Gods of Jade and Shadow - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,100
not seem too worried about his fury.
“I am a man,” he said, jabbing a thumb against his chest. “I am your elder. I am going to be the leader of the family. What are you? Who do you think you are?”
“I’ve never been anyone,” she replied.
“He’ll kill you!” he yelled. “Maybe he’ll kill us both! Is that what you want?”
She did not answer him. He watched her rush back inside the building and did not follow her. Martín sat by the fountain, listening to the stone frog gurgle. He tried to convince himself that Casiopea was a stupid girl, that if they were to compete she would lose. That he had the upper hand, having seen Xibalba and walked through its road. That Vucub-Kamé would necessarily win this contest, and then Martín would be returned home, rewarded like a prince. He tried to count the gems and the gold he’d obtain. He tried and he did a good job of it, even if his hands shook.
You could not, they’d told them, enter the main ballroom without a tuxedo and an evening gown. There was a strict dress code. And so Casiopea and Hun-Kamé set about making themselves presentable, courtesy of the owner of Tierra Blanca, who had ordered they be treated with the utmost care.
She settled on a dress of pale cream, sheer chiffon with a floral design, rhinestones and silver beading splayed down the front of the bodice. The back of the gown was scandalously low, the kind of dress society ladies and movie stars wore when they were photographed for the papers. Not that she’d ever thought they’d want to take her picture and caption it. But now! Now she twirled in front of a mirror and watched the beading of her outfit sparkle like tiny twinkling stars.
They washed and combed her short locks and rouged her cheeks. When she met Hun-Kamé, her hair like lacquer and her eyes lined dark with kohl, she looked as elegant as any of the celebrities who crowded the casino. He looked very fine too, the tuxedo and bow tie giving him a severe yet appealing air, and she fancied that he was a bit like this when he sat in his throne room. A jewel, cut and polished to perfection.
He nodded at her, seemingly pleased, and gave her his arm.
They walked into the ballroom, and a few heads turned their way, curious, wondering who these two were. Movie people, come from Mexico City? Fortune hunters made a note of them as they were guided toward Zavala across the vast dining room, which was made to seem vaster thanks to the profusion of floor-to-ceiling gilded mirrors, each one separating the tall windows that opened to one of the gardens.
Great chandeliers illuminated the patrons, and were organic in their look, recalling the branches of trees. The floor was oak, perfect for dancing, and the walls were painted the intense blue Casiopea associated with Yucatán, but the pillars carved with pre-Hispanic–inspired figures that seemed to support the room were all white. It was truly a palace, and she felt like a lady who is to be presented at court for the first time.
Upon a raised platform, shaped like a shell, a band played, the members attired in identical white outfits.
There, not far from the band, was the table where Martín and an older man sat together. The man was idly smoking a cigar, looking bored and decadent, oblivious to the music and the people around them, but seeing them he stood up in greeting. Martín followed suit.
This could only be Zavala. The resemblance to the Uay Chivo was plain enough and it made her uncomfortable, as she recalled the death of the man. Casiopea sat down. A waiter approached them and poured champagne into long-stemmed glasses.
“Hun-Kamé and Casiopea Tun. Thank you, thank you so much for meeting with me. Did you find your rooms adequate?” Zavala asked. “I do hope you are having a grand time. That dress looks lovely, my dear.”
Zavala spoke with the kindness of a doting grandfather, his voice mild, but having spent her childhood next to a tyrannical man, Casiopea could spot the unpleasantness in the warlock, like cigar smoke may cling to a jacket.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Fine things suit her, don’t they, Martín?” Zavala asked, although he did not turn toward her cousin, who had not deigned to utter a word of greeting to her. “And you? How do you like the place, Hun-Kamé?”