The Labyrinth of Love

Copyright © 2009 by Michael Cantwell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4401-8096-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-8095-8 (ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-8094-1 (hc)

iUniverse rev. date: 12/03/2009

CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTzER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

AFTERWORD

To the memory of my mother and father

and for E. G.

Acknowledgments

Several sources were invaluable to me in my research for this novel. Chief among them were Bearing Witness by Gertrude Blom, Rise and Fall of The City of The Gods by John Carlson, Quetzalcoatl and The Irony of Empire by David Carrasco, Mexico by Michael Coe, The Art of Mesoamerica by Mary Ellen Miller, The Labyrinth of Solitude by Octavio Paz.

CHAPTER ONE

Looking back on everything, I think Maria changed my life more than I changed hers. I was an aging gringo with diminished prospects, and she was a young Mexican woman, unsure, but glorious, in the morning of her beauty.

If it hadn’t been for the art students from Mexico City, I might never have met her. It was the vernal equinox of 1990, and I was in the Yucatan taking photographs for a New York magazine. Spring arrived at twenty-six minutes after five in the afternoon that year. I know because I was a witness, a conspicuous gringo in my Boston Red Sox baseball cap and black jeans, standing among forty thousand awestruck spectators. Women held up umbrellas for protection against the glare of the lowering sun. Others—men and women of all ages—fell upon their knees. Arms and hands were raised in supplication. With my trusty Leica M-6 on the tripod, I recorded the path of an undulating ray of sunlight as it slithered down a staircase on the shadowed side of a grand pyramid. A collective gasp rose up from the plaza when the ray illuminated the limestone snake’s head at the bottom. It was a manifestation of the god I had come to know as Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent. He descended from the heavens to assure those who gathered that their debt of blood had been paid for another year and that the parched land would bloom once again under the falling grace of rain.

Looking over at the kneelers, I spotted a few art students who were staying in my posada in Merida. They were sitting cross-legged in the grass, drawing in sketchbooks propped up on their knees. One of them, a young woman, looked up, and we exchanged smiles of recognition. She came over to where I stood and eyed my tripod and attachments with interest.

"¡Que bueno! She nodded, gazing at me approvingly. ¿Como se llama? Seeing the confused look on my face, she translated haltingly. Hoe—um—how are you called?"

I am called Thomas, I answered, keeping with the spirit of her translation.

"Mucho gusto, Tomas, she said, giving my name a Spanish twist and extending a delicate hand. I am called Koh."

Koh was small, with big, Frida Kahlo eyes set in a round face framed by ringlets of dark, brown hair. She was not beautiful, but qualified as that object of desire that Latino men often refer to (I was to learn) as pimpollo, a ripe, charming, young woman.

"¿De donde es usted? she asked. Um—where are you from?"

New York City, I replied laconically, my voice low.

"¡Nueva York! ¡La gran manzana! Koh’s eyes widened. ¿Que parte? Conoce–do you know—how do you say en Ingles, Green Witch Village?"

Greenwich Village, I corrected her gently. I happen to live there. I shrugged, a little embarrassed that I might be giving Koh the misleading impression that I lived an exciting, bohemian artist’s life.

Indeed, she gave me a thumbs-up sign. "I am reading about Green Witch Village for school. It is a barrio where are living many artistas. I think you are a fotografo artistico!"

The days of Greenwich Village being a mecca for artists were long over, as were my dreams of becoming a fotografo artistico, an heir of Alfred Stieglitz. I had become nothing more than a commercial hack, struggling to eke out a living with my trade.

Yet I was flattered by the attentions of this vivacious young woman. I’d endured the trauma of my sixtieth birthday just the week before. Thanks to the genes of my forbears, I didn’t look my age. My sandy hair had only darkened over the years. I wore horn-rimmed glasses that hid the pouches under my eyes and my developing paunch was well accommodated by my six-foot height.

For all of that, I harbored no illusions of a May–December romance. I’d had my midlife crisis over a decade ago and was resigned to playing an avuncular role in my relations with young women. Still, I was more than pleased when, meeting Koh in our hotel the next day, she invited me to visit her in her home in Mexico City.

It was there I learned that late twentieth-century Mexicans did not measure time with the exactitude of their ancestors who designed the pyramids. Having accepted Koh’s invitation to have Sunday dinner with her family, I arrived at the established hour and given address, to be met at the door by a man with graying hair who gave me a blank look when I introduced myself. He called inside and a woman, also graying, appeared. My name is Thomas Ryan, I tried again. "Tomas. I’m a friend, an amigo of Koh."

They gave one another and me puzzled looks. "Koh no esta, the woman said, No esta en casa." It was clear that they spoke no English whatsoever, and my guidebook Spanish was of little help. It would have been impossible, in any case, to explain how I, a geriatric gringo (older people always caught on to my age), could conceivably be a trusted friend of their teenage daughter.

I mumbled some "disculpas and was about to leave when the man, whom I took to be Koh’s father, broke into a smile. Bienvenido a mi casa," he said, waving me inside the house. He sat me in a bucket chair that swallowed me up in comfort while the woman left the room, reappearing almost immediately with a tray filled with frosted glasses and cans of Pepsi Cola and Mexican beer. I chose a beer and took a frosted glass. My host and hostess followed suit.

They sat across from me, smiling apologetically, and I realized I was not the first of Koh’s collection of friends to arrive as a total stranger. The room was spacious and airy. One wall was dominated by a window that overlooked a flower garden. The Garcías were clearly an upper middle-class family, living in the prosperous colonia of San Angel.

Within minutes, three generations of family members surrounded me. We sat around with our drinks, grinning idiotically at one another and making unsuccessful attempts to communicate. After an agonizing time, a young man arrived who greeted me in English. He had been summoned to act as an interpreter. He was Koh’s older brother, Zum Zum, (which means hummingbird in Tarascan, I was to learn), who was an engineer, as was his father. I was introduced to my host and hostess (who were indeed Koh’s parents), to Koh’s grandmother, a live-in aunt, two younger sisters, and a younger brother. There was an auxiliary family of servants. It was hard to distinguish them from their masters as they wore the same knock-around-the-house clothing and went about their business in a proprietary way.

You are the first Yanqui who is visiting our home, Zum Zum said to me, following an exchange in Spanish with his parents. It to us is pleasing that you like Mexican beer.

It’s the best there is, I said, compromising my true opinion just a little. I had always believed that German beer could not be surpassed, but I reminded myself that Maximilian had brought excellent German brewers to Mexico with him.

Zum Zum continued to translate as my hosts plied me with questions about life in the northern colossus. No, I said, there were not as many rich people or gangsters as shown on television. I could walk out of my apartment building without fear of being shot in the street. No, I did not own a stretch limousine. When they asked me what I thought about the proposed North American Free Trade Agreement, I replied that I hadn’t thought about it much, but it seemed to me that free trade would be a good thing for all concerned. The expressions on their faces indicated that they had deep reservations, but they quickly regained their genial smiles. Zum Zum told me that they were all pleased that I did not appear to be a "Yanqui imperialista."

Koh arrived just in time, talking excitedly to everybody in her family at once. Some minutes passed before she acknowledged my presence with an "Hola, Tomas" and a burst of laughter at the embarrassment she had caused. By the time we were all seated at the dinner table, I felt I was more a friend of the family than I was, specifically, of her.

I don’t remember when I had such wonderful Mexican food. We feasted on stuffed sunflower blossoms, a turkey enchilada casserole, and frijoles so light they almost evaporated in my mouth. When the mango pie was served, Koh addressed me directly for the first time.

"I go to life drawing class with my friends after comida. Would you like coming with me?"

I was more than relieved to receive this gesture of friendship. I was a painter before becoming a photographer, and was delighted by the prospect of joining a drawing class in Mexico.

Is there going to be a model? I smiled.

"¿Un modelo? Si. Tu seras. You will be the modelo." She eyed me saucily and laughed.

We gathered sketchbooks and charcoal sticks. Señora García handed us a bag filled with cans of cold beer. It struck me that the innocence of my relationship to her daughter was never in doubt. Koh led me down a tree-lined street that brought us to a blue and white brick elementary school. A waiting band of scruffy young men and one woman looked surprised when they saw me. I recognized two of the young men from my time in Merida. They all appeared to be from poorer economic backgrounds than Koh, but they shared with her the denim clothing that was the uniform of youth everywhere.

The young woman was about Koh’s age. She wore a baggy sweater and jeans, and a mass of wavy black hair covered much of her face. I mentally dismissed her as a Mexican version of a punk rock groupie. We went into the school and entered a classroom. The young men pushed school desks against the walls and dragged a table to the middle of the room. Koh told me the school had granted them permission to use the space.

Standing amid the children’s desks and my fellow students, all of whom were shorter than I was by a foot, I felt like Alice in Wonderland after eating the cookie that increased her size. I was painfully aware that I looked like the typical privileged gringo in my navy blazer and tan chino pants. I think they took me to be younger than I was. Koh handed me a sketchbook and sat me in a chair that was designed for someone half my size. As I turned my attention to the center of the room, I beheld a sight that sent erotic shock waves throughout my system. My Mexican version of a punk rock groupie had undressed, revealing a stunning figure. A shy smile flickered across her face as she bounded to the top of the table with the graceful ease of a cat. Long-suppressed desires stirred within me. It had been years since I’d seen a young woman without any clothes. Yet I could not remember when I’d seen such a remarkable harmony of womanly shapes, not even in the early days of my career when I photographed nudes. There was no imperfection anywhere. The model’s skin was as smooth as polished marble.

My eyes lifted above the ample, well-defined breasts, climbed the slender neck and proud aquiline nose to search out her eyes that were fixed in an expression that belied the harmony of her other parts. They were dark and luminous and seemed on fire with pain.

The model’s eyes caught mine for a moment and then darted away, as if not wanting to be exposed to the scrutiny permitted of her body. I realized that to allow my gaze to linger on those darkly expressive eyes was the worst kind of voyeurism and so resumed my examination of her fleshy parts. I marveled all the more as I struggled to reproduce their shapes on paper.

Everything I had experienced in the past two weeks—a walk in a rain forest, a sunset cruise in the Caribbean, the spectacle at Chichen Itza, even the wonderful dinner and company I’d just enjoyed—all faded to inconsequentiality in the presence of this raw, erotic power. I pulled back the tab on a can of beer and wondered if Señora García would have been so generous had she known of my profound lust.

The model struck a different pose every five minutes or so, changing positions with the agility of a gymnast. In one pose, she threw her head back, accentuating her lovely throat and stunning breasts. In another, she lay on her side, offering a view of apple-tight buttocks.

As she displayed charm after charm in varying positions, I struggled to assume a look of professional detachment, not wanting to expose myself as a geriatric sex fiend. I forced myself to concentrate on my drawing in a desperate attempt to subdue my lust. I almost wished I had brought my camera, but I knew that would have been an unforgivable infringement.

After a half hour, the model took a break, retiring to a corner and putting on a robe. While the others chatted together, I could not prevent my eyes from gravitating back to her. This time she smiled at me as if there were some understanding between us.

When she returned to her pedestal, the model struck a pose that altered my feelings altogether. Kneeling on one knee and looking up, she held her curly locks in her hands as if shaking them. I suddenly realized where I’d seen such a form and pose before. Hers was the body of the Venus of Rhodes, the Hellenistic statue I’d seen on the Greek island where I’d honeymooned twenty years earlier with my now-divorced wife. It was the same figure in the same pose. My lascivious cravings miraculously transformed. The young woman was no longer an object of my desire. As she knelt, suspended in Olympian space, removed from the ordinary world of wanting and getting, she became an object of aesthetic contemplation. I now desired her no more nor less than I desired a Madonna in a painting by Bellini, a nude in a photograph by Stieglitz, or the Venus of Rhodes herself.

Between sketches, I glanced at the work of my fellow students and saw that their visions differed from mine. The young man next to me interpreted my Venus in terms of cubist planes. Koh saw an abused woman, tortured out of shape. But I had seen the archetype of beauty and could only make a poor and wretched copy. For me, the model on the table was herself a work of art, a complete and intact form that defied all attempts at fragmentation. It was only when I looked into the suffering eyes and they appeared to catch my glance, that my aesthetic defenses threatened to break down.

The model took another break. Koh rose from her chair and announced that she was leaving. She was going to a party in another part of town and invited me to join her. I realized I could not keep up with her untiring spirits and explained that I had to catch an early morning plane to New York.

"Hasta luego, Tomas. She kissed me on both cheeks. I will write to you—in English. My friends will take you to the metro after class." I felt I was being left behind in paradise and wanted the class never to end. But end it did, after another hour. Venus went to her corner and began to dress.

One of my fellow students turned to me with a smile that told me we were compañeros in art. How did you—do it? he asked shyly.

I am frustrated. I flipped through my sketchbook and shrugged. The model is beautiful, but I could not capture her beauty in my drawings.

From where she stood, tucking her blouse inside her jeans, the model uttered a barely audible Thank you. Then she walked over to where I sat and asked, When are you coming back to Mexico? Her voice was as lovely as everything else about her.

I don’t know. Maybe next year. I’d made no plans.

That’s too long, she said, the fiery eyes fixed on mine.

I was too astonished to make a sensible reply. Maybe you will come to New York someday—with Koh.

I am poor, she said, matter-of-factly.

While the others pushed desks back in place, I went to the lavatory that I found off a darkened balcony that ran above a play yard. When I came out, I was surprised to see the young woman alone on the balcony. She might have just come out of the girl’s room.

Can I help you with something? she asked.

"Oh, I was looking for—el baño, but I found it, Gracias."

Then, as I often did when traveling, I asked her, in just that casual way, if she would like to exchange addresses with me. We found an old copy of Excelsior on the floor, tore off corners, and scribbled in the semidarkness. As she began to write, I heard a male voice call from below, Maria!

"¡Momento!" she called back, with some annoyance. We traded our scraps of paper, and I saw that her full name was Maria Consuelo Delfina Lopez. The address was hard to make out, and there was no phone number. I was tempted to ask her to have dinner with me the following evening, but I didn’t. It would have meant forfeiting my plane ticket and paying full fare for another, an expense I could barely afford. Such frugality was the legacy of my ex-wife, who’d nurtured the practical side of my nature. So I promised to write, and she did the same. All through my return flight, I was consumed with thoughts of Maria, and mentally kicked myself for putting practical considerations above an opportunity to spend an evening with the love goddess of Tenochtitlan.

CHAPTER TWO

Back in New York, I resumed my routines: my early morning jogs, my hours tinkering in my darkroom, and my rounds of the agencies. There were not enough celebrities in my portfolio to land a freelance assignment with the slicks, and there were no new travel opportunities. I found myself taking pictures of smiling bank officers who would adorn investment brochures. I told the story of my encounter with the model to an old friend, who said, You should have taken a romantic leap. If you were like one of your literary heroes—who was it, Jake Barnes?—you would have thrown your plane ticket away and gone after the girl.

You have the wrong literary character. Jake Barnes was impotent. He spends most of the novel running away from Lady Brett. It’s Robert Cohn who pursues her and comes away with his heart bleeding through his shirt sleeves.

But the Barnes analogy was not too far off the mark. I was a battle-scarred veteran of the sexual wars, emasculated by a divorce ten years earlier.

There was irony in my wife being the one who left me. Throughout my youth, I had a weakness for beautiful women and passed up more than one opportunity to marry a woman who possessed every other virtue for fear I would eventually betray her. But the great beauties I pursued, passed through my life, unyielding to me in every way that mattered.

Perhaps it was to escape my obsession with feminine beauty that I concentrated on the photography of social realism in the late sixties. It was because of my obsession that I married late in life, to a woman who wasn’t beautiful after all. I fell in love with her anyway, fell in love with her youthful spirits (she was twelve years my junior), her quick intelligence, her wholesome good looks (maintained by ritual visits to the Racquet Club of New York), her exquisite taste in art, and even her talent for selecting and arranging household furnishings.

Julia was an industrial designer who was as ambitious for me as she was for herself. But we were ambitious