The Peón Contreras Theater and Opera House in Merida, capital of the Yucatan, was inaugurated on December 30, 1908, replacing a less opulent theatre of the same name. It was eight years in the making. Its design was the work of three Italian architects, Pío Piacentini, Enrico Deserti, and Fernando Ceicola — and funded by the p businessmen who formed the Mérida Theater Company. To the distinguished guests assembled in the foyer 15 years later, it was already considered a monument of the “golden” age of Merida to rival any opera house in Europe.
Gilles looked about him and forced a crooked smile, his eyes bulging behind his lenses as he struggled to swallow. He didn’t own a tuxedo, and was the only guest in the room without one. At least his only suit, double breasted and worn on close inspection at the seams, was an elegant elephant grey, and responded well to candle light, to which each table was adorned. He tightened his tie self consciously. These were the elites of Yucatan society hosting the cream of American archeology, with Alistair James, senior correspondent for the New York Times, sitting across the table from him, declining as Americans are wont to do, to remove his panama hat. James turned an eye towards Gilles as he swallowed and seemed to snicker, reading his every thought, and sensing his every discomfort. That Gilles was in the opulent Peón Contreras was the product of fortuitous events. It required he be searching for the missing volume 2 of the 1911 Dominion Law Report, when his habit had always been to sleep in on snowy Saturday mornings in Montreal; and that volume 2 be open in front of Justiniano, who was already late for an appointment, at precisely the moment Gilles was making his last winding search amid the decaying acid treated volumes of case law. It required that this Mexican law student had chosen to study the quaint topic of Quebec civil law at McGill University in Montreal despite having his family’s enormous wealth cast open for him the doors of any law school in Europe, the United States and indeed South America. His decision can be categorized as truly fantastical. It also required that their subsequent discussions would evolve effortless and swiftly, not to end as a mere acquaintance, but rather to a discovery of a mutual love of colonial politics, of European history, of an esoteric fascination with the Colonial Laws Validities Act, somehow to emblemism in Elizabethan iconography and poetry and haphazardly into a romantic level excursion into Egyptology and human sacrifice among the inhabitants of the new world, with a long initial discussion on the Iroquois practice of devouring the hearts of their enemies after extended and brutal torture of the most ingenious kind. It required that their particular male collegiality would maturate well in clouds of incandescent cigars, streams of bloody French wine, always plentiful in Justiniano’s small apartment; in mornings, awakening to the ashes and remnants of arguments; and late nights and early mornings at the La Chatte speakeasy on Ste. Catherine Street. Of course, that Justiniano’s pedigree included being the stepson of the dashing President of the Yucatan, Felipe Carrillo Puerto, was the most fortuitous circumstance of all.
It was only in February 1922 that Governor Puerto had taken the oath of office. His first speech as governor was in the Yucatec Maya language. He promised to initiate land reform, confiscated large estates and return land to the native Maya, earning him the enmity of the planters of sisal hemp and the expletive, "Red Dragon with the Eyes of Jade". This night’s gala was in pursuit of another of Felipe’s dreams, or perhaps vision or vision quest would be a better choice of words, namely, the conservation and restoration of the pre-Columbian Maya archaeological sites. The first step was American support and money. The host raised a glass to his guests, to a triumphal response of “SALUD!” Justiniano poured and counted aloud the last seven drops of his bottle of wine into the Gilles’ glass: "Gotas de la felicidad," he added. “It’s good luck.” Gilles nodded, indifferently, his attention now fully devoted to the cochinita pibil on his plate. The dish he was told, in the waiter’s broken French, is made with marinated cochinita or suckling pig, wrapped in banana leaves and slow-roasted underground in an oven called a pib — hence the “pibil” in cochinita pibil. Interrupted a second time by the arrival of the final course, an avalanche in trays of sweet smelling oranges, bananas, pineapples, and something called “zapote”, an alleged fruit which tasted like blend of soft sweet potato, pumpkin, even pumpkin pie, with a hint of cinnamon, honey, with an after taste of cantaloupe.
The gentle tinkling of glasses drew all to the head table; to the dark and dashing figure of the Yucatan’s socialist Governor, standing erect, his glass raised high, offering his formal greeting to his guests, and good wishes toward the object of their long journey. Gilles’ Spanish was passable, but what this handsome mestizo was speaking was not Spanish. “That’s Mayan,” whispered Justiniano. “My father is a direct descendant of Nachi Cocum, the last of the Maya Kings and the valorous defender of our fatherland against that conquistador Montejo.”
“Is he really"? said Ellen, who was seated to Gilles’ right.
“Yes, absolutely my lovely lady. I should know, I am his son. The Governor aroused world-wide interest in the land of his royal ancestors, building several fine roads within the state suitable for automobiles with plans for more connecting all the famous ruins and making them accessible to the budding “Yucatologists”.
“I didn’t get your name,” added Justiniano, as Gilles leaned back, knowing his friend well enough; this would not be a short exchange.
“Ellen James.”
“You wouldn’t be related to our guest, Mr. Alistair James, the WORLD famous correspondent and the GREAT and INFLUENCIAL New York Times?” crafted, with the calculated hint of jest, which did reach the intended recipient, Mr. James, who turned now and answered for Ellen, “I told her she would be bored, stomping through the jungles of this savage land, wading through morolet crocodile infested streams and over vine-shattered ruins. This isn’t Egypt, with nice and tidy pyramids and camel rides for a small fee. But she is a very stubborn modern women, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there aren’t many streams in the Yucatan, but that’s good, muy bueno,” laughed Justiniano. “We are Mayan. We have survived thanks to our strong women. Ms. James, is your father correct in saying you are here out of stubbornness?”
“I am an archeologist, Sir.” Ellen was a slight ginger blond, whose two feet Gilles imagined he could hold in one hand. Her interest in archaeology came during a trip to Egypt with her father. Working on sites in Egypt, western Africa, Malta, and South Arabia, she was grudgingly admired for her meticulous methods of excavation and exploration that were decades ahead of her male peers.
“And what do you know about my people, Miss Ellen? It seems the greatest archeologists in America are here because you Americans know so little about us. Perhaps you are just bored after all — and want a holiday and a fine Mayan ‘barbeecue! Perhaps you are now a conquistador of our hearts,” to which deluge Gilles’ eyes rolled back to the whites.
“For the Chacmool perhaps.”
“Oh, that’s good. My still beating heart in the bowl, freshly excised from my body with a knife of black obsidian! You could then thank me for the sun rising in the morning".
“Gladly, given the opportunity.” Ellen turned away and allowed the splintered light and civil clatter to wash over her. “I am so far away,” she thought, in this model world that delegates its definitions of physical reality to science and spiritual reality to religious principles. “Cartesians. Ne’er the two shall meet.” The Mayans, she knew, lived in a world that defined the physical world as the material manifestation of the spiritual and the spiritual as the perfect manifestation of the material. Sky, earth and underworld were intimately locked together in a life and death spiral. The sky monster and otherworld beings may bring disease or health, disaster or victory, but also remained dependent on human worship for their survival. Man’s actions, in life and death, in bleeding and killing, were far greater and far more influential than any newspaper, or plantation owner, or that which any modern could understand.
The Governor had arranged motor transport for his eminent guests from Merida to Chichen Itza for next morning. Ellen would not be going along. “Why not? I thought you were an archeologist?” asked Justiniano.
“I am.” Chichen Itza was already well studied and accessible and, truth be said, Ellen had already used her week in Mexico to travel the 120 km from Merida, to walk up the 91 steps of the temple of Kukultán, the Plumed Serpent, called El Castillo by in Spanish; to sit in the shade of the columns of Temple of the Warriors and the The Great Ballcourt; and to wade in the Sacred Cenote where royalty gave gifts to the gods. Chichen Itza, she knew, means ‘at the mouth of the well of enchanted water’. “I have arranged my own transport to Ek Balam, which is unexcavated.” It was a tributary city, about 56 km north east of Chichen Itza.
“Well done, Caron,” whispered Justiniano, shoulder to shoulder with Gilles, having just lost sight of Ellen, who had been quicker to bid her adieu and depart the foyer, after the parting toasts, to the strains of the Jarana, the traditional dance of the Yucatan. Gilles turned to his left as he shuffled forward and peered into a rather curiously and seemingly neglected balcony, only semi-lit, and in gloomy contrast to the foyer and other adjoining rooms and corridors. Reminiscent of the patio de la Acequia La Alhambra, in Granada, and therefore in no way lacking in elegance. Prostrate on the cold stone floor, were two women entirely in black, side to side, their arms fully extended as they worked, pressing two enormous wooden hand brushes, with bristles rigid enough to scream out with every stroke. Back and forth, they laboured entirely in unison, apparently intent on removing some dark substance that had stained the floor, perhaps two feet across by Gilles’ estimation. Gilles tried to stop to have a closer look, as he was taken by the oddity of their dress, which at his first and only glance appeared to be the niquab! — but as they were working diligently and face down he couldn’t see the characteristic slash opening for the eyes and thus could not be sure his estimation was correct. Jerked violently forward by the substantial personage behind him, and probably another behind him, he stumbled initially, quickly regained his footing and shuffled on his way, to a faint giggling in his ear, which he swatted away like a mosquito, amid the hum of muddled voices, fragments of Spanish, English, German and French, interspersed with laughter, shouts, and the backfire of automobile engines from the golden streets of Merida.
Gilles was relieved to abandon their motor transport, his spine sufficiently concussed and happy to be relieved of the dread of being tossed from the doorless monstrosity. The rest of the trek to Ek Balam would be on foot. Ellen was at first reluctant to accept Gilles’ offer, but with only Ali (short of Alejandro) and Arturo, another body would be helpful as there was gear sufficient for twice the party. Ellen kept her thoughts to herself, which made the talkative Ali a welcome companion. Ek Balam means black jaguar, he explained and the city was probably run by a prince from Chichen Itza. Ali spoke incessantly, to the rhythmic slashing of the two machetes, through the underbrush. “There is only about two to three inches of top soil in the Yucatan! The bedrock is limestone, soluble in water— water passes right through. We are honeycombed with caves and sinkholes. We call them Cenotes. The underworld is a real place to my people. We enter it, touch it, swim in it, make offerings. But it’s not like what they say. Our rulers were not like your Athenians. They weren’t philosopher kings. They were technicians, making the world function, by their blood and offerings. They lived separate from the people, in the sacred complex, but they were interconnected, to the beings of the underworld and also to the most humble peasant. The gods needed people to worship them so they tried making people out of mud. The mud people didn’t worship the gods so the gods destroyed the mud people, swoosh! Then they tried making people out of wood. Same thing. The stick people, swoosh! Then they used corn, and it worked.”
Ali stopped, wiping the sweat from his brow. Ellen followed suit, looked over at Ali with modest displeasure, removed her capelin hat and rested both hands on her hips. “They say we played ball games, and they ask me how we kept score! You have to understand. You have to understand the Maya Hero Twins, called Hunahpu and Xbalanque. They played ball with the beings of the underworld and won. They are part of the cycle, of life and death, sky and earth, day and night, Sun and Moon. They were not playing a game. Every new king would build a new ball court. Why? So he could draw on the power to the twins.”
“That reminds me of the gladiators of the Roman Republic,” noted Gilles. “By the late empire it was a game, a spectacle. But it started as a simple religious ceremony with two men fighting to the death as an offering to the gods. Perhaps it was the same with the Maya. It started as a sacred event, but as the society declined, as it forgot itself, it became a game.”
Ali paused and broke a criminal’s smile, finding himself in the presence of the kindred spirit. “Maybe, maybe!”
“The Underworld was real enough for Virgil and Dante. We have our voyagers to the underworld as well, we in the West: ‘Give up all hope ye who enter here.’”
“What about you? Are you a voyager to the Underworld?”
“It seems so.” Looking up at the burning canopy. “Will you come along ‘amigo’? Gilles, tripped on an exposed root and went crashing down, gashing his palm. “There must be a better way to invoke the vision serpent than bleeding.”
“Oh course. The Maya used mushrooms too. We call it k’aizalaj okox, which will cause hallucinations.”
A handsome spiny tailed iguana, at least two feet in length, lay in the sun and bobbed his head as the four bedraggled intruders trudged by. Before them rose from the chaos of the jungle an imposing structure, that Ellen estimated to be 500 feet long and over 90 feet in height. “The Acropolis!” A massive, central stairway rose up from the south side ornamented with serpent heads with extended tongues. On the fourth level, was a self-contained structure with an intricately worked stucco. A days work, tearing away at the sheltering and preserving vegetation, revealed its gift, the huge open-fanged mouth of an earth deity. Debris blocked access to a passageway into the structure. No doubt “wonderful things” awaited the next expedition. Ellen pulled out her notebook and began to sketch, the molded masks, decorative geometric motifs, and winged statues that she called the “angels”. Ellen made a notation at the bottom of page 27 of her notes: “Tomb of the ruler Ukit Kan Le'k Tok???”
Gilles put down his shovel and sat on the broken steps of the east side of the ballcourt, near where Ellen was drawing.
“You’re not much of an archeologist I’m afraid,” directing a rare smile in his direction.
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“You just did!” she smiled again, which was most encouraging. “Come and look at this,” standing, dropping her notebook and walking two steps over to Gilles, pausing and extending her hand. Arturo editorialized, “Chinga tu madre!” Gilles clasped her hand, paused, leaned back and allowed this leaf to pull him up. They stood together amid the ruins, for what was probably a second or two. She broke the gaze, led on, picked up her notebook and Gilles followed.
Ellen stepped and stumbled, and trudged northwest of the Acropolis, over to what appeared to be the remnants of a foundation in the shape of a squared C. Ali and Arturo followed along close behind, Arturo struggling to sling his carbine. “Ms. Ellen, careful!” said Ali. “Arturo saw a nauyaca real, a pit viper, near here! It was almost two meters long. They are deadly! Poisonous!”
“Don’t worry, I have my Colt!” tapping his empty hoster. “I DID at any rate.
”
“Nonsense. Look here. The vestiges of fine plaster finish on the stones. The original structures would have been radiant.” Ellen walked on, to the east of the main foundation and began kicking at the rubble of what appeared to be a substructure. Unsatisfied, she dropped to her knees, tearing at the ground with her hands. “This is an interior structure. An earlier building. The C-shaped structure undoubtedly supported a perishable structure of some kind. But the interior substructure is more advanced. These are well-cut rectangular facing stones. The pottery shards Arturo brought me are classical. Undoubtedly, this substructure supported a structure stylistically related to the classic Mayan period. The C-structure came later, post classical.” Ellen stood up and wiped the dirt off her skirt and hands. “Yes, they were trying to hold on to something. The C-structure may have been an administrative building of some kind, built over the ruins. But they had stopped building their monumental works. They were dying and trying to hang on.”
“Here, try this.” Ali gently placed the k’aizalaj okox in Gilles left hand and closed his fingers. “It’s late. The jaguars can’t hurt you now. We have a fire.”
Rising clouds of incense and smoke. Dismal stone. Stabbing flames. Deep in the inner sanctum of the Acropolis. The tongue pierced, the thorn entangled rope spewed blood onto the parchment. The King. The black jaguar. The crimson parchment consigned to the fire. The vision serpent rises in the rapture of the bloodletting, a double-headed serpent bar. Shivering. Screaming. “Gilles! Gilles! Wake up!”
This is a work of fiction. Although its form, content and narrative may at times suggest real people, real documents and records, autobiography or that the work is historical non-fiction, it is a product of the imagination. Space and time have been rearranged to suit the convenience of the book, and with the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s.
to be continued ….