Gods of Jade and Shadow - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,61

tree, showing the pale core of it.

After his disastrous encounter with his cousin, Martín immediately ran back to the Hotel Mancera, hoping to meet with her again. He tried to pry the location of her room from the front desk clerk, but the clerk would not budge, unable to even confirm that a woman matching Casiopea’s description was staying there. Martín threatened, then he tried to bribe the employee, but the clerk stared at him with the absolute indifference of a capitalino who has seen everything, and much worse. Irritated, Martín planted himself in the lobby, hoping to intercept Casiopea. His cousin never came down, or she’d exited the building already.

Once Martín realized it was futile to maintain his watch, grasping the stupidity of the endeavor, he hurried outside, walking around downtown until he found a vendor who was carrying cigarettes. Casiopea had purchased his smokes, and as he grabbed his lighter he was reminded of this detail, which diminished any pleasure he might otherwise have taken in the cigarette.

Martín went in search of an establishment that served alcohol and found no lack of them downtown, picking a cheap pulquería with a mural of Mexico City’s twin volcanos painted on a wall. There were more dignified establishments, including The Opera, where the revolutionary Pancho Villa supposedly shot bullets into the ceiling one evening, but Martín did not give one rat’s ass about the quality of the drinks he was imbibing. Each glass of pulque tasted more bitter than the last, as he drummed his fingers against the table. Women with too much rouge on their cheeks stopped by, hoping to make a few pesos off the surly man in good clothes, but he waved them away, complaining about the faults of the female sex. It all started with Eve and ended with Casiopea, according to him. Serpent, damn viper, that’s what she was.

Finally, when night fell, Martín walked back to his hotel, cursing Casiopea under his breath.

“Twenty times a whore and fifty a bitch,” he said.

It was in her blood, of course, Jezebel. Not only her gender, but her father’s Indian blood committed her to this state—Martín would have never conceived of any genetic ailment in the Leyva side of the family; it had to have been the part of her that was Tun that caused such reckless behavior.

“I’ll tell her mother and I’ll tell Grandfather, and I’ll tell everyone,” he promised.

Their whole town would know Casiopea now walked around Mexico City, shameless, almost bald, disobeying the instructions of the family.

Disobeying him.

At this, he paused. No, no, no, he wouldn’t mention she’d disobeyed him.

He smoked a cigarette and circled the hotel, needing space, needing time, running a hand through his hair.

In his room, Martín splashed water on his face and admitted that he could dally no longer; the god would be expecting news. He clutched the jade ring Vucub-Kamé had given him, and standing in the middle of his room he uttered the god’s name.

The lights grew dim as the darkness in the room pooled itself together in a corner, and out of this darkness stepped out Vucub-Kamé. He was clad in white, a cape made of pale seashells falling down his back, and his hair was very light, but he evoked pitch-black darkness nevertheless.

Vucub-Kamé’s eyes did not fall on Martín; he seemed as if he were more concerned with other matters.

When Martín first met Vucub-Kamé, he’d had little understanding of the god. Afterward, Cirilo corrected his lack of instruction, muttering his story to his grandson. Cirilo had also explained the character of the Lords of Xibalba and how they should be addressed, including their predisposition for flattery. So, when Vucub-Kamé walked into the room, Martín fell on his knees, head bowed, even if his natural haughtiness made him cringe at such a display.

“Supreme Lord of the Underworld,” Martín said. “I thank you for coming. I am unworthy of your visit.”

“You must be since your tongue trembles. Have you failed me?” the god asked, but he did not deign to look at the mortal man.

“My cousin, she would not speak to you,” Martín admitted, clutching his hands together. “She is a stubborn, ungrateful child. But if my lord would wish it, I will find her and seize her, dragging her by her hair—”

“Such wasteful violence. And what should that accomplish?”

Martín blinked. “She’d do as you wanted, whatever you wanted.”

“You cannot force her hand,” Vucub-Kamé said.

“I don’t—”

“Martín Leyva…Martín. When you play chess, do you move your pawns as if