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We stayed in a tiny beach-side bungalow. It was perfect—simple, secluded, right on the water. We cooked over a campfire. The shrimp we bought at the pier of the small fishing village were the best we’d ever had. The sun went down, and the stars provided the only light. We sat on a small blanket in the sand and could not seem to get close enough to each other. “Do you want to know something, Luca?” Yaxche` asked.
“Yes, tell me everything. I love to hear your voice,” I said.
“You know ‘Yaxche’ is a Mayan name. But do you know what it means?” she asked.
“Does it mean ‘The Fairy Queen’?” I asked. I was trying to make her laugh.
But she was serious and said, “I won’t tell you if you are going to make up things.”
“No, I don’t know. Tell me now,” I said.
“It means, according to mythology, ‘the Tree of Heaven under which good souls rejoice’.”
I said, “That’s wonderful. And it’s true, too. For I am a good soul made better in your company.”
We shivered a little. Was it from the light breeze coming in off the sea? She took my hand, and we went into the bungalow. We kissed and held each other all night long. We were thankful for the time together, and we made the most of it. We were young, and we made love as though there was no tomorrow.
Tomorrow
The days rushed by. June fell away behind us. Then it was mid-July. There was another meeting in Merida. It was to be our last. “Friends, I have found out many details for the approaching visit by Pope John Paul II. He will not be going to Mexico City. He is flying into Merida, directly from Jamaica. He will go from here to Izamal. He will be addressing the people of Izamal at the Convent of San Antonio de Padua,” Ignacio announced. “Then he will return to Merida for a speech here. So we will have at least two chances. Chances for what, you ask? Chances to avenge our ancestors. We must show the world that the Mayans will not suffer such outrages and go quietly as slaves and chattel. For crimes done against humanity, the head of the Church must pay. The Pope must die!”
Each man in the room spoke and said he felt the same.
“But how? And who among us will do it?” The questions came in a rush.
Ignacio had answers for all. “We will have two points to the attack. The main one, here in Merida, will occur as soon as the papal entourage touches down at Merida-Rejon Airport. We can’t miss. Security is very lax. Crowds are to be allowed within a very close proximity as the Pope starts to deliver his address.”
“So we carry a gun and shoot him, then?” a voice from the rear asked.
“No, we use these,” Ignacio said. He reached into a small cloth bag and produced two hand grenades. “Gifts from a friend in the Mexican Army.”
We looked at each other and at those grenades. What had been talk and posturing was now changed. Suddenly, it had all become deadly serious. You could feel a new tension in the room. The dread on the faces of some was written plainly. The hard resolve on the faces of others was unmistakable.
“The man at my side, Jorge`, works as a baggage handler at the aeropuerto. He has security clearance to be on the tarmac .When His Excellency comes down the open stairway that has been put in place, he will be on the far side of the plane. When the Pope reaches the ground, and before he gets too close to the waiting crowd, he will meet his fate. The grenade will be rolled from the other side of the plane, and it will be over before anyone sees what is happening,” Ignacio said.
About Wes Oldham
