Juan Pablo and the Butterflies

by JJ Flowers

  “You don’t know everything, Juan Pablo.” She only used his full name when she was mad. “We have to do . . . something.”

  “That is stupid. It’s not going to help.”

  “If you don’t go tell him, I will.” She cast him a look that dared him to refuse.

  Juan Pablo didn’t bother answering. He knew that look. He just sighed and looked away. She was so stubborn.

  With a disdainful look back, Rocio rose and boldly marched down the aisle to the driver.

  Juan Pablo couldn’t hear the conversation, but the driver listened intently to Rocio, whose arms were flying as she described their terrible circumstances. But what exactly was she telling him?

  The driver asked the girl a question. She lowered her head and replied.

  The driver cursed, then nodded. Rocio’s hand touched the driver’s shoulder and she was saying gracias, gracias. She finally returned to her seat.

  “What happened? What did he say?”

  “He said he will take care of it.”

  Right away, the bus began to speed up. They grabbed onto the rail to steady themselves.

  “But how?” Juan Pablo asked, his confusion mounting. “Does he think he can outrun the Cadillac? What did you tell him?”

  “Everything. That the droguistas killed our abuelos. That we witnessed it and now they want to kill us. That the black Cadillac is one of them. That we are afraid and we don’t know what to do.” She said in a whisper, “He is very sympathetic. He lost a son to drugs—he thinks he was murdered by them. Then, last year, his sister-in-law was disappeared. His wife is still sick about it, and together, they are trying very hard not to be broken human beings. He said this was the first thing that will help.”

  Juan Pablo absorbed this in an instant. It seemed there was hardly a person unaffected by the narco-traffickers. Millions of people held hostage at one time or other, in one way or another by this plague of criminals.

  Still, how was this going to help them?

  “He is going to outrace a Cadillac?”

  “That is not his plan.”

  The bus hit a wind tunnel, swerved, righted itself. Juan Pablo hung on for dear life, terrified now of a crash on top of being caught by the man with the red boots. Most of the passengers were asleep or sat with their eyes closed, but some turned to look out the windows, sensing the dramatic change.

  “What is his plan?”

  “He knows some police. One is even a cousin. Look.” She motioned her head toward the driver. “He is calling them now.”

  The driver spoke into his cell phone while he sped down the freeway.

  “The police. They never stop them—that is the problem.”

  Rocio shushed him. “You will see.”

  Juan Pablo managed to stand. Holding on to one seat at a time, he made his way back.

  The Cadillac still followed a car length behind, easily keeping up with the fast-moving bus. His mind raced at the same nerve-wracking speed.

  Swirling red lights appeared in the far distance.

  Closer and closer they came. Two police cars pulled up behind the Cadillac. The Cadillac slowed and moved to the side of the road, boxed in by the circling red lights of the police cars. The bus pulled away.

  Juan Pablo made his way to the bus driver who was chuckling merrily.

  “You saved us,” Juan Pablo marveled.

  “That was the most fun I’ve had driving since I drove the entire Cruz Azul team to Guadalajara.”

  “But what did you tell the police?”

  He shrugged. “I told them a man in a black Cadillac was chasing a beautiful young woman on my bus, that the young woman needed our help.”

  “Gracias,” Juan Pablo said. “Gracias,” he repeated, because once wasn’t enough.

  He fell into the seat beside Rocio, who wore a very pleased smile.

  “Sometimes you don’t need to ask the Sky People; sometimes a normal person will do.”

  Juan Pablo had to concede the point.

  It took almost an hour before he could take an easy breath. He kept checking, but there was no sign of a black Cadillac or any car following the bus.

  His thoughts spun crazily.

  He felt the curious buzzing in his ears, like a warning.

  A series of startling revelations followed. The man with the red boots was not giving up.

  He wanted him, not Rocio. They didn’t even know about Rocio.

  He considered the issue from every which way, but always came to the same conclusion. He knew what he had to do. He had to save Rocio by leaving her. He would wait until she fell asleep and then get off the bus. She would get to her uncle’s house, where she would be safe, while he began the long journey north. Hopefully, the Hunter would not find him. The world was big and he was small, a nobody with a violin. It would be like that other American saying: like finding a tiny thing in a haystack.

  And if the Hunter did catch him?

  It would only be him. Rocio would be safe.

  Juan Pablo said nothing of his plan. Rocio would be upset when she woke and found him gone, but he knew she would understand. He would text her as he made his way north. Someday, when it was safe, they would be reunited.

  He had to do it. There was no other way.

  Still afraid, too, Rocio held his hand as they sat, staring out the window, half expecting the Cadillac to manifest at their side. Hours passed, marked only by the occasional passing of cities and towns and endless miles of farmland. Darkness settled over the landscape and the view out the window became a blur of red, white, and yellow lights interrupting long stretches of darkness. Most of the passengers seemed to be sleeping, while Rocio’s fear finally eased a bit. Desperate to distract her and make her feel better, he took out his iPad and clicked on one of her favorite games: SimCity.

  He hid his sadness from her as they built a beautiful house. It was two stories, white with a picket fence. Rocio loved the huge garden and small barn stocked full of animals. They scored enough points to finally add a dog. Rocio studied the pictures of available pets with a strange intentness, as if it were a real choice instead of just a game.

  She finally stopped on one that looked almost like Tajo.

  Juan Pablo watched her eyes wet with tears. The picture showed a dog just a little taller than Tajo, with his straight, gray ears, white muzzle, and gray and white curly hair. His hand came over Rocio’s, and he squeezed it, as he remembered the horror from the night that changed everything.

  Shifting, Rocio rested her head in his lap. He let his fingers comb lightly through her long hair. The realization suddenly occurred to him—there was no one alive that he loved more than this girl.

  The thought gave him the courage to do what he had to do.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes, but his heart pounded as he waited until she fell into a troubled, restless sleep.

  Then he sent her his first text: I cannot go with you to your uncle’s house. They are after me. If I am gone, you will be safe. I will text all the way to California. You are my best friend, Rocio, and I love you. Think of me whenever you see a butterfly.

  Then he quietly rose and told the bus driver to let him out at the next stop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Juan Pablo kept his gaze down on the ground as he made his way through the brightly lit boulevards of Puerto Vallarta. Tall buildings lined both sides of the crowded street. He passed bustling restaurants, shops, nightclubs, and a movie theater. Strolling couples, in twos and fours, ignored the beggars strategically positioned outside the fanciest restaurants and hotels. Restaurant hawkers called out to pedestrians, offering great deals on seafood and steak dinners and margaritas. A street musician serenaded a busy corner with a Spanish version of “Time After Time.”

  Juan Pablo stopped to listen. He was not the only person either. A crowd of ten deep formed around the enchanting singer. People began dropping pesos and dollars into the singer’s open guitar case.

  Hope came from the sight. He moved on. The
pretty music faded, swallowed up in the noise of a busy street.

  The boulevard opened to a space between buildings that led to closed beachwear shops and a bit further on, the beach. He turned off the street. The relentless noise, honking cars, sirens, and shouts of people fell away to the soft sounds of the sea. Stepping onto the sand, he marveled at the night sky arching over the vast black space of the ocean.

  Juan Pablo set down his pack and violin and sat down, still staring at the distant stars. At one point he laid his head on his backpack, willing the soothing sound of the waves to lure him into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

  Dreams of Rocio’s laughter interrupted by gunfire.

  Dreams that turned into nightmares of being chased.

  He opened his eyes to the soft light of dawn stretching over a cloudless sky and the big blue ocean. The sight was a balm for his scorched senses. Mesmerized by the field of blue colors, he felt like he had awoken from a battlefield to find himself on a heavenly shore. He had seen the ocean a million times on TV and in movies, but only once in real life—on a field trip when he had still been in school.

  He drew the rich scents deep into his lungs.

  Gentle waves lapped at the shore and somehow made a mockery of time. The ceaseless movement beneath the surface hinted at the hidden mystery there—a wholly different world, teeming with life. He felt as if the ocean itself was a living thing.

  You do not need a redwood tree to feel small, Abuela . . .

  Drawn to the unmistakable magic of the water, he removed his jeans and T-shirt and greeted the day with a splash into the cool waves. Over an hour later, as he dried off in the early morning sun, he thought, reasonably, first things first. He needed enough money to buy a bus ticket to Mazatlán. There he would take the ferry to Baja.

  Somehow, someway, he would make it.

  Rocio would be safe now at her uncle’s house. He drew a deep breath, comforted by the thought, by the idea that he had done the right thing.

  Burdened with his violin and pack, and ignoring his hunger, he headed north to the tourist part of town. Apartments and condominiums lined the beachfront property as far as the horizon.

  As the sun rose, the blue of the Pacific changed, becoming more jewel-like. He kept walking until the condominiums gave way to hotels. He began looking for the most expensive one.

  He stopped on the beach in front of the tallest of the hotels. He sat on the sand to study the place.

  Two men lined up beach lounges in neat rows. Each lounge came with a large blue umbrella. People already collected there. A patio restaurant jutted out over the sand. Waiters, wearing neat red and white uniforms in the hot sun, soon appeared with sandwiches and tall drinks.

  Finally, a man came by selling kites.

  Juan Pablo waited to see if any of the waiters shooed him away. None did.

  He smoothed his hair down and drew a deep breath.

  He opened his violin case and removed his instrument.

  He began to play.

  He’d been terrified someone would shoo him away, but instead, after finishing a Phantom of the Opera medley (always popular with tourists), a man signaled the waiter to deliver him twenty-five pesos. Two more diners did the same. He opened his violin case so he could play while people tipped him.

  The money gave him confidence and he began playing with more assurance. After an hour, he stopped noticing the pesos piling up and he knew only the music. He never stopped to wonder at how easily this happiness came to him.

  At the end of the morning, he collected all his money. Seventeen American dollars and 400 pesos. The most he ever made in his life. Stuffing his pockets with the bounty, feeling rich, he took a break to run up the steps to the crowded boulevard. He found a small store, where he reached for a soda, but paused. His abuela wouldn’t approve. He reached for an orange juice, water, and an apple instead.

  These were greedily devoured.

  He returned to his spot and began playing again.

  Money piled up even faster in the afternoon once people started drinking.

  “Hombre joven, ven aca.”

  Juan Pablo pieced together the unfamiliar Spanish: Young man, come here.

  Holding his violin, he climbed the stairs to the patio.

  He approached the older woman who had spoken. She wore a pale blue sundress and matching shoes. A kind smile spread across her wrinkled face. “Hola,” she said, and then began speaking an animated but incomprehensible Spanish. He listened intently, but he barely understood a word. He listened harder—something about a misbehaving daughter. Her hands flew in all directions, as if she were going to take flight.

  Gathering his courage, he interrupted to ask, “Would you mind speaking English?”

  Her surprise disappeared in sudden laughter. “No one ever understands my Spanish.”

  Juan Pablo had no trouble believing this.

  She patted the bun made of her gray hair, tiny blue stones wrapped all around the silver mount, glittering in the afternoon sun. Rocio, he knew, would love the old woman’s hair decoration.

  “What is your name, young man?”

  “Juan Pablo.”

  “You play so beautifully.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed and like any musician, his heart sang with the compliment.

  “Juan Pablo, I have a problem, you see. My daughter, my only daughter,” she added as an aside, “just decided to get married. This very afternoon! Right here. We all came down together for her cousin’s wedding and well, I guess it was contagious. If you can believe that.”

  Juan Pablo could believe anything, but what did this have to do with him? Why was she telling him of this marriage? He wondered if his hunger was addling his brain.

  “Suddenly they cannot wait another day,” she said, shaking her head, but laughing, too. “This is so . . . so impulsive of her!” She added again, “You play so beautifully.”

  “Gracias,” he repeated, thinking the old woman didn’t make sense in English either.

  “Do you know Pachelbel’s Canon?”

  Juan Pablo could scarcely believe his luck. “Sí. It is one of my favorites. But it is really an orchestral piece. It is not as pretty with just one violin.”

  “Never mind that. Just play it as best you can.”

  He struck his bow to the strings and began. As he played, her hands went to her heart and her smile seemed straight from heaven. Once he finished, the diners on the patio began applauding. The woman leaned over and kissed him.

  “You were sent from heaven. Now, are you here alone? Are you with anyone I should talk to?”

  Juan Pablo started to shake his head, but a waiter appeared suddenly with a tall glass of iced tea. She took the glass in hand and turned back to him. “We have to hurry. It’s about to start. This way.”

  He packed up his case and grabbed his backpack. To his surprise, the waiters did not mind—two of them applauded and bowed as he followed his patron and passed the patio dining area. The tourists at Rosario always seemed to appreciate his music, but never this much.

  His cheeks glowed and not from the sun.

  She led him inside the cool air-conditioned hotel. The Grand Hotel. He followed her down a spacious hall, decorated with fine chairs, mirrors, paintings, and huge bouquets of flowers. Juan Pablo had never been in such a place, but he had often seen it in movies. He marveled at the opulence.

  If only Rocio could be here with him.

  The old woman turned into a special room off to the side.

  Decorated with pink and white roses, the room opened onto a smaller private patio overlooking the blue Pacific Ocean. One of the waiters, an older, heavyset man, stepped forward and introduced himself. “Lukas here, señor.”

  “Lukas, find Juan Pablo something more formal to wear?”

  “Sí. This way, my young friend.”

  The waiter bowed. As Lukas led him away, another waiter appeared with a giant chocolate milkshake. This was handed to Juan Pablo. Thanking Lukas profusely, he drank it
all at once, followed by a huge glass of water.

  Lukas led him to a restroom off to the side of a grand hall. It was a bathroom just for the waiters—one as big as his whole house. He would have liked to explore the hotel, but there wasn’t time. The suit jacket Lukas lent him was just a bit too large, but it completed his transformation. For the first time in his life, he felt like a professional musician.

  Back at the private patio, he stood nervously in the corner and waited as a small party gathered.

  Again, he thought, Rocio would have loved this.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After purchasing his bus ticket, Juan Pablo found a place on the hard seats. He kept one hand on the wad of cash in his pocket, feeling a dumbfounded astonishment at his windfall. Not only was it enough for a bus ticket and a nice dinner, but it was enough to pay for the ferry to Baja. One day of playing his violin and he was suddenly rich.

  Riches and money, his abuela did not believe in such things. He remembered when a very rich family arrived in Rosario and made a huge show of trying to help save the butterflies by purchasing the forest. How can you purchase a forest? his abuela had questioned. How can you own it? Like owning the sky or the ocean—preposterous. Still it was done and given to the Mexican government for protection from tree poachers. The loggers, the poorest people on earth, chopped down trees and sold the trunks for $2. The trouble was the tree poachers neither knew nor cared if the tree was protected by the government.

  The head of the family encountered his abuela’s philosophy when he was introduced to her at the ceremony. He made the mistake of explaining his generosity this way: “I have so much and now it is time for me to give back.”

  That is all very well his abuela had replied, but why did you have to take so much in the first place?

  The wad of money felt heavy in Juan Pablo’s pocket as he remembered this.

  Rocio would be at her uncle’s house by now. He removed his iPad to check on her and tell her of his good fortune—only to finally see the desperate missive:

  Rocio: Help. My uncle is gone. Someone is in his house. The man with the red boots? I can’t see. I am hiding in the alleyway of the next house. I called my uncle’s number and someone answers, but they don’t say anything. They just breathe.