The Indigo Notebook (22 page)

“Maybe he’s changed now,” I say. “You could at least talk to him.”

He shakes his head. “You can do it. Talk to Wendell. Tell him to leave.”

“Wendell needs you. He needs you to teach him how to use his powers for good.”

Taita Silvio gives me a strange look. “Tell him to come to me and I will teach him. But I will not go near my brother.”

…

Alone, I walk up the hill toward Faustino’s house with my bag of stale rolls. It’s overcast, the clouds thick and heavy and gray. Fog engulfs the house, the whole hilltop. I can’t see the outline of the house until I’ve nearly reached it. The dogs greet me with their tongues hanging out, drooling for the bread, which I toss to them.

By the door, Faustino and Wendell are standing side by side, watching me. They have a similar way of standing, their weight shifted onto the right foot. It’s as though Faustino is Wendell’s shadow. As I come closer, I can make out their faces. The features are nearly the same, but something that holds them together is different. Something hard to put your finger on. The aura, Layla would call it. The energy in Faustino’s face is all suspicion, making his eyes hard and narrowed. Wendell’s energy lights up his face, opening his eyes, softening them.

“Zeeta!” He gives me a hug. It’s the kind of hug you might give your girlfriend in front of other people. He sneakily presses up against me a tad longer than if, say, he was hugging a friend or a grandmother. It feels good. It feels good to smell his smell after a week apart. Good to hear his lilting voice, touch his skin. I remember dancing with him in the
peña
. And walking back from the waterfall arm in arm. And lying in the bed next to his and letting our words touch in the darkness.

“Zeeta,” he says again. “How’s Layla? And Jeff?”

“Lovebirds,” I say, eyeing Faustino. He’s obviously irritated he can’t understand our conversation. “I was forced to spend a hellish vacation with them at some hacienda.”

“Oh. I wondered why you hadn’t come. I thought you were mad at me.”

“Well, maybe I am a little.” Looking down, I stroke under the dogs’ chins. They’re in a blissful daze, not sure what to do with my kindness.

“Sorry. My cell doesn’t get reception here. My parents are probably mad at me too, for not calling. Hey, have you finished translating the letters yet?”

“Almost.”

“Good. I want to give them to Faustino all at once.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Z.”

I look around, at the donkey swatting its tail at a fly, the chickens pecking around the truck’s tires, the dogs sprawled in the dirt. “So, what have you been doing here anyway?”

“Helping Faustino.”

“With what?”

He glances at Faustino, who raises an eyebrow. “His work. God, it feels good to speak English. My head was hurting after so much Spanish. Luckily he has a satellite dish, so I can watch TV in English. Those cheesy
Frasier
episodes are keeping me sane.” He gives me that sideways smile, tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, and says in a low, secret voice, “I missed you.”

Before I can answer, Faustino kicks the dogs out of the way and steps between us.
“Buenas tardes, señorita.”

We sit down on the crates, and that’s when I notice, through the fog, a pile of boxes by the door.

“What’s in the boxes?” I ask Wendell.

“Teddy bears.”

I remember the pile of them I saw when I peeked in Faustino’s house last time.

Wendell opens a box. “Look.”

Faustino hovers, clearly uncomfortable.

I pick up a bear. It’s silky smooth.

“Alpaca fur,” Wendell says proudly. “He sells alpaca-fur bears.”

“He doesn’t seem like the cuddly type.”

“He travels around selling them, to Colombia and other countries.”

“That’s really his job? Selling teddy bears?”

“They’re pure alpaca fur. Good quality. Some guys he works with are coming by soon to pick up the shipment.”

I turn the bear over. The stitches are sloppy and the stuffing looks lumpy. The eyes sit unevenly over the crooked nose, between lopsided ears. A very sorry-looking creature. A complete rip-off. I can’t imagine anyone paying more than a few dollars for it.

Without warning, Faustino grabs the bear. “Maybe you should be on your way. My son and I are expecting visitors soon.”

Wendell raises an apologetic shoulder. “Wanna meet downtown for dinner tonight?”

I nod, bewildered. He gives me a hug goodbye, a long, lingering hug, the kind of hug that if She saw, would make her jealous. I breathe in his cinnamon-clove smell. I’m guessing it’s from the soap his mom makes as a hobby. Number six on the list of things he loves about her in his Mother’s Day letter. Apparently, she blends up special scents for him as random presents.

I want to rest my head there awhile, but instead, I whisper, “I think you’re in danger here.”

He steps back, half-pushing me away. “What?”

“Taita Silvio thinks so too. You can’t trust Faustino.”

He sucks in his cheeks. “He’s my father.”

“Your father is Dan. And he’s probably sitting all forlorn on your bed playing Nick Drake songs and wishing you’d call.” I can’t help it. My words tumble out. “He loves you. Unlike this loser.”

Wendell looks away. “Faustino said he’d help me.” His voice is tight, a taut guitar string.

“You can learn more from Taita Silvio.”

Wendell stares at a place over my shoulder. Then he turns and walks toward the door.

“Wendell,” I call after him. “What time do you want to meet downtown?”

He says nothing.

“Wendell! Are we still on for dinner?”

He disappears inside.

Faustino smiles, leaning against the outside wall.
“Adiós, señorita.”

His beady eyes watch me leave. I feel them, smug and victorious, piercing my back.

A
s I trudge down the hill, the milky-gray dullness of the sky seeps into my pores. I’m abandoning a failed mission, leaving my sort-of-but-not-really-boyfriend in danger, ruining any chance of him being my real live boyfriend, or even a friend for that matter.

I hear the truck first, and then see it roar through the mist, cloaked in hip-hop salsa that grows louder and closer by the second. I jump off the road, down into the ditch a little ways, barely escaping a wave of mud spray. The driver pokes his head out the window and lets out a shrill whistle.
“¡Ay, mamacita linda!”
The guy in the passenger seat yells,
“¡Que rica bebé!”
even though he has no reason to think my butt looks delicious since it’s hidden under my cloak.

Instead of bolting down the hill, I stand still, indignant.
Teddy bear salesmen? No way can I picture these guys selling teddy bears.

And then it hits me.

They’re not selling teddy bears. They’re selling what’s hidden inside the teddy bears. From what Gaby’s told me, cocaine is the most likely possibility.

Up the hill, the dogs are barking at the truck. The music stops and the motor turns off. On a sudden impulse, I head back toward the house. Curiosity? Anger? The promise I’ve made to Wendell’s mother to keep him safe? Whatever it is, it makes me reckless and brave. I have to get Wendell far away from those bears and what’s inside them. If he gets caught mixed up in this—even innocently—he could spend years in jail. I stick to the side of the road, where the foliage and fog hide me.

From my spot behind a tree trunk, I see the men shake hands with Wendell and Faustino, then survey the boxes by the door. Together, they move the boxes into the back of their truck. I can’t make out their words, low and muffled by the damp air. Afterward, they tromp inside the house.

Now’s my chance. I run from the bushes, across the clearing to the truck, where I crouch down by the giant tires, my heart pounding. My idea isn’t well formed—I just want to find out what’s really going on. Find out what’s inside the teddy bears, so I can tell Wendell and get him out of here. Wendell doesn’t know what’s inside, does he? But how can he not suspect something? He must be blinded by how badly he wants Faustino to be good.

I climb onto the tire and lean into the truck bed. The boxes are taped shut. I peel the tape off one, wishing I hadn’t just trimmed my fingernails. It takes an agonizingly long time. Every movement makes me jump—a bird flitting from one branch to another, one of the dogs scratching its ear, a fly buzzing past. Finally, I fling open the flaps and pull out a bear and start tearing at the sloppy stitches in back.

The voices inside escalate.
“Cabrón!
You were short on our merchandise last time. We pay you up front, we want our money’s worth. What, are you sneaking some for yourself? In this shipment nothing better be missing. And you owe us two thousand from last time.”

Then Faustino’s voice,
“Tranquilo, tranquilo.”

Then the men’s voices, cursing and yelling some more. A piece of furniture being overturned, something thrown against the wall. I stuff the bear into my bag and jump down to the ground. I should do something. Something, something, something. Maybe the keys are in the truck. Maybe I can go get help. In Morocco, an ex-boyfriend of Layla’s taught me to drive his two-stroke motorcycle. How much different can a truck be?

I open the door. A gun’s lying on the seat. I know how to shoot a rifle from hunting rabbits in Brazil, but this is a machine gun. I freeze.

Wendell’s voice rises in his terrible accent.
“¡Tengo dinero!”
I have money.

“How much?” a voice yells.

“I have it all.
Doscientos
.” I can feel his brain working
frantically to translate the zeros to Spanish. “No, no, no—
dos mil, dos mil—
two thousand. Two thousand dollars.”

A pause. Then, so quietly, I can barely hear, “He’s lying.”

“I have it, I have it! My
dinero
for
arte escuela
. In the
banco
.”

He must be talking about the money he’s saving for his art abroad program next summer. Silence, then the murmur of voices. The scrape of chairs. Voices growing closer, nearing the entrance. “We’re coming tomorrow afternoon for the money. It better be here. All of it.”

I close the truck door quietly and run around the side of the house. With wobbly knees, I make my way through the foliage, half running, half tumbling, down the other side of the mountain.

That’s when I remember it. The bear in my bag, bouncing against my thigh. Its presence burns and glows and breathes. As though it’s a living creature whispering,
You idiot, why didn’t you leave me in that box?

The whole bus ride back, I hug my bag to my chest, thinking about the bear and its illicit guts. Sinking with the realization that I’ve gotten myself involved in a mammoth mess. I want to toss the thing out the window, but then what will happen when Faustino and those men discover they’re short a bear? What if they blame Wendell? No, I’ll have to return it somehow. But first I need to see what’s inside. Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. Maybe they’re just shoddy stuffed animals after all.

Our apartment is deserted except for fruit flies hovering
over a plate of papaya peels and orange goop spotted with slimy seeds. On the counter next to a half-eaten carton of pineapple yogurt is a note.

The end of her last “a” spirals up and up and off the page, like a bee’s path. She’s left the kitchen a disaster, as always. At least she hasn’t totally transformed into a suburban housewife. That’s reassuring. I toss the peels into the trash, tie up the bag, take it outside, put in a new bag, wipe off the counter, do the heap of dishes, and fix some lemon balm tea.

I’m stalling. I’ll admit, I’m terrified of opening the bear.

I close the curtains, which are silk scraps hanging from clothespins over the window. Pink-orange light shines through the insubstantial fabric and seeps around its edges. I get our sharpest knife from the kitchen and set it on the crate coffee table. For a moment, I sit on the sofa, sipping the tea, stroking the teddy bear’s fur, trying to let its cuddliness do its job. The fur is satiny smooth, but it isn’t soft and huggable, not very comforting.

I hold up the steak knife, ready for surgery. Taking a deep breath, I turn the creature over and wedge the blade under the seams.

Gently, I cut the threads. Of course I’ve seen cocaine in movies, the little plastic bags of white powder. I’ve never seen it in real life, up close.

I hold my breath as I open the flaps of fur gently, hoping the bags won’t tear loose and the powder won’t explode in my face. Inside is a small bag, all right, but not a plastic one. The pouch is white cotton, raw like the shirts Gaby sells. I let it sit in my palm, feeling its weight. Its contents aren’t soft or powdery. They click against one another, small, hard things, like stones.

I’m vague on the textures of drugs. I’ve come across marijuana and shrooms in our travels, common among the hippie expat crowds that Layla attracts, but this harder stuff is a mystery.

I peer inside. A small pile of green crystals, like little pieces of lime-flavored ice or sea glass. I pour them into my palm. They’re cloudy in places, clear in others, green with hints of blue, bits of ocean. I’ve never heard of any green crystal-like drugs before. Crystal meth? Would that imply actual crystals? And are they green?

My first instinct is to go to Gaby’s for advice. Then I remember the reason she couldn’t go with me to Agua Santa today in the first place. She’s watching her cousin’s kids in Quito all day.

Should I call Wendell’s mom and see if she can talk some
sense into him? He’d kill me. But I’ve already lost him. Or maybe he’s never really been mine to begin with. Maybe I’ve just been his translator, the one he needed to help him. Maybe he always seems so happy to see me just because I speak English. I’m barely a step up from
Frasier
reruns. A companion while She, his true love, is on another continent, absence making her heart grow fonder, making her e-mails mushier by the day. Now that he’s found his birth father, he has no use for me anymore.