Free Invisible City by M. G. Harris Page A

‘Papa,’ wasn’t his real father. That kind of family secret—it’s not unusual, especially in a Catholic country like Mexico. Young women who got pregnant out of wedlock didn’t broadcast it then, and they still don’t. She married a close family friend and that was that—they forgot about the real father. You certainly didn’t go telling your children that they were illegitimate.
    â€œBut she’s getting old, so she decided to come clean with Andres, to admit the truth. She told him that his real father was a museum curator, a man she met when she was nineteen. At least he said he was a museum curator. He was the man in this photo. He was looking to buy old manuscripts from local collectors and take them back to his museum. One thing led to another between the two of them. Then one day he just upped and disappeared. Your grandmother—Abuelita—called the museum he said he worked for, but they’d never heard of him. No one had. He arrived as if from nowhere and went back the same way. This photo of him was the only evidence Abuelita ever really had that he’d ever existed. That and your father, of course.”
    I have no idea what to say.
    Mom continues, “Your dad was raised by the man who waskind enough to marry Abuelita. He never knew or suspected. Then, when he was about ten or eleven, he began to dream about the man in the hut. And ‘Summon the Bakab Ix.’ It haunted him. When he discovered that the man in his dream was really his father … well …”
    She pauses, seems wistful at the memory. “He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was as though a missing part of him had been found. But it still didn’t make sense of the dream.”
    Then she turns, stares intently at me for a second, and asks, “Josh, did Dad ever tell you about that dream?”
    I shake my head. Seems like Dad had been pretty close-mouthed about the whole matter.
    â€œThen,” Mom says quietly, “how can this be happening to you too?”
BLOG ENTRY: CAPOEIRA O LE LE

    I was desperate for a bit of normality, so I let Tyler persuade me to join the capoeira players in a demonstration for the Summertown Arts Festival. We set up outside the bank on a sunny Saturday morning by the curious Summertown residents. A light breeze blew the last of the loose cherry blossoms from a nearby tree and they drifted over us like snow. Mestre Ricardo took the berimbau, the main musical instrument we use in capoeira; I took the pandeiro drum. The whole group stood ina circle as we drummed up a crowd with a song. Pretty soon supermarket shoppers were crossing the road to watch us launch ourselves in combat. In capoeira, the trick is to just skirt the edges—no contact. It’s a flirtation with violence, a ballet. The beauty of the game lies in the controlled, acrobatic restraint of the players.
    After a few turns I was up against Tyler. We’d rehearsed the cue. As the
roda
struck up with the song “Capoeira O Le Le,” we began.
Ginga, handstand, au malandrau, cocorinha, armada, queixada
. I executed my moves perfectly, just as we practiced. Then Tyler left the script and pulled out some style moves—a headspin, a handstand whirl. I could see him grinning at me, thrilled to have caught me off guard. From then on we improvised; we dropped into the music’s groove.
    That Tyler—he’s a show-off. But he knows how to please an audience. The crowd loved it.
    Then Ollie turned up. And the subject turned to the codex …

Chapter 11
    I glance around the faces, hoping to see Ollie—and then there she is. Luckily, Tyler’s also thrown off balance at the sight of her. With her eyes on us our pace picks up a notch. I can feel my skin warming where her gaze lands.
    â€œThat was coolness,” she says afterward, grinning. Tyler has another bout to prepare for, and he strips off to the T-shirt underneath.
    â€œHe’s in