traced by the human eye, formed constellations, and the flowers, linked together, spoke to her. They said, “My love.”
Hun-Kamé bowed his head to her, like a commoner instead of a lord.
Then he took Casiopea’s hand again and wrapped her in his cloak for a second. It was like slipping into an absolute blackness, the darkness of the garment blotting out Xibalba, and within another second she had slipped into her hotel room. Alone.
Grief arrived, eager to keep her company, and she clutched her hands together and raised them to her lips, head bowed. Yet as Casiopea stood in the middle of the room she did not consider her heartache for long, because the sound of crying reached her ears, startling her. It was as if someone else gave voice to her unhappiness. Cautious, she approached the doorway of the room Hun-Kamé had occupied and found Martín sitting on the floor. Her cousin wept.
Casiopea leaned down next to him, slowly, like one might when dealing with a scared child.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Grandfather is going to kill me when I get back to Uukumil,” he said, sniffling. “You might as well have asked Hun-Kamé to cut off my head.”
“Grandfather won’t kill you,” she said with a sigh.
“Why didn’t you ask him to murder me?”
“You didn’t kill me either,” she replied.
He hunched his shoulders. His clothes were dirty, his hair a mess. She recalled how much he’d prided himself in his nice clothing, in his freshly polished boots. She had polished those same boots, swallowing her tears when he said cruel things. It was his turn to be miserable. Yet even though she’d pictured a scene like this when he was bad to her, it did not please her to witness it.
“Yeah…well…I’m not a killer,” he muttered.
“Neither am I.”
Casiopea went to the bathroom and fetched a towel. She handed it to Martín and sat down in front of him. He hesitated, but took the towel and cleaned his face.
“I’m horrible to you,” he said when he was done. “I’m a terrible person.”
“Maybe you could stop being so horrible, then.”
Martín bunched up the towel and gripped it tight, blinking back further tears.
“I’m…I’m thankful, you know. For your asking him to send me back here. And I’m sorry. About everything. Will you accept my apology?”
He looked shattered, his voice thick with shame. Casiopea thought he meant it. But it wasn’t that simple. He’d left scars. She did not trust him. She didn’t want to hate him either. It was pointless now.
“I can’t forgive you in an instant,” she said.
“Well…maybe one day, maybe after a while. After we go back to Uukumil. Although I don’t want to go back to Uukumil, but I must. Oh, the old man is going to be so mad at us,” he mumbled.
“If you don’t want to go back, maybe you shouldn’t?”
“Where would I go?” Martín asked, looking rather shocked.
Casiopea shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe you can find your forgiveness on the way there.”
Martín was quiet. She stood up, and he shoved his hair away from his face, his eyes red.
“You’re not headed back, are you?” he asked her.
“Not yet.”
“Then I suppose this is goodbye.”
“Yes. So long, Martín,” she said.
In the end “so long, Martín” is what she had yearned to say all along, and there was more satisfaction in it than any elaborate revenge fantasy she could have conjured. They were headed in different directions, and this was sufficient.
Casiopea returned to her room and curled up on top of the covers. She was tired, not only the weariness of the road, but a spiritual ache. When she woke up it was morning and Martín had left. He’d scrawled a note for her, saying he’d likely travel to Guadalajara. There was money with the note, his final apology. She stuffed the bills into her suitcase and packed her clothes. While arranging her things she realized that she still had her old shawl, the one she’d worn in her village. A flimsy, cheap piece of cloth that had seen better days, but she placed it around her shoulders. It had traveled with her, weathering distances and foes. She thought it might bring her luck.
When she was done packing, she went to Hun-Kamé’s room and stood there, feeling its emptiness. On the nightstand lay the hat he’d worn; in the closet, his suits. She ran her hands over the clothes, but there was nothing of him left, not a strand of hair. She might have imagined him, dreamed him.
She knew