The Heart's Only Treasure

Wonderful Things -- Chapter 20

Muffled crying could be heard from mother’s room. Those distinct, part choking, part gasping sounds, with a legato of wimpering connecting each measure, usually in 3/3 time, but always, always restrained bawling that mothers make when they have had enough, or couldn’t change what was, the sound that Annie made when she cried. This had been going on since they had returned from mass this Assumption Sunday. Hector made his reluctant imposition, as patriarch, to restore family peace and order, raised his voice to an exasperated shriek, only making things painfully worse, living once again to think better of trying. Father always forgot that this wasn’t for fixing, like his truck or fishing line. Father emerged, releasing a momentary crescendo from the gap created by the opening door. When he closed it, roughly, behind him, the tears returned as they must to their soft piano once more. Father in his threadbare, dusty overalls, looked over at Michel and Arthur, planning mischief in the hallway, as they invariably and always were, rolled his eyes, shook his head left then right, back then forth, in the way of the pendulum of an old clock, and then in countertime moved as fast as he could out the still open back door, as he had left it, having never removed his muddy boots. He needed to be outside, where a man could still get something useful done, muttering something about the “damned” as he strode.

“I’ve had enough of this shit,” said Michel. Arthur laughed. “Wait, I want to hear about Denise, whoa, whoa.” Michel emerged from mother’s room a moment later with the look of murder in his black eyes. He stormed past Arthur, shoving him aside. Arthur could only mutter meekly, “What? I mean….”

Kicking open the door to Gilles’ room, which by good fortune had not been closed and therefore the terrible blow did not wreck the hinge or break any wood, although the swinging into the wall had a seismic, bone chilling effect. Michel tore into Gilles, who was at his desk lost in reading, and slapped him across the side of the head, open handed (Michel somehow retained some mercy) with full force, standing the hair on the right side of Gille’s head straight up, the electric forces, including a faint illumination, momentarily visible.

“What a little piece of shit? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Gilles didn’t cry, didn’t respond, his head recoiling back into position like an automaton, to accept the inevitable second blow. He didn’t believe in violence like his brother, but seemed pleased to accept it.

“So you don’t believe in God? You told her that before church, in front of the Cure, and then refused to go in, sitting in the f’ing car like a little girl, you bloody imbecile! I don’t believe in f’ing God either — but you don’t tell your f’ing mother that.”

The second blow put Caron to the floor. The brothers Arthur and Sylvain were now witnessing, their heads peering in, with smiles that confirmed they approved, and indeed enjoyed the prospect, of further violence.

“Let’s go,” said Arthur, thinking better of it and grabbing Michel by the right shoulder. The force applied was insufficient and Michel with pleasure was still able to manage a final kick into Gille’s right rib cage before being dragged out. Gilles winced, but didn’t moan or protest in the least. To any objective observer, he seemed satisfied, even triumphant. This was the price of truth, of being right. It was worth it. His brothers, his parents, they were mere children, some like Michel even violent cowards. He had pity for the silly old fashioned people. They weren’t modern like him. They didn’t read. They didn’t understand. He gathered up his books, forced down the hair on his right side with considerable difficulty as Michel’s hands had evidently been covered with some greasy, oily substance. He closed his door, but didn’t lock it. He sat down, adjusted his reading chair, and his tie, and smiled to himself. He was pleased that despite all of Michel’s brutality, he was able to find the exact spot in the text that had so entranced him, with ease, and resumed his reading as if the whole episode had never occurred. Michel thought he was powerful but he wasn’t. Gilles picked up the letter from McGill University. He had been accepted into law school. His future was assured.

Monsieurs G, like the Siamese cat that he was, purred out his profuse appreciation for Ferguson’s brilliant work, the G’s hooked tail remaining merely implied. The scene was a small, little used storage room, at the Cairo airport, off the loading area, one to which Ferguson had become very familiar by frequent use, for similar transactions.

“You have the chalice?”

“I packed it myself!” Placing the crate on the table between them, Monsieur G’s ecstasy overflowing, the container carefully marked and labelled in Ferguson’s rough script. “Degrelle will not be pleased that it has been "‘misplaced’”.

“Stolen you mean? He’ll get over it. Antiquities dealing is a highly competitive profession,” they laughed. “When a rare opportunity emerges, I always know,” smiled Monsieurs G, adding, “I was fortunate to get a full report from my boys on the presence of the chalice within the tomb, before Mr. Carter attempted his misappropriation. Imagine! Degrelle can never keep a secret. This chalice was carved from a single piece of alabaster in the shape of a white lotus in full bloom. I must have it and now I do! She deserves a good home.”

The door burst open at the inconvenient moment Monsieurs G was in the process of replacing the label on the crate with his own. Fortunately, his perfect script now in place, in perfect syncronicity, the doors swinging open, the crate, and its precious contents, were now addressed to him. Two Egyptian military types in khaki walked in, black eyed, lips pursed, their suits freshly pressed. “What is going on in here?”

“Completing delivery,” smiled Ferguson. “You know Monsieurs G, I am sure.” The officers nodded, respectfully.

Monsieurs G picked up his package and made for the door. The officers made no motion to interfere. Monsieur G tossed the butt of his cigarette into the overburdened ashtray and nodded, returning a mutual act of respect. The senior of the two police officers stroked his moustache as G made his escape.

“Nothing for you this time,” added Ferguson. Both officers smiled profusely.

“Your packages from Alexandria arrive next week. Eyebrows all raised, they laughed that peculiar knowning laugh that is only contagious to those in on the joke.

“I want him dead.” That was understood and didn’t require over-emphasis. The how was the only ongoing subject of discussion, which went on at considerable length. Peres had committed an unforgiveable breach of trust and absconded with two very precious commodities. The judge was reconciled to a return of Beatrice and all would be forgotten. He was even open to accepting Alba into his service, but Efron had other plans for the little Polish runnaway. She would be shipped off to the professor. Cissinger reported on the investigation, that “they were close.”

Efron Trauman was the notorious chair of the "Warsaw Mutual Aid Israelite Society" (Sociedad Israelita de Socorros Mutuos Varsovia), established in Avellaneda, in the metropolitan region, and which society was initially called the "Club of 40", which name, being fixed, required at various times some rounding up or down of numbers, depending on the various intrigues within the organization. When Efron was persuaded by Cissinger to retain the services of the mysterious Juan Peres, the society was already coming to be known by its new name, then unofficially, of the Zwi Migdal, which some say means "great force" in Yiddish, but was more likely the name of its original founder. Efron was proud of an organization that had, under his stellar leadership, and the blood and sweat of the 40, give or take, and their many soldiers, turned the great wealth of their “matchmaking” services into a vast network of power and control. There was scarcely a segment of Argentinian society free of their influence. The wealth fueled the bribery of officials, police, reporters, academics and politicians, and was also used to make very generous donations to synagogues and Yiddish theater groups, all of which until recently had been allowed to occur with impunity.

The gathering of the society had been on short notice, given the recent inquiries by the Detective Furriel and his trusted Lieutenant Montiel. These two were not on the payroll and were therefore marked men. This was merely the ebb and flow of profit and violence, the stuff of their trade, and all agreed the times required a firm response. The issues as usual were method and timing. Cissinger bent over, bowed gratuitously and kissed Efron’s gold ring, to the approving birthday-party-like sighs, and a brief subdued applause, from the well dressed, dark personages lining the walls of Efron’s study, all nodding, faces concealed in the shadows, light catching the billowing smoke of cigars and cigarettes.

The work of the winged ones had been commendable, but even the girls now could no longer all be trusted. There were evidently new and subversive elements, or perhaps lapses in the re-education program, which Cissinger was forced to concede. This sloppiness would not be repeated. The incident with the judge had been embarassing. He remained interested in their good works and, with some persuasion, was willing to let the matter go, if things were made right and a discount was made on the fee. His patronage would end if they let things get out of hand. Certainly, Raquel had to be watched, although Cissinger assured Efron of her loyalty, and that she would come through for them with the big prize, Juan Peres and the two mermaids.

Cissinger had grabbed Carlos Gardel by the sleeve of his jacket, just before he was to stride into the stage lights and begin his next set. “If I ever find out you betrayed us, you’re going to have an accident,” Cissinger whispered, his voice almost a hiss, “and I’m a much better shot than the amateur who put that bullet next to your heart.” Gardel, smiled, tilted his head slightly at Cissinger and sang out his response, breaking free and slipping into the light, as the band started the opening chords of Volver, “I can make out the twinkling, of the far-off lights that signal my return—” to uproarious applause from the packed house. Cissinger’s spell seemed broken by normal human emotion. He slipped back into the darkness, as if floating backwards, until only his face caught the light, moonlike, and then was gone.

At shows end, Gardel’s eyes were attracted to the silhouette of a women at his usual table. She sat motionless, except for the tapping of her right index finger, her gaze evidently fixed upon his, the music continuing to play inside her, long after the band had stopped. The shape was unfamiliar, the dress and manner distinctly American. “What’s this?” He shoo’d off his usual entourage, gestured for a waiter, and sat up close to his welcome intruder, a slight ginger blonde in a Capelin hat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure is all mine,” smiled Ellen.

“You are too kind, too kind, but there is more to this than the tango, am I right?”

“Regrettably,” she smiled, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, lowered her chin, paused, and then implemented her usual power of self-control. “Yes, regrettably. We have a mutual friend, a Gilles Caron, or perhaps you know him by another name, Juan Peres.”

“Oh, I see.” Gardel sat back, displeased. “I am afraid I can’t help you.”

“Don’t be foolish,” that word again. “I am neither here on behalf of your charming acquaintances, nor the police. Caron is my friend. I got him into this mess and I need to get him out.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You can’t, but you will.”

Gardel passsed Caron an envelope. “Consider it an invitation. You may be surprised by the kinds of friends I keep, as I am always in need of good women to pray for me,” he laughed. Turning to Alba, Beatrice observing the gesture with a smile, he sang out the closing verse of the Volver or “Returning,”

But the fleeing traveler must sooner or later slow his pace. And although forgetting destroys everything and has killed my old dreams, I have saved one hidden humble hope, my heart’s only treasure.

Trauman’s study was dimly lit, his home tucked away in the bustling neighborhood of San Telmo. The room’s walls were of dark, polished wood, adorned with ornate crown molding, in the European-inspired architectural style popular among Argentina’s elite, of which Efron did his best to emulate. Heavy burgundy velvet drapes framed tall, narrow windows, letting in slivers of light that caught the haze of cigar and cigarette smoke. The room smelled of tobacco, aged leather, and a faint trace of anís from a half-empty bottle on a sideboard. Patterned Persian rugs, edges frayed, lay beneath a crystal chandelier, light glinting off Cissinger’s silver cigarette case and a decanter of imported whiskey on a marble-topped bar cart. A gramophone in the corner played a sultry tango, the needle scratching softly, from oversuse and casual neglect. The music, “Mi Noche Triste” by Gardel.

“Yes,” added Cissinger. “Gardel.”

“You damned fools!” yelled Ellen. “Juan Peres is Caron”. Or so Ellen recalled her meeting with Detective Furriel and Lieutenant Montiel at the offices of the Policía Federal Argentina or PFA. It’s possible she hadn’t used the expletive. She was of course referring to a highly dubious and unsubstantiated report of the death of a “Gilles Caron” in Oaxaca, Mexico, on the Day of the Dead and the even more discreditable accounts and a heretofore unknown “Juan Peres”, appearing literally out of thin air, and being named as lead suspect. “Imagine! Would Scotland Yard pursue a suspect named ‘John Doe!’” She had spoken to Ali who had seen the man. He was Caron, no question. Ellen kept this bit of information to herself, at Ali’s request.

It’s entirely possible she didn’t call them “fools” at all. She had a temper, but it was well checked. She may have just suggested they were fools and laughed, or rather chuckled, and accepted their invitation to discuss the matter further over dinner, and answer Montiel’s many questions about her recent and upcoming expeditions with her fiance in search of the lost city of the Inca. They were making quite a name for themselves. The papers couldn’t get enough of the dashing couple and their insatiable taste for adventure. The Detective and his Lieutenant certainly did have dinner at her expense. What is clear is that in retrospect, her anger had increased as the folly of the authorities and the futility of their investigation sank in. She hated waste and the entire episode stank of waste, not to mention wasting her time. Her anger, which was once again subsiding, may well have influenced her memory of events as they unfolded. What in fact had been said or left unsaid was becoming to Ellen increasingly unimportant, passing away, like other unimportant past moments, into perdition, which place, now vacant, was now taken up with contemplating her next move. She had to extricate Gilles Caron from his pretty predicament. She felt personally responsible for his plight. It would have been so easy to have turned down his offer to accompany her on her trek to Ek Balam. But she had succumbed to his evident infatuation with her, which was not reciprocated, but proved useful to her. This moment of vanity had significant repercussions, as she had unknowingly lead Caron directly into the sinister web of the likes of Degrelle, Ali and the Doctor.

Herrington held Ellen’s right hand and drew it to his chest and smiled. His love was not in question. Only his judgment. “This is not the time to act impulsively” Ellen insisted. “Wait till I sort out this Caron matter. I am not sure what that will entail, but wait.”

Herrington proposed to abandon attempts for now to find the lost Incan City of Paititi through a deeper penetration beyond the Valley of Lacco. The valley had lived up to its name (a labyrynth where one goes to get lost) and given evidence they uncovered of recent Incan activity in the area, or some remarkable coincidence of preservation, the possibility of encountering a lost, isolated tribe of Inca could not be excluded, nor could it be assumed they would be anything but extremely hostile to the modern world. The ancient ways had once again been beaten, burned, and exiled, but, as tradition is a stubborn foe, somehow survived in what hybrid state, or at what level of violent willfulness, who could say. This meant further exploration would be too risky for a small party, let alone a solo husband and wife (to be) team. Ellen and Chris had been lucky all they had encoutered was the strange mummy, a tarantula swarm and a dismal sense of being watched. Instead, he proposed to Ellen to approach Paititi by water with a small craft along the Rio Pantiacolla from Shintuya, Peru. Only a small team would be required. He could launch the expedition while Ellen was away, as her expertise could be brought to bear later if they found anything,

Ellen implored Chris to reconsider. She pulled her hand free, to his dismay. Her voice contained both anger and worry in equal measure. The Amazon's unforgiving conditions have always been a consistent threats to any form of exploration. There was no safer way to the lost city. Only ways none of them demonstrably more likely to succeed. It really was all luck and determination. She knew from Degrelle, who could never keep his mouth shut, that there were active illegal drug and logging activities in the area, adding to the risks of disease, exhaustion and encounters with lost tribes, not to mention the perils particular to river navigation, including lack of infrastructure, the treacherous terrain, raging rivers and steep mountains.

Chris assured her he would reconsider. She seemed satisfied with that. He did shelve the project momentarily, but then continued his plans after Ellen boarded her flight to Buenos Aires. The opportunity was simply too great and Ellen was exaggerating the risks, and failing entirely to factor in his considerable experience exploring the region, not to mention his good rapport with known Indian tribes and farmers, as well as his well honed and refined knack for surviving. “Of course”, he thought to himself, “That is always true until it isn’t.”

The Monastery of the Catalinas , or Monastery of Saint Catherine of Siena , attached to the public Church of Saint Catherine of Siena, was located in the block delimited by the streets San Martín, Viamonte, Reconquista and Avenida Córdoba , in the Retiro neighborhood of the city. The three fugitives were now only a few short blocks away. They had travelled on foot all night, carrying barely more than the clothes on their backs. On this journey, it would be Caron who would lead, ensuring Beatrice remained close behind. Taking no chances, she had braided and tied her long golden locks, conceiling them under a dark oversized berret hat. She held Alba’s hand throughout, checking on her frequently. The monastery would be their sanctuary, as per Garda’s note. Sister Josefa Gutiérrez de Paz, would be waiting, behind the grille inside the church. The grille or screen separated the nuns from the public — but on this occasion, the rules of the Council of Trent would be broken and the three fugitives allowed to pass through into the inner sanctum. Carlos didn’t devulge his relationship with Sister Josefa, but Caron could imagine. These were Catalina nuns, Dominicans, who had chosen a contemplative life of prayer and penance.

Caron made out, in the early morning light, the central entrance to the church, with a semicircular arch framed by two pairs of Tuscan pilasters, topped by a classical-style pediment. The single tower was to the left side of the building. The convent, attached to the left side of the church, was built entirely of brick and lime, consisting of two floors dominated by two cloisters, one upper and one lower, with cells to accommodate forty conventual nuns. The door of the public church was open.

“Wait!” came a voice from the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Caron shot back.

Raquel emerged from a stinking alley, the air reeking of the port, that malevolence from the waters, which had spawned that strange, other-worldly algae bloom. The sickly smell from that blue-green slime had this night crept a shore, like a thief in the night, making its way wrapped in a thick mist through the alleys and walkways. The infection had taken Raquel’s power of speech, struggling visibly, she rested her arm on Caron’s shoulder as she caught her breath.

“I’ve smelt worse. So have you. Out with it!” removing his cap.

“I’ve been following you all night. You need to know.”

“Know what?”

“Cissenger came to see me tonight. He is scared. He is scared of Efron. He told me he knows Gardel is lying. He knows Gardel knows where you are. He followed him home. He knows.”

“Then where is he?”

“I have no idea, but be careful, wherever you are going.”

Beatrice snatched both of Raquel’s hands with overflowing love and affection, as was Beatrice’s way of loving. “You are truly kind, but you are in danger. Go to the police! Please. Now is the time. We’ll be fine. We’re almost home.”

A look of terror in her eyes, Raquel disappeared into the sickly mist. Caron nodded, then grimaced. “Wait! …. Take this,” handing her his revolver. You may need this more than me. Put one in Cissinger’s head. It looks like I won’t get the chance.”

Caron took one more close, cautious, look into the silence and was reassured. It was time to cross. He smiled back at the girls, “We did it!”

The brakes of a black Ford Model T sedan with running boards screached to a halt in front of them, blocking the laneway. The windows slightly tinted, concealed the number of occupants. Caron reached for his revolver. The holster was of course now empty. “Dammit,” he looked back at Beatrice, whose eyes were like saucers, but somehow not afraid. All three shrank into the black mist.

A voice in the distance called out. The door of sedan opened. It was Cissinger. He looked in their direction. Looked again. Seemed to smile, but that might have been the mist. He then looked in the direction of the voice. He appeared oblivious to their presence.

“Over here! It’s me!”

Cissinger paused. Then got back in his car and drove off. There stood Raquel, by the side of the road. Across the street, a block away. The sedan drove over to her at a funerial pace and stopped, as if the sedan itself were entranced, hesitant. The passenger door opened before Raquel, as if by some otherworldly force. Raquel looked over at Caron. She nodded, then got in and disappeared. The sedan door closed. The sedan drove off, like a hearse.

“Pleasant dreams, Cissinger.” Caron smiled an ungodly smile.

The three walked across the street, at a leisurely pace, as if to make normal and everyday what was terrifying and surreal. They were undisturbed as they entered the church, where Sister Josefa stood waiting, having already opened the grille. “Welcome, I’ve been waiting. Come with me.”

Ellen and Caron sat in the courtyard of the monastery. The bench they shared was weather worn and in desperate need of replacing, but relatively stable. The sun was broken by the shade of the trees, leaves and branches overhanging in abundance.

“Tell me about the twins.”

“The Mayan twins,” smiled Ellen, her beautiful blue eyes glistening.

“Yes, I need to remember.”

“Let me see how much you do remember,” pursing her lips and collecting her mental notes.

“The Mayan Hero Twins, Hunahpu and Xbalanque, were born to Ixquiq or Blood Moon, who was impregnated by the skull of their father…. funny that. His name was Hun Hunahpu. He was a ballplayer tricked and killed by the lords of Xibalba, the Mayan underworld. The twins, raised as demigods, were skilled ballplayers and hunters, like father, like sons, gifted with intelligence and magical abilities. Sound familiar?”

Caron remained silent.

“The good part, the part you are probably thinking about, begins when they discover their father’s ballgame equipment and start playing, disturbing the Xibalban lords. Summoned to the underworld, they face a series of deadly trials designed to destroy them. But as usual with heroes, and unlike their father and uncle, who failed and died — they give far more than they get.”

“They outsmart the Xibalbans by surviving tests like the Dark House, Razor House, and Jaguar House, offering every trick in the Mayan book. But,” Ellen paused, “their most famous feat involves sacrificing themselves in a fire, only to magically revive, tricking the lords into begging for the same ‘miracle.’ The twins then sacrifice the lords by fire. The lords don’t revive. They burn. They die, dismantling Xibalba’s power.”

“Yes,” smiled Caron.

“Yes what?”

“I remember now,” looking over at Ellen.

“And so you should.”

“Fire.”

"Yes, fire. It’s a powerful thing”

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