The Demands of the Dead by Justin Podur Page B

the zocalo to look through the envelope Hoffman had given me.
    In the two minutes it took me to go through my stuff, I was offered beads, gum, and thread bracelets and necklaces by a lineup of indigena women and children. A man offered me hammocks. A kid offered me candy that looked like solid chunks of honey. 3 for a peso. Why not , I thought.
    Hoffman had included directions, and a map, to a central and relatively expensive hotel for me, but one without a telephone in the room. I called Hoffman from the front desk to report in. He had set me up with a local human rights group, and told me where I needed to be the next day. Would I be going straight back to Hatuey, this time with the human rights people instead of the police? He thought so, yes. Did I need to wrap things up quickly? No, no hurry, neither the Mexican nor the US government nor the human rights community were pushing him for a quick report. Neither the rebels nor the government were putting this in the media, so we had breathing space – for the moment.
    That was the clear channel communication. I sent a summary of the conversation to Hoffman over email from a cybercafe near the hotel. Then I went through the whole routine again, and replied to Maria.
    “Hello my love, I had a nice visit with uncle's extended family. Now I am going to visit with some new business associates outside of the city, including the CEO – I haven't met him yet but he seems nice from his photo - and hopefully we can have some productive meetings. The weather is really good and I miss you a lot. Love, LM.”
    “LM” was “Los Muertos”, the email name that Walter was using, code that I was going to try to get into the Zapatista village. The comment about the CEO was that I knew Walter was here. I was smiling to myself as I deleted the evidence that I'd been on the computer. I knew it was a game, but it was hitting me that Walter was here somewhere, and that Maria had called me darling.
    It was 11pm when I got to back my room, all my chores finished. It was a simple, single room, but even though San Cristobal was full of them, this was no cheap hostel for budget travelers. The paint was new, the floors were immaculate, the sheets smelled strongly of being freshly laundered. Light orange paint sang from the walls in a clever way that made it look like there was a fireplace going (there wasn’t). The rooms, including mine, opened into a courtyard complete with plants, a fountain, and statues—of cherubs. My room came complete with my own refrigerator with soda and drinking water, and a well-appointed private bathroom. Hoffman was a good employer.
    Tomorrow at noon I had a meeting at the Chiapas Human Rights Defense Network. The night air breezed through my room, calling me out to a city with history and character. My hotel was right at the center of it all. If I didn’t want to go far, I could try the hotel’s own restaurant, which had a menu of Mexican and American food. I was hungry. But rest took priority. I slept.
     
    I chose the much-photographed Café Historia for breakfast, having seen half of its clientele in US Embassy intelligence files. If coffee was a weapon in this war, the rebels definitely had an advantage over the police. Cafe Historia featured wait staff who handed out maps of San Cristobal, ground the coffee in front of you, and maintained chess tables and a schedule of cultural events. At some level below the rational, maybe in the waitress's micro-level body language, maybe in the nature of the glances I could only see in my peripheral vision, in the reactions to an American, I could feel that Walter had been here recently.
     
    I walked over to look at the chess game, which was being played in silent intensity. The players and most of the spectators I already knew, from the photos that Chief Saltillo had shown me. Black was an old white Mexican with a full white beard and long straight gray hair, who I didn't recognize. White was a young mestizo guy with