Marjorie Thelen - The Hieroglyphic Staircase

But she didn’t want Armando to worry about losing his job. “The Park won’t close. This is a major archaeological site, and the tourism it attracts is important to the economy.”

The relief on his face made Elena glad she had risked an opinion. Life was precarious for Armando and his family and for so many like them in the barrio . Work was hard to find for an unskilled laborer.

She asked about the children.

“They are doing well in school. Juan likes numbers, Ana likes to play, Julio is good at soccer and Angelica helps her mother a lot.” His pride in their accomplishments colored his face.

Elena could hear the children’s small voices from within whispering, rising and falling with questions, their mother trying to hush them. “Please tell them I said hello. I’ll call another day to see how they are doing.”

“We are very grateful,” said Armando.

Dominic spoke up. “Elena, didn’t you tell me that you saw Armando sweeping this morning before you entered the Museum?”

She nodded, catching his train of thought. “Yes, Armando, you were there early this morning. What time was it when you arrived?”

“I arrived the same time I always arrive, around seven. I leave at two.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?” asked Dominic. “Anything that didn’t look quite right to you? Were there any people around who usually aren’t there? Did you notice anything out of place yesterday when you left for the day?”

Armando squinted back into the last twenty-four hours. “I don’t think so. I talked to some of the regular workers when I first got there, and my supervisor who tells me what to do every day. Today is the sweeping, sometimes it is collecting trash. Sometimes I help with trimming the grass after the big mowers are finished. Yesterday was more of the same, I think. But today … I can’t remember.” He pulled his lower lip but that didn’t seem to help his memory.

“If you think of anything out of the ordinary,” said Elena, “will you let me know?”

“ Sí, claro . Thank you again for the food. We cannot tell you how much we appreciate it.”

On the ride back to Dominic’s place, they both were silent, intent on their own thoughts. He parked in front of his house and cut the motor. They sat, not moving, not making an attempt to leave the Jeep. Elena leaned against the head rest. In her upward gaze she became aware of the stars and the clear night sky.

“What are you thinking?” Dominic asked in a quiet voice almost as if he hated intruding into the peaceful moment.

“That beyond the little town of Copan Ruinas, people are living ordinary lives without murders. It doesn’t seem real that this can be happening to me. What were you thinking?”

“That I wish different circumstances had brought us together. But even under these difficult circumstances, I’m glad we met.”

She smiled at him. “I’m glad, too. I’m grateful for your help. It’s means a lot to me.”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “What do you say we go in and finish the martinis?”

“Sounds good.”

In the kitchen he fixed a fresh round of martinis and poured out two glasses.

“Come,” he said, “there’s a small patio in the back, we can sit out there.”

She followed him through a narrow hall that opened to an outside space enclosed by a wall. Two wire chairs with cushions were the only furniture. Potted plants, mainly gardenias, were arranged in a minor forest in one corner. Their sweet, exotic fragrance filled the air.

“Who’s the gardener?” Elena asked.

“The housekeeper. She has a real knack for gardenias.”

He faced her and held up his glass. “Here’s to good fortune, Elena.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she said. They touched glasses and sipped their drinks.

He moved the chairs side by side, and they sat down, facing the gardenia forest. The scent of gardenias was as intoxicating as the martini Elena was drinking. She wondered about Dominic and his life before Copan.

“How did your marriage break up?” she asked, without preamble or warning. Her lips formed the question before the thought entered her mind, before she could censor the query and not speak it.

Dominic took a long drink. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. Instead he gazed up at the night sky. “My wife had an affair with a younger man in our parish, one of my parishioners. She ended up pregnant with his child. She left me to marry him. End of story.” He upended his drink and finished it.

The shock of Dominic’s admission robbed Elena of speech. Clergy were supposed to be perfect and immune from the trials of other mortals. But it wasn’t the end of the story, because it haunted this man.

She finished her drink and rose. She couldn’t think of one word that would mitigate the pain of so traumatic an event. “I’m sorry” sounded so trite. Betrayal and deceit she understood.

She took his hand. “Come, I’ll fix us another drink.”

Dominic wasn’t quite sure why he had told Elena the truth. He supposed it was because he liked her, trusted her, wanted her to know who he was, what his story was. It was common knowledge in his parish what had happened. The scandal had rocked a decent group of people to Jerusalem and back. They’d all had to call on their faith to get through the darkest days. His faith had not made it. He’d left it behind and didn’t know if it would ever return.

Elena expertly mixed their drinks with a twist of lime, light on the ice. She handed him a glass and leaned against the sink in the kitchen.

At last, she said, “How did you ever live through it?”

He leaned against the sink beside her, and they studied the refrigerator and stove. The top of the refrigerator was arranged in an altar of sorts with the Virgin of Suyapa in a gold gown and shining crown in a gilded frame guarded by a small unlit vigil candle. Dominic wondered if the Virgin had been shocked by his revelation.

How did he live through it?

“I don’t know,” he said. “I remember numbness. It was dreamlike, filled with faces of people I loved, who were horrified for me, embarrassed for me, some accusing me.”

“Accusing you? Of what?” she said, sounding indignant. “A woman does something like that, it can’t be your fault.”

An image of the face of Mrs. MacElroy, an older parishioner, came to mind, her thin lipped mouth saying she was sorry to hear about his wife, her cold blue eyes suggesting something else.

“Maybe if I had been a better husband, I wouldn’t have lost my wife to another man.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” said Elena in a gentle voice.

He shrugged. “Maybe. Mostly there was sympathy and anger and sadness. They said they wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t. It was too painful. You see, I loved my wife. Maybe I still do. I tried to get help for her drinking, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was the classic alcoholic — nothing wrong with her, it was the rest of the world.”

Elena put her arm around his back. “I’m sorry, Dominic. I don’t know what made me ask.”

“No, it helped to voice the words and meet that dragon head on.” He turned to her. “But enough of my problems. You have some of your own. I have a hunch that our inspector Oliveros is involved in the smuggling operation you’ve uncovered. Why else would he try to pin the blame on you?”

“That’s a chilling thought, and you may be right. I’ll track him down tomorrow to give him the St. Jude medal and see where the investigation is going. Hopefully, not in my direction. And we still need to find those boys.”

Elena didn’t have to seek out the inspector. He came to her. He arrived early the next morning while she was at the breakfast table.