Gods of Jade and Shadow - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,48

the soft bread from the harder shell. She didn’t have the luxury of eating the soft part of the bolillo back home, having to munch whatever was available under the watchful eye of her mother. Now she could do as she pleased, and she rolled bits of soft bread, tossing them into her mouth.

“You could spin a few jewels out of rocks,” she said.

“I can’t do that.”

“I’ve seen you turn stones into coins,” she reminded him.

“I cannot alter the nature of an object. It is merely a play of light and shadow, an illusion.”

“Will the illusion wear off?”

“Illusions always wear off.”

They asked the concierge about jewelry shops. There were suitable shops all down Madero—stubborn capitalinos still referred to it as Plateros, unwilling to accept the name change that honored a murdered president—but he emphasized La Esmeralda, which had been the darling of the Porfirian aristocracy. La Esmeralda was looted in 1914 by Carranza’s troops, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been renovated seven years before, grew more splendorous, and advertised itself as a place for “art objects and timepieces,” selling all sorts of wildly expensive baubles.

The store was grand, but like many newer buildings in Mexico it was also a mishmash of styles, French rococo mixing with neoclassic, a little vulgar if one looked at it closely. Most capitalinos did not realize that the architectonic pretensions of the building were more nouveau riche than Art Nouveau, and, had this been explained to them, they would have denied the building had any deficiencies.

The store’s name was boldly emblazoned across the front, a clock marking the hour above it. Before its iron skeleton was erected a more modest three-story building had stood there, made of red tezontle, best suited for the soft Mexico City soil that had been, after all, a city of canals before the Spaniards filled up its waterways. But then Hauser and Zivy had that old house smashed and established the Esmeralda in its place, a store in which the distinguished consumer could order Baccarat crystal and elaborate music boxes. Inside, the building was all marble, glass, and dark wood, gleaming crystal and profuse decorations.

Hun-Kamé knew what he wanted, focusing on gold necklaces. Casiopea, meanwhile, looked at a heavy silver bracelet with black enamel triangles, of the “Aztec” style, which was much in vogue and meant to attract the eye of tourists with its faux pre-Hispanic motifs. It was a new concoction, of the kind that abound in a Mexico happy to invent traditions for mass consumption, eager to forge an identity after the fires of the revolution—but it was pretty.

“You should try it on,” said the saleswoman, smelling a commission.

“I couldn’t,” Casiopea said.

“I’m sure your husband will think it pretty.”

“He is not my husband,” she replied.

The saleswoman gave her a funny look, and Casiopea realized she must think she was Hun-Kamé’s mistress. How embarrassing!

Casiopea tugged at her hair, self-conscious. She had informed Hun-Kamé she’d have to go to a hairdresser that same day, since her work with the scissors had been poor. She’d look like a flapper now and they’d think her a loose girl. The saleswoman probably judged her a tart already.

It was very important not to be a tart. But she was already wearing skirts that showed her legs. What were the other requirements for such a designation? Did it matter if she wasn’t one but merely looked the part?

“If you like it, you should take a closer look at it,” Hun-Kamé said, hovering next to her.

“It’s expensive.”

“I already bought an expensive necklace, a bracelet is no concern.”

She tried it on and then he asked. “Would you like it?”

“Truly?” she replied.

“If you wish it,” he said, signaling to the saleswoman, who took the bracelet and began to place tissue paper in a box.

“If I wore it in Uukumil they’d say it’s gaudy and the priest would chide me.”

“You’re not in Uukumil.”

Casiopea smiled at him. The saleswoman placed the lid on the box and she gave Casiopea a curious look. She was probably confused, trying to determine if Casiopea was a mistress already or a would-be one, meant to be seduced with nice jewelry.

“Thank you,” Casiopea said when they left the store. “I’ve never owned anything of value and nothing this pretty.”

In the middle of the street a policeman was directing traffic, looking bored, while she looked nervously at the semaphore and the multitudes around them, trying to determine at which point it was safe to cross the street. She eyed the