The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  Careful? Flustered, I lift my hand in a small wave, then turn to go, digging the shopping list from my pocket.

  “Weird way to say bye,” I murmur to Wendell.

  “Maybe it’s a custom around here,” he says unconvincingly. After a silence, he eyes the list in my hand. “So, what’s next, Z?”

  “Fish.” I turn my attention to the fishermen lining the curbs with coolers of shaved ice and freshly caught fish, all silver and rainbows in the sunlight. We stop by the cooler of an aging hippie beach bum who we’ve come to think of as our fish guy. On our first day here, we saw him fishing off Playa Mermejita in his little boat with peeling pink paint. Of course, Layla loves the idea of buying the most local fish possible, from “our own little piece of sea.” So she insists we buy from this guy … but secretly, I think she just likes to patronize any disheveled vendor with such wild hair.

  Finger-length dreadlocks sprout from his head like it’s a crazy agave; in front, they hang in his face, hiding his eyes. His skin is a deep mahogany color, probably from the hours he spends on his boat every day. His clothes are always a mess, carelessly thrown on; half the time his T-shirts are inside out.

  He greets us with a subdued smile. He’s listening to music in his earphones, so I don’t try to get into a long conversation.

  “Qué onda,” I say in greeting.

  He grins at my Mexican slang, and nodding at Wendell and me, echoes, “Qué onda.”

  As he wraps my order, he asks us in a raspy voice, “How’s life up there near Punta Cometa?”

  “Bien padre,” Wendell answers.

  The fish guy nods in approval at our mastery—or maybe butchery—of local slang, then hands me the package of fish. He’s fairly quiet, harder to engage in conversation than Doña Elisa.

  Taking the fish, I introduce myself and Wendell, and ask his name.

  “Pues, people around here call me El Loco,” he answers with a soft smile.

  El Loco. The crazy guy.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Any special reason why?”

  “Quién sabe,” he says with a light in his eyes. Who knows. He tugs on one of his dreadlocks. “Maybe my hair? Or maybe my beachside mansion.”

  “Beachside mansion?” Wendell echoes.

  Fish guy chuckles. “My old pink boat. I just turn it over at night, sleep underneath it on the beach.”

  Unsure how to respond, I smile, and then get to the point. “Oiga, do you know a José Cruz around here?”

  He puts his hand to his stubbled chin. “José Cruz. I know many of them.” He sweeps his arm toward the market stands. “Maybe a quarter of the men here have that name.”

  I swallow my disappointment and dig some pesos from my pocket to pay for the fish. “Gracias.”

  “Gracias, señorita.” Then, he adds, “Tengan cuidado, muchachos.” Be careful, guys.

  The same farewell as Elisa. Is this the first time he’s said that? Or has he always ended conversations that way and I never noticed until Doña Elisa gave us the same warning? I glance at Wendell. Judging by his expression, the same questions are going through his head. “Next?” he asks.

  “Meat.”

  We head to Carnicería Ernesto, wait in line for Don Ernesto. At least, I guess that’s his name, since he’s the only one we’ve ever seen working here. He’s middle-aged and hefty, always dressed in a stained white T-shirt with his ample gut poking out over his leather belt. A small mustache grazes his upper lip like a black carpet scrap. His eyes look small, embedded in his puffy face. We usually get a backup chicken from him, since there are often a couple of guests who don’t like fish. Telenovelas blare on the little TV hung from the wall of his little cement store. It’s somewhat disconcerting to see Ernesto chopping through meat and bone with one eye glued to the crying or kissing or dying on the screen.

  Despite a couple locked in an embrace on TV, his attention is fully directed to a customer now. It’s a beautiful woman with a curtain of long, dark hair, wearing a black cotton huipil that just grazes her knees. She’s about Layla’s age, midthirties, although it’s hard to tell with her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat and huge sunglasses. She looks different from most local women, who joke around with vendors, their children in tow, comfortable rolls of fat around their waists, fake gold earrings and necklaces, jeans and polyester tanks, bulging plastic shopping bags.

  This woman carries herself like some regal water creature—a swan or a heron—her head high, her neck long and graceful. Her fingers are laden with silver rings, her wrists and neck draped with beads of seashell and stone. With her traditional woven huipil and elaborate jewelry, she looks like the Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. It occurs to me this might be someone famous—maybe an artist or writer—on vacation.

  “Buenos días, señora,” Don Ernesto says, keeping his eyes cast down.

  “Buenos días, señor,” the woman responds in a low voice.

  Hardly any other words pass between them. Don Ernesto knows what the woman wants without asking. From a large bucket behind the counter, he scoops piles of raw, glistening, goopy cow organs—hearts, livers, kidneys, stomachs—and a random assortment of bloody bones. Flies are buzzing like mad. A ripe, foul smell rises from the innards, makes my stomach turn. He dumps them into three bags, each of which must weigh five kilos.

  Now, I’ve observed plenty of people—all over the world—who immediately captivate me. Usually they exude something special, like a zest for life or generous wisdom. This woman radiates none of these qualities. In fact, she appears completely closed off, as if there’s a veil between her and the rest of us.

  What captivates me about her is how out of place she seems. Too elegant for her surroundings … and for her bizarre and disgusting purchase. What on earth would a woman like this do with three bags of bovine innards and bones? My fingers are itching to open my jade notebook, grab a pen, and interview her.

  With graceful movements, the woman takes the putrid bags, her arm muscles taut, and pays Don Ernesto a few bills. Then she says, “Gracias, señor,” in a voice barely over a whisper.

  “Gracias, señora,” he replies, still making no eye contact, and breathing a visible sigh of relief when she leaves.

  I watch her walk away. She even limps like Frida Kahlo—who, as I recall from a movie I saw in France, was hurt in a streetcar accident. I wonder what happened to this woman. Somehow, her uneven gait comes across as dignified, as if the limp is another accessory, suggesting some hidden tragedy.

  Don Ernesto perks up considerably when she turns the corner and is out of sight. His eyes flicker to the TV screen for a moment; then he greets me with a warm smile. “Now, what can I offer you today, señorita?”

  “Just a small gutted chicken, por favor.”

  As he prepares the meat and wraps it in the ubiquitous rough pink paper, Wendell and I introduce ourselves, comment on how fresh the food here is, how pretty the beaches, how nice the people. After the usual chitchat, I ask, “Don Ernesto, that señora who bought all those cow guts—what will she do with them?”

  Don Ernesto’s expression becomes heavy. He shakes his head and mutters something incomprehensible.

  “¿Perdón?” asks Wendell.

  Don Ernesto’s tiny eyes dart around and he warns, “Not something to talk about. Best not ask questions.”

  Wendell and I exchange glances. Now doesn’t feel like the right time to ask about José Cruz. As Don Ernesto counts out my change, he grows more relaxed, his eyes flicking happily between us and his telenovela.

  And then I mention that we live in the cabanas near Punta Cometa.

  He looks up, alarmed, then blinks a few times and shakes his head. Handing me a few bills sticky with innards goop, he cautions, “Tengan cuidado, muchachos. Be careful.”

  I want to ask him what he means, but now other customers are lined up behind us, and Don Ernesto has already moved on to them, appearing glad to end our conversation.

  Wendell and I head down the street, past a few tourist booths s
elling cheap T-shirts and key chains and toys—all sea turtle–themed. Here and there, stray dogs follow us for a bit, attracted to the meat, until we wave them away. Wendell and I don’t say much—it’s as if the vendors’ paranoia has rubbed off on us, made us watch our words in public. We just shoot each other looks as we walk, limiting our conversation to the tasks at hand.

  “What’s next?” Wendell says, nodding at the list in my hand.

  “Bread, eggs, soap, fruit.” Then I add cynically, “And José Cruz.”

  At each shop, after introductions and small talk, we ask if the vendors know a man named José Cruz who fits my father’s vague description. Everyone—the sisters at the bakery, the man at the pharmacy, and the lady selling plastic bags of eggs—has the same response as Doña Elisa and the fish guy: they joke about how many José Cruzes are in this town.

  Apparently, José is by far the most popular boy’s name, and the custom is to give every child a second name, which is often used instead of the first. José Antonio, José Alejandro, José Manuel, and so on. Of course, we don’t even know if my José has a second name. To further complicate things, each person also has two last names—the father’s family name followed by the mother’s. And the Cruzes are a well-established family who’ve lived in the area for centuries. The name is everywhere, like weeds sprouting between cement cracks.

  The pharmacist chuckles, estimating that there are probably even about a dozen people with the last name Cruz Cruz. I suppress a groan. I’d guessed José Cruz was a common name in Mexico, but this is worse than I’d imagined.

  On the way to our last stop, to buy fruit, Wendell puts his arm around me, comforting me. “Hey, listen, Z. You’re a seeker. Don’t forget it. You’ll find him.”

  I force a weak smile. “Seeker.” That’s what the name Zeeta means. And so much of what I’ve spent my life seeking, I’ve found in this place—somewhere I belong, a true home. The only thing missing is my father.

  We turn into the fruit shop, where we’re welcomed by a young vendor, round and cheerful in a tight yellow skirt and cherry-red top. Smiling brightly with rosy balls of cheeks, she fits in with the mounds of fruit around her—mangos, pomegranates, persimmons, guavas. She offers us a slice of cantaloupe, chitchatting as she weighs our bananas and pineapples and watermelon. In her chipper voice, she asks us where we’re from, how long we’re here, where we’re staying.

  “The Cabañas Magia del Mar,” I say, watching her carefully. “Near Punta Cometa.”

  Her eyebrows rise in alarm, and then her gaze falls to the fruit. Her smile disappears.

  I study her reaction. There’s no doubt—something strange is going on. Quickly, she hands us the heavy bags and bids us farewell, avoiding eye contact. Her parting words are “Tengan cuidado.”

  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 tw
o 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.