Free Aztec Century by Christopher Evans Page A

itself was austerely furnished in white stucco and earthen tiles. There were brackets for candles and vases holding fresh flowers. Even when full, its bare benches could have accommodated no more than fifty people.
    Behind the simple raised altar at the far end hung a small picture, difficult to see in the dimness. As we moved forward, Victoria blurted out, ‘It’s Jesus and Mary.’
    ‘Of course,’ Chicomeztli responded. ‘Perhaps you were expecting twin shrines to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc, yes? An altar drenched in human blood?’
    Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc were two major gods of the Aztecs before their conversion to Christianity, honoured with mass sacrifices of prisoners in former times.
    Victoria seemed nervous at the very mention of their names.
    ‘We call the Son of God Ipalnemoani,’ Chicomeztli told her. ‘It means “He By Whom We Live”.’
    I also knew that the Aztecs referred to God as Tloque Nahaque, ‘Lord of the Immediate Vicinity’. Both these nameshad once been applied to pre-Christian deities, all of which increased suspicions that the Aztecs still clung to their ancient beliefs beneath the cloak of Roman Catholicism.
    Like all Aztecs, Chicomeztli was aware of our fears, and he obviously enjoyed playing up to them.
    ‘Perhaps you would like to see another chapel? We have many more, some much larger than this. We keep them very clean.’
    His fractured smile and off-centre gaze accentuated the impression of mockery.
    ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ I said.
    We lunched in a dining room on one of the upper levels which was adorned with a large Warhola painting of Tenochtitlan. The pyramids and towers of the capital stood out in super-realism against the greens and blues of lake and sky while a spiky golden sun blazed down. The colours were stark and primary, and it did not surprise me that the artist had later pursued an equally successful career producing animated features for one of the major Acapulco studios.
    Chicomeztli intended to take us on to see the new chamber for the House of Commons, but both Victoria and I were now wearying of the tour. Victoria pleaded a migraine and returned to her suite. I asked to see Extepan.
    Chicomeztli glanced at me across the table. ‘Do you mean immediately?’
    I nodded.
    ‘It’s possible he may not be available.’
    I merely shrugged, as if to say: ‘Try.’
    He went off to a phone booth while I gazed idly at the scattering of people at the other tables. All were Aztecs, attending to their lunches in silence, sparing me only the occasional glance. A television high on one wall was showing the latest episode of
Oaxaca Heights
, an imported soap opera which was by far the BBC’s most popular programme.
    Chicomeztli returned.
    ‘I have been asked if it is urgent,’ he said.
    ‘Quite urgent.’
    ‘Then the governor will see you immediately. He apologizes in advance if you find him in informal circumstances. It is the time in each day when he takes a break from his duties.’
    I nodded, perfectly aware that the Aztecs followed a practice similar to the Spanish
siesta
. I was actually hoping to catch him off-guard.
    We rode a private lift to Extepan’s suite, and were met by a retainer who took us through the governor’s offices to a room beyond. Aztec chairs and couches dominated the room, but on the walls were framed posters for London Underground, Roberts’ Supermarkets and the National Lottery. A low table was cluttered with newspapers and magazines, while glass-fronted cabinets held all manner of bric-à-brac from cheap plaster models of Big Ben to a plastic policeman’s helmet.
    An adjoining door opened, and Extepan emerged. He was dressed only in a dark blue towelling robe, and the swathe of his chest gleamed with oil. Behind him was a young woman in a striped
huipil
, her long black hair braided, her arms bare. She immediately struck me as beautiful, with large almond eyes and a perfectly formed mouth. From her dress, it