The Indigo Notebook (17 page)

“I was indignant. Maybe she thought I was a regular dull-witted tourist, not someone who’d grown up playing in markets. Maybe she thought she’d easily lose me in the crowd. She led me into a maze of narrow streets. They grew more and more deserted, but I kept running. I remember thinking,
It’s all Layla’s fault! If she gave me a normal life, none of this would be happening
.

“And then, at the end of an alley so narrow you could touch
both walls with your arms spread out, we reached a dead end. The girl turned to face me. A group of other street girls came out from the shadows. Five or six of them. Thin black veils hid their faces. In the distance there was the beating of drums and clapping. No one would have heard me if I’d screamed. My heart was pounding louder than the drums, and I was bending over, my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. I was terrified.

“So I stood up straight, and in Arabic, I said to the girl,
‘Essalam alikoum
. I’m Zeeta and I’d like to be your friend.’

“She turned to the other girls. One of them was holding a henna tattoo kit and a plastic binder of tattoo designs. I’d seen girls like these wandering the streets, offering tattoos. I’d heard from police that the girls were famous for slipping their little hands into pockets while you were distracted.

“‘Why do you want to be my friend?’ the girl asked, suspicious.

“‘Because you’re fast and smart and interesting.’ I smiled the most open, honest smile I could muster. ‘And because you owe me a henna tattoo. Let’s see what designs you have.’ I walked over to the girl with the binder, who looked about eleven, a couple of years older than me. I flipped through the pages and pointed to a hummingbird. ‘How about this one? On my ankle, please.’

“The girl who stole my money slowly lifted her veil. And then, one by one, the other girls lifted theirs. The one who stole from me crouched down and began drawing a humming bird on my ankle. Meanwhile, another did a flower on my
hand for free. Their fingers were quick and nimble. We chatted in Arabic—about where I lived and why I spoke their language and how they got into this line of work, and on and on. A half hour later, when they showed me the finished designs, I gasped, because they were so intricate, so beautiful, and worth so much more than thirty dirham and a run through dark alleys. And there, with my new friends, I thought,
I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

At the end of my story, Wendell says, “So what’s the moral?”

“What do you think?”

For a minute, he says nothing, and I think he might have fallen asleep. But then he says, “That sometimes what you thought was bad is good after all. In a way you never expected.” He laughs softly. “And that you might even get some cool tattoos out of it if you’re lucky.” He laughs again. “And that you, Zeeta, are a badass to be reckoned with.”

Suddenly, I feel sure that in the darkness, his hand is reaching toward mine, spanning the gap between the beds. I extend my hand into that space and move it around, searching. But his hand isn’t there. So I tuck my hand under my chin and fall asleep, dreaming of wandering through a maze alone in the dark.

The next morning, just before dawn, Wendell and I are walking along the trail, through the forest pulsing with insect songs and moist earth smells and rushing river music.

“Almost there,” I say.

We round a bend, and the trees open into a giant clearing, with the towering waterfall as its centerpiece, fuzzy through the mist.

“Wow,” he says.

“Wow,” I say, even though I’ve already seen it before.

He sets up his expandable tripod and takes a bunch of pictures, some of me alone, and some timer shots with us together.

“Here’s where Layla climbed down the first time.” I point to the pool at the waterfall’s base. “But let’s go farther downstream, where the current’s not so strong.”

We walk along the river’s edge, through the underbrush, holding aside branches for each other, until we reach the spot. “Okay, Wendell, take off your clothes, dunk your head under, and think about your wish, exactly what you want.”

From my pocket, I pull out the fistful of rose petals I’ve collected along the way.

“Let me guess.” One corner of his mouth turns up. “I rub them all over my nude body?”

“Yep.” I smile. “I won’t look. But if you’re drowning, just scream and I’ll rescue you.”

“Okay, here goes.” He pulls off his T-shirt.

“There’s a towel in my pack for you.”

“Thanks, Z,” he says, taking off his sandals.

I turn away and peer into the trees, the dark forms in the shadows. After a minute, I sneak a furtive peek toward the
river, just to make sure he hasn’t slipped. The water’s up to his hips. His hands are tucked under his armpits, and he’s shaking with cold. His hair falls loose, dripping around his face and spotted with rose petals.

I look back to the forest. It’s lighter now. In only a few seconds, the spaces between trees look lighter blue and the leaves more distinct, taking shape.

After a while, he calls out, “Okay, ready,” and now here he is, dressed, wringing out his hair and looking elated. Together we sit on the rock and watch the blue turn into clear daylight, and soon we can see all the petals of all the flowers on the riverbank and the mossy rocks, and their shades of amber and gold and yellow reflecting sunshine.

“So,” I say, “you think you’ll get Her back?”

“What?”

“Will your wish come true?”

He pauses. “I didn’t wish for her.”

Lowercase
her?
I can’t tell. “Oh.” I falter.

“I was planning on wishing that Faustino was my birth father. And that he was a good man. Then at the last minute I changed my mind and wished for something else.” He drapes the damp towel around his neck. “How about you? Got any wishes before we leave?”

“I’m wished out for the moment.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “Thanks, Z.”

“For what?”

“For—I don’t know, for the towel. For translating. For everything.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Wendell. Translating and providing towels. And other duties as needed.”

He rubs his arms and shivers. In a low voice, a voice that comes from a hidden, tender place, he says, “Then warm me up, Z.” He slips his arm around my waist and draws me in, close. We stay like that for a while, long enough for two doves to call back and forth, back and forth.

On the way back through the forest, we walk close, arms around each other, listening to our breath, to the crickets in the trees, to the leaves trembling in the wispy breeze. Sunshine on dew gives the forest a magical, tingling light that makes everything bright and alive.

As we leave the woods, I think I know what he’s wished for. And it’s very,
very pleno
.

Back in town, we buy pastries at the bakery and sit on a curb to eat them, crumbs and sugar falling in our laps. Then we take a bus to Agua Santa. By the time we get there, a heavy fog has rolled into the valley, hiding the mountaintops. The girls meet us at the crossroads near their house and, singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” at the top of their lungs, lead us to the base of the hill. Above, Faustino’s house is perched on the hilltop, barely visible through the mist.

The girls refuse to go any farther. Odelia hugs my waist tightly, as though she’s saying goodbye forever. “I told my star friend to watch out for you,” she whispers.

“Thanks,
amiga.”

“What about the dogs?” Isabel asks, wary.

“I have my special weapon.” I pat the plastic bag of stale bread I bought for a quarter at the bakery. “After a few pieces, those beasts will be my new best friends.”

She looks doubtful. “I heard they’re really big, mean dogs.”

“Even big, mean dogs can’t resist stale bread.”

The girls perch on a rock by the roadside. “We’ll wait for you,” Eva says. “And if you’re not down in an hour, we’ll call Taita Silvio for help.”

I laugh uneasily. “Thanks.” I turn to go up the hill, and then notice Wendell. He’s staring at the girls with a distant yet intense expression.

“Ready, Wendell?”

He blinks fast a few times. “Zeeta, tell the girls—tell them to stay away from their father.”

“What?”

“Tell them if they feel scared, even a little, to run straight to Mamita Luz and Taita Silvio’s.”

I translate for the girls. They don’t seem too surprised. They all nod, and Eva says, “We’ll be extra-careful.”

Isabel studies Wendell’s face. “You’re like Taita Silvio. You have his same powers, don’t you?”

He lets out a long breath. “Except I have no clue how to use them.”

“But Wendell,” Eva says, “you just did.”

Climbing up the hill, I say, “So these feelings you get. Can you actually see the future?”

“It’s pretty vague.” He pauses. “With your mom in the
waterfall, I kind of felt something bad would happen, something that had to do with water.”

“Can you change the future?”

“Sometimes. Sort of. Not always.” He tears a leaf from a tree, rips it into tiny pieces. “Like the thing with my ex. We were together for seven months, and then I started to have this feeling she was gonna break up with me. I kept asking her how I could make her happy. She got sick of it. And broke up with me. Ironic, huh?”

I try to muster up some sympathy about the breakup. Not working. “What about the bus accident?” I ask instead.

He tosses his tiny leaf pieces to the wind and picks another leaf. He’s nervous talking about this, cautious almost. “I saw the bus and got this terrible feeling. It felt like broken glass and fire and smoke. I had to decide in that second whether to make everyone get off the bus. If they did, and the accident didn’t happen, they’d just think I was crazy.” He tosses the next handful of shredded leaf.
“Ya no aguanto
, Z. I can’t take it anymore.”

“Taita Silvio can help you.”

“Or maybe Faustino can.”

“Maybe.”

He touches my hand, lightly at first. Then he holds it. Then I squeeze and he squeezes back. We continue uphill, my heart pounding from happiness and fear. I want to ask him if he has a feeling about us in the future.

I want to, but I don’t.

“Thanks for believing me,” he says after a while.

“Of course.”

“And for not thinking I’m hopelessly weird.”

“Trust me, Wendell. I’ve been around hopelessly weird my whole life. You don’t come close.” I elbow him. “And maybe hopelessly weird isn’t a bad thing, anyway.”

H
alfway up, furious barks and growls break the silence around us. Through the fog, four mangy dogs appear. I untie my bread bag. “Any visions of these beasts eating us alive?” I say under my breath.

Luckily, the dogs come no farther. The house’s form emerges from the mist—a gray, unfinished concrete structure, two stories, with wrought iron on the windows and door. A huge satellite dish is mounted on the roof and a mammoth black truck looms beside the house. On either side of the doorway are clay pots holding a few tall plants whose leaves form umbrellas, clusters of crimson berries at the base.

A man limps through the doorway. He stands there between the umbrella plants. He’s wearing black jeans, a white
undershirt, and black boots, and leaning on a thick stick, a cane maybe. I keep a piece of bread clutched in my hand.

As we get closer, the dogs’ snarls grow louder until the man kicks them. They whimper and quiet down, except for some guttural rumblings.

“Is that a rifle?” Wendell whispers.

I take another look at what I thought was a cane. “Let’s turn back.”

After a brief pause, Wendell shakes his head.

From about fifty feet away, I call out, forcing my voice to sound strong and steady.
“¡Buenos días, señor!
We just need to talk with you for a moment.”

A few seconds pass before he says, “Who are you?” His words land like cold pebbles tossed through the fog.

“I’m Zeeta. This is Wendell.” And since he doesn’t seem one for small talk, I get straight to the point. “We think you’re his birth father.”

He tilts his head, then motions for us to come closer.

Slowly, we make our way toward him, through a crowd of squawking chickens and past a sorry-looking donkey covered with flies and patchy fur. I throw pieces of bread ahead for the dogs. They pounce on it, ravenous.

Up close, I study the man. His hair hangs in a long braid down his back, strands falling out around his face. His face is shaped like Taita Silvio’s—a strong jawline and sloping nose—only he looks younger and older at once. Older because his face is more worn, with scars and deep wrinkles. Not like Taita Silvio’s wrinkles, all laugh lines fanning out
around his eyes and mouth. No, these are heavy wrinkles, pulling at his eyes, furrowing his forehead. Yet younger because of his broad shoulders like Wendell’s, and ropy, muscular forearms. His T-shirt is stained with something red, salsa maybe. His snakeskin boots come to sharp points at the toes.

He eyes us with suspicion. “What do you want from me?”

“He just wants to meet you,” I say. “That’s all.”

Almost reluctantly, he extends his hand to Wendell and then to me—a hand not as thick and calloused as Taita Silvio’s, not as accustomed to hard labor. “Faustino.” He pulls a few stools from the side of the house into a patch of weedy dirt. Now the dogs are sitting by my feet, wagging their tails and drooling, eager for more bread.

He turns back to Wendell.

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

Is he thinking? Plotting? Trying not to cry? Trying
to
cry? Impossible to tell. His face is expressionless, a mask.

“So,” he says finally. “You’re my son.”

Wendell braces his jaw. “I’m your son.”

“Well, at least we think so,” I add. “We think Lilia was his birth mother.”

He says nothing, and Wendell seems to be in a state of mild shock, so I say, “You two look alike. Don’t you think?”

“Yes.” And then, in a tight voice, Faustino says, “Did my brother send you here?”

I translate.

Wendell shakes his head.

“The boy doesn’t speak Spanish?” Faustino asks me, surprised.