The Jade Notebook (15 page)

Wendell sets down the broom and puts his arm around me.

I force myself to continue. “I just want to be happy in our
home. Our permanent home.” I turn to Wendell. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll get to know my other relatives here—like El Sapo’s family. And if the only part of paradise that’s missing is my father, I’ll deal with it.” Maybe if I say the words enough, I’ll start to believe them.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Joe nodding emphatically in agreement, murmuring, “Just forget about that man.”

Layla pulls me to her, wraps me in her scent of jasmine and sea salt. “I’m sorry, Z.” She takes a deep breath and looks at the sky over the jungle, and I know what’s coming. Rumi.
“The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in. Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.”

One way to forget the messiness of life is to play a game, giggle a bit. For the next few days, every evening Wendell and I find ourselves on the beach court with the
bolibolistas
, laughing, diving, jumping, and losing ourselves in sand-spewn volleyball antics. These
bolibolistas’
personality quirks are quickly filling up my jade notebook. There’s El Loco’s understated humor and funny little bouncing dreads, the sweet bakery sisters’ ever-changing crushes, the pink-faced Irish hemp jewelry seller’s yodeling, Mayra’s prissiness, Xochitl’s tomboyishness, El Sapo’s geeky athleticism and love of Japanese animé.

And all the while, I know they aren’t all just strangers whose paths are briefly crossing mine. Some of these
bolibolistas
are—in all likelihood—my cousins. My cousins! I love knowing that for years we could be playing volleyball together, becoming closer, sharing stories, sharing lives. I love this. It makes me feel full.

Full enough to not obsessively fret over the messy developments in my life. It’s much easier to lose myself in the simple thrills of volleyball matches. During these games, El Sapo’s mother, Cristina, comes over with cups and a pitcher of something cool and sweet for the players. She always makes sure that Wendell and I are served first. Sometimes she pauses to watch the games, a thoughtful look on her face.

Today Cristina has brought us
agua de papaya
—foamy, sugary juice a light shade of orange. After I thank her, I’m about to head to the surf to cool off, when she asks softly, “Any luck finding that
señor
?”

I shake my head and sip my drink. “Look, Doña Cristina, I’m sorry we were pushy the other night. I mean, with our questions. We shouldn’t have—”

She waves my words away. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“Really,” I insist. “I’m sorry. José Cruz was just a man we met in France.” I pause, searching for a way to phrase this, a way that isn’t exactly a lie. I need to tell her something more, though, if I want to have a real friendship with her family. I have to make her feel comfortable. Then maybe one day, she can really be like an aunt to me. “He mentioned Punta Cometa,” I continue slowly, “here in Oaxaca. And sea turtles. We—we thought he might be from Mazunte.” Again, I hesitate.

She’s hanging on my every word.

“He said something about returning home,” I finish, taking another sip of my drink.

She blinks a few times, composing her thoughts. “
Pues
, I’ll tell you if I hear anything,
señorita
.” Then, almost shyly, she adds, “And you will tell me, no?”

“Of course.” I search her eyes, so much like mine. I notice her biting her cheek. “And please, call me Zeeta.”

“
Gracias
, Zeeta.” She looks like she wants to say more, but Xochitl and Mayra have run over, and they’re grabbing drinks from her tray. Cristina gives us a nod, then moves on to distribute drinks.

As we sip our
agua de papaya
, Mayra adjusts her barrettes and asks eagerly, “So has she tried to kill you yet?”

Wendell and I look at each other. Who?

“¡La bruja!”

The witch? I pause. “You mean the jaguar lady?”

Mayra nods, her eyes wide.

“Not yet,” I say, grimacing.

Folding her arms, Xochitl says authoritatively, “I heard she killed her daughter. And then her husband.”

Mayra gives a solemn nod. “And kids who go on her land—she feeds them to her jaguar.”

“Sí,”
Xochitl agrees. She scratches a bug bite on her scabbed-over knee, adding, “That’s how she kills people.”

“Hmmm,” I reply. “I’ll keep that in mind if I hear any bloodcurdling screams.”

Once the girls leave, distracted by their friends who’ve arrived, Wendell murmurs, “Somehow this doesn’t get me excited about heading into the Forbidden Territory.”

“We’ll have to go sooner or later,” I say, finishing off my
agua de papaya
. “The murderous
bruja
needs to know we’ll be here for the long haul.”

We’re getting closer to signing the deal. Layla finally had Raúl the lawyer, in a rare sober moment, look over the contract and plans we drew up. Now she just has to meet with the owners and sign the papers, and that’s it, we’ll be here for five years. At least. And by then we might have enough money saved up to buy the land. Our guess is the owners will be more than happy to sign. After all, they’ve had to deal with such a high turnover of managers in the past.

My only concern is Layla, whether she’ll back out at the last minute. Who knows what will happen if she gets cold feet, right when one of our guests tells her she simply
has
to go to Bora Bora or Timbuktu. I need to make sure Layla stays convinced that this place is perfect, despite the pesky curse and jaguar. I’m not going to mention the rumors of a child-killing witch, that’s for sure.

I’m guessing we’ll be stuck with this
bruja
for a long time. But in the meantime, I can at least find a way to get rid of the jaguar. Contain the mess.

Sunset at Punta Cometa calls to me. I give myself excuses for not visiting my favorite place: the evening volleyball games, helping Layla with dinners, a world history test. But the real reason is this: going to Punta Cometa for sunset requires a walk through the jungle. And the last time I ventured into the jungle, the jaguar pounced. Even remembering it sends my heart racing.

Still, Punta Cometa calls to me. And I need to go alone, to think.

As I tiptoe down the path, the breeze sneaks between the thick trees, and I wrap my sarong around my shoulders. It’s from Thailand, silk, woven with shiny threads the color of moonlight. I feel like a magician when I wear it, protected. It’s nearly sunset, golden sunbeams angled through the trees. This hazy light makes the Forbidden Territory less menacing. Beyond the signs, I make out the pattern of wire mesh through the leaves. The gentle light reveals something almost sad about these signs, the fence, the wild animal inside.

Soon I’m walking along Comet Point, listening to my father’s music on Wendell’s iPod. The notes are plucked so delicately, so nimbly. The melody pulls me up, up, up, as though a wave is lifting me, and then down again. His music is like ocean currents. Most of it must be music he composed himself; I’ve never heard it anywhere else.

The only song I recognize is an instrumental riff on a Jimi Hendrix tune. I can supply the words to this one.
“Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams and fairy tales … that’s all she ever thinks about, and riding with the wind …”
A very fitting song for Layla.

Many of the songs have a classic, romantic feel, a Spanish or Mexican flavor. I can only imagine what the words might be. Some songs are bright, sparkling like wave tips; others are shadowy, haunting, bringing to mind ocean depths. Maybe my father wrote the lively ones during a manic time, the heavy ones during a depression.

Listening to his music is kind of a bipolar experience
itself, jumping between extremes of heart-soaring and incredibly frustrating. I can’t help searching for clues in the notes—clues to who he is—and wondering how someone so flawed and troubled could have made such breathtaking music.

Couples are scattered across the peninsula, facing the orange sun that’s falling closer to the water by the minute. At a distance, El Loco is fishing on the cliffs; I can tell by the silhouette of his short dreads against the glowing sky. It’s a mystery to me how he reached that spot, smack in the middle of rock crags. Gulls fly overhead, circling and diving for fish. And I stand on the edge, asking myself if, despite everything that’s happened lately, I still want to stay here for good.

I do. The connection is stronger than ever. My body, my mind, my soul—everything comes together perfectly in this space. I watch the sun drop below the horizon, then sit for a while longer, until a cool breeze makes me shiver.

I stand up and stretch, looking around. The couples have left. Even El Loco is gone. Quickly, wrapping my shawl around my shoulders, I head toward the jungle, scrambling up the steep part in the half-light, loosening pebbles and dirt. Walking past the Forbidden Territory in the dark seems highly unappealing.

But inside the tree shadows, dusk has already fallen, an indigo blanket.

There’s a rustling in the forest ahead of me. I freeze. I haven’t reached the Forbidden Territory yet. It must be
something harmless—a raccoon or rabbit. Or maybe Wendell. I take a tentative step forward, squinting into the dark shapes of leaves and branches.

I see the eyes first—small yellow globes staring me down. And then I make out the form of the head, the strong jaw, the sleek silhouette of its body. Light reflects off its thin whiskers, silvery in the faint glow of twilight.

The creature is just a few meters away, easily within pouncing distance. In one tiny moment, I take in every last detail—the enormous paws, the tufts of hair in its ears, the flat, feline nose, the angled ovals of its eyes boring into me. For a flicker of a moment, I’m mesmerized by its stealthy beauty, its force. It exudes mystery, embodies the night.

Then its lip curls up ever so slightly. A low growl creeps out, like the putter of an engine revving up.

The noise makes me realize the most essential fact: the jaguar is not behind the fence.

The jaguar is not behind the fence
.

I hold completely still, my gaze fixed to this creature’s. My heart is thrumming wildly, my mind racing. What to do, what to do.
Don’t panic, Z
. Wendell’s words come to me.
Make yourself appear bigger. Back up slowly. Don’t make eye contact. If attacked, fight back
. I quickly avert my eyes, raise my scarf in the air, stretching my arms up and out. I brace myself for its attack, for the force of its body to slam into me. I tense my muscles, prepare my feet and hands to kick, punch its nose, poke its eyes, whatever it takes. I risk another peek at the creature’s eyes. It’s still staring at me. Forcing my gaze
downward, I wave the scarf above my head and tiptoe backward. Another step and another.

And then, in my peripheral vision, I sense another pair of eyes. And another shape emerging from the shadows, almost imperceptibly.

My eyes flick toward the movement and rest on the slim silhouette of a woman that melts into the night. Her black dress ends above her knees; her legs are long, and she’s barefoot. Her feet look oddly delicate beside the jaguar’s thick paws. Her hair is as shiny black as the jaguar’s spots, her eyes catlike, the whites glowing around a circle of brown with a hint of fiery gold. Her cheekbones are strong, her face wide. She’s suddenly still as a statue, staring, her body lithe and taut. Wary.

The jaguar lady.
La bruja
. Even though her face was hidden by the shadow of her hat brim and sunglasses that day at the butcher’s, I recognize her easily now. It’s the way she holds herself with such astonishing grace.

She stops beside the creature, puts her hand on its haunches. He sits obediently. She takes another step forward and rests her hand on its sleek head. Its ears go back, and the growl turns into a purr that fades into silence.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly. We both stand perfectly still, staring at each other. In the fading twilight she seems like an apparition, a ghost, something conjured up by the jungle. The dream of a tree.