A Vote for Murder (29 page)

I ordered
pollo almendrado,
almond chicken, and a glass of orange juice. While I waited to be served, I peered over the wall and watched a group of youngsters dressed in traditional costumes doing an elaborate dance for a throng that encircled them in the square. The boys wore white pants and shirts with multi-colored bands at their waists; the girls were in white dresses with black aprons, red ribbons trailing from small headpieces fluttered as they twirled around. Even from my perch seven floors above them, I could hear snatches of the music and the steady beat of a drum. A burst of applause greeted the end of their performance. They bowed to the audience, then ran to surround the man who had kept time with the drum, presumably their instructor, before he lined them up, two by two, and led them out of the square.

I opened my shoulder bag, pulled out a guide book I’d bought in New York, and identified other buildings that bordered the Zócalo. To my left was the Metropolitan Cathedral, a jumble of architectural styles that nevertheless resulted in an impressive baroque building with a pair of towers flanking one of several grand entrances. My book said it was begun in the 16th Century to replace a cathedral built by Cortes, and that it incorporates not only stones from the ruins of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, an Aztec god, but also a wall of skulls of Aztec sacrificial victims. Taking up the entire east side of the plaza was the National Palace, built in the 17th Century and home to government offices and the celebrated murals of Diego Rivera depicting the history of Mexico. I glanced at my watch to see if there would be enough time to view the murals or stop into the cathedral. Maybe if I ate quickly, but it didn’t look promising.

All thoughts of having a quiet lunch evaporated a few minutes later when a mariachi band—two trumpets, two guitars, a violin, and a vocalist shaking maracas—stepped onto the terrace. I watched those around me look up happily as the band played the first notes of a song, the spirited music coaxing smiles from even the most serious diners. The waiter brought a basket of bread and kept my glass filled with juice until my chicken was served. I ate and listened to the band members as they threaded their way between the umbrellas to serenade each of the tables, my foot keeping time with the lively beat.

The music helped ease the tension of my hectic last few weeks. It was nice to be on vacation. I love to travel, but book tours can be exhausting—a real “if this is Tuesday, it must be Boston” experience. While I enjoy meeting new people, especially readers, seeing new places and learning about them, it’s always a pleasant prospect to contemplate a few weeks with nothing specific to do but sit back and relax. No notes to take, no schedules to meet, no rush to catch another plane. Vaughan and Olga were the perfect hosts. They had a busy life of their own, and insisted I was to use their home as it were mine, and join them—or not—as I wished. They had promised that I wouldn’t be in their way. “We’ll even ignore you, if that’s what you want.” Which, of course, wasn’t what I wanted at all. What I did want was time. Time to renew our acquaintance. Time to stretch out with a book. Time to take leisurely walks in the charming town. Perhaps some gallery or museum visits, or a concert I could treat them to. Just a peaceful vacation with old friends. It sounded wonderful. But I was in for a rude awakening.