The Jade Notebook (29 page)

Arson
. The word ripples through the guests in their various languages. Then come the questions—“Who could have done this? Why?”—and the waves of gratitude: “Thank God no one was hurt. Someone could have died!”

I wrap my arms around Wendell, whispering silent thanks that he’s okay, Layla’s okay, the guests are okay, even Joe is okay. I realize, with more intensity than ever before, that we are in danger. Real danger. Danger beyond the scope of herbal remedies and charms and sprinkled salt. Sure, Layla and I have survived some sticky situations during our travels—sandstorms in Morocco, earthquakes in India, thieves in Thailand. But this feels different. This isn’t a wild force of nature or a random criminal out for quick money. This is someone plotting against us. Someone who wants us seriously scared, or hurt, or even dead.

“Any idea who did this?” Gerardo asks, rubbing his mustache.

I look at Wendell and Layla, sure we’re all thinking the same thing. I say it first. “Whoever left us dead chicken curses and a threatening note.”

“A threat?” Alejandro asks, alarmed. “You have it in writing?”

We shake our heads, not mentioning that Layla burned the note in her purification ritual. At the time, it hadn’t
seemed that serious. We could handle a few curses. But this fire, this destruction—it’s taken everything to a new level.

“We mentioned the curses in our police reports,” I say. “Chucho has them on file.” I can’t resist adding with an edge of cynicism,
“Supposedly.”

Alejandro frowns. “Chucho, huh?”

There’s something in his tone of voice—scorn? doubt?—that tells me he doesn’t trust Chucho either. Alejandro turns to Gerardo and murmurs, “
Oye
, maybe you should take over the case.”

Wendell and I sneak looks at each other. Apparently, Chucho’s incompetence—or corruption—is common knowledge. And although I get the feeling Gerardo isn’t exactly upstanding, he seems better than Chucho. It’s good to know, at least, that the fire chief seems on top of things. Alejandro is based not in Mazunte, but in the bigger town of Puerto Escondido. Maybe that gives him enough distance to see the local police department’s major shortcomings.

Alejandro turns back to us. “Any idea who’s trying to scare you?”

Wendell motions with his chin toward the ocean. “Maybe the poachers.”

Alejandro’s head snaps up. “Poachers?”

“On Playa Mermejita,” I say, swallowing hard. “We’ve seem them twice. The police know about it,” I add, eyeing Gerardo.

Alejandro raises an eyebrow at Gerardo, whose gaze flickers away.

“We were down on the beach at night,” I continue, my heartbeat quickening with the memory. “The poachers chased us with machetes, but we got away.”

Alejandro scribbles some notes, then hands us a piece of paper. “You have any more trouble with the poachers, come straight to me. Here’s my number. We’ll take this to the state level if we need to.”

Gerardo looks away, obviously insulted.

From there, Layla takes over, signing forms. Meanwhile, Joe sneaks his arm around her, and again, she lets him. I’m just grateful he’s not in his clown getup. And not using this fire as an excuse to rant about the end of the world or do a comedy routine. I like him better this way.

I spot the Brazilian couple huddled with Horacio and Sven the architect, sipping chamomile tea, chatting in a mishmash of English, Spanish, and Portuguese. Walking toward them, I call out,
“Obrigado,”
digging up the Portuguese word for thank you, which I remember from my year in Brazil.

“Oh, don’t thank us,” the woman replies. “Someone knocked on our door. He yelled ‘Fire!’ in English and Spanish.”

“Really? Who was it?”

Her husband answers. “By the time we opened the door, he was gone. We assumed it was Joe or Wendell.”

I shake my head. “No, it wasn’t them.” I glance around at the other guests. “Anyone know who knocked on the doors?”

Horacio taps his cane thoughtfully on the tile. “No idea.
But it was the same for me. I heard pounding on the door. And a strange man’s voice shouting ‘Fire.’ ”

The other guests murmur in agreement about a man’s voice shouting warnings and fists pounding on their doors. But none of the men here takes credit.

Wendell looks at me. “Who could it have been?”

I shrug, mystified. “It’s weird. I don’t know.” I go into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, turning the possibilities over in my mind.

Ten minutes later, setting out cups and saucers, I still can’t figure it out. I move from table to table, pouring tea, checking on everyone. Thankfully, our guests aren’t typical tourists. They’re shocked at the idea of arson, but no one’s been traumatized. In fact, they’re treating this as another bonding experience. There’s even an air of excitement as they buzz about the mysterious hero who saved us.

Soon dawn comes, lighting up the putrid mess of what used to be our shed. I calculate what we’ve lost—some gardening supplies, tools, equipment. Nothing irreplaceable or expensive. We might even be able to rebuild the shed with some scrap lumber. I peer past the smoldering pile to the ocean, glowing silver and misty in the light of dawn. Letting out a long breath, I focus on what matters most: everyone is alive.

After the fire and police chiefs leave, Layla announces that she won’t charge the guests for their stays last night. Not only does everyone refuse this offer, but after conferring with
the others, the Australians shout, “It’s unanimous, we’re all in the mood to build a shed!”

The other guests chime in, “Hear, hear!” Sven offers to draw up plans, and Joe and Wendell volunteer to go to town to buy tools and lumber. Layla beams, quoting Rumi left and right. I take the eggs from the fridge and start getting breakfast ready. After all the commotion, I figure people will be hungry soon.

As the sun is just peeking over the sea, I make out two figures walking up our path from the road. It’s Lupita and Rogelio, rushing toward us, reaching out their arms. “We heard the sirens!” they cry, embracing me. “We were so worried about you,
mija
!”

After assuring them we’re safe and introducing them to everyone, I invite them to have breakfast with us. When the guests hear that Lupita is the genius behind the
mole
, they gush compliments. Layla hugs Lupita for so long, I practically have to pry her away, worried that she might not be able to hold in my secret. Layla’s clearly as enamored of my grandmother as I am. And before long, she’s kidding around with Rogelio about how many rolls of toilet paper she’ll have to buy for her own guitar lessons. With all the bubbly conversation and laughter, you’d never guess there’d just been an arson attack.

After breakfast, Lupita and Rogelio swing by their house to gather supplies while Wendell and Joe head downtown. The rest of us choose a flat area for the shed, prepare the ground, and stake out the perimeter with twine.

I’m just tying the last stake when Meche appears. All heads turn toward her. She’s as glamorous as ever, wearing a black huipil, her fingers laden with silver rings, her hair in an intricate network of braids. She offers brief nods to the guests in greeting, then approaches with her oddly dignified limp. “I smelled smoke and heard sirens,” she says, looking around. “What’s going on?”

Delighted, Layla greets her with a kiss on the cheek. “A shed-building party!”

“What?”

Layla sweeps her arm over the worksite. “We’re building a new and improved storage shed.” She laughs. “A little fire last night gave us the excuse.”

Joe nods. “Complete destruction of the old, making way for the new. Just like the Mayan prophecy, you know—”

Layla cuts him off. “Meche, if you have time, we’d love your help.”

Meche blinks. “Well … all right.”

“¡Maravilloso!”
Layla cries, ushering Meche to the pile of wood. “Just talk to our architect!” She points to Sven with his long blond ponytail, who’s holding a ruler and a notebook.

We’ve just finished leveling the building site when Wendell and Joe return with El Sapo and his sisters in tow, all carrying heavy bags.

“Ran into them downtown,” Wendell says cheerfully. “They volunteered to help out.”

“Qué chido.”
I show them where to put the bags and direct them to Sven.

Meche’s already started cutting the wood to size for framing. I remember the rustic chairs in her house and wonder if they’re the result of her carpentry skills. Guests trickle over to her, introducing themselves, admiring her jewelry, her braids, her handiwork with the saw. At first Meche seems overwhelmed with so much positive attention. But soon she relaxes, even begins joking around with the others.

The girls, Mayra and Xochitl, are helping to mix cement for the foundation. “Zeeta!” they call in an urgent whisper.

“That’s the jaguar lady, isn’t it?” Xochitl asks, motioning with her chin.

I nod. “Her name’s Meche.”

Xochitl looks triumphantly at Mayra. “See, I told you!”

Mayra twists her face, doubtful. “Where’s her jaguar?”

“He’s sick at home.” I lean in and whisper, “You should be extra nice to Meche. She’s been sad about Gatito.”

I grab a glass of lemonade from a tray, hand it to Mayra. “Here, take this over to her. It’ll cheer her up.”

The girls look at each other, eyes wide. Giggling, they walk over to Meche and offer her the drink. She quickly engages them in conversation, asks them questions, makes them laugh. She’s surprisingly great with kids. I can imagine how she was with her own daughter.

When Lupita and Rogelio appear, toting supplies, the girls run over and hug the old couple.

“Zeeta!” Lupita calls out. “I didn’t know you knew my grandchildren!”

My heart flutters as I take in this fact. So these girls
are
my cousins. El Sapo, too. And Cristina
is
my aunt. She must be my father’s sister, who he mentioned looks so much like me. It’s all I can do not to throw my arms around them with unrestrained joy. “They’re my fellow
bolibolistas
,” I tell Lupita, forcing my voice to stay steady.

“Where’s your mother?” Rogelio asks the girls as he hands them lollipops from his shirt pocket.

“At the restaurant,” Xochitl replies, unwrapping her loot. “But she’ll bring us all lunch later, enough for everyone here.”

It’s a strange feeling to see these people who are my family—yet don’t know it—gathered here at my home. A delicious feeling. It could only be more delicious if they knew who I was. Again, I’m tempted to blurt out the truth.

But if I do, I’ll never get to see my father make the announcement himself. Somehow, if I told them, it would mean giving up on the idea of finding him. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet.

Barely keeping my joy contained, I start hammering the frame together, with Layla’s and Meche’s help.

“So, Meche, how’s your adorable little Gatito?” Layla asks, holding a beam of wood.

A cloud passes over Meche’s face. “Doing worse,” she says, wiping sweat from her cheek with her forearm. “It’s a matter of days now.…” Her lip quivers. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”

Layla rests a hand on Meche’s shoulder, puts on a classic Rumi face.
“Keep knocking, and the joy inside will eventually open a window and look out to see who’s there.”

Meche gives a small smile. “Thanks for the cake … and for everything.”

As Layla spouts more Rumi, I glance around at the guests working, a happy sight. Beyond the little crowd, at the edge of the jungle, there’s a movement. I keep my eyes glued to that spot.

There it is again, between the branches, a flash of clothes, faded orange. A blur of dark flesh, shiny eyes. Black hair. I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. But someone’s there, watching us. And as soon as our eyes meet, the person flees. A chill moves over my skin. Is it the arsonist? Or the man who saved us?

I search for Wendell, to tell him what I saw. Immediately, I realize something’s wrong. He’s gazing at the wood he’s in the middle of sawing, a distant look on his face. A vision. I hurry over, watching him carefully. I’ve nearly reached him when he shudders, drops the saw, and clutches his hands to his throat, gasping for breath, his face wild with panic.

My pulse racing, I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are wide, terrified, his breathing ragged. No one but me seems to have noticed.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, “it was just a vision.”

But as I hear myself say this, I know it’s not okay. Not remotely. Because as far as I know, every one of his visions has come true.

Once his breathing is steadier, he says, “Zeeta …” Fear fills his eyes. His hands remain at his throat.

“What happened, Wendell?”

He gradually moves his hands away from his neck, stares at them.

“Wendell, just this time, please tell me.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

I grab his hands. “There was danger, wasn’t there?”

Slowly, he speaks, his voice hoarse. “You weren’t in it, Z. I was alone.”

“But, Wendell—”

He pulls me toward him and rasps, “I can handle it, Z.”

My heart’s banging, my head a jumble of panicked thoughts. “Wendell,” I whisper, “you looked like you were”—I struggle to say the word—“dying.”