The Jade Notebook

by Laura Resau

  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.

  Wendell pauses, letting the machete fall to his side. The novelty of the tool has worn off, and now he rubs his shoulder, looking exhausted. I wipe sweat from my forehead, examining the blisters forming on my palm.

  “Here, Z.” He passes the water bottle to me, and I drink, then squirt my neck and arms to cool off. I open my notebook to the sketch, orienting myself.

  Reluctantly, I look back at the sign. “The path should end right about there. At the sign.”

  “We could just make the path shorter,” Wendell suggests.

  I close my notebook firmly, shaking my head. “Every path from the center has to be the same length. Anyway, having a weird, scary sign within view isn’t part of my vision.”

  Wendell considers this. “We could cover it with branches so the guests don’t get freaked out. Or,” he says, in a mock-serious voice, “perhaps we could replace it with a more politely worded sign, something like, ‘The management would be grateful if you kindly refrained from wandering beyond this point to avoid risk of unpleasant demise. Thank you.’ ”

  I laugh. “And you could paint it with cheery hearts and flowers.” I survey the sign, wishing I could just chop it down with my machete. “This is crazy, Wendell. We’ve been here for weeks. And we don’t even know our neighbors.” Bracing myself, I take a step past the sign. “I’m going to meet them.”

  Wendell steps beside me. “Um, I trust your instincts, Z, but …” He trails off.

  “What?”

  “Just don’t get us devoured, okay?”

  “No unpleasant demise, Wendell. I promise.” I hold his hand, and together we take a few more tentative steps.

  About five paces in, I hear it. A low, guttural growl. A noise like the one I heard the other evening, only softer. This close, I can tell it’s not from a motor or wave echoes. It’s from something alive. Something big.

  Clutching my machete, I survey the trees. Movement, the rustle of leaves, a flash of black and yellow. Another growl, even closer.

  Wendell tugs on my hand, backing up slowly. He mouths the words let’s go. I take a step backward as quietly as possible, with my machete poised in the air, ready to strike. At least I’m nimble with machetes. As a little kid in Guatemala, I used one to chop firewood and clear brush. But I’ve never used one on an animal.

  I listen for another sound, but there’s only silence. I breathe out and take another step backward, gripping my weapon.

  And then we see it. A large, sleek, spotted beast. Its jaws open wide, revealing pointed teeth. It’s some kind of wildcat. An enormous one.

  Time slows. I see its muscular body lunge through the air. The solid, strong head; the smooth, gleaming fur, gold specked with black spots; the rippled legs stretched out; the sculpted haunches and waist like those of a moving, soaring statue. And rows of teeth like knives. A primal fear grips me, the terror of being prey of a bloodthirsty predator. It’s as if this creature has emerged straight from a childhood nightmare. And it’s headed straight for us.

  Suddenly, there’s a loud clang. As if in slow motion, the wildcat drops to the jungle floor. My heart is booming, my entire body shaking
. I look at Wendell, searching for some explanation.

  He’s the one who realizes it first. “A fence,” he whispers, pulling me close. “Thank God.” I peer over his shoulder, catch a glint of sunlight off wire. Slowly, through the thick foliage, I see the nearly hidden outline of the high fence topped with coiled barbed wire.

  And I can make out the cat’s open jaw, the gleam of its teeth, as it releases a roar that shakes the trees. We flee, leaving behind the TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED sign. Which has a completely new meaning to us now.

  Back at the cabanas, Layla’s in the kitchen hut chopping cucumbers. At her side is Joe, in an orange wig and red rubber nose, attempting to twist and tie balloons together in the shape of what looks like a three-headed pig. The rubber squeaking sounds like a three-headed pig too.

  Layla notices our panicked expressions first and drops the knife. “What’s wrong?”

  Breathless, still holding a machete in my shaking hand, I tell her about the wildcat that would’ve devoured us if not for the flimsy metal fence.

  Wendell grips my other hand. When my voice falters, he picks up the story. “So the signs are actually valid warnings.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds. “That animal’s teeth, his jaws, his massive head. It was—it was—”

  I’m at a loss for words too, so I wait for Layla’s reaction.

  “¡Qué padre!” She gives Joe an excited glance.

  He looks a bit more wary, his pink balloon creation still and silent in his hands.

  “Layla,” I say, “it’s not padre. It’s not remotely cool to have a dangerous predator roaring at guests walking along the path.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They might find it thrilling.” She turns to Joe. “Right?”

  Of course, he agrees, but just with a slight nod. “I do have to point out,” he says, clearing his throat, “this beast is a sign of things to come. The end of the world as we know it.” He stares pensively at the three-headed pig in his hands. “I bet it’s a jaguar. They were sacred to the ancient Maya, you know. The culture that lived here, on this very land. The culture that made the dire prediction thousands of years ago—”

  “Thanks for your input, Joe,” I say, and turn to my mother. “Listen, Layla. We have to do something.” I open my mouth to tell her about the curse rumors; they must be related to this beast. But I bite my tongue. It’s one thing to tell Layla about a wildcat prowling nearby. She’s fearless when it comes to realistic dangers. Curses, on the other hand, are a different matter. Ridiculous threats of negative energy are much scarier to her than any wildcat. There’s no telling how she’d respond. She’s the queen of letting omens guide her choices. Three different people mention elephants in one day? Must be a sign to move to Thailand. Discover a leech on your ankle after a swim? Better quit your soul-sucking job.

  If I tell her about the curse rumors, she might bail out on our plan to stay here for good. She’d somehow twist it into evidence that we should hightail it to Holland or Mongolia.

  I stiffen my jaw. “It can’t be legal to own a giant wild feline. Let’s report the owner to the authorities and have the creature taken away.” I turn back to Layla. “And it might be helpful to have documentation that we live here—like the rental contract.”

  “Well, I was thinking I’d have Raúl look it over.”

  “Raúl?”

  “You know, the lawyer from Spain.”

  “That guy’s a lawyer?” Raúl has been lost in a tequila-and-pot-induced haze from the moment he got here. His only sober moments seem to be during sunrise yoga. But I have to admit, it does seem like a good idea to have a professional review the contract. “Try to make him do it before he hits the tequila, okay, Layla?”

  “Right.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll figure out who owns this wildcat.”

  “Jaguar,” Joe says, resuming his awkward, squeaky balloon-twisting, torturing the freakish pig. “Definitely a jaguar.”

  I ignore him.

  Layla tilts her head. “Why don’t we pay them a visit?” Her eyes light up. “I’d love to see a jaguar up close.”

  The last thing I want to do is go back to the Forbidden Territory, not so soon after this encounter. Not when I’m still shaking. I try to sound composed. “First, I haven’t seen any entrance from the road. Or a house. We’d have to find a safe way to get in. And second, I want to do some research before I confront someone who keeps a wildcat”—I pause and flick my eyes to Joe—“jaguar on their own property.” Mustering up a strained smile, I conclude, “And then it’s back to enjoying paradise.”

  But that’s when it hits me. With all the adrenaline rushing through me, I forgot about it. Wendell’s vision. About the jaguar.

  Wendell and I amble along the Mazunte beach, past the restaurant huts and palm-thatched cabanas, around clusters of swimsuit-clad sunbathers. Sweat is pouring from my scalp, dampening my light cotton dress and the swimsuit beneath it. It’s nearly sunset and still sweltering.

  I’m groggy from the long nap I took with Wendell in the hammock. We slept too long, worn out from our work in the jungle and the intense heat of the day. When we finally woke up, we decided to take an evening walk on the main beach to ask locals what they know about a large feline roaming the jungle.

  “This jaguar,” I begin, wiping a trickle of sweat from my cheek, “is it the one from your vision?”

  After a pause, he nods. “I think so.”

  I wait for him to reassure me that the jaguar in his vision was behind a fence too.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I looked up jaguars online. They’re native to this area, like Joe said. Only they’re rare, and they usually stay well hidden, in remote places. But that animal in the jungle—it fits the description.”

  Biting my lip, I venture, “Any advice on what to do if you come across one?”

  Wendell gives a nervous half-smile. “Don’t run. Face it and back away slowly. Don’t look into its eyes. Make yourself look bigger.” He raises his arms, waves them around, demonstrating. “The jaguar might think twice about devouring you.”

  “And if that doesn’t work?” I ask, not sure I want to know.

  “If it attacks, you could try punching it in the nose. Poking its eyes.”

  A weak laugh escapes me. The image seems a little clownish, like one of Joe’s attempted slapstick bits.

  “But honestly?” Wendell continues matter-of-factly, “you’re pretty much doomed.”

  “Doomed?” I swallow hard.

  “Their jaws are so strong they can crush the skulls of their prey in one bite.” Wendell has the scientific detachment of a nature channel narrator when he gives disturbing animal facts. But there’s a twinkle in his eye that assures me he’s not taking this too terribly seriously. I’m guessing—hoping—the jaguar in his vision didn’t actually devour anyone.

  I breathe deeply and focus on my surroundings—the fiery orange sky, seagulls dipping for fish over the swells, my bare feet squishing in the wet sand, cool water lapping at my ankles, the smells of fried fish and Corona with lime.

  I’m searching for a new conversation topic—one that doesn’t involve tooth-punctured skulls and curses—when Wendell adds, “They’re one of the only predators that can crush the shells of sea turtles.”

  As Wendell goes on about jaguars, we approach Restaurante Tesoro Escondido—Hidden Treasure—and see that there’s a volleyball game in progress on a sand court beside the restaurant. A bunch of people, mostly around our age, are diving and leaping, squealing and laughing, shaking sand from their hair. Most of them look like locals and appear to be friends, judging by the way they casually toss their arms around each other. We’ve passed these evening games before, and I’ve always been tempted to join in the fun, feel like part of this town.

  “Hey!” I say, interrupting Wendell’s list of jaguar prey. “Maybe they can tell us something about the jaguar’s owner.”

  “Can’t hurt to ask,” he says.

  Grabbing his arm, I lead him towa
rd the court. “Let’s watch the game till they take a break.”

  Two younger girls—about eight and ten years old—notice us and wave us over, jumping up and down. “Come on our team!”

  Wendell and I give each other why-not smiles, then jog onto the court. As we get closer, I recognize some players from the families that own small local businesses. Added to the mix are a few dreadlocked hippies who sell hemp and seashell jewelry; our fish guy, El Loco, sporting his own short dreads; and the clean-cut, hair-sprayed sisters from the bakery.

  They’re all friendly, giving us smiles and waves. “¡Qué onda, chavos!”

  I’ve played pickup volleyball in at least three countries. It’s the same everywhere—all ages playing together, laughing, diving for the ball, getting sand in their hair, joking around. When I score the winning point, thanks to a setup from Wendell, our teammates shower us with hugs and high fives and triumphant slaps on the back.

  Even the players on the opposing team are good sports, making fun of their own blunders. The hippie jewelry sellers give us fist bumps. “Good game, güey, but we’ll beat you next time!” El Loco is quiet, as always, but offers us each a warm handshake.

  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.