had dripped against the wallpaper and elegant furniture, making the bulbs of the lamps dim.
A lazy plume of darkness rose in the middle of the room and a man stepped out from it, clad in a white cape. He resembled Hun-Kamé, his skin dark, the face proud. His hair was very pale, the color of the fragile crust of salt that forms upon the seawater when it evaporates. The eyes were devoid of color, not dark like Hun-Kamé’s, but a silken gray. Therefore the brothers mirrored and did not mirror each other.
“How long, our parting,” Vucub-Kamé said, his voice also silken, the curve of his lips not quite forming a smile.
Hun-Kamé did not say anything, but Casiopea felt his anger like a hot coal. If she reached out and touched his hand she feared he might scorch her.
“Long enough for you to construct this monstrosity,” Hun-Kamé replied, at last.
“Monstrosity? Hun-Kamé, you are caught in the past.” Vucub-Kamé smiled fully. But the smile did not reach his eyes. “Do you think I could build a temple in the middle of Baja California? They have outlawed the Christian churches—not that I mind—and now they pray to idols of aluminum and Bakelite. We need new trappings, new acolytes. And blood, of course.”
“So, not everything is new.”
“Blood is the oldest coin. Blood remains.”
Hun-Kamé took several steps until he was standing in front of his brother. They were of the same height and stared each other in the eye.
“I told you not to defy the wisdom of eternity. Your scheme is ignoble. If ever Xibalba should rise anew, it shall rise by the will of fate and not by cheap sorcery,” Hun-Kamé said. “You will pay for your treason.”
“I paid long ago, swallowing each one of your offenses.”
“We all play our roles,” Hun-Kamé said. “My role was to rule over Xibalba.”