The Jade Notebook (39 page)

Pepe and El Dedo exchange looks. Under his breath, El Dedo asks, “Is this the
bruja
with the jaguar?”

Pepe says nothing, shifting his machete to the other hand, a gesture of uncertainty, maybe even fear.

Meche sighs. “Death by jaguar is never pleasant. And yes,” she adds with the delicate raise of an eyebrow, “I am the
bruja
.”

After a pause, Pepe points his machete at her. “Move to the edge.”

She stands firm, her arms crossed, giving Pepe a look of
pity. Then she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Gatito!”

I fix my gaze on those eyes burning in the trees. The animal steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight. A sleek, muscular, imposing silhouette. He’s walking slowly, a majestic prowl. He pauses, opens his jaws. The moonlight shines off the sharp teeth. He lets out a roar. The most earthshaking one I’ve heard yet. Even though I know he’s on our side—and nearly too sick to walk—the noise taps into a deep, instinctual terror and makes me shudder.

Pepe’s and El Dedo’s machetes tremble in their hands. Their eyes are glued to Gatito as he saunters forward.

I try to breathe. Halfway down the peninsula, Gatito pauses. I’m sure he’s resting, in pain, exhausted. But to anyone else, it would simply look like he thinks he’s too important to be bothered with pesky little tasks like devouring people.

“Gatito!” Meche calls again, her voice booming over the rush of waves.

The jaguar leaps down the hill in a single bound, pauses, then walks closer, a sheen of moonlight on his fur. Now I can see that he’s straining himself. Not something you’d notice unless you knew he was dying.

I glance at Pepe and El Dedo. Sweat glistens on their foreheads. They’re clutching their machetes, terrified. Gatito prowls closer and closer, appearing cocky, taking his sweet time.

“Call off that cat!” El Dedo demands, his voice cracking with fear.

Meche laughs, a cackling, haunting sound. She’s got this witch thing down. “Gatito!” she calls again, this time more softly, because the cat is so close.

As the men’s attention is diverted, Wendell and I inch toward Meche. The closer we are to Meche, the safer, at least where Gatito is concerned. I glance at Tortue and Pepe. Tortue also seems to be moving, almost imperceptibly, closer to us.

After another pause, Gatito takes a few more steps. Now he’s just meters away. I see pain in his eyes, and strangely, I want to hug him. He must be using every last bit of energy to walk to us.

But when I look at Pepe, I see that he’s shaking, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes wide in terror.

And then, in swift succession, several things happen.

The machete falls from Pepe’s hand, clangs onto the rocks.

He dashes toward the jungle.

Tortue grabs his brother’s machete from the ground.

El Dedo lunges toward Meche, his machete raised high, ready to strike.

And, seeing Meche threatened, Gatito pounces.

It takes just a few giant bounds. Jaws wide, he crashes into El Dedo. The momentum sends them both flying off the cliff.

“Gatito!” Meche shrieks.

Far below, cat and man are thrashing in the violent surf. I watch in horror as a wave picks up El Dedo and slams him into a cliff. His body is sucked under as the wave retreats.

“Gatito!” Meche screams again.

The jaguar lifts his great head upward to look at Meche. His yellow eyes flash, and then the sea swallows him.

Meche clings to me, sobbing. Wendell stands beside us, watching the water below. There’s no sign of El Dedo, just the rushing, savage ocean. Tortue makes his way to us, bleeding, his brother’s machete dangling from his hand. Now he embraces Meche, murmuring soothing words. His blood soaks them both, but they don’t notice. Her eyes are wild with pain—maybe the distant pain of her daughter’s death, and her own attempt to kill herself, and now the fresh pain of Gatito’s death—all on these very same cliffs.

“Gone,” she cries, raising her hands to the ocean. “My baby is gone.”

We walk through the moonlit jungle, all of us limping from injuries old or new. Still crying, Meche pauses to tie her shawl around the gash in Tortue’s arm, staunching the blood flow. Then she wipes her eyes and says in a raw voice, “I was bringing Gatito to Punta Cometa. So he could see the ocean one last time. He was in so much pain, it took us an hour to get there. This was his goodbye.”

I pull her close. “He saved us, Meche. He loved you. And so do we. It’ll be hard without him, but we’ll help you through it.”

Tortue nods. “You’re not alone.”

When we pass by the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED
sign, I whisper my own words of gratitude to Gatito. Soon
the flickering light of lanterns and candles becomes visible through the trees. And as we grow closer to the cabanas, I hear guitar chords. A minor, D minor, E, and G. And a gentle, mournful voice—my grandfather’s voice—singing “La Llorona.” It almost feels like a tribute to Gatito.

Tortue is listening intently, his expression full of all the longing and regret in the song.

We round the curve and emerge from the jungle, into the glow of the kitchen hut, where my whole big beautiful family is waiting for us.

We’re here, home, finally.

Don Rogelio sees us first. His fingers freeze on the guitar. The music stops.

One by one, the other faces turn to us. There is a moment of stunned silence as we all walk forward.

Lupita stands up, whispers, “Son?” And then she is murmuring,
“Mijo, mijo, mijo,”
and running toward us. Rogelio stays seated, frozen, clutching his guitar. A tear runs down his cheek. Cristina stares, motionless, as if she’s seeing a ghost. Lupita throws herself into Tortue’s arms, holding him as if she’ll never let go.

Seeing my wounds, Layla rushes to me. “What happened to you, love?” My entire body stings and throbs, but the pain is overpowered by the intensity of this moment.

“I’m okay, Layla,” I whisper.

And before anyone else can ask what’s happened, Meche steps forward, raising her arms. Her face is tear-streaked, her
eyes raw with grief. “Twenty years ago, on the night of the poaching, I was with El Tortuga.”

A murmur ripples through the little crowd.

“I’d thrown myself over a cliff,” she continues. “At Punta Cometa. I wanted to end my life that night, but El Tortuga saved me. I asked him not to tell a soul. He honored that promise at all costs. El Tortuga would never have harmed the turtles. He’s always been a man full of kindness. And courage.”

It’s as if her words have broken a spell. Rogelio sets down his guitar, walks toward his son, reaching out his arms, palms upturned. “I’m sorry,
mijo
,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, son.” Tortue steps toward him, and then he’s in his father’s arms. Cristina hugs her brother next, echoing, “I’m sorry,
hermano
, so sorry.”

Once they release Tortue from their embraces, he turns to Meche.
“Gracias,”
he says softly. Then he clears his throat. “Many years ago I left Mazunte. I left the people I love most.” He takes a deep breath. “I returned in hopes of reuniting with you all. I hoped to be a better son, a better brother, and …” He pauses, putting his hand on my shoulder, a sweet, awkward gesture. “… a better father.”

I flush, a little embarrassed, but secretly savoring this moment.

“Zeeta—who you all know and love—is my daughter.”

Stunned silence.

“It’s true,” Layla says, resting her arm on Tortue’s. “We had only one night together. But it was a magical night that gave us our daughter.”

Now everyone is up, hugging each other. Through tears, Cristina sobs,
“¡Sobrina!”
—Niece! El Sapo laughs as he calls out,
“¡Prima!”
—Cousin! Lupita and Rogelio hold me in a warm embrace. Through the commotion, I sneak a smile at Tortue, offer him a silent
gracias
.

Soon Meche grabs a first-aid kit from behind the counter and starts cleaning and bandaging wounds—Tortue’s machete slash first. Meanwhile, a barrage of questions comes. Mayra asks why we’re scraped and bleeding, and Xochitl asks why we’re soaking wet and muddy.

I exchange glances with Meche and Wendell and Tortue. I don’t want to see his parents’ pain when they hear what their younger son has done. Not right now. Tortue can find a way to tell them, later. I keep the explanation short and sweet and deliberately vague. “Some trouble with the poachers,” I say. “But we’ve contacted the authorities. They’re on it.”

Wendell gives me an encouraging smile, then turns to Rogelio, deftly changing the subject. “How about some live music?”

Rogelio pauses, then hands the guitar to Tortue, whose arm is now neatly bandaged. Meeting his father’s gaze, Tortue positions his fingers on the frets and strums the first notes of “La Llorona.” Rogelio sings along while Lupita hums. The currents of notes carry me from one emotion to another. I look at the faces of my family and see myself reflected in them.

At the end, Rogelio says, “
Mijo
, I thought you only liked
música de rock
.”

Tortue smiles sadly. “
Pues
, I do love Jimi Hendrix, but your music is the best, Papá. All these years away, I’ve been playing the classics you taught me. Whenever I closed my eyes and played, I could hear the waves, see the sunset off Punta Cometa, smell Mamá’s
mole
.”

It’s June ninth. Tomorrow Wendell will leave for California. The rainy season has just begun, turning everything dripping-wet shades of green and blue and silver. It’s chilly, and we have to wear wraps and coats and use blankets over our sheets at night. The backpackers are still coming, despite the rain, but Layla and I are expecting a lull during the next few months. We’ll have enough money to tide us over, and the downtime might be relaxing after the steady stream of cooking and cleaning and fixing of recent months.

Still, I feel an impending emptiness, a distinct lack of sunshine and sparkle.

Today the clouds are heavy, but inside the kitchen hut there’s a warm atmosphere. We’re throwing Wendell a goodbye party. All our friends are gathered at the tables, eating
mole
, tamales,
chiles rellenos, pescado a la plancha
—a feast
that Layla and Lupita and I cooked as Tortue and Rogelio jammed on the guitar. They played one Jimi Hendrix song after another—“Little Wing,” “Black Magic Woman,” “A Merman I Should Turn to Be.” Amazingly, Rogelio can’t get enough Hendrix. On a sentimental impulse, I passed along to my grandfather my father’s ancient Jimi T-shirt, which Rogelio is proudly sporting now, despite the holes and the fact that it doesn’t quite cover his hefty belly.

A new round of guests are here—from Germany, Israel, Japan, New Zealand, Argentina, and South Africa. I take in their blissed-out faces, some freshly arrived, some already familiar. I always miss them when they leave, but I’m glad that I’m not the one leaving. Now I know that staying behind isn’t easy either. It takes some getting used to—seeing the oddly vacant space at the table where a friend used to sit, feeling that emptiness.

I glance at Horacio’s and Joe’s favorite seats, both occupied by other guests now. Horacio left months ago to meet his daughter in the Philippines for more adventures. Joe left shortly after him. He fell in love with a funky clothing designer and followed her back to her home in Malaysia. Before leaving, he informed us that the world wasn’t going to end after all. It simply couldn’t, he said, now that he was thinking of getting married and having a little pack of children. Before he left, he’d already switched to wearing hip T-shirts designed by his fiancée. He packed away his clown clothes but promised to pull them out for future kid birthday parties. Before he left, he thanked Layla for making Cabañas Magia del Mar a truly magical stop on his life’s journey.