Aglow Page 4
“We are on my charter jet, isn’t that nice? And we are heading to Dallas, to my home. Minha casa é sua casa.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is this your first time traveling to the United States?”
“¡Chinga tu madre!”
Zé turned to stare at me. “Marisol, I am frankly very sorry to have done this to you. I was very reluctant to knock you out with this pharmaceutical substance, but I was assured it is not damaging, and its effects are temporary and low-dose.”
“Not damaging. Low-dose. How fucking sweet and kind of you! Yes, you really are one hell of a caballero.”
“But you aren’t finished helping me. We can do this nicely, going through customs, or we can knock you out again…”
“What makes you think I’m going to help you this way? What the fuck is this all about?”
Zé turned toward the pilot and yelled something in Portuguese. I could not make out a single word of it. Those people who think Portuguese and Spanish are the same language? They have no idea.
Then he turned to me. “You need to see this in a different light. I am really not a bad person, just a desperate one. I have a codex that is incredibly valuable. Probably much more so now that we found the narrative of Sun Prince. I need you… the world needs you and your knowledge to figure this out.”
“Figure THIS out! You have kidnapped me and taken me across an international boundary!” I kicked my legs against the wall in front of me, which was the back of the cockpit. From the pilot’s sudden profanity lexicon and pronunciation, I deduced he spoke English too.
Zé smirked. “Perhaps you think I am experienced at this, that I do this kind of thing all the time. Well, I’m not, and I don’t. I’ve never stolen or kidnapped before. I’m really nervous about it. And if you don’t help me with the codex narrative, it will have been the wrong thing to do!”
“No, no, no, NO! You’re not understanding! Whether I help you or not, this was THE WRONG THING TO DO! If you needed my help, why didn’t you just ask me? Nicely? Like with a por favorcito? Instead you drugged me, cabrón! You kidnapped me and bound me to a seat in an airplane! I am sure this is not what Friar Francisco meant when he told me to help you!”
As I mentioned the friar’s name, tears started running down my cheeks, which made me mad that I couldn’t control them, which made me cry even more.
“I’m truly very sorry, Marisol,” Zé said. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at my eyes and nose. Was that nice of him, or what, exactly? I don’t know. I was so frustrated, and I felt completely helpless and tricked. I couldn’t move, even if I hadn’t wanted him to dry my face.
“I will explain everything to you when we can study the codex and the narrative properly. But for now, we are about to land, and unfortunately, I don’t think I can trust you to keep quiet at the airport, so allow me to… ouch!”
I had bit his hand as it came near my nose again. But in the tense moment immediately afterward, when I thought he would slap me, he only apologized again. I heard the popping sound, and that’s the last I remember of that conversation.
Chapter 4: The Clothed Codex
When I regained my senses, I was stretched along the very comfortable back seat of a luxury car speeding along a highway. I rubbed my eyes, and realized immediately that my hands were no longer bound. Arms, legs, feet, mouth, eyes—all free. Damn, I thought, what drug did he use? How did they get me through customs? My ‘inexperienced’ kidnapper must have had lots of friends in the right places, or else lots of cash. Probably both.
I sat up. A man was driving. There was no one else in the car. Lying next to me on the seat was the book Luz y razón.
The man glanced at me in the rearview mirror and raised an eyebrow. “Good evening, Ms. Aguilar. I’m glad you’re awake. We’re about to arrive.”
It was Jota. I studied him a moment in the mirror, now that I could see him more clearly. He looked to be of East Asian origin, thirty-something, and he had the same nasal accent in his English that Zé did. “You flew the plane, too, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that was me driving the plane, and the black car in Puebla.”
“Are you Brazilian?”
“Sim. I am from São Paulo, but now I live in Rio, working for Zé.”
“Look, that’s lovely and all, but I don’t know what’s going on. It was nice of you to push that table off my pants leg, back in the library, but if you’re Zé’s associate then you’re also his accomplice in the crime of kidnapping me,” I said, looking around for my belongings. “Where the hell is my purse?”
“It should be there. Look near your feet.”
I found it under the seat, with my passport, stamped United States entry the same day, and my phone. The phone had service. There were several missed texts from my mom and from Maestra Filo.
“Please go ahead and text that you are with Mr. Queluz in Dallas,” said Jota. “He trusts you not to raise any alarms.”
“Why?! Why would he trust me not to do that?”
“He absolutely trusts you. I do too. It is you who probably does not trust either one of us. If that is the case, just give me about fifteen minutes. By that time we’ll be at Zé’s house, where you will enjoy complete freedom.”
I blew a raspberry. “You’ve kidnapped me. What do you mean, ‘complete freedom’?”
“Exactly what I say. Complete freedom. Zé asks only that you first look at the codex with him.”
“And where the hell is Zé, anyway?”
“He drove on ahead to prepare a guest room for you. And to get the codex ready—he has a special viewing table. Then you can decide to do whatever you please.”
“Fine,” I said, as if I were making a bargain. It seemed too good to be true, and just… eerie. As we drove on through the vast crassness of northern Texas that I had gotten to know during high school—the endless stretches of retail, parallel to endless stretches of McMansions—Jota asked me what music I wanted to listen to, like it was my choice. I told him classical, and as soon as he found the station, one of my favorite pieces began: Gustav Holst’s The Planets. I rocked in waves of goosebumps as first the rakish Mars and then comely Venus climaxed, and urgent Mercury, with me humming along.
Certain music does that to me. I had sung in the choir, for “Neptune,” that time in Veracruz that the Orquesta Sinfónica de Xalapa performed The Planets. I remember being transported as part of a living wave of sound in that performance. Damn you, Holst, I thought—why am I so sensitive? I need to be more… steely. But my already aroused emotions were provoked still further when we arrived at Zé’s home and I discovered that he lived in a mansion that was not mass-produced at all, but rather quite original, sitting haughtily atop a rise overlooking the rest of the neighborhood. It was an ornate, ostentatious, absolutely stunning Mediterranean-style marvel.
Instantly I feared he was some sort of drug lord or crime boss.
I tried to stay calm. Now that I had seen his house, I asked for a moment so I could send falsely reassuring texts to my mother and to Maestra Filo. Then we got out of the fancy car and started climbing the formidable front staircase. Clomping up the steps in my dress boots, I was very conscious of still wearing the same clothes I had chosen at 4:00 AM that morning to go to the library, the same pants that had been pinned by the heavy table leg.
The Palafoxiana… I missed Friar Francisco’s mass! And what about that windbag Gutiérrez—had he recovered? Fat chance of getting accepted to the University of Texas now, I thought.
Some twelve steps up we made it to the first landing, which featured a two-tiered fountain beset with ferns. I stopped for a moment to heave off my sweater and drape it over my shoulders. Another dozen steps and we reached the top landing—a giant round marble slab, engraved QUELUZ and fringed with sunflowers.
The wide front door was open. As we moved closer, a startled animal ran across the bright foyer. It was a black cat…
Wearing a robe. The black cat was wearing a white rob
e, just the right size for a cat.
Then, from the same side as the cat, there appeared Zé, also dressed in a bright white bathrobe, loosely belted. The color contrasted favorably against his bronze skin, of which I could see quite a bit. He was smiling.
“Marisol, so good to see you again! You’re overdressed! You must be uncomfortable. Please come in and make yourself at home.”
Only as I repeated his word uncomfortable in my head did I realize that I was indeed sweating profusely—from the exertion of climbing the first set of stairs in my sweater, from the strangeness of this reception, from the mistrust I had for this entire situation. Here was this man who had kidnapped me, speaking to me as if I were an old friend, holding out his hands to receive my sweater.
I stepped into his home, passed him the garment from my shoulders, and sealed my fate.
“You’ve been on the road! Jota, will you please help me with the drinks? Come this way, please, Marisol.”
My legs followed him but my eyes clung to decorations as we passed through his house, my gaze caressing the museum-quality paintings and statuettes that lined the walls and bookcases. I noticed that almost all of them were nudes. I wanted to ask questions but had no idea where to begin.
He led me straight back to an interior patio that made my eyes twinge again, and my envy twinged too—his house was so beautiful. Of course there was a large pool in the middle of the patio, surrounded by colorful tropical foliage. Of course there was a bar to one side, where Jota was already standing, asking me if I would like some tequila reposado.
Zé fetched the drinks and held one out for me. I took it. “Saúde,” he said.
I tilted my head back slightly and drank the whole shot, and felt at that same moment something brush over my shoulder and down my chest. There was a flash on the floor—one of my dangly earrings must have been knocked loose when I took off my sweater earlier, and it had fallen here. Suddenly Zé was grasping a shiny object between his toes. He lifted his foot gracefully up to his hand, which made his robe fall open, but the only reaction was mine. I blushed.
He held out the earring for me in his palm. “Thank you,” I said, and it was the first I had spoken to this not-really-dressed kidnapper and thief in his picture-perfect home.
We sat at a wrought-iron table near the pool. Jota served me another tequila. The cat, still robed, was sunning nearby. I felt like I was in a dream, struggling to verbalize some sort of coherence.
“Why…” I began.
“Yes, it is the best place to start. Which why would you ask, Marisol?”
Why have you brought me here, I thought, then corrected it to Why have you kidnapped me? What is the rush? Why have you subjected me to an assessment of your gorgeous home and your beautiful body? Why did you pick up my earring with your toes?
What I actually said was, “Why are you and the cat wearing matching robes?”
He smiled. “It is an awkward courtesy we extend to you. Neither of us favor them; we quite prefer to wear nothing at all. But I am aware that, outside my own home and certain other enlightened enclaves, humanity’s ignorance demands cloaking. So, please forgive me for having assumed your alliance with the ignorant, but since you reacted so strongly, earlier this morning in the library, when I suggested you pull yourself out of your trapped pants...”
“But, cats are animals.” I was feeling the tequila begin to loosen my tongue, even as it scrambled my thoughts so they came tumbling out in a surprising order.
“Indeed. Mammals, just like you and me. The word derives from the mammary...”
“One of the first things you said to me here in your home was that I must be uncomfortable. I wasn’t then, but I am now. Was that a conjecture, or a command? Is it your goal to make me uncomfortable?”
Zé sipped his drink. “On the contrary. I hope Jota gave you my message: complete freedom, which for me very often means freedom from clothes. Perhaps you would be amazed, Marisol, at how quickly and how completely an unencumbered mind can accompany an unclothed body?”
I looked around. “Where’s the harem?”
“No, I’m not referring to sex. I think you misjudge me. Sex can be wonderful, but it should not be the only reason for associating heightened sensation and perception with nudity. It is our natural state, after all. But, listen, I don’t mean to stand on the box of soap. It is true that I have brought you here by force, because I need your expertise in Nahuatl. But I will not force you anymore. I merely suggest that you let me show you the codex. Please follow me this way…”
He stood, his robe still open, and I didn’t move because I didn’t want to, but it meant that my gaze was now fixed on his penis. Well of course it would be, right? I mean, he stood up in front of me, and his robe was open, and I was seated, and what the hell else is a man going to have between his legs? It wasn’t erect, and he wasn’t attacking me. I closed my eyes, but reluctantly, because I knew that in doing so I would convey discomfort, or prudery, instead of what I felt, which was resistance to cooperation until I received more information.
“Marisol, I am sorry if you feel uncomfortable,” he said as he rewound the belt to close his robe. “But I have brought you all this way, and under these less-than-desirable conditions, to study a pair of ancient documents that you have not even had a moment to see properly. You have the narrative, and I trust you also want to see the codex. Won’t you come with me to the gallery?”
He began to walk away, but I still did not move. He called back to me, “There are some odd illustrations. I’ve never seen a codex showing someone going into a waterfall, or someone being held upside down...”
I was on my feet in an instant. The chair fell over. The cat fled its robe.
My host did not turn around. “Bring your tequila,” he said.
Drink in hand, I followed him down a corridor and into a round room, lit dimly and obliquely over a central table. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that the table was another huge round marble slab, and that the floor around it sunk down a few steps concentrically toward the table.
Zé extended an arm, indicating for me to approach the slab, and I descended the central steps. “This is the viewing table I had set up for close examination of some of the works I have collected.”
“Impressive.”
“Take a long look. Does it remind you of any other codices?”
I studied the codex avidly. Zé had opened it out completely along the slab: it had eight pages total, a relatively short codex. Perhaps it had been produced without much expense or time, was my first impression. In one scene, Sun Prince addressed a crowd from the steps of a temple. In another, he was holding—what was it? I turned my head around to change perspective—sure enough, the ankles of an upside-down woman! I had never seen such a motif before, but it was all depicted in the usual style—thick, incredibly ornate and intricately colored renderings of rather stocky figures wearing complex finery and accessories. And all the illustrations had that odd sheen to them that I had noticed when Friar Francisco first showed us the codex. Zé was telling me something but I was too absorbed in the images to listen to him. I saw that in another scene, Sun Prince was gardening. Another scene showed an eagle flying over a dark-robed priest.
“I feel such deep satisfaction that we saved this document,” Zé said.
I took a deep breath and refocused my gaze on the barely robed Zé Queluz. “Absolutely! We saved it from the earthquake!”
I took a sip of tequila, raising my eyebrows at him to broadcast my renewed attention. But he wasn’t saying anything further, so I turned back to the shiny illustrations.
Then I heard him speak again. “From the earthquake, yes, but also from that fraud Gutiérrez.”
The tequila was out of my mouth—spraying out in a fine mist all over the codex—before I could even move my head away.
“Nossa!” shouted Zé, and it all happened in a blur—he pulled off his robe and dabbed madly at the codex, trying to blot the liquid.
“Wait! You�
�ll smear it! It was alcohol—it’ll evaporate.”
But he wouldn’t stop trying to blot it. Without a moment to think what I was doing, I found myself pushing this naked man and his giant all-purpose cloth away from a priceless artifact. At first he resisted, but then he moved away, wide-eyed.
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s evaporating. But look!”
And as he spoke I could already see the image changing. One of the depictions of Sun Prince now appeared to be partly stained.
“I’m so sorry!” I forced myself to look Zé in the eyes. “You said Gutiérrez is a fraud, and it just seemed so absurd, I… I think I ruined it.”
Zé turned red. “You have ruined it!” He looked dumbstruck for a few moments. I didn’t know what else to say.
Then he suddenly pulled the belt out of his robe’s loose loops. “Espere, espere. Veja só. Marisol, if I am correct, this codex is now even more valuable than before. Let’s see...”
He dipped the edge of the belt in his drink, then held the belt above the codex. I made no effort to stop him even as I was guessing his purpose—he wrung out the tip of the belt, and let a drop of tequila fall onto the same stained picture of Sun Prince wearing a cape with swaths of different colors and patterns. The discoloration rippled out over the image. Zé let more droplets fall with surgical precision, until the Sun Prince image had been completely washed by the tequila.
“Do you believe this?” he asked me.
I studied the changed image of the painted figure. Where the cloak had been, there was now a nude body. “Sun Prince,” I said hoarsely, “is as naked as you.”
It was unprecedented. There were only a few known Mesoamerican codices and murals that depicted nudity—almost always naked captives, women in childbirth, or the victims of scabrous rashes—but never had this kind of layered rendering of clothing been seen.
Layered. That was it! On a whim, I pressed a corner of the damaged folio between my thumb and index finger. I started to rub the corner, like when you separate a decal from its backing. Zé caught onto the idea and started rubbing another corner. We noticed the corners were decorated with stylized beehives and depictions of folded cloth.