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  On principle, I didn’t want to agree, yet I nodded. Why run out of this beautiful home? I could sleep on my thoughts, and revisit the codex in the morning.

  Chapter 6: Sun Prince

  The guest room, just off the patio, was comfortable without being luxurious—stylish, lots of earth tones, and a wall covered in a stunning rainforest mural. The bathroom was stocked, and the mini-fridge too, like a hotel. I had a vague doubt about how exactly I might be charged for these services. On the closet door hung a white robe, apparently the standard uniform in Zé’s domain.

  I lingered a bit in the shower before wrapping myself in the robe and lying on the bed. I felt relaxed but alert, given my unforeseen circumstances, and I decided I was awake enough to read from Luz y razón del apóstata nahua, Tonatiuhpilli, según el códice del escribano Chimallamatli, “Light and Reason of the Nahua Heretic, Sun Prince, according to the Codex by the scribe Bark Shield.” I knew that the “light and reason” phrase was a way of indicating the story of someone’s life. I opened the ancient book carefully and read the first page, a dedication:

  Querido lector, si has descubierto este libro, es decir, si lo has sacado de su escondite y lo has desvestido de su casaca, entonces has seguido la guía, que es la luz del sol, hacia el claro entendimiento de las cosas de este mundo...

  My eyes were drawn to the bottom, to the phrase that had become Friar Francisco’s last words: ¡Busca la luz!

  Dear reader, if you have discovered this book, which is to say, if you have taken it from its hiding place and undressed it from its jacket, then you have followed the guide, the light of the sun, toward the clear understanding of the things of this world, for the account you will read here is the uncloaked truth regarding the life of Tonatiuhpilli, the Sun Prince, as recorded by the tlacuilo-scribe Chimallamatli, Bark Shield, and interpreted by the same in this month of November in the year of our Lord 1536.

  Look for the light!

  I felt a shiver of goosebumps. I knew these were not Friar Francisco’s words, but I could hear them in his voice, since he must have read them too. I had studied paleography as an undergraduate at the Universidad Veracruzana, and I could tell that the handwriting did indeed look like sixteenth-century style. Intrigued, I continued on to the next page, and began the story of Sun Prince, to the end of its first chapter:

  El príncipe anda por el mundo así como entró en él,

  porque es así que se debe andar por el mundo.

  Si quiere, se pone una capa suelta, sujetada arriba del hombro,

  una capa que es como una colcha de colores y culturas.

  Aunque no tenga otras posesiones, comparte libremente

  de su ser, de su sudor, de su canto,

  porque es así que se debe compartir en el mundo.

  The prince walks in the world the way he came into it,

  for this is the way to walk in the world.

  If he wants, he dons a loose cloak with a shoulder clasp,

  a cloak that is like a quilt of colors and cultures.

  Though he has no other possession, he gives freely

  of his self, his sweat, his song,

  for this is the way to give in the world.

  Nobody knew for certain where this man, Tonatiuhpilli, or Sun Prince, had come from. The people saw that he moved often from town to town and from valley to valley, with an eagle that followed him to all places. They saw that he always learned the local language, and learned the steps to the local dances, very easily.

  And they saw that he did not wear clothes. Some said this was because he was a Chichimec from the barbarous north. Some said it was because he was a Huastec fisherman from the eastern coast. Others said only a Purépecha, from the far west, could walk unclothed with no shame. But all seemed to agree that he must have been much older than he looked, and that surely this was because he knew where to find a fountain of youth.

  “How is it that you can learn our customs so quickly?” they asked him.

  He replied, “I learn with my whole body. It is unburdened. Do you not see this? Why do you persist in covering your skin, which must needs feel the fire of the sun, the air that is the wind, the water from the stream, and the soil of the ground?”

  “But what does this have to do with learning our speech?” they asked. “To speak you need only your mouth.”

  And Pilli, as he came to be known, said, “Say as well that to dance you need only your feet. Do not burden your body with clothes, nor close it off one part from another. Treat it as one thing, the home of you in the world, the temple of your spirit in the world.”

  Still there was one who insisted, saying, “Do you mean that we should not know what thing is a mouth, what thing is a foot? They are not the same thing. Their purposes are not the same.”

  And Pilli said, “It is only right that we name different parts of our home: the roof, the hearth, the door, the window. Our bodies are our homes and also worlds unto themselves: of course they are made up of many different parts. But a home without a roof, or a world without a sun, is not my body. Whatever it is that you are to do, whatever it is that you are going about doing, engage in it with your whole body uncovered.”

  The insistent one asked Pilli, “Then why do you carry around that ragged cloak?”

  Pilli smiled. “This cloak were like many tools, for it has many uses: it is my sling for carrying things, my blanket for sitting on, my hammock for resting. I can wrap it around me if I am cold, or wear it like a belt if I do not want it over my shoulders. But look also that in each of the swaths that give it shape, I recall a place I have visited, a person I have met. A few of the swaths hide pockets for what small things I may need to conceal. But most of all I prize the cloak because it is all I need.”

  “Have you not sandals? Weapons? Food?”

  “Of these first things you mention I have no need. Food, I find where I look and share where I may. Picture-prints of learning—of these I have great need, but they are best shared by those who collect them.”

  A man stepped forward. “I collect such things, in my home. Have you no home, then?”

  “My home is my body, as it is in the world. Where is your home?”

  “In this village, on the next road.”

  “What, then, is that which you use to walk in the world?”

  That man, whose name was Chimallamatli, Bark Shield, had no response. So he sat to speak at length with Pilli. Eventually he invited Pilli to his home, where he shared food and picture-print codices for several days.

  It came to pass that on one such day, the day 11-Deer, 1-Movement, 10-Reed [May 19, 1515], Bark Shield showed to Pilli a picture-print of men and women unclothed. Said Bark Shield, “Look, friend Pilli, upon these people who, like you, shun clothing.”

  “These are not rivers, but puddles,” said Pilli, “and many puddles do not a stream make. Far better it is to flow unencumbered in the stream of life than only to splash, here and there, in the footprints of the rainstorm.”

  Bark Shield was struck into amazement, and in that moment he ripped the coverings from his body. Pilli embraced him and pulled him out onto the road, into the light, calling to the people, “Look on this man! Look on him fully! He is born today! You there, cast off your husk, your shell, your rind! Seed yourself and grow, like us, into the light!”

  At once he began to hum a melody that Bark Shield quickly learned to follow. Some men and women there were in the road who did as Pilli had shouted, and Pilli welcomed them to stand and hum alongside. Others watched in confusion or delight, while still others hurried away.

  “You who have come to hum in life and light, you are blessed to live in peace and at one with your home, your body,” said Pilli.

  Then he turned to the observers and said, “You who merely watch, consider that you must live at home in your whole bodies, not just your eyes. How long will you suffer before stepping into the light? Bravery is at hand, and much easier than you know.”

  Then he raised his voice to yell down the
road, for all to hear, “You who have fled, who hear me from behind the walls of your fear, know that you run from life as rats from the sun! If you must run, at least unclothe yourselves, that the rushing of air against your bodies may convince you of the grace of your full movement!”

  Those who stayed on with Pilli that day were many, and only when a chill wind blew at dusk did they eventually return to their clothes, and with great reluctance.

  I placed the book on the nightstand. What kind of odd coincidence was this? There I was, sequestered by this man, Zé, this… nudist, and suddenly I’m reading about someone from the time of the ancient Aztecs extolling the virtues of not wearing clothes, with the absolutely remarkable codex and its wax layer to clothe the images. To clothe the people, and to protect them from censors… no wonder the translator didn’t make it very far. Perhaps Zé, as a nudist, would be uniquely qualified to understand this man, Pilli the Sun Prince, and these documents about his life.

  The hot shower, and the reading in bed, had made me drowsy, and I began to drift in and out of sleep, to float in and out of fragments of a dream in which water lapped against a shore, waves calling me to a glow emanating from under the surface… something breached, writhing, and I awoke with a start, staring around the room, confused to still be hearing the rhythmic splashing.

  Then I remembered where I was. There was a soft glow coming from the patio: Zé’s pool. I stepped lightly to the door, opened it a crack, and saw someone—Zé? Jota?—swimming laps, back and forth, chasing the arc of the heavens under the warm night.

  Somehow this comforted me. I closed the door and locked it. Then I went back to sleep.

  Chapter 7: Naked Breakfast

  March 25, 2012

  Dallas, USA

  I woke up to my posh surroundings, taking a moment to find my bearings, and reminded myself that for having been abducted, there were certainly worse places, and worse captors. My “captor,” or someone, had come in and placed new clothes for me on the chair—so much for locking the door. I had not heard anyone enter, which felt creepy, but I did appreciate the gesture: it was a stylish skirt and blouse combo, even with the right size panties and bra. I looked around and saw that my outfit from the day before had been washed and placed in the closet. So that was how Zé, or Jota, learned my sizes. Again, it felt odd, but… considerate, at the same time. There were even some sandals just my size.

  I showered, dressed in my new garb, and headed to breakfast, where I found more people than I expected. Jota was cooking, dressed only in an apron. At the kitchen table sat Zé with a boy, who was writing in a notebook. He and Zé were both nude. I was getting used to this lack of textiles, but still I felt a little shocked at having just gotten dressed, only to find I was the only one wearing clothes.

  The boy looked to be in his early teens, and had Zé’s same profile. Around the boy’s cereal bowl was a ring of some twenty little plastic figurines of people and animals, all pressed against the rim of the bowl and facing the center. With the end of his pencil, the boy would poke one of the little toy people with a rhythm that set the milk in motion, the golden cereal nuggets sinking and bobbing.

  “Logo multiplica aí,” Zé was saying to the boy, “70 por 40 são 2800…” Then he saw me and made introductions. “Meu sobrinho, Pedrinho. Nephew, this is Marisol.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, raising an eyebrow at Zé behind the boy’s back.

  “Pedrinho is the son of my older brother, Pedro, and his wife Lisbeth. And he is a frequent visitor at my home.”

  The boy had missed his cue, so his uncle prompted him. “Hey, what do you say?”

  Pedrinho turned to look at me, except really he only looked vaguely in my direction. “Nice to meet you,” he said. Then he asked Zé, “Por que ela está vestida?”

  “Why is she dressed? Well, she’s not used to living without her clothes, is all.”

  “It’s true, Pedrinho,” I said, pronouncing the name as Zé had, as if it were ‘Pedriñu’ in Spanish. “And just two days ago I didn’t even know your uncle, much less imagine that I would be here, in the States, with him, or with you.”

  Zé smiled. “Life is full of surprises, no?”

  I forced a smile back. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “Perhaps I have not known you for very long, querida Marisol,” he replied, “but I do know you like surprises. You were as delighted as I by the surprise of the codex yesterday. And here is another surprise for you. Mãe!”

  “Aqui estou!” said a voice behind me, and I turned to see an older woman entering the kitchen. Around her waist she wore a pareo like a loose skirt, and above her waist only a lovely cowrie-shell necklace and some jeweled earrings shaped like seahorses. “Bom dia, Marisol, um prazer. Zé told me you decided to come help him with an old document? On the spur of the moment?”

  She said all this while kissing me on both cheeks, her breasts and cowries knocking against me naturally. Her hair was dyed blond but streaks of gray were showing rather deliberately. As she continued welcoming me to their home and urging me to sit down and eat, Zé avoided eye contact with me.

  I did sit down, gritting my teeth, wondering what would happen if I explained to this woman how it was that not I but her son had “decided” for me to come help. But it was strange—while I felt a bit more relaxed with another woman in the house, at the same time I felt all the more ill at ease since I was still the only one fully dressed. Not only that, but I was wearing clothes that had been purchased for me by these same crazy naked people. Runs in the family, I thought.

  While Jota served me an omelet with some deliciously strong coffee, Zé explained, “My mother arrived early this morning from a trip to visit friends. I estimated your sizes and asked her to pick out some clothes for you before she left Miami.”

  She smiled over the rim of her mug. “I see they fit. I hope you like them.”

  “They’re lovely. Thanks.”

  “De nada. But I thought, maybe you’re a nudist? Only a nudist would set out on a journey without packing any clothes!”

  I tugged at my neckline and stuttered, “So, uh… no. No, I’m not a nudist. I’m not used to being naked around other people. Thanks again for this lovely outfit, uh, Señora…”

  “Please call me Dora.”

  I thanked Dora by name, realizing she was probably slightly older than my own mother, closer in age to Filo. And yet here she was, practically naked to greet someone new—something I could never imagine either my mamá or Filo doing.

  I asked Zé, “What should we do today with the codex? We haven’t even figured out if the other folios are clothed too.”

  “I’m going to work with Jota to test the other folios, and if they do have layers, we’ll remove them and digitize the unpeeled images.”

  “And me?” I asked.

  “Well, did you start reading Luz y razón yet?”

  “I read the first section last night.”

  “Good! So now you know how this Sun Prince is something of a pioneer, a philosophical ancestor for those of us who prefer to go nude. I can’t wait until you translate the whole story!”

  “All the sections need to be translated to English, right? Whether from Spanish or from Nahuatl?”

  “Right. Just wait until you read the second section. Sun Prince obviously had enemies.”

  “Oh, of course, I remember now,” I said, angrily stabbing a bite of omelet. “You already read that part while I was drugged out of my mind and shackled to a seat!” I looked around the kitchen full of four naked or barely clad people and struggled to reconcile this peaceful, even vulnerable, family quartet with the violence of my kidnapping. If Dora or Pedrinho had understood what I said, they weren’t letting any emotion show.

  Zé cleared his throat. “I told you, I am sorry. Please forgive me? Jota, what, no doughnuts? Pedrinho, 600, não 60. And so Marisol, have you heard back from your mother? What about Filomena?”

  It was easy for me to see how desperate he was to change the
subject. Even though I knew about the Stockholm syndrome—when a hostage begins to sympathize with her captor—and even though I felt the frustration of not having been invited, not properly taking my leave from my mamá, not even bringing my own clothes, I did honestly feel part of an important mission. And I felt, too, that Zé was genuinely contrite about the circumstances.

  “Mi mamá está bien, gracias. And doña Filo I don’t know, I haven’t heard from her, but let me check my phone.”

  There was indeed a text from Filo. I read it to myself:

  Lo que me dio FF es un collar de figuritas desnudas, de cerámica. Y una carta del mismísimo Palafox. Llámame.

  I looked up to see Zé awaiting the news, but I decided not to share all of it with him just yet.

  “The text is about something Filo already told me—before she left the library, on the day of the earthquake, Friar Francisco gave her a box with an artifact for her to analyze back at the museum in Xalapa.”

  “Was this box found in the same space behind the wall where the codex was?” Zé was quick to ask.

  “I’m fairly sure that’s true, yes. What she’s telling me now is that the box contained a necklace of little ceramic nudes.”

  “More nudes?!” Zé stood up from the table, stretching his arms at odd angles over his head in a way that exactly matched the poses of a pair of acrylic nudes hung on the wall behind him. “We’ve got to see this!”

  I laughed at this triptych he had made, and he winked, knowing perfectly well the nudes on the wall were framing him from my point of view. Still not quite understanding his enthusiasm for nudity, on several levels, I asked him, “Uhm, OK, but why?”