The Jade Notebook (8 page)

On the way home, Wendell and I are dripping with sweat and weighed down with bags of food. The odors of raw chicken and fish mix in the heat. Ahead of us, farther uphill on the dirt road, an old barefoot woman is shuffling along at a slug’s pace.

Now that we’re alone, Wendell asks, “Okay, Z, what the hell’s going on in this town? Why does the mention of Punta Cometa set people on edge? And what’s the deal with everyone warning us to be careful?”

I hesitate, adjusting the bags in my hands. I have the same questions, naturally. I just don’t want to think about them. I want our new home to be as perfect as it looks on the surface.

“Who knows,” I reply with a shrug. Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything else because we’ve nearly overtaken the old woman, who clearly needs assistance.

She’s hunched over, nearly buried under the heap of woven hammocks on her shoulders. Her mouth is open and she’s gasping for breath, her face damp with exertion. Up close, I realize she was one of the vendors zigzagging the beach.

“Señora,”
Wendell says, “let me help you.”

Before she can refuse, he’s moved the hammocks onto his own broad shoulders.

I take the grocery bags from him and offer the woman my water bottle.

She sips, pouring the water delicately into her shriveled mouth without touching the rim. “Thank you,
muchachos
,” she says, rubbing her shoulders. After she catches her breath, she eyes us carefully. “You live up there on the hill, don’t you?”

I nod. At least she already knows. I don’t have to break the news that would surely freak her out too. “My mom’s the new manager of Cabañas Magia del Mar.”

The old lady frowns. “Good luck to you, then. And be careful.”

This last warning has pushed me over the edge. “Why?” I nearly explode. “Why do people keep saying that?”

She states, as if it’s a well-known fact, “
Pues
, that place is cursed.”

“Cursed?” I refrain from laughing. “Cursed?”
This
is the cause of all the warnings? Some local superstition? I look at Wendell, barely suppressing my relief.

He’s watching her intently, waiting for more. Is he taking her seriously?

She clucks. “No manager lasts there more than a few months.”

I stare at her, absorbing this new information. A few months? “Well,” I say, almost defensively, “they probably didn’t have a good business plan.” I start spinning explanations, as much for myself and Wendell as for the woman. “We know what we’re doing. We’re working hard, being innovative, and we’ve got this amazing website.…”

She shakes her head as I babble on.

Wendell, breathless now under the weight of the hammocks, interrupts. “Why exactly do you think it’s cursed,
señora
?”

“How long have you been there,
muchachos
?”

“Two weeks.”

“And nothing strange has happened?”

I think of the creepy noise, the poaching, the threatening signs. But I shake my head.

She shrugs. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says. “Soon enough.”

I glance at Wendell, but I can’t read his expression.

“Here’s my turnoff.” She makes the sign of the cross over each of us, murmuring prayers. “May God bless you. Be careful,
muchachos
, be careful.”

Wendell places the bundle of hammocks gently on her shoulders. We watch her go, and then I turn to Wendell. “She’s a wee bit superstitious, huh?” I give him a sidelong look. “What do you think?”

He says nothing, staring straight ahead with an odd
expression. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed, his eyes unfocused. He’s lost in his thoughts, in a memory of something.

I know this look. He’s connecting this old woman’s words with a vision he’s had. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to rein in my emotions. I’m not expecting him to tell me anything, but he whispers, “That vision I had in the hammock … it didn’t make sense … but it gave me this feeling … this disturbed feeling.” His voice is raw, as if he’s struggling to put something wordless into words. “There were animals.”

“What kind of animals?” I ask tentatively.

“They were jumbled together. Flashes of them. A jaguar. A shark. And a chicken. A dead one.”

I wait for him to say more, but he’s quiet. “Any chance it’s
this
chicken?” I ask, holding up the shopping bag with a feeble smile.

He shakes his head. “In my vision, the chicken had feathers. But no head.”

“Bizarre,” I say, straining to make sense of this. And then, in a softer voice, I ask, “Are you telling me this because there’s danger?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know, Z. I can’t tell. It’s just … a feeling it gave me.”

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, thinking. I replay the old lady’s words as we turn onto the dirt road to Cabañas Magia del Mar. Even though I don’t believe in curses, and even though the heat is sweltering, a chill runs through me.

Back at the cabanas, Layla’s giving a tour of the grounds to some new Dutch backpacker guests. “You know, I’ve always wanted to go to Holland!” Layla’s saying as she ushers the couple into their cabana. Noticing Wendell and me, she quickly wishes them well, hands them two keys strung on pieces of driftwood, and heads toward us.

“¡Hola, chicos!”
she sings, greeting us with pecks on the cheeks. “Before I forget, the police called. Said they’ve been in touch with the Turtle Center. That they’ll double the volunteers.” Unfortunately, I suspect her cheeriness has something to do with a newfound fascination with Holland. A fascination I’ll have to somehow stamp out.

She beams. “So, not to worry! Problem solved!”

I glance at Wendell. He doesn’t look completely satisfied. “Maybe we could volunteer ourselves,” he says. “Get the inside scoop. Find out what went wrong last night.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’m all for it.”

“All night on the beach—just you and the stars and the turtles! How heavenly!” Layla clasps her hands together in delight, gets on her Rumi face.
“Don’t go to sleep one night. What you most want will come to you then. Warmed by a sun inside, you’ll see wonders.…”

I zone out as she meanders on, until she says, “So what do you think about Holland, guys?”

My muscles tense. I speak through clenched teeth. “Holland?”

She twirls the strands of seashell beads around her neck. “Just for a visit,” she says dreamily. “There are, like, a zillion
bikes there!” She catches my glare, and says, “Come on, love, it’s not like we’re marooned on an island here. We can come and go. Regular people take vacations, you know.”

I eye her suspiciously. “Did you contact the real estate agent yet?”

“Not yet, not yet. But I will.” She brightens even more. “So, did you find anything out about J.C.?”

Wendell and I exchange glances. “Well,” he says, “only that you can’t throw a stone here without hitting a José Cruz. The town’s crawling with them.”

Layla looks at me expectantly, waiting for my take on it. “That’s it?” she presses. “That’s all you found out?”

I swallow. Looming big in my mind is the warning on everyone’s lips:
Tengan cuidado
. Be careful. And the supposed curse. Which I emphatically don’t believe in, but which I won’t mention to Layla because she’s the type who might. And I’m not giving her an excuse to pack up for Holland, land of a zillion bikes, in a few months.

Glancing at Wendell, I tell him with my eyes not to mention the curse. He seems to get it and stays quiet.

Layla tosses an arm around me. “Don’t get discouraged, love. He’ll turn up.” Despite her flightiness and other shortcomings, she does have this innocent optimism—a characteristic that mostly annoys me, but occasionally inspires. For better or worse, Layla doesn’t wear the protective mask that most people do. No, her face is wide open, ready for anything.

“Layla,” I sigh, “how can you be so”—I pause, searching for the word—“sure it’ll all be okay?” I finish. “I mean,
how can you trust that everything won’t devolve into chaos?” That’s as close as I’ll get to the topic of the alleged curse.

“Just take what the tide brings you, love.” As if it’s as easy as that—a beachcombing approach to life.

“But, Layla,” I insist, “don’t you worry—or at least
wonder
—what we’ll find? What J.C. will be like?” Last year, Layla was worried he’d think she was a bad mother. But she’s apparently let go of this concern. I study her face, searching for any trace of anxiety. “You think he’ll be the perfect man, the one you’ve been waiting for?”

She gets on a dreamy Rumi-quoting face.

“And no Rumi!” I add quickly.

She smiles. “I’m not waiting for a man, Z. And there’s no such thing as perfect. If you have no expectations, you’ll be happy with whatever little treasure the ocean brings you, no matter how flawed. If J.C. and I fall in love, marvelous. If something else happens … well, we’ll make that marvelous too.”

I wonder if it’s possible to put a marvelous spin on a curse.

Some of Layla’s optimism must’ve rubbed off on me. After a restless night, I wake at sunrise with a renewed sense of purpose. I’ll prove the superstitions wrong and make Cabañas Magia del Mar a wild success. As Layla’s bells and chants create a ruckus outside my window, I open my notebook, determined. I sketch out the plan that formed in my mind as I tossed and turned all night.

Over a quick breakfast of mangos and yogurt, I tell Wendell about my plan, which he deems
“muy padre, güey”
with a half-grin. His eyes light up. “Hey, let’s bust out the machetes for this, Z!”

Ever since we discovered the machetes—left behind by former managers in the shed—he’s been looking for excuses to use them. Probably a little boy’s jungle fantasy come true. We grab two and head through the patch of jungle between our cabanas and Punta Cometa.

Inside the forest, it’s cool and dark, like a cave of leaves and blossoms and rich soil. We sit down on a smooth rock, lean our machetes against it. I spread open my notebook, position it under a few hazy beams of sunlight that filter through the layers of leaves. We survey the two-page spread that maps out my plan for the paths, my wild garden vision.

I trace my pen over the lines, excited. “See? There’ll be one main circular path with little offshoots.”

“Like rays from the sun?” Wendell asks.

“Exactly!” I smile, pleased with the perfect symmetry. “And each of those rays will have a surprise at the end.”

“Surprise?” He raises an eyebrow. “Like being devoured by a jungle creature?”

“Very funny.” I jab my elbow into his side. “Layla will provide the art.”

“Ahh.” He nods knowingly. “Her famous trash sculptures.”

I clear my throat. “For the guests, we’ll call it found-item art.” I admit I have a certain fondness for Layla’s junk art.
A little tree-stump seat embedded with bits of sea glass and metal soda tops. A seaweed-hair mermaid sculpted from rotting planks and frayed, water-worn rope and faded pink and blue plastic bottles. A driftwood mobile dangling rusted cans. In theory, they ring out a peaceful melody in the breeze, but in reality, it would take a tempest to produce the slightest sound—a grating, metallic rattle.

“And listen to this part of my plan—it’s
muy chido
,” I continue, excited. “One of the rays will shoot out toward the cliffs over the beach. See? There’ll be an amazing view of the ocean.” From my bag, I pull a big ball of twine I found in the shed. “We’ll use the twine to map out the paths.”

Wendell brandishes his machete. “And then we hack through the jungle?”

“Right,” I say, grinning. “Indiana Jones–style.”

Once we start, I realize we’ve got our work cut out for us. Our property is big, mostly forested, with a strip of land on the sea cliffs. On the map it looks like a square piece of cake with a large bite taken out of it—our mysterious neighbor’s property. The Forbidden Territory.

First we do the circle, unraveling the twine and staking it every so often. After a couple of hours of hacking through underbrush and tying twine, we’re at the end of the last ray. That’s when we encounter the sign reading
¡SE DEVORAN LOS INTRUSOS! TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED!

“Great,”
I mutter.