The Paper Swan

by Leylah Attar

  “No, no, no!” Esteban wanted to rip him open so he could grab three hundred and fifty pesos from his black, liquor-soaked liver. He went looking through the whole house, but found nothing, not even a can of beans he could sell for some cash.

  Esteban had no choice but to turn to the one man who could help him: Warren Sedgewick.

  Look after it, he’d told Victor, just as he’d done after Esteban had punched Gidiot.

  Esteban was pretty sure Warren would have stepped in had he known about the punishment Victor had set for him, and he was pretty sure he’d step in now if he learned exactly how Victor had ‘looked after’ MaMaLu. Esteban believed that Skye’s father was a fair man. He had tried to protect MaMaLu from El Charro, the man whose face Esteban had not seen. Warren had sent money, lots of money, to have Esteban cared for, not knowing that Fernando was a dirty, rotten alcoholic. Esteban was convinced that if Warren knew the truth, he would get MaMaLu out of Valdemoros.

  The walk from Fernando’s place, in Paza del Mar, to Casa Paloma was thirty minutes. Esteban sprinted the whole way, his feet getting cut on the small, jagged stones that littered the path through the jungle, but he was filled with hope. He ran through the dense foliage, ducking branches that swatted his face and arms, until the trees thinned out and he could see the gates of Casa Paloma.

  He spotted Warren and Skye getting into their silver Peugeot. The driver pulled out of the circular driveway. They had just cleared the wrought iron gates when Esteban got there.

  “Wait!” He ran after them on the dirt road that led out of Casa Paloma. The wheels were spinning clouds of dust in their wake. Esteban’s lungs filled with dry, powdered earth.

  “Skye,” he shouted.

  She turned around and looked at him through a haze of grime and grit.

  “Stop. Skye!” He waved, coming to a standstill as a sharp pain gripped his side. He doubled over, trying to ease the runner’s stitch.

  Skye turned away and the car continued down the road.

  “Skye,” he sobbed, falling to his knees.

  Beads of sweat dripped from his brow and mingled with the dusty, baked earth.

  Esteban didn’t understand why Skye had not asked her father to stop. He had not seen her since the night they took MaMaLu away. Didn’t she wonder where he’d been? Didn’t she miss him and MaMaLu?

  Skye must have had a good reason, and when they got back, she would tell him. Esteban decided to wait. The sooner he spoke to Warren about MaMaLu, the sooner he’d get to see her.

  Esteban walked back to the gates. He saw Victor, locking them up with a chain and padlock. Victor. He was responsible for this. He had sent MaMaLu away. All of Esteban’s rage and frustration boiled over. He forgot that he was a twelve-year-old boy up against a hired henchman. He forgot that even Blondie and Bruce Lee get the shit kicked out of them. He forgot everything except the fact that Victor Madera was the reason MaMaLu was in Valdemoros.

  “Victor!” Esteban had the advantage of surprise, and he’d been practicing high kicks and punches for months. He went straight for Victor’s torso.

  “Estás puto—are you mad?” Victor staggered back and the chain clanged against the gate. “I thought I told you to stay at Fernando’s. You should learn to listen!” He circled Esteban.

  It wasn’t much of a fight. Esteban closed his eyes as he felt the blows on his back and chest. When he fell to the ground, Victor kicked him in the stomach.

  “Go home, you stupid little shit,” he said.

  But Esteban shook his head, cradling his tummy. “I’m not leaving until I see Señor Sedgewick.”

  “You think Señor Sedgewick gives a fuck about you? You think he’s going to bring MaMaLu back?” Victor laughed. “You poor, naive bastardo. You are as expendable to these rich gringos as yesterday’s newspaper.”

  “That’s not true!” Esteban’s face was caked with dirt. When he wiped the tears, they left brown streaks on his cheeks. “Skye is my friend.”

  “Really?” Victor shook his head in mock pity. “Tell me, did your friend say goodbye? Did she tell you she was leaving and never coming back?”

  “You’re lying.You’re a dirty, filthy liar!”

  “Wait then. Wait for your friend and her father to come save you.”

  Esteban was too tired and too hurt to react when Victor walked away. He was bruised and battered on the outside, and simmering with shame and anger on the inside. He felt feeble and powerless and beaten down. He lay doubled up by the locked gates, under a merciless afternoon sun.

  Hours passed, but Esteban waited. It was quiet. Too quiet. None of the help was around, and the gates were never chained down. Where was the guard? Where was the gardener? Esteban refused to believe they were all gone. He knew Skye would never leave without saying goodbye. He knew.

  When the stars came out, Esteban limped to the entrance and looked through the gate. The outside lights had not come on and the path to the staff’s quarters remained unlit. He climbed over the hedged fence in the back, and up the tree outside Skye’s window. Esteban tried jiggling it open—it was still unlatched.

  Esteban turned on the light and looked around. It felt weird being in Skye’s room without her. It felt wrong. Her bed was made, but her closet looked like someone had been through it in a rush. All her favorite books and clothes were gone. Esteban felt something crunch under his feet. He looked down and saw that the floor was littered with paper—all the magical, mythical things he had fashioned out of the most colorful, special paper he could find. They were carelessly discarded around him. Some of them had been trampled into grotesque, malformed pieces.

  Esteban picked up an origami scorpion. It had taken him a long time to get the folds just right. The body was flattened, but the stinger remained upright. He thought about what Victor had said. Maybe he was right. Maybe Warren didn’t give a fuck about him or MaMaLu. Maybe Skye didn’t care. Maybe he and MaMaLu were just like all of this paper—folded and molded to suit a purpose, and then stepped on, on the way out.

  Esteban flung the scorpion away and winced from the blows Victor had inflicted on him. He looked out the window and saw the new moon reflected in the pond. He remembered when Skye had been curled up in bed and MaMaLu told them about the magic swan that hid in the gardens of Casa Paloma, a swan that came out once in a while, on the night of a new moon.

  If you catch a glimpse of it, you will be blessed with the greatest treasure, she’d said.

  Esteban hadn’t believed her then, and he didn’t believe her now. It was all made up—all the magic, all her stories, all the happy endings. They were all empty and meaningless and hollow. His father had never been a great fisherman. He had never loved him or MaMaLu. MaMaLu had lied. Skye had never been his friend.

  You think Señor Sedgewick gives a fuck about you?

  You think he’s going to bring MaMaLu back?

  You are as expendable to these rich gringos as yesterday’s newspaper.

  That was the cold, hard truth.

  Esteban turned off the light and stood alone in the empty darkness. When he climbed out of Skye’s window that night, he left something behind: his childhood, his innocence, his shining, naive ideals—all scattered on the floor like limp, trodden paper dreams.

  ESTEBAN SAT ON THE CONCRETE stairs of La Sombra, one of the small cantinas in Paza del Mar. Its sloping tin roof protected him from the torrential downpour. He stared at the water, collecting in rivulets down the dirt street. It reflected yellow pools of light from kerosene lamps that hung on porches of the shops that were still open. A stereo was blasting Luis Miguel’s “La Bikina”, a tune about a beautiful, scarred woman with a pain so deep, it provokes rivers of tears.

  “Hey, boy!” a man called from inside the restaurant.

  Esteban turned around. “Me?”

  “Si. You hungry?” he asked.

  Esteban had noticed the man watching him. He assumed it was because his face was swollen and heavy. It was obvious he’d been in a fight.

 
“Juan Pablo,” the man gestured to the waiter, “bring the boy oreja de elefante and something to drink. What’s your name?”

  “Esteban.”

  The man nodded and continued eating heartily, washing his food down with sips of michelada—beer with lemon and seasonings. He had a baby face, countered by eagle eyebrows, from which gray, unruly hair sprouted upwards. His hair was jet black, obviously dyed, and slicked back from his forehead. He must have been in his late forties, maybe a little older. A polished wooden walking cane rested on his table. It was glossy black, and the gold metal tip flashed like a shiny promise in the simple, run-down cantina.

  Esteban sat across from him. His stomach growled at the sight of the man’s dinner. Red enchiladas stuffed with cheese and topped with cream. The waiter brought him warm corn tortillas, a bowl of green jalapeños and agua fresca. Esteban forced himself to eat slowly, stretching it out until his dinner arrived—two large pieces of veal that look like elephant ears.

  They ate in silence at the formica-topped table, listening to the rain and music, while murals of Pedro Infante and Maria Felix, stars from the golden age of Mexican cinema, watched them from a bullet-riddled wall. Casa Paloma had sheltered Esteban from the reality that lay beyond its iron gates, but now he was thrust into a different world. Not only did he have to look after himself, he also had to find a way to get MaMaLu out.

  Cantina Man finished his enchiladas and opened up the newspaper. He scanned the headlines, and chuckled at something. “Hey, Juan Pablo.” He pointed to an article when the waiter came to clear his plate. “KABOOM!” he said, his hands imitating an explosion. Both men laughed.

  The rain had tapered to a fine drizzle by the time Esteban finished his dinner. It felt awkward to just get up and leave, and saying ‘thank you’ for Cantina Man’s random act of kindness did not seem enough, so Esteban lingered. He was in no hurry to go home and deal with his uncle Fernando.

  “Rough day?” asked the man.

  Esteban didn’t answer. The swelling over his eye had grown twice the size.

  “Camila,” the man called a short, round woman from the kitchen. She was wearing an apron streaked with red sauce and pico de gallo. “Bring the boy some ice.”

  “Thank you,” said Esteban, when she handed him a small bundle of ice, wrapped in a dishtowel. He tried not to wince as he held it to his eye.

  “Would you like to make some money, boy?” asked Cantina Man. He didn’t have to wait for an answer. Esteban’s face said it all. “Fifteen pesos,” he continued. “Leave this newspaper in the urn by the statue of San Miguel Arcangel. You know where that is?”

  Esteban nodded. He watched the man slip a clear plastic bag filled with white powder into the newspaper. He folded it twice before handing it to Esteban. “Meet me here tomorrow night and I’ll pay you. Tú entiendes?”

  “Si.” Esteban knew he was doing something he shouldn’t, but fifteen pesos. It was a long way from the three hundred and fifty pesos he needed to see MaMaLu, but it was a start.

  He took the newspaper. He had nowhere to hide it. He was still in the clothes he’d worn to bed the night they came for MaMaLu—an apple green t-shirt sporting a cheeky monkey with neon yellow shades. ‘Master of Disaster’, it said in a smiley curve underneath. The shorts were a matching green, in banana print.

  The path to the village plaza was deserted. People were in their homes, watching their nightly TV novelas. The rain had turned the streets muddy and Esteban was thankful for the cool squelch of wet earth under his tired, worn feet.

  The church of Archangel Michael anchored the village of Paza del Mar. Its whitewashed building was set in gardens of citrus, palms, and trickling fountains. A cemetery sat in the back, with tombstones that stood like sentinels in the dark. MaMaLu had brought him here every Sunday when they lived with Fernando. Esteban remembered flickering votives, wooden saints and the smell of old incense, but most of all, he remembered how tightly MaMaLu held his hand in hers as they sat in the pews, under high ceilings.

  The gleaming white statue of Archangel Michael stood over the entrance. The locals said it spit on the heads of all sinners who entered the church. MaMaLu always took him through the side entrance.

  Esteban looked for the urn that Cantina Man had told him about. It was about three-feet high, made of heavy marble and brimming with a profusion of ferns and flowers. He dropped the newspaper in the narrow gap between the pot that held the flowers and the urn. Then he turned around and went home.

  The next night, when Esteban went back to La Sombra to collect his fifteen pesos, Cantina man gave him another package to deliver. Soon, Esteban was making regular drops. Sometimes it was to strangers who drove sedans with tinted windows; other times it was to beautiful women who invited him into loud, smoky establishments. Sometimes he made more money, sometimes less, but he never asked Cantina Man any questions and he always said ‘thank you’.

  Every night, Esteban counted his money.

  Fifteen pesos.

  Fifty pesos.

  One hundred and thirty pesos.

  Cantina Man didn’t show up every night. Sometimes he was gone for weeks. Those nights, the waiter and the cook, Juan Pablo and Camila, would slip him a bowl of chicken in green sauce, or meatballs and bread, or whatever they had left over. Esteban repaid their kindness by washing dishes, cleaning tables, and sweeping the verandah at the end of the night. The other cantinas were always busier, even though Esteban thought Camila’s cooking was far superior. When he watched her scurrying around the kitchen, wiping her hands on her stained apron, Esteban felt a sense of longing for his mother—so deep that he had to drop whatever he was doing and leave. He would stand in the dark alley between La Sombra and the fish shop beside it, taking deep breaths until it passed.

  Every day, he went back to Valdemoros and sat in the shaded area across the street, where vendors sold fried churros, sweet empanadas, and strips of grilled beef stuffed into handmade tortillas. Esteban was careful with his money. He stuck to roasted peanuts and when the sun was hot, he allowed himself an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola. He bought a pair of shoes, a few t-shirts and new shorts. He had a story prepared in case Fernando asked him where they’d come from, but his uncle never noticed, and Esteban was careful to hide his loot.

  One afternoon as he sat outside the prison, Esteban thought he heard MaMaLu singing from beyond the cold, gray walls. Her voice piped over the blare of the boom box that played all day. “Mexico Lindo y Querido”, she sang.

  Even though it was a song of yearning, for home, and everything dear and familiar, it comforted Esteban. It had been a little over three weeks since he had last seen MaMaLu, but as long as he could hear her sing, he knew she was all right.

  Esteban continued working for Cantina Man. He started learning the trade. The green, leafy bags sold for less than the clear crystals that looked like pieces of glass. He took on errands that became progressively more dangerous. There were times when he came face to face with the glinting edge of a knife, times when he had to run for his life. Cantina Man was not happy when he lost the product, and he docked Esteban’s pay. At times, Esteban owed more than he earned, and he found himself tangled up in a web he could not get out of. Weeks turned to months, but the thought of seeing MaMaLu kept him going. Three hundred and fifty pesos took much longer to save up than he had bargained for, but one day Esteban had enough. Almost. He needed to make just one more drop.

  When he got back that night, Esteban was ecstatic. Tomorrow he would get to see MaMaLu. His heart soared as he pried out the loose brick in the backyard that he’d been hiding his loot behind, but there was nothing there.

  All his money was gone.

  Esteban’s fingers scraped rough, empty space.

  “Esteban, come join me.” Fernando swayed by the door, waving an empty bottle of tequila.

  Esteban clenched his fists to keep from reacting. He knew it was pointless to accuse Fernando of stealing his money; he knew it was pointless to confront him. His uncle r
emembered nothing, cared for nothing, except his next round of booze.

  Esteban stuffed the money he’d made that night into his pocket. His eyes stung with tears he refused to shed. He was right back where he’d started. He wanted to hit something, kick someone, grab Fernando by the neck and choke him until his glazed eyes popped out. He would stomp on them and they would feel like soft, wet grapes.

  Fernando weaved back inside and crashed on the sofa. The empty bottle of tequila rolled from his hands. Esteban walked past him and went to his room.

  He had to find a way to earn more money. He would talk to Cantina Man, next time he was in town. Before he went to sleep, Esteban took the money out of his pocket and strapped it around his chest. If Fernando wanted his money, he would have to come and get it.

  Esteban took on more duties for Cantina Man. He reported back on what he saw outside the prison—described the guards and prisoners that entered and left the facility, the times when armored cars made their rounds, and when the guards in the towers changed. He jotted down the officials who visited and the license plates of the cars they drove. Esteban didn’t know it, but he was now part of the halcones—falcons—low level cartel members who functioned as the eyes and ears of the organization. All Esteban knew was that his logbook earned him more money, and more money meant he would get to see MaMaLu sooner. In the evenings, he continued doing whatever odd jobs Cantina Man had for him.

  “Do you know what you’re getting into, chico?” Juan Pablo, the waiter at La Sombra, asked Esteban one night.

  They were sitting on the stairs. Juan Pablo was smoking Marlboro Reds. He and Camila had grown fond of Esteban. He was a good kid, wrapped up in bad business.

  “Do you know why no one brings their family or girlfriends or kids to the cantina?” asked Juan Pablo. He let his apron fall to the side and Esteban saw a gun holstered in his waistband. “The man you work for owns La Sombra. He doesn’t just pay me to serve food. He pays me to protect him. It’s a place of business. Meetings, deals. You understand?”