The Indigo Notebook

by Laura Resau

  I climb onto the tire and lean into the truck bed. The boxes are taped shut. I peel the tape off one, wishing I hadn’t just trimmed my fingernails. It takes an agonizingly long time. Every movement makes me jump—a bird flitting from one branch to another, one of the dogs scratching its ear, a fly buzzing past. Finally, I fling open the flaps and pull out a bear and start tearing at the sloppy stitches in back.

  The voices inside escalate. “Cabrón! You were short on our merchandise last time. We pay you up front, we want our money’s worth. What, are you sneaking some for yourself? In this shipment nothing better be missing. And you owe us two thousand from last time.”

  Then Faustino’s voice, “Tranquilo, tranquilo.”

  Then the men’s voices, cursing and yelling some more. A piece of furniture being overturned, something thrown against the wall. I stuff the bear into my bag and jump down to the ground. I should do something. Something, something, something. Maybe the keys are in the truck. Maybe I can go get help. In Morocco, an ex-boyfriend of Layla’s taught me to drive his two-stroke motorcycle. How much different can a truck be?

  I open the door. A gun’s lying on the seat. I know how to shoot a rifle from hunting rabbits in Brazil, but this is a machine gun. I freeze.

  Wendell’s voice rises in his terrible accent. “¡Tengo dinero!” I have money.

  “How much?” a voice yells.

  “I have it all. Doscientos.” I can feel his brain working frantically to translate the zeros to Spanish. “No, no, no—dos mil, dos mil—two thousand. Two thousand dollars.”

  A pause. Then, so quietly, I can barely hear, “He’s lying.”

  “I have it, I have it! My dinero for arte escuela. In the banco.”

  He must be talking about the money he’s saving for his art abroad program next summer. Silence, then the murmur of voices. The scrape of chairs. Voices growing closer, nearing the entrance. “We’re coming tomorrow afternoon for the money. It better be here. All of it.”

  I close the truck door quietly and run around the side of the house. With wobbly knees, I make my way through the foliage, half running, half tumbling, down the other side of the mountain.

  That’s when I remember it. The bear in my bag, bouncing against my thigh. Its presence burns and glows and breathes. As though it’s a living creature whispering, You idiot, why didn’t you leave me in that box?

  The whole bus ride back, I hug my bag to my chest, thinking about the bear and its illicit guts. Sinking with the realization that I’ve gotten myself involved in a mammoth mess. I want to toss the thing out the window, but then what will happen when Faustino and those men discover they’re short a bear? What if they blame Wendell? No, I’ll have to return it somehow. But first I need to see what’s inside. Maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. Maybe they’re just shoddy stuffed animals after all.

  Our apartment is deserted except for fruit flies hovering over a plate of papaya peels and orange goop spotted with slimy seeds. On the counter next to a half-eaten carton of pineapple yogurt is a note.

  Out to dinner with

  Jeff, love. We’d like

  to spend tomorrow

  morning with you,

  okay?

  Layla

  The end of her last “a” spirals up and up and off the page, like a bee’s path. She’s left the kitchen a disaster, as always. At least she hasn’t totally transformed into a suburban housewife. That’s reassuring. I toss the peels into the trash, tie up the bag, take it outside, put in a new bag, wipe off the counter, do the heap of dishes, and fix some lemon balm tea.

  I’m stalling. I’ll admit, I’m terrified of opening the bear.

  I close the curtains, which are silk scraps hanging from clothespins over the window. Pink-orange light shines through the insubstantial fabric and seeps around its edges. I get our sharpest knife from the kitchen and set it on the crate coffee table. For a moment, I sit on the sofa, sipping the tea, stroking the teddy bear’s fur, trying to let its cuddliness do its job. The fur is satiny smooth, but it isn’t soft and huggable, not very comforting.

  I hold up the steak knife, ready for surgery. Taking a deep breath, I turn the creature over and wedge the blade under the seams.

  Gently, I cut the threads. Of course I’ve seen cocaine in movies, the little plastic bags of white powder. I’ve never seen it in real life, up close.

  I hold my breath as I open the flaps of fur gently, hoping the bags won’t tear loose and the powder won’t explode in my face. Inside is a small bag, all right, but not a plastic one. The pouch is white cotton, raw like the shirts Gaby sells. I let it sit in my palm, feeling its weight. Its contents aren’t soft or powdery. They click against one another, small, hard things, like stones.

  I’m vague on the textures of drugs. I’ve come across marijuana and shrooms in our travels, common among the hippie expat crowds that Layla attracts, but this harder stuff is a mystery.

  I peer inside. A small pile of green crystals, like little pieces of lime-flavored ice or sea glass. I pour them into my palm. They’re cloudy in places, clear in others, green with hints of blue, bits of ocean. I’ve never heard of any green crystal-like drugs before. Crystal meth? Would that imply actual crystals? And are they green?

  My first instinct is to go to Gaby’s for advice. Then I remember the reason she couldn’t go with me to Agua Santa today in the first place. She’s watching her cousin’s kids in Quito all day.

  Should I call Wendell’s mom and see if she can talk some sense into him? He’d kill me. But I’ve already lost him. Or maybe he’s never really been mine to begin with. Maybe I’ve just been his translator, the one he needed to help him. Maybe he always seems so happy to see me just because I speak English. I’m barely a step up from Frasier reruns. A companion while She, his true love, is on another continent, absence making her heart grow fonder, making her e-mails mushier by the day. Now that he’s found his birth father, he has no use for me anymore.

  Of course, I don’t completely believe this, but when you’re holding a shoddy teddy bear and feeling miserable it’s easy to forget all the good moments and just sink into despair. If I call his parents, like I promised, they’ll just convince him to go home. And he’ll go back to Her and I’ll be just a tiny snippet of a memory and soon he’ll even forget my name.

  But at least he’ll be alive. With his art abroad fund intact.

  A couple of things I know for sure. I can’t get the police involved. They might arrest Wendell, because whatever the green stones are, they’re obviously illegal. And I need to sew up the bear and return it, the sooner the better.

  I stuff the pouch back inside the bear and search our apartment for a needle and thread. Nothing. It’s late now anyway, nearly dark. Too late to go back to Agua Santa. I’ll go to Gaby’s booth tomorrow, get her advice about Wendell’s money mess, borrow a needle and thread, return the bear as discreetly as possible, and beg Wendell to leave Faustino.

  With nothing to do now, I walk in circles around the apartment. I play some CDs, switching restlessly from one to another—Brazilian jazz to Janis Joplin to chanting monks—then finally turn off the stereo. None of the music fits how I feel. I even knock on Giovanni the Taoist surfer clown’s door, thinking he might entertain me with flower balloons to make the minutes pass faster. No answer. Now, of all times. And he’s almost always hanging out on the balcony doing nothing.

  I wish I could fast-forward to tomorrow and get this over with. Then I remember Wendell’s last three letters. Maybe they’ll make me feel less panicked, less alone. I sprawl on my mattress and unfold the first one, my indigo notebook open, my pen poised for the translation.

  Dear birth mom and dad,

  Well, it’s my birthday again, so I figured I’d write to you, but I don’t know what to say because I don’t really care that I’m adopted anymore. I mean, I hardly even think about it. I’m just writing out of habit. I had a sleepover and we watched marathon Lord of the Rings. My picture of a chipmunk got first place in th
e photography show out of all the middle schools. In the whole state. Not to brag. Maybe I get my artisticness from you. I’ll never know. Oh well.

  Sincerely,

  Wendell,

  age 13

  And the next.

  Dear birth mom and dad,

  I did a research project on Otavaleño Indians and I feel like I know you better now. Do you drink chicha? Do you celebrate the festival of the corn? I’ve started growing my hair out like you. Dad got me an Andean flute for my birthday and I can play a little of “El Condor Pasa” on it. I wonder if I’ll ever meet you. I ditched French and I’m taking Spanish now, so I can talk to you if we ever meet. If you speak Spanish. You might only speak Quichua.

  I wonder if you’re alive. I wonder if we’re like each other. I wonder if you can read. I wonder if I have brothers and sisters. I hope so. I’ve always wanted some, but Mom can’t have kids. Aiden’s older sister got pregnant. She’s 16. She’s placing the baby for adoption. I wonder if you were really young when you had me. I think Aiden’s sister is doing the right thing.

  Adiós,

  Wendell,

  age 14

  Translating the letters isn’t cheering me up. It’s making me angry. Faustino doesn’t deserve these letters. I stick them back into the bag with the last untranslated one, still tightly folded. I’m not ready to translate the last one yet. Once it’s done, Wendell won’t need me anymore.

  The next day, at only ten in the morning, the sun’s already sneaking its way under the rim of my hat, burning my eyes. The steamy smell of manure saturates everything, clinging to me and my clothes and my bag and probably even the shabby bear and the letters inside my bag.

  We’re in the middle of a giant field of mud and pig shit. Men and women stand around, bargaining in Quichua, holding frayed ropes with pigs attached, pigs of all sizes. The best are the tiny squeaking piglets with curlicue tails and crazy puppyish energy. I have to admit they make me crack a smile. The bigger pigs are just scary—massive hairy hogs wallowing in the mud, heaps of flesh refusing to budge.

  Coming to the pig market was my idea. I was in my pajamas this morning, eating yogurt and translating Wendell’s last letter, when Jeff knocked on the door, decked out in a beige shirt and white pants and white sneakers. I opened it and breathed in his cologne, and he said, “So, what would you like to do today? You choose this time, Z.”

  For some reason, I didn’t like him calling me Z, as if he knew me, as if he were a close friend. Layla was in the shower. She’d slept in since she’d gotten in late last night after their date. While she was getting ready, I flipped through the Ecuador guidebook and came across a couple of lines about the Otavalo pig market, a very muddy and smelly affair.

  Eyeing Jeff’s immaculate white pants and sneakers, I said, “Let’s go to the pig market.” Kind of immature and spiteful, I know.

  “Great!” he said, clapping his hands.

  “Layla loves piglets,” I said. I wanted him to see her in all her muddy, messy splendor. Most of all, I wanted her to remember who she is—someone who loves kneeling in the mud, cradling a filthy piglet, enjoying the tiny brown prints its feet make on her skin. Plus, Jeff wouldn’t want to stay long, so I’d have time to get to Agua Santa by the afternoon.

  All morning, through breakfast at the café and on the way to the pig market, I’ve tried to catch Layla alone, to tell her about the bears and the disaster with Faustino and Wendell. But she looks in another world. Well, she usually looks in another world, but now she seems utterly absent. A distracted gaze and vague, generic comments like, “Oh, those hogs are big all right,” and “Look at those wee little piglets.”

  Jeff’s arm stays around her shoulders like a permanent fixture. He’s trying to enjoy himself, trying to make us enjoy ourselves. He only briefly mentions that he wishes he’d worn a different outfit, then devotes his attention to the extra-tiny piglets. “Hey, Z, check out that little bacon bit!”

  I keep waiting for Layla to bend down and kiss the baby pigs on the snouts, but she stands there, smiling nervously, devoid of chi. We move on, weaving through people and pigs, around piles of manure and patches of mud puddles, past a pig that is—no kidding—the size of a cow.

  Further on are a few sheep and cows, less exciting, and that’s when Jeff shifts his focus to me. “Layla, honey, did you show Zeeta our itinerary yet?”

  The odor of pigs and shit is overpowering. My knees feel weak.

  Layla pulls out a folded-up piece of paper from her pocket. “It’s official, love. Jeff bought our tickets yesterday. We’re heading to Maryland next week.”

  I force a smile, hoping my watery eyes might seem joyful.

  Layla studies my face. “Zeeta, what’s wrong?”

  I’m staring at a wide-eyed calf and my lip’s quivering and my life’s flashing before my eyes, like they say it does right before you die. Now my eyes are closed and I see Layla and me hopping across a stream, from one stone to another. Each stone is a country, glowing with the big events of our lives and sparkling with tiny details of day-to-day existence. I want to keep going.

  Now the tears are spilling from my eyes and the world’s turned blurry and I blurt out, “I can’t do this, Layla. I’m sorry. I can’t.” I turn and run, pig shit and mud splattering my legs, the bear in the bag bouncing against my thigh.

  Layla’s voice calls after me, “Wait, Z!”

  I don’t look back.

  Chapter 25

  Stands for the Saturday market line the streets, ten times the number of booths as the Plaza de Ponchos market where Gaby works. I zoom through crowds of locals and tourists, past booths of bamboo pan flutes, little guitars, CDs of Andean flute music blaring from boom boxes, jewelry made of nuts and seeds and wooden beads, sweaters of llama and alpaca.

  I try to keep my sobbing under control to avoid drawing attention to myself, which is the last thing I need with smuggled goods in my bag. I carry the bag carefully, as though it contains a bomb. When I pass two policemen on the corner, I let my hair fall over my teary face. Against all logic, I’m sure the cops will somehow sniff out the teddy bear’s contents and throw me in jail.

  At her booth, Gaby’s chatting with two Korean tourists as the third one films the encounter. She loves the camera on her, speaks right to it, cracking jokes like a late-night-show host. When I reach her booth, she flashes her huge white smile. “Z, sit down! Give me a minute here.”

  She turns back to the tourists and holds out a scarf. “Three for ten dollars!” she says, careful to put her tongue between her teeth for the th sound as I taught her. She holds up her fingers and looks amused as the Koreans translate among themselves. They don’t look like they’re in any rush to leave.

  The man aims the camera at me. I offer him a weak smile, sweat rolling down my sides. I clutch my bag closed in my lap to be sure nothing incriminating is caught on film.

  “See you later, alligator,” he says in heavily accented English.

  “After a while, crocodile,” I squeak.

  By now, Gaby has registered my tear-blotched face. She strokes my cheek. “What happened?”

  I reach my hand into my bag, pull the bag of green stones from the bear’s back. I look around to make sure no one’s watching us. Carefully, I take a few stones from the bag and then open my palm, letting the sunlight reflect off their facets, liquid underwater light.

  Gaby’s quick. Within seconds she takes in the torn-open teddy bear, the pouch, the handful of green light. “Emeralds. So that’s what the devil’s been up to.”

  “Emeralds?” Emeralds! Of course! One of Layla’s ex-boyfriends from Thailand made jewelry and talked nonstop about stones. Emeralds, he said, were one of the most valuable gems, worth more than rubies and diamonds.

  “Is that why you’ve been crying?” Gaby ventures.

  I shake my head. “I have to move to Maryland.” And the tears ooze out again, but at least this time I don’t turn into a sniveling, gasping mess.

  “Where’s tha
t?” she asks, offering me an embroidered hankie.

  “Somewhere in the United States. A little, funny-shaped state near the capital.” I blow my nose.

  She pats my shoulder. After a moment, she holds an emerald to the light. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  I nod, looking around nervously, convinced that either the police or those thugs or maybe Faustino himself will appear.

  “How involved is Wendell?”

  “I don’t know.” I sniff and wipe my tears. “But it’s a big operation. There are boxes of these bears up at Faustino’s house.”

  She smooths my hair behind my ear, tenderly. “Colombia’s the emerald capital of the world, you know. Green fire is what they call them. Or green gold. For many years there’ve been emerald-smuggling routes. They’re run by a kind of mafia. As ruthless as the drug runners.”

  “But why to Ecuador?” Talking about the ins and outs of emerald smuggling somehow quiets my crying.

  “Here’s my guess. Some people either stole the emeralds straight from the mines or they just didn’t want to pay the taxes and get the proper documents. So the devil—what’s his name? Faustino?—he’s a mule, a middleman, carrying them across the border. He probably disguises himself as an innocent Otavaleño Indian going to Colombia to sell his crafts. I bet he crossed the border into Colombia with the bears, then filled them with emeralds. Crossing back over, he slipped the border police a few bills. Claimed the bears were unsold merchandise.”

  “What do you think he’ll do with them now?”

  “Probably pass them on to someone else who’ll sell them to gem collectors and distributors.”

  “How do you know all this, Gaby?”

  “Sitting around in a market every day for twenty years, you know a little bit about everything.” She winks and calls out to a group of tanned hippie backpackers. “Three for ten dollars, guapo! Buy one for your gorgeous girlfriend!”