The Jade Notebook (25 page)

He studies my face, disappointed. “So you’re not really interested in guitar, are you?”

My eyes flicker away, to the sheets of rain pouring down on the muddy street. I stammer, “No—well, yes, I mean. I am. Absolutely. I do want to learn.” I hesitate, then take a deep breath. “But I can only take lessons if I’m here. If I can stay on the land.” I watch him anxiously.

He runs his hands over his face. “It’s a much messier situation than you can imagine,
mija
.”

“Messes can be beautiful,” I say with a smile.

“Oh, really?”

I nod. Thinking of the flavors of Lupita’s
mole
, I quote the song he played me.
“Picante pero sabroso.”
Spicy but delicious.

He laughs. “So if I want to teach you, I must let you stay on the land?”

“Maybe you can hold off till next year? Or the year after?”

He stands up, creaking, then sets the guitar in my arms. He guides one hand to the neck, positions my fingertips over three strings. “I’ll think about it,” he says. “Now strum.”

I do as he says, and a sweet, sad sound emerges.

“That’s A minor,” he says. “
¿Ya ves?
See? This, this is beautiful. And simple.”

He teaches me D minor, E, and G next. He’s patient as I struggle to remember where my fingers go when I switch notes. Despite my bumbling, I like the feel of the taut strings beneath my fingertips. I like making these chords that resonate through my bones, make my chest feel full and vibrating.

Whenever I grow frustrated, Don Rogelio cracks some silly joke that makes me laugh. At the end of an hour, he says, “Now,
mija
, go home and practice. These four chords are all you must know for ‘La Llorona.’ Come back when you’ve mastered them.” He chuckles and adds, “Or when you need more toilet paper.”

I’m excited to practice, but I’ll have to borrow a guitar from one of the guests, maybe Horacio. Grinning, I hold out the guitar to Rogelio.

“Espérate,”
he says—wait—and disappears into a back room. A moment later, he emerges with a worn black case. He places the guitar in the case, snaps it shut, and hands it to me. “I’m lending it to you.”

I blink, not sure what to say. “But I can’t—”

“I know I can trust you.” He laughs. “My wife and I know where you live!”

“
Gracias
, Don Rogelio. I’ll come back soon.” I pick up the guitar, heavier than I expected in its case. I reach my other hand out to shake his.

As our hands meet, he says, “There are other cabanas you could manage.” He searches my face, curious. “Why does that land matter so much?”

“I—I’ve lived all over the world and never felt this way before.” I try to keep my voice steady. “It’s home.”

He nods, handing me the toilet paper in a small blue bag.
“Que te vaya bien, mija.”
Go well, my daughter.

“Gracias, señor. Hasta luego.”
I walk out into the rain, which is letting up a bit. In the drizzle, I half run down the hill, skidding on the slick mud, the guitar case banging against my leg. At the base of the hill, I turn around to take one last look at the lonely little shop. I see him through the rain, standing beneath the awning, watching me go.

Over dinner, I explain to Layla that my tentative deal with Rogelio involves me learning guitar, and a roll of eleven-year-old toilet paper. “Our lucky roll!” Layla announces. She’s plotting to incorporate it into her next found-art project. I refrain from pointing out the soggy mess it’ll be in the next rainstorm.

Lingering late in the kitchen hut, I practice my four chords over and over while Wendell touches up digital photos for a visitors’ guide. Eventually, the guests stumble back to their cabanas. It must be around one or two in the morning, but I don’t feel like sleeping.

Wendell must not either. “How about a walk?” he asks, closing his laptop.

I raise an eyebrow. “Had enough of my four chords?”

He laughs and tugs me up. “Let’s go.”

“Isn’t it a little late?”

“We have to make up for afternoons apart, right?”

“Let’s go to Playa Mermejita,” I suggest. For some reason, I want to go to the site where our handfasting will be. If Wendell stays, that is. There are so many things unsaid between us now, an undercurrent to every conversation. Whether he’ll stay or go. The knowledge that our future together hangs in limbo.

“We can’t tell Pepe,” he reminds me.

“Right.”

My heart pounds as we cut through the jungle, practically tiptoeing past the Forbidden Territory. And once we’re on the beach, my heart continues to beat fast. We’re not supposed to be here, which makes it feel thrilling, dangerous. Hand in hand we walk, tentatively. The beach is dark, but stray bits of light bounce off fog, creating a fuzzy glow. We make a wide arc around the leatherbacks in various stages of nesting, careful not to disturb them. I scan the beach ahead for any sign of poachers or volunteers. There’s no one.

Suddenly, Wendell stops, staring ahead. “Z,” he says, wrinkling his forehead. “Something’s weird.”

“What?”

“The flipper tracks—they’re usually really clear, right up to the nest. And the sand over the buried eggs—the flippers
leave special marks when they pack it down.” He gestures to the tracks in front of us. “But look.”

The tracks are messed up. And the sand over the covered nests—it’s too neat, flattened into a firm circle, with spade-shape indentations of a shovel. A human covered these holes.

“I think the eggs are gone, Z,” Wendell says, rubbing his face.

I notice rougher tracks headed in the other direction, toward the jungle. Human footprints that have been tamped over with a shovel, leading straight to the patch of mud off the road.

Wendell’s gaze follows mine. “They must know the cops are on to them. They’re covering their tracks. To make it look like the turtles are burying their eggs. Business as usual. That way, the cops will stop investigating.”

“Let’s check, Wendell.”

He takes a breath. “If Pepe knew we were touching the nests …” Then, making a decision, he drops to his knees.

I join him. On all fours, we scrape away the sand. When we’ve gotten well over a meter down, we still haven’t found a single egg. “Stop,” Wendell says, wiping sand from his face. “There’s nothing here.”

For a few minutes, Wendell sits still, head in his arms. Maybe mourning the lost eggs. Maybe holding in his rage. Finally, he stands up. “I’m coming here tomorrow, Z. With my camera. I’ll catch them in the act.”

“How? It’s too dark.”

“They had their headlights on last time. I’ll hide in the
jungle, find a good angle, get a few shots. They’ll never know I was here.”

“But they’re dangerous, Wendell. And what if Pepe finds out? You might lose your job.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then I’m going too.”

“Z,” he says carefully. “No. You could get hurt.”

“So could you,” I counter. “I’m going.”

“Z, I really don’t think—”

“If you’re going, I’m going.”

And it’s decided. We’ll do this together. On the walk home, I wonder what new kind of mess I’ve just gotten myself into.

The next night at midnight, Wendell and I creep down Playa Mermejita, wearing black pants and shirts. With our flashlight off, there’s barely enough moonlight to see. My pulse is drumming, my gaze skimming the sand ahead. Nothing. Maybe the poachers haven’t arrived yet. Maybe they’re not coming tonight. I’m hoping for that possibility. I’ve had all day to think about everything that could go wrong with our plan.

Just up the beach is the dirt patch where the footprints led. We stand still, watching. A few giant turtles straggle up the beach, and others are the middle of digging holes and burying their eggs. Still no sign of the poachers. Or the guards.

“What’s going on with the volunteers?” Wendell whispers. “Where are they?”

“They could be the ones poaching,” I mutter. “Or maybe the poachers are paying them off.” Then I add, frustrated, “And you’d think the cops would be out here investigating.”

Wendell frowns. “Remember the corruption people keep talking about? The bribes and favors?”

I consider this. Maybe that’s what’s going on here. The cops and poachers and volunteers could all be in cahoots. Who can we trust? Pepe doesn’t seem to share our suspicions about his volunteers. “Maybe we should go over Pepe’s head,” I whisper, “straight to the directors of the Turtle Center. Tell them our doubts.”

We walk from the sand into the jungle and find a protected spot not far from the patch of tire-marked dirt. I sit down, leaning against the rough bark of a tree. For a while, we talk in whispers, watching the shapes of the turtles at work far down the beach. Soon I doze off.

At some point, a noise breaks through the rush of surf. It’s the faint thumping of distant music and the roar of an engine. The headlights are on the road; it looks like they’re coming straight toward us. I hold my breath, hoping we’re not visible. Suddenly, the lights cut off. The music continues for a moment, then stops.

I nudge Wendell, but he’s already awake, holding his camera. Together, we watch through the vines.

Three men get out of the truck. They light cigarettes and converse in loud, brazen voices, smoking and looking at the waves. I can’t see their faces in the dim light. Squinting, I try to make out some details. One of them is wearing a cap.
The way they move, their baggy clothes, and their slang and the rhythms of their speech, suggest that they’re teenagers. After they toss aside their cigarettes, they grab shovels and start digging.

Wendell draws in a sharp breath. It must take all his willpower not to run out there and stop them. I put my hand on his arm firmly.

Soon the poachers are dumping the eggs in buckets and carrying them to the truck. Bits of conversation float toward us between crashes of surf. “Remember to cover the tracks, güey!” one of them calls out.

“I know,
güey
! I heard Chucho.”

Chucho? Could it be Chucho the cop? Did he warn them?

More snippets of talk: “Can’t we turn on the
pinche
headlights? I can’t see, güey!”

“Chucho said not to, güey!”

Wendell lets out a string of curse words under his breath.

I squeeze his arm and whisper, “Don’t lose it. Just take the pictures.”

“I can’t,” Wendell murmurs. “It’s too dark.”

I bite my lip. “Then what do we do?”

“I’m using a flash. I just need to get closer. You go back to the cabanas, Z.”

“It’s too dangerous, Wendell. They’ll see the flash. They’ll come after you.”

He moves closer to the edge of the trees, out of hiding. All the men would have to do is look this way.

“Zeeta,” Wendell hisses, “go home.”

My heart is thudding. “This is crazy, Wendell. Let’s just leave. Together.”

He shakes his head. “It’ll take them a few seconds to even realize what happened. And by then, I’ll be halfway up the path. Please, Z.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

He lets out a long breath. “Fine. But, Z, the second you see the flash, run! Along the jungle and up the path. We can do it in the dark. They won’t be able to keep up.”

I’m not so sure. I brace my muscles.

Wendell moves even closer to the men, then steps out of the trees, exposed. He holds up the camera and presses the button.

The flash goes off, lighting up the trees, the stretch of beach, the gaping nests, the shovels, the men’s faces.

They’re looking straight at Wendell. Within a second, they’re running at us with shovels. One pulls a knife from his belt, another a machete.

I run, and Wendell follows on my heels.

And then, from behind us, there’s a cry of
“¡Ay!”

I glance back. Stones are flying, hitting each man square in the forehead.
“¡Ay!”
The men fall to the ground one after the other, like dominoes. From somewhere above us, high in the branches, comes a man’s voice. A loud, urgent word.
“¡Corre!”
Run!

We tear through the jungle, turning onto the path heading toward the Forbidden Territory. No tiptoeing past it this
time. My legs are moving at top speed, my lungs and chest burning.