The Mummies of Blogspace9 (18 page)

“You misjudged me,” I said.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Half the men in this bar are giving me the eye, and each one of them is thinking the same thing – what is she doing with that loser. So when I get up in thirty seconds and give one of them a great big kiss, and ask to borrow his phone, he’s going to smile. And Bruce, if I make that call, you’re going to die. So be smart. Give me the book and tell me where the gold is.”

A girl came over with a bottle of wine, my girl. She was lovely, I can’t even begin to describe just how lovely.

“I’d like you to meet Naya,” I told Michelle. “I’ve told her a lot about you.”

Michelle looked confused. That confusion turned to horror when Naya grabbed hold of her wrist.

“I told her that you had exceptionally good taste, but she said she’d have to find out for herself. Goodbye, Michelle.”

26 Calle Lope de Ovando, Seville
price inclusive • dinner and show
daily 9pm and midnight
MENU TURISTICO (52 euro)
glass beer, selection of bread,
chicken with french fry
1/2 bottle water, cube of cheese
MENU GASTRONOMICO (72 euro)
glass beer or sherry, broiled sausage
sherry-infused ham, paella Valenciana
1/2 bottle house wine
cheese plate, house dessert

July 23, 2011
Seville, Spain
Leon Samples

As far as Flamenco restaurants go, this takes the prize. Aside from the fact that I’ve never been to any others, Flamenco Melchor is truly exceptional. Let me count the ways:
1)
the dancing girls are so far beyond hot that my head hurts,
2)
this is the best food I’ve ever had in my life. Sherry and ham, Bruce? Who would have thought to serve sherry and ham together? But you know what, it works.

Paella
– what’s not to like about paella? And a little sirloin steak to boot! Bruce, man, I’d say you’ve been living the life, but that wouldn’t be fair. I know it hasn’t been all fun and games for you, what with being a wanted criminal and having to plan your girlfriend’s cannibalistic death. But I have to tell you, I’m impressed. You are a cold, calculating, cannibal-loving mother-fucker.

I’ve been here for more than an hour. I sent a message back to the kitchen that I’d like to speak with your friend Negromonte, but they looked at me like I was crazy. He hasn’t shown up. Nor have you. We have some thinking to do, my friend, some planning and plotting. Bruce, what is our plan here, other than finding Kim? Hey, they have gazpacho!

One odd note – there’s this old guy sitting a couple of tables away who keeps staring at me. I think he’s a dandy. He’s wearing expensive-looking clothes, but they’re not right for the occasion. Also, he has a pocket watch and an iPhone. How’s that for anachronistic accessorizing! He’s drinking brandy and smoking a cigar, which is pretty cool, but there’s something off about him.

Hold on, he’s coming over. $50 says he’s going to proposition me. I’m turning on the recorder so you can’t say I was lying.

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indiv 1:
A man of good taste – you went ahead and ordered the fixed-price gastronomy meal when you could have opted for the basic tourist chum. It cost an extra twenty euros, but worth every centimo.

indiv 2:
Who are you?

indiv 1:
For the next course, I’d advise you to decline the gazpacho, and instead elect the Fois-Gras ravioli. Yummy.

indiv 2:
What the hell? Duran, is that you?

indiv 1:
I’m drinking sherry, not brandy. And I’m not a dandy. My clothing is impeccable, quite flattering, and considerably more apt for the occasion than that ridiculous frock you have on. A hoodie? Did you think the restaurant might be so cold you’d be driven to don a hood? If that’s a normal concern, I would suggest frequenting warmer restaurants.

voice activation mode:
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OK, so I read that whole situation wrong. Apparently nobody wants me. Story of my life.

July 23, 2011
Cupertino, CA
Administrator

Due to security concerns both perceived and actual, and at the request of Dr. Bruce Wheeler, who is now project leader, we have closed communication channels to all non-subscribers. What this means is that the original nine accounts are the only access points to this blog.

Because Cyrus Sanderson and Michelle Cavalcante are reported deceased, only seven accounts remain active, and one of those has never been accessed. Although law enforcement can request access to this blog, the court order that would grant them that permission takes approximately five days to acquire, and you have only four days left on your service contract.

Therefore, please use these channels in confidence as you plan the resolution of your activities. On behalf of
Blogspace9
, we wish you much success.

July 23, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler

I’m working on it, boys. Give us a moment to breathe here. Yes Leon, we need to meet. Ten minutes from now, your waitress will hand you a napkin with an address on it. You too, Duran. Meet me at midnight, not because I’m trying to make a point, or because there’s something creepy about midnight, but because it’s almost eleven now and I haven’t showered.

Remember those documents I copied at the university about a month ago? I just had another run at them. If you remember, I was looking for hits on Sebastiano. I didn’t give it a second thought because the timeline was wrong, but there was a reference to an S. Goya that intrigued me.

In 1831, the parish of San Lorca de los Penitentes received the bodies of seventeen missionary priests. The bodies were interred in the cemetery in the town of Cantaluz, high in the Pyrenees. And the leader of the expedition that brought them was a priest named Goya.

A common name, so initially I didn’t think much of it. But I did a little more research. The parish of San Lorca de los Penitentes was abandoned in the mid-1550s because the parishioners vanished. And we now know why – it’s because Cuellar ate them, so there would have been nobody there to fund the expedition.

July 23, 2011
Seville, Spain
Vasco Cuellar

You know, a little forgiveness goes a long way. Had you been there in that village high in the Pyrenees, you’d have a sense of how insufferable those wretches were. But I try not to dwell on the past.

A tidbit I wish to convey – the Cardinal of Seville has been summoned to the Alcazar tomorrow at sunset to officiate a wedding. A cardinal of the Roman Catholic Church is not easily, summoned. Yet summoned he was.

Quiroga intends to take a bride tomorrow, a bride who is already in residence. Your friend has arrived. I can’t imagine it will be possible to secure an invitation at this late date, but I’m certain that gifts will be appreciated.

July 23, 2011
Seville, Spain
Bruce Wheeler

My friends, what do you think might have been inside those seventeen coffins? If you’re thinking priests, I’m a little disappointed. S. Goya is Sebastiano Gota. He brought the gold back to Spain.

I asked Naya if she could fill in some of the gaps.

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indiv 1:
I thought the first night would be the worst, the night they turned us. But it wasn’t. Afterwards, after a period of unspeakable depredations, the Inquisitor took my face in his surprisingly soft hands and apologized. He told me he’d kill me if he could, but he couldn’t. So instead, he would throw me in a lake.

We were tied, Sebastiano and I, tied to a bull llama, the largest I had yet seen, and were led by a squad of soldiers up into the mountains. Sebastiano, for his part, having been forced to witness what was done to me, had stopped speaking completely, which was understandable given the fact that his tongue had been removed.

We were to be rowed out to the middle of Lake Titicaca, tied in bags weighted with rocks, and thrown overboard. “You won’t drown,” the Inquisitor whispered into my ear as we left. “You’ve all of eternity to remember our nights together as you sit there on the floor of that frozen lake.” I tried to spit in his face, but I hadn’t been given water in days, and could not manage it.

We climbed for days, Sebastiano mumbling his prayers but saying little else. The soldiers had been ordered to leave me be, under pain of death. But one slipped off my manacles one moonless night, in the process of removing my clothes, and I crushed his skull with so little effort it surprises me now to even think of it.

Before the next soldier could react, the arrows came, long ones, the kind the Inca should have been using since those first Spanish ships appeared on the horizon. Some vassal tribes from the Amazon had finally provided weaponry that could pierce Spanish armor. The battle was over in minutes.

The last Incas they called themselves, working for the emperor himself, as if there was still an emperor. But they were nothing but stragglers looking for a place in the world. Still, they attended to us. They marched us for weeks, higher and higher into the mountains, crossing bridges of rope and paths of stone until we reached the fortress.

Abandoned since the dawn of time, it seemed, but we were promised we’d be safe there. They would return in a month with provisions, we were told, and then they left, cutting the rope bridge as they departed. And they never returned.

Looking back, that was the last remnant of Inca fighting forces. The Spanish had by that time long won the battle.

We spent the next days exploring our new home. Though we didn’t know what it was then, the fortress of Machu Picchu was an Inca citadel, capable of sustaining the royal family for an eternity if necessary, but it had long since been forgotten by most.

We built a fire each night, Sebastiano and I, but he wouldn’t talk to me. And then we stopped building a fire, and we spent our days wandering the ruins, and they were ruins even then. Alone, we explored our fortress. One day Sebastiano climbed that great sacred mountain and sat himself on top so he could talk to God. I know because I would visit every year or so at first, then every decade.

And time passed. One morning, nearly two hundred and fifty years into our confinement, soldiers returned. Different soldiers, they were armed with strange new weapons, and they were quite surprised to find anyone alive up there. How did we survive, they continued to ask.

And although they didn’t quite understand, they began to get a sense that we were different, something altogether apart from their understanding of the natural world. Apparently, there was someone we needed to meet.

We marched for months, climbing up and down. So unaccustomed to the presence of others, I said very little, even when addressed. But I took some comfort in the sound of voices. Even marching at my side, Sebastiano said nothing, not once meeting my eyes.