by Laura Resau
El Sapo frowns. “We’re just hoping he’ll get tired of our games, decide not to come back. A little while ago, there were a couple other vatos, friends of his, who just got bored and stopped coming.” He digs his feet in the sand, shaking his head. “But if we kicked El Dedo out … guys like that—they get revenge. And for them, revenge means death.” He lowers his voice. “Death by machete.”
Sounds even more unpleasant than death by jaguar.
A week later, El Dedo still hasn’t made another appearance. Wendell and I haven’t missed a single sunset volleyball game. We’ve settled into a new routine. In the afternoons, he works while I help Layla at the cabanas, trying to ignore Joe’s clown antics. He’s begun performing in the kitchen hut every day at four. This coincides with happy hour, when he has a captive audience sipping Coronas and crunching tortilla chips. His schtick involves chasing a paper airplane around the hut, tripping over chairs and tables. Most guests ignore him, tossing a concerned glance when he falls particularly hard, unsure whether it’s a slapstick part of the act. He takes this attention as encouragement.
On Friday, I’ve reached my limit of his clowning and apocalypse warnings. Normally, I’d head to Tesoro Escondido, but Cristina and El Sapo have gone to the nearby city of Puerto Escondido to run errands. When I consider working alone on my jungle paths, the thought of facing Gatito again makes me shudder. As a last resort, I set up my laptop in the kitchen hut and try working on my English paper. After staring blankly at the screen for ten straight minutes, I shut the computer down and stand up.
On my last visit with Cristina, as I was lamenting Wendell’s absence, she asked me what I loved best before I even met him. Doing notebook interviews, I said with no hesitation. “Then do some notebook interviews,” she suggested. “Meet your other neighbors.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should reconnect with notebook-writing Zeeta. It is, after all, what I do. Wendell or no Wendell.
Plus, our neighbors might have inside information and ideas on how to get rid of Meche’s jaguar. Tossing my notebook and pen into my bag, I head down the dirt driveway. After a brief pause, I turn left, toward the other entrance to the Playa Mermejita, the road the poachers took that night. I’ve never gone this way, have always taken the jungle route.
The road rises into a hill, with trees and flowering bushes arched over the road, making a green canopy of dappled light. Since there are no cars, I walk down the center of the road. It’s peaceful. Ahead of me, a blue butterfly dances, and I’m about to point it out to Wendell until I remember he’s not here. It’s a hard habit to break.
I shift my bag to my other shoulder as a cheery graveyard comes into view, overflowing with flowers, blue and green painted crosses, Virgin Mary shrines. The butterfly weaves among the graves and disappears into the jumble of colors. I set down my bag, sweeping my gaze over the cemetery.
Someone’s moving among the graves. Dark hair, slim body, long legs. A white huipil. A slight limp. Meche. She’s farther up the hill, on the other side of the cemetery, holding an armful of flowers.
When she glances up, I raise my hand in greeting, noting that there’s no jaguar in sight. I also note that this is neutral territory, a good place to discuss her finding a better place for her pet. I bend over to pick up my bag, but when I stand up, she’s gone.
I jog around the graves to where she was standing only moments earlier. There’s a blue painted cross with a sign on it: MARÍA VIOLETA RAMIREZ GARCÍA. Breathless, I peer at the dates. The girl died when she was two years old. A heap of fresh white flowers—calla lilies—are scattered on the grave. Meche must have dropped them before she ran off. I pick them up and arrange them in the vase, which is half filled with water. I prop a few rocks against the vase to keep it stable if the wind picks up. This girl would have been twenty now if she’d lived, three years older than me.
Who is this girl to Meche? Is this the daughter she supposedly killed?
Feeling off-balance, I head back toward the beach. Flanking the road are falling-down signs advertising homemade tortillas, healer services, fresh eggs. Every dilapidated shack seems to be selling something. Randomly, I choose a house marked by a hand-lettered wooden sign for firewood and walk down the driveway.
Three dogs race toward me, barking and growling. I pick up a stick to defend myself, and peer past them. An old man totters forward, holding an axe. He calls back the dogs, then shouts, “¿Sí, señorita?”
“Buenas tardes, señor. I’m Zeeta, and I live in the Cabañas Magia del Mar. We’re neighbors.”
“You live up there?” he says, shaking his head, as if it’s a war zone. “You here for firewood, señorita?”
“Uh, maybe another time,” I say diplomatically. I don’t mention that we’ve already got a stockpile of bonfire wood by our shed.
“So how can I help you?” he asks, his voice impatient.
“Well, I wanted to ask you about the jaguar—”
“None of my business,” he interrupts curtly.
Dejected, I thank him and head back to the road, toward the sea that shimmers ahead through the trees. If Wendell were here, we’d be joking about it. We’d probably say screw it and go for a swim. Which is what I decide to do.
I’m nearly to the patch of jungle lining the ocean, when I see a sign half-hidden behind a clump of magenta bougainvillea. Uneven letters are burned into the wood. SE VENDE MOLE.
Mole. What did Layla and Joe say about mole? Something about sweaty stars? And food of the gods? Food of paradise? Perfect. Anyone who makes food of the gods has to be cheerier than grumpy firewood guy. And I’ll get to see if mole lives up to its reputation.
I decide to pretend I’m only here for the mole. I won’t reveal where I live. They’ll be more likely to trust me that way. I take a breath, then turn past the pink bougainvillea, down the dirt driveway.
A house comes into view, a patchwork of blue-painted wood and palm fronds, as though the house itself is another bloom emerging from the foliage. The courtyard out front is bursting with color—birds-of-paradise, hibiscus, roses. The pink-painted gate is flung open, wide and welcoming. Butterflies of all colors flit through the sweet air.
“¡Buenos días!” I call out, unsure what mole-purchasing protocol is.
In response, a woman’s voice sings, “¡Buenos días!” through the leaves. Echoes of her words sound through the little forest. They’re parrots, I realize, singing out her greetings. I weave around kittens prowling like miniature tigers and a few old dogs lying in the shade and a litter of bouncing puppies. Quite a menagerie.
“Come in, come in,” she calls out.
I follow a ribbon of path toward her voice. Soon I reach a clearing and find her perched on a tree stump. Spoons, ladles, knives, pots, pans, strainers, and unfamiliar utensils hang from nails on the tree trunks. At the center is a large fire pit, hot gray coals beneath cooking irons. A thick, dark liquid bubbles in a giant blackened vat.
The woman is leaning over another vat—a cauldron, really—of something even thicker and darker, more a paste than a liquid. I watch as she deftly scoops some into a plastic bag, knots it, then places it on top of a pile of similar bags.
When she senses my presence, her face lights up. “Ah, muchachita! Did you come for my molito?”
I smile. Molito. Cute little mole. The older locals tend to tack -ito on the end of words, making everything cute and little. This woman is cute and little herself—little in height, not width. All her features are wide—her nose, her cheekbones, her smiling mouth, her ample hips, her muscular hands. She’s wearing a yellow dress with purple flowers beneath a blue checked apron. Looped twice around her neck is a long strand of green crystal beads. Her hair, deep black streaked with white, is braided into a long, thin rope down her back.
“Sit down, sit down.” Emphatically, she pats a worn-smooth stump beside her. She gazes at me, pleased, as if I’m a long-awaited visitor. An old friend. Her gaze feels like a sip of hot milk, a spoonful of soup. Nourishing.
“Gracias, señora.” I sit down, basking in her glow.
“Now, you look familiar, muchacha! You must have family around here, no?”
Avoiding a direct answer, I simply say, “I just moved here, actually.”
“Ah, and where are you from?”
“Everywhere and nowhere,” I say, making myself comfortable. “I’ve lived all over the world.”
“Oh! How exciting!” She clasps her hands together, presses them to her chest, as if her heart might just leap out from too much joy. “The farthest I’ve been is Mexico City!”
Her name is Lupita, she informs me, and proceeds to ask me about every detail of my life up until now. Over the next few hours, she listens to my stories of living in Thailand, Brazil, Laos, throwing her head back in waterfalls of laughter at the funny parts, wiping her teary eyes at the sad parts.
The only pauses in the conversation come when a customer buys a bag of mole paste, makes some small talk, and then leaves. Lupita apologizes and picks the conversation up exactly where we left off. She wants to hear about the food from each place I’ve lived, the mixes of spices, fruits, meats, nuts, vegetables. “Ohh, ahh, hmm,” she comments, bright-eyed, encouraging me to go on.
When she discovers I’ve never tasted mole, she jumps up—she’s surprisingly agile—lights a fire in the pit, and grabs a pan from a tree. “Oh, you’re in for a treat, mi amor!”
She beckons me to follow her into a small hut containing a fridge, a wooden table, and rough-hewn cabinets—apparently the indoor section of her kitchen. With a flourish, she hands me a bottle of cooking oil and three tomatoes. She carries out a pot of chicken broth. I follow her back to the fire pit.
She grabs a black and blue mottled spoon from the tree, then oversees me chopping tomatoes and amid the sizzle of oil and aromas of roasting chile and chocolate sauce. “Sí, mija, así es,” she murmurs in approval. Yes, like that, my daughter. She heats up rice, and we talk more about food—tagines in Morocco, peanut stew in Senegal, mango-chile salad in Thailand. Spicy, sweet smoke wraps around me, saturating my hair, my clothes, seeping into my skin, making my eyes water.
Time whirls by, until finally, Lupita dips a wooden spoon into the dark sauce and tastes it. “Ya, finished!” She ladles chicken and rice onto a plate, then drizzles mole on top.
“¡Come, mija!” she says, handing it to me. Eat, my daughter!
I take a bite. It’s shocking how delicious it is. So delicious my eyes close in deep appreciation. The mole heats up my blood, warms my heart, reaches into the very center of my being. An unearthly experience. I force myself to slow down and savor the intermingling flavors. The combination of chocolate and chile gives me some kind of endorphin high. I’m dancing inside. My face feels damp with sweat from the stars now, too. This is crazy. How can a food have this effect?
When I open my eyes, I see Lupita watching me with delight. Her face is aglow. Sweat of the stars. I want to hug her. Now, sitting here, eating this mole, I really, truly feel it—I’ve found home.
Two platefuls later, I find myself opening up more and more, telling Lupita how I’ve always longed for family, for home, how I’ve always felt a certain loneliness inside, even around other people. I tell her about Wendell, who makes that loneliness subside, but how being apart from him scares me.
Lupita clucks sympathetically and piles more mole onto my plate. I’m stuffed, but I don’t stop her.
“You know, mija, it’s good to be away from your loved one sometimes. It makes you love him more. It’s like mole. I don’t eat it for every meal. Just on Sundays, or birthdays, or when I have a special visitor, like you.” She nods, patting my shoulder. “It’s the same with my husband. I love him more when I miss him a bit.”
She lowers her voice, letting me in on a secret. “I send my husband to work at his little store every day. There aren’t many customers anymore. He just sits there and watches TV and snoozes. But he feels useful.” She giggles, clasping her hands together. “And when he comes back home, I’m happy to see him and he’s happy to see me.”
I laugh, thinking of Wendell. He’ll love hearing about all this. Suddenly, I realize how much time has passed. Wendell will be home soon. I’d better get going. Then I remember my whole reason for coming. “Doña Lupita,” I begin, “people in town warned me about a jaguar. And a crazy lady—”
“Oh, mija, people are such gossips.” She waves her hand, brushing away the rumors. “The truth is that Meche is a lovely woman.”
“Lovely?” I pause. “But—what about the jaguar?”
“She adores him! She gave him all her cariño after the tragedy.”
“What happened?” I whisper.
Doña Lupita clucks. “It was so sad, so sad. Meche was a doting mother, but one day her daughter wandered off, through the jungle. Meche found her just as she was teetering on the edge of the sea cliff. She ran to her, but couldn’t reach her fast enough. The little girl fell. The ocean took her, pobrecita.”
For a moment I’m speechless. “But—then why don’t people like this woman?”
“Pues, envy. She was so beautiful. When she was your age, she met a man visiting from Mexico City. He was older, fair-skinned and wealthy, and he charmed her. Soon they got married, and not long after, her belly grew. People gossiped that she became pregnant, then forced the man to marry her. So Meche and her husband moved to Puerto Escondido. She and her daughter came back here after her mother’s death to settle paperwork. It was then that her daughter died.”
Doña Lupita gives the pot one more stir, then settles back into her chair. “Meche was so distraught. The child’s body was never found. Still, people gave her no sympathy. They said she never wanted the baby, only used the pregnancy to lure in her husband. Some went so far as to say she killed her own child.”
“Like La Llorona,” I murmur.
“Exactly.” Doña Lupita waves the idea away with her hand. “Ridiculous, of course. If you ever saw Meche with that little girl, you’d know how much they adored each other.”
“And her husband?” I ask, remembering how she was rumored to have killed him, too.
“Who knows. Maybe a divorce. To tell the truth, Meche was so devastated, she couldn’t be a wife anymore. She moved back here to live alone on her family’s land.”
Doña Lupita is silent for a moment, stirring the mole, inhaling its scent. “I brought her my mole—this can cheer up anyone, I thought—but it didn’t help. Pobrecita. Poor thing. Even now, after all these years, I’m her only visitor. But I admit, now that the jaguar’s no longer a kitten, it scares me. So now I just leave mole outside the gate.”
I stare at my empty plate of mole, wondering what to make of her story. Have I misjudged Meche? Or is Lupita just delusionally kind and open-hearted?
The sun drops in the sky, signaling late afternoon. Wendell might be home already, wondering where I am. But as much as I want to see him, I’m in my element here, sharing stories with Lupita. Wendell can wait a few more minutes.
I open my jade notebook. “Doña Lupita, can I interview you?”
“Why?” she asks, surprised. “I’m just an old lady. My life is simple.”
“Trust me,” I say with a smile. “You’re plenty interesting.”
She giggles like a little girl, then folds her hands in her lap.
“What would make your life complete?”
She thinks for a moment. “Pues, I’d like to teach someone my mole recipe. From scratch. It’s an ancient recipe. My grandmother taught me. She learned it from her grandmother. I’d like to continue the chain.”
“Your children and grandchildren aren’t interested?” I find this hard to believe.
She clucks. “The ingredients must be roasted on a handmade clay plate over the fire. My daughter likes to cook, but only with a stove. Too much work to gather the firewood, she says. Too much time. My granddaughters are the same. They like to do things fast.” She snaps her fingers. “Todo rápido, rápido, rápido.”
&
nbsp; I jot this down in my notebook, and then, almost shyly, I say, “Well, if you ever get desperate, I’d love to learn the recipe.”
She studies me. “Really? You’d have the patience?”
“Sí, señora.” There is no doubt in my mind.
“Wonderful!” She hugs me, pressing me into her soft shoulders. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll teach you.”
I breathe in one last whiff of mole. This is what I’ve longed for—to be part of something old and important, something tied to this place. A link in a chain. Like the line of sea turtles that nest here—grandmothers, granddaughters, stretching in either direction, past and future. Something that proves this is my home.
I leave, feeling full of mole and something else. Strength—enough to deal with a bizarre neighbor, a jaguar, and poachers. Maybe even enough to deal with Wendell-less afternoons.
By the time I get home, Wendell’s in the kitchen hut, staring at the blue glow of his laptop. I run up to him, plant a kiss on his mouth, glancing at his email in-box. “And how was your day, dear?”
He closes his laptop quickly. “Okay.” His voice is oddly flat.
I know I should ask him more, but I want to fill him in on Doña Lupita and the mole and the revelation about Meche. I gush for a little while, and he nods distractedly at the wrong places. This isn’t like him.
I stop myself and ask, “Hey, are you okay, Wendell?”
He nods unconvincingly.
“Are you mad at me?” I venture. It would be ridiculous, but I can’t think of any other explanation. “I mean, because I wasn’t here when you got home?”
He glances at me. “Of course not.”
I wait a few beats to see if he’ll say more.
Nothing.
I take another stab. “Did something happen at work?”
A slight shake of the head. “Got tons of turtle pictures.”
After a pause, I ask, “Did you have to do tours today? Speak French? Did it go all right?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost impatient. “French and English. It was fine.”