The Jade Notebook (10 page)

As we all chat, I learn that the dreadlocked vendors trickled onto this beach months or even years ago, coming from all nooks of the world. Apparently they scrape together a modest living, sleeping on hammocks or under boats on the beach. It seems the locals find the hippies amusing, quirky, and harmless, overall. I admit I feel a sense of camaraderie with these nomads. They’re the kind of idealistic, mellow people who’ve drifted in and out of my life for as long as I can remember. Layla and I have
been
them. When I was four, she put dreads in my hair; I quickly ended up with a bout of lice. After torturous hours of having nits picked from my hair, I insisted on regular showers, brushes, and barrettes.

I can almost see why Layla clings to the feeling that we’re bits of seaweed floating wherever the waves take us. There’s an appeal to the wandering existence, seen in a certain light.
But it’s exhausting, too. And most importantly, when seaweed is miraculously washed ashore in paradise, it should know enough to stay put.

Soon the players scatter, say they’ll see each other tomorrow night. Wendell and I stick around, lost in the glow of victory and new friends. A boy about our age passes around glasses of cool
agua de jamáica
—red hibiscus tea, tangy and sweet.

“Gracias,”
Wendell and I say at the same time.

The boy sprawls beside us, brushing sand from his chunky legs, his jiggly belly. Despite his heft, he’s a fantastic volleyball player, and a generous one, always passing the ball, letting other players step into the limelight. “You two here on vacation?” he asks.

Wendell answers. “We just moved here.”

“You should keep playing with us.” The boy breathes on his glasses, wipes them on his swimsuit. “We’re here every night.”

I look at Wendell, grinning. “Sure!” we say simultaneously.

Taking a gulp of iced tea, I gather courage to ask about the jaguar. I don’t want to spoil the good time, but finding out more about this beast is our whole reason for being here. Reluctantly, I offer the bit of necessary information that’s sure to alarm the boy. “We live up at there.” I point, and his gaze follows my finger. “In the cabanas right near Punta Cometa.”

He nods, sips his red tea. He says nothing more, but his
suddenly blank expression suggests thoughts racing through his mind. Thoughts of the jaguar. Of curses.

I take a deep breath and try to act casual. “So, you happen to know who owns that jaguar?”

He looks surprised at my directness. “A
señora
,” he says after a pause. “She lives up there. At the end of a footpath through the jungle. We hardly ever see her. Once in a while she stands on the cliffs of Punta Cometa. Just stands there like a statue.” He motions with his chin. “Sometimes I see her in town getting food for the jaguar.”

I glance at Wendell.

“Like twenty pounds of raw guts?” Wendell asks, making a face.

The boy barks a laugh, short and uncomfortable. “You’ve seen her, then.”

I nod. “What do you think of her?”

He takes off his glasses again, rubbing them on his swim trunks. “Everyone’s afraid of her,” he says with a shrug. “When I was little, an older neighbor lady would watch me. She’d warn me that if I was bad, she’d let that
señora
feed me to her jaguar.” He shakes his head, barks another nervous laugh. “Now she tells my sisters the same thing,” he says, motioning across the court toward the girls who invited us to join.

I lean in, look directly into his eyes. “
Oye
, how come no one wants to talk about her? All they say is that the place is cursed.”

“¿La verdad?”
The truth? He flicks his eyes around.
“Adults are afraid of her too. They say she’s a
bruja
—a witch. That if you make her angry, she’ll put a curse on you. So people don’t talk about her—at least, not to strangers.” He lowers his voice. “But they say bad things have happened up there at Punta Cometa.”

“Like what?” I ask, unsure whether I want to know.

“Accidents. Tragedies. Deaths.”

I swallow, staring at the purple clouds smeared against the dusky sky. “Any truth to the rumors?”

“¿Quién sabe?”
he answers. Who knows. “But I guess it’s enough to scare off managers. There’s a high turnover rate.”

“So we’ve heard,” I say, deflated. I take the last sip of the
agua de jamáica
. “Hey, thanks for filling us in.”

Wendell nods. “We’ve been waiting for the straight story.”

I stick out my hand. “I’m Zeeta. And this is Wendell.”

“Mucho gusto,”
the boy says with a sandy handshake. “I’m José Luís.”

“José?” I raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Your last name is Cruz?”

He nods, grinning. “That’s my second last name. My first last name is Salazar. But my friends call me Sapo.”

Sapo
. Toad. He does look a little like a toad, stout and wide, in a friendly way.

Overhearing our conversation, one of his sisters pipes in. “Our cousin is José Miguel Cruz Diaz,” she says, pointing to a teenage boy diving into the waves.

“And another cousin is José Alfonso Cruz Cruz.”

Wendell gives me a meaningful look. “Did one of the
older José Cruzes—a man in his thirties or forties—go away for a long time and come back last fall?”

I hold my breath, waiting for El Sapo’s response.

He rubs his chin. “
Pues
, we have some uncles who come and go. My mom would know. You looking for someone?”

“Sí,”
I say, trying not to sound too desperate.

The older sister points to Restaurante Tesoro Escondido. A waitress in flip-flops walks beneath the palapa, going from table to table, lighting candles. “Our family owns that place. You could ask for our mother, Cristina.”

“Gracias,”
I say, careful not to show too much enthusiasm.

One of Layla’s favorite Rumi quotes involves a glass case around every human’s heart. Suddenly, I’m aware of this thin, delicate globe in my own chest, something that could easily shatter. Every step closer to finding my father rattles the glass. Every step makes me want to cup my hands protectively around the fragile case.

After Wendell and I say goodbye, promising to come play again, we head back across the beach. He takes my hand, kisses it. “Sounds like a good lead, Z.”

“Remember,” I counter, “there are twenty zillion José Cruzes around here. It’ll be a wild-goose chase.”

“That’s what we’re best at, Z.” His mouth turns up into a half-smile, and we look at each other for a while, unsaid things passing between us.

There’s the knowledge that two years ago, he was where I am now, searching for his birth father. The knowledge that I might not like what I find.

“No rush, Z,” he says finally. “Take the time you need.”

I think he gets it, the feeling that my paradise, too, is inside a glass case—a kind of snow globe—a perfect, sheltered little world. Something I’m holding carefully in the palm of my hands, determined not to break.

“But I do have a question.” He brushes a finger along my bare arm, causing goose bumps of pleasure to pop up. “
Mi amor
, will you go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“At Tesoro Escondido?” I bump his hip, hard, with mine.

“Ow.” Then he laughs and pulls me close and, with his lips in my sandy hair, says, “How’d you guess?”

The next night, after a few hours of chem homework, I head down to the Mazunte beach with Wendell, toward the Restaurante Tesoro Escondido. On each table, a candle flame in a red glass globe flickers slightly in the breeze. We choose the seats closest to the ocean, its dark, ever-shifting hills of water laced with moon glow. Above us, glittering fairy lights are strung from the rafters of the palm-frond roof. Smells of sautéed garlic and buttery seafood and fresh lime mingle in the salty air. The breeze glides over my bare shoulders, through wisps of my hair, which I swept into a braid. I’m dressed up, for a change, wearing a cute, fairly skimpy red dress from a secondhand shop in France. Scratching my calves, I note that sand fleas and skimpy dresses don’t mix well.

I peer at the surf, not far from our table, then farther down the beach that ends at the craggy rocks of Punta Cometa. Waves pound the cliffs. They make me think of the
jaguar roar, and I picture the creature in midair, pouncing at us. I shiver, wishing I’d brought some kind of wrap.

Wendell’s gaze follows mine. “I wonder where our grandma turtle is now,” he says.

I definitely prefer to think about her instead of the jaguar. I imagine her huge body, graceful in the shadowy depths, swimming around sea fans on the ocean floor. Then I catch a glimpse of a dark form drifting alongside her, through cold waters. My father, lost. The dream image sends chills over my skin. “Somewhere out there,” I say. “But she’ll be back.”

“Hey,” Wendell says, “speaking of turtles, want to go to the Turtle Center tomorrow?”

A stab of alarm shoots through me. I’m not ready to let him go. I try to keep my voice calm. “I thought your internship didn’t start for another whole week.”

“Right, but I want to talk to my boss. Ask if the volunteers have seen any more poachers.”

I relax. “And we need to sign up to volunteer ourselves.” I can’t help smiling at the thought of us spending all night on the beach with the turtles, alone under the starry sky. We can spread out a blanket on the spot we’ve chosen for our handfasting, have a midnight picnic.…

A waiter heading toward us interrupts my daydreams. It’s El Sapo, who greets us with a fist bump.
“¡Qué milagro!”
What a miracle! “It’s the awesome
bolibolistas
.” This funny word for volleyball players makes me grin.

“
Hola
, Sapo,” we say together.

“¡Qué onda!”
he says, then asks eagerly, “You coming back for more volleyball?”

“Sure,” I say, glancing at Wendell. “It was fun.”

“Good, ’cause you’re our lucky charm. And my sisters love you guys. They keep talking about you.”

Wendell grins. “Well, tell them they’re great
bolibolistas
. And that we’ll play again soon.”

“¡Claro que sí!”
Of course! He nods enthusiastically. “So what else is new?”

Wendell looks at me. “We were just talking about volunteering to guard the turtles on Playa Mermejita.”

El Sapo twists his face. “
Buena suerte
. I’ve been on the waiting list for a year. I guess everyone wants to volunteer.”

Wendell tosses me a look of disappointment. “Well, that’s a good thing, right? People want to protect them.”

El Sapo nods, twirling his pencil. “The turtles are the reason tourists come here. Of course we want to protect them.”

“You know any of the volunteers, Sapo?” Wendell ventures. “We’d like to talk to them.”

With a sigh, El Sapo says, “It’s weird. You’d think I’d know some of them. I know practically everyone in town. But I don’t know a single volunteer.”

“Weird,” I agree.

El Sapo frowns. “Whoever the volunteers are, I wish they’d give someone else a turn to guard the nests. I love Playa Mermejita—it’s a great beach. But the Turtle Center people make us stay away so we won’t bother the turtles.”

Wendell and I exchange guilty glances. So we’re not even supposed to be on the beach? I have a feeling that won’t keep us from going back.

El Sapo flips his notepad to a fresh page. “So what can I get you?”

We order seltzers and the daily special of fresh grilled fish with beans and rice.

“How about the lobster?” he asks. “My mom’s specialty. Fresh and local. And I give a half-price discount for awesome
bolibolistas
.”

Wendell and I look at each other, pleased. “Sure.
Gracias
.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re digging into the lobster, which is buttery and mouthwateringly delicious. El Sapo looks thrilled at how much we’re savoring it. After he clears our plates, he returns with two dishes of creamy custard in a glistening pool of caramel. “The flan’s on the house.”

I’m stuffed, but I can’t resist. The first bite of flan melts on my tongue, sweet and smooth.

“Wow,” Wendell says, promptly shoveling the rest into his mouth.

I look at El Sapo with gratitude. “Okay, we’re at your mercy, Sapo.
Bolibolista
slaves.”

He laughs. “I’ll tell my mom you like her food.”

With a subtle glance at me, Wendell says, “If she’s not too busy, could we thank her ourselves?”

“Sure, I’ll get her.”

I grin at Wendell. “You’re so smooth.”

“Learned it from you,” he says, devouring the last bit of flan.

A few minutes later, a woman about Layla’s age emerges
from the kitchen. She’s wiping her hands on a blue checked apron she wears over a sundress. Her face shines with the heat of cooking, and she smells of garlic, onion, seafood. As she comes closer, into the glow of the candlelight, the contours of her face become clear: Her almond eyes, brown and inquisitive. The heart shape of her face with its high cheekbones. Full lips moving into a warm smile.

I stare at this face, this face that is an older echo of my own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Wendell looking from her to me, then back at her in disbelief. I can’t tear my gaze from her. I’m used to people expressing surprise that Layla’s my mother. She’s fair while I’m dark. But this woman, if I said she was my mother, no one would ask questions. And it goes beyond the brown hues of our skin and hair. The arrangement of her eyes, her nose, her mouth, the curve of her chin, her cheekbones … it’s the structure of my own face. Of course, her body’s larger than mine, an ample bosom and wide hips that betray having had a few children. But her other features are eerily similar to mine. It’s strange that El Sapo didn’t comment on this; then again, maybe he’s just used to seeing her as his mother instead of the sum of her features.