Invisible City (20 page)

“It's incredible, amazing. Like paradise.”

Benicio licks his ice cream spoon, pondering. “Pretty much,” he decides.

I ask, “And you have phones in this paradise? Do you have the Internet?”

He looks astonished. “Of course.”

Whoa … sorry about that. This computer was set up to type in the Ek Naab version of Mayan hieroglyphs. It's a sort of stripped-down, high-tech version of Classic Mayan. They use it to encode all their technical stuff … in case something falls into the Wrong Hands.

That should read:

Here's a story I heard today from my cousin Benicio. I looked out the window of an apartment in the city of Ek Naab. And what did I see but a bizarre, Spanish-style church?

I guess in Mexico, they really are everywhere.

“It's for the first miracle of Ek Naab,” Benicio told me. “The miracle of the hibiscus.”

Seems that Pedro Vallejo, the Jesuit priest who converted the Mayas of this city, chose to name his church Our Lady of the Hibiscus.

“In those days the Mayas of Ek Naab guarded the shrine really fiercely. By then it was widely known that the Spanish—they couldn't be trusted. Bishop Diego de Landa had tortured Maya scribes in order to gain the secrets of Mayan books, which he collected and then burned. At Ek Naab they guarded the three most valuable and ancient books—the Books of Itzamna. The fourth, of course, was missing. Lost in 653 AD.”

Well, I already know that—I've read the Calakmul letter. Funny to think that for the Mayas of Ek Naab, their missing codex is a fourth codex. But in the outside world, where they only know of four surviving Mayan codices, the one all the archaeologists whisper about is the “fifth.”

“Even the fact that the books existed had to be guarded on pain of death. Any stranger who discovered us was forced to remain in Ek Naab. Any
European
stranger unlucky enough to stumble across Ek Naab was put to death. And not in a good way.

“Vallejo, wandering eagerly throughout Mexico in 1595, all holy and everything—he was one of those. The night before his execution (a
sacrifice of course; no way they'd waste a ready victim!), Vallejo prayed to the Virgin Mary. In the morning, everyone was astonished to discover that the entire city was filled with a rare and fragrant flower—the hibiscus. It bloomed in every nook and hollow.”

Now, there's little enough light in the cavern of Ek Naab; I've seen that for myself. And that's with the high-tech mesh-thing they use for the ceiling. Centuries ago, it was all gloom and rock. There was the light from flaming torches, but you can't grow most plants in that. Let alone the hibiscus …

“But since that day, the hibiscus has grown here, even in the dark. Quite simply, a miracle. The Ancient Maya were a people who lived mainly by what they could grow. They really appreciated the power of Vallejo's god. For them this was an incomparable command of nature. Way beyond any demonstration of Itzamna's. And so, his life was spared. Vallejo preached and they followed, built a church and everything.”

I looked at the hibiscus flowers of Ek Naab a bit differently after I heard that.

But, I mean, it's just a story. Right?

After I've updated my blog on a laptop in a little Internet café, Benicio and I make our way around the market stalls as they're being cleared. The market is set up in the central plaza of Ek Naab, but it's still tiny compared to most Mexican zocalos. It's no bigger than a tennis court. The cramped feeling gets to me after a while. Ek Naab may be glitzy, clean, and modern, but it still feels like a rabbit warren. It's claustrophobic. When I mention this to Benicio, he just gives a knowing grin.

“Hey, why do you think I became a pilot?” is all he says. “The Muwan are a great way to get out of the city.”

I blanch. “You're a
what
?”

“I'm a pilot. And I'm studying aeronautical engineering.”

“You must be older than you look.”

Benicio shrugs. “I'm seventeen. We start our careers early here. I began flying a Muwan when I was fifteen.”

“You're not really a pilot … Flying one of those Muwan? You're joking.”

His manner changes a little, becomes mischievous. “You think so?”

I can't help but notice people staring at me curiously. I mention this to Benicio.

“Visitors are rare,” he comments. “Very rare.”

“Why don't they ask?”

“It's not our way. But they have an idea. Everybody knows that we have no Bakab Ix. They can only hope that you are this Bakab.”

“I've been wondering about that … Why don't you just send one of the other Bakabs after the Ix Codex?”

“They would die. They can only handle their own codex.”

“Oh, come on.”

He seems bemused. “You think I'm kidding?”

“No, but … it's superstition, right?”

Benicio is wide-eyed. “No, it's real, absolutely!”

“And everyone here believes that the world's going to end on December twenty-second, 2012?”

“Everyone here,” he agrees.

“How come no one else in the world knows?”

Benicio erupts with indignant laughter. “‘No one else in the world knows?'! Josh, really, did you ever talk to anyone in Mexico? You ever talk to what's left of the Maya people? No; I bet you walk right past them. They clean your pool, they sell you Chiclets, they mop the floor of your hotel. But you don't talk to them, right? You don't ask them about their world, their culture?”

“They don't always speak Spanish,” I say, defensive. I don't like his implication—that I'm just another rich son-of-a-conquistador who doesn't understand about Mexico's ancient customs and knowledge. In the rest of Mexico, people judge you by how European or Mexican-Indian you look. With a mostly Spanish father and an English mother, obviously I look fairly European. Benicio's attitude suggests that those prejudices exist here too.

From everything Benicio's told me, I have plenty of Mayan heritage—enough to be one of their Bakabs. So why is he giving me a hard time?

His smile has gone now, replaced by a mixture of sadness and defiance. “If you had ever asked, if anyone ever asked them—not everything about our Mayan culture is forgotten. But it is ignored.”

“You're exaggerating,” I say. “Look at you guys. You're not fully Maya. You've got a church, right? Those Spanish priests who came here—they converted you to Christianity. You don't worship Itzamna.”

“We
never
worshipped Itzamna. He was our first leader.”

“Carlos Montoyo told me that they used to sacrifice people in the cenote.”

“Yes, that was the old use of Ek Naab. By other Mayas. We didn't always live here.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“There's no name. Other Mayas have called us things like the ‘Sect of Bakabs.'”

I'm surprised that Benicio doesn't make more of my accusation that they aren't “fully Mayas.”

Other Mayas have called us things like the “Sect of Bakabs.”

Sounds to me like the people of Ek Naab have always been outsiders.

We pass under a shadow, a lengthy section of the rock ceiling with no vents to the outside. The air cools sharply. I think of Ollie and Tyler, and wonder how they're doing. They have to be out of the interrogation by now. And Mom. What will she be thinking when she hears I'm missing? Camila's body might have been identified by now. Will they imagine that I'm dead too? It's definitely time to check in with them, let them know I'm alive.

“I really need to make those phone calls,” I tell Benicio.

“Okay,” he says. “Let's go this way. To the surface.”

I follow him into a shiny, tile-faced tower that reaches all the way to the ceiling, about ten stories up. We ride an elevator to the roof. We emerge under a huge thatch-roofed
palapa
.

The illusion of a subterranean technological wonderland vanishes. It's like being dragged back into the everyday, tourist version of Mexico. There's a spacious tropical restaurant that appears to be at ground level but is actually on the roof of the building we entered seconds ago. The tables are filled with people sitting eating breakfast, drinking coffee, having meetings, working on their laptop computers.

I can't suppress a low chuckle. “This is just awesome! This is what you've got on the surface?”

Benicio grins. “You like it?”

“You bet I do.”

Through tall windows I see a garden of banana palms, lime and orange trees, and what appears to be a vast landscaped swimming pool. It could be almost any Mexican resort hotel. And here too, heads turn; appraising glances sweep over me as lightly as silk.

I follow Benicio out of the restaurant, into the sunny gardens beyond. The dark horrors of the road to Becan are fading in my memory. I'm working hard to hold on to the idea that this place is in some way the legacy of the ancient Mayan civilization. Above the surface, though, there's no indication of that. Not the tiniest hint.

Under my breath I mumble, “But seriously, friend. How come no one knows about this place? People must fly over it and wonder. Don't they notice the mesh?”

“Plain view, buddy; plain view. We look just like any other eco-resort, just like any other plantation. As for the mesh, it just looks like any agricultural thing to protect seedlings. It's all legally owned. Just another of Mexico's big family businesses. Taxes are paid; protection money is paid—you know what I'm saying? We keep a low profile. We're invisible.”

We arrive at the edge of another cenote. A stone staircase leads down to the water. This one looks cool, refreshing, and,
by comparison with the “dark water” cenote underground, positively friendly. A slightly overcast sky gives the deep water a milky sheen. The cenote is open for a hundred feet or so, then goes under an overhang dripping with stalactites. The water extends far into the distance.

“Care for a swim?” Benicio says. “You've got time.”

“My phone call …?”

He nods. “Right.” Then he takes an ordinary-looking cell phone from his pocket, presses a button on the side, and hands it to me.

“Operator …?”

Benicio takes the phone back and dials. We get the number for Hotel Delfin. I call, ask for Tyler and Ollie. The news isn't good, but I'm prepared for the worst. They're still at the police station. That's the second day they've been questioned. The receptionist gives me the number.

I hand the phone to Benicio. “They can't know it's me. Say you're a relative of mine trying to find out where I've gone. Ask to speak to Tyler or Ollie. Try to sound worried!”

With a hint of a smile, Benicio takes the phone. He puts on a really serious, formal voice, like a kid trying to impress his elders. He does as I suggested, then puts his hand over the phone.

“They're getting one of your friends. This woman says they weren't arrested, nothing like that. They're only helping …”

“… the police with their investigation …?” I say with a sigh. “I'll bet.”

I take the phone. Tyler's voice, sounding a bit shaky, says, “Hello? Who is this?”

“It's me, Josh. But don't let them know you're talking to me! Don't act surprised or anything! Make out like I'm a friend asking after Josh.”

There's a tricky silence. I guess Tyler's trying to think of something to say that doesn't give it away.

“So what do you want to know about Josh?” he asks.

“I'm okay. I can't tell you where I am exactly, but I'm safe.”

Carefully, he answers, “Uh-huh.”

“What's your situation, Ty? Can you talk a minute?”

“We don't know where Josh is, man. Last we saw of him was yesterday, just before we were met by these guys from the NRO. They've been looking for Josh's dad and some other people too, from what I can work out. Asked us a lot of questions about what Josh was doing here in Mexico, the Ix Codex …”

“What did you tell them? Did you tell them about the Calakmul letter?”

Another long pause. “Yeah. Yeah, we had to.”

I can tell he's afraid to say any more. “Did you tell them what it said?”

“We didn't remember, not exactly.”

“Ollie?”

“She's fine.”

“Did she give anything away?”

“No, she's actually pretty chill, considering.”

“One of those NRO guys chased me and Camila, Ty. He shot at us.”

I sense him tense on the other side of the line. “You're okay, though, right? Is she all right?”

“No … no. She's not. She's … gone.”