A Corpse for Cuamantla Read Online Free Page A

children's performances. A rather somber looking young man caught her attention. He resembled a Texan with his boots, spurs, and cowboy hat.
    "Good morning," she said, recognizing him as one of Art Fortin's students from the University of Tlaxcala where Art taught each summer. She tried to remember his name.
    "Buenos días," he replied as if trying to place her.
    "I'm Anna Merino. Dr. Fortin's graduate student? You stopped by the house a couple of months ago to drop off some papers for him?"
    "Ah yes, I remember now. Rolando Múñoz." He stuck out his hand. "How's your research coming along?"
    "Better than I anticipated," she said. "Do you live in Cuamantla? I haven't seen you here before."
    "A friend and I came in for the fiesta. I have a cousin in the village. He invited us and I couldn't turn down a fiesta invitation."
    "I agree. This is my first fiesta so I'm curious about everything."
    "Well, if I can help you in any way, Maestra, let me know. I'll be around."
    Rolando drifted off and Anna resumed filming, wondering whether his friend was male or female. She thought back to the evening Rolando showed up at Art's house in Belén, surprised when someone other than Art answered the door. They’d had a nice conversation, but she never invited him inside even though he seemed nice enough. She wasn't taking chances with strangers even if they were Art's students.
    Turning her video camera to the center of the plaza, Anna focused on the bandstand, catching smiles of appreciation from the village musicians preparing for their evening performance. She knew they would ask for copies of her video. This filming enterprise of hers might get expensive, she thought, siphoning a little too much money from her limited grant funds.
    Looking around for a place to rest her feet, she decided to take advantage of Rosa's front stoop, a good place to sit and monitor the zocalo's activities. After settling herself onto the top step, she opened her backpack for a stick of gum and noticed her cell phone, which reminded her to call Art. Reception in Cuamantla was spotty, but the village square often provided a modicum of coverage. The phone registered one bar, enough to reach Art if the satellite stayed in range. She let his number ring until the answering service picked up, and left a message.
    "Art. Somebody stole the Real Cédula," she told the faceless machine, "and I need to talk to you right away. Please call me. Talk to you later." He'll return my call in a hurry when he hears that, she thought, relieved for an excuse not to talk to him at this particular moment. She wondered if he’d turned his phone off or was screening his calls.
    An awe-inspiring brilliance of color blanketed the zócalo and she wished her backpack contained artist's paints and brushes instead of a notebook and number two pencils. Cuamantla, Nahuatl for 'place of beautiful trees,' was aptly named and she felt especially grateful to be part of it. Maybe when she returned to the U.S., she would resume her painting. She could picture the zócalo right now as an abstract. A palette knife in her mind's eye spread dollops of color across a glorious sky blue canvas. Or maybe she would write. What a great backdrop for a novel. She played with titles, but nothing came to mind.
    Scanning the square with her camera, she adjusted the focus to capture the widest view, contemplating how the simple press of a button could stop time. Aiming the camera at the volcano, she spotted a tiny red ant crawling down one side of the mountain, an ant she identified immediately as María's VW bug. Miguel had guessed right again. María was on her way back to Cuamantla.
    Anna breathed a sigh of relief despite the somewhat ominous scene filling her viewfinder. Malinche's early morning benevolence faded with the appearance of a forbidding gray mass ringing the volcano. The dark cloud hovered over the poignant red shape making its way down the mountain. Anna shook herself. She needed to rein in her