by Laura Resau
She claps her hands. “¡Empezemos!” Let’s start! Then she takes out a large clay plate—“our comal,” she says, patting it. She balances it on cement blocks over the cooking fire. Then she plucks an array of dried chiles from a basket and drops them on the comal. As they roast, she pours a heap of almonds onto one area, cacao beans on another, then sesame seeds, cloves, pumpkin seeds, and cinnamon sticks in other areas. From time to time, she stirs each ingredient with a wooden spoon. The smell is heavenly—sweet and spicy and earthy. I jot down the ingredients as fast as I can.
Over the next few hours come plantains, raisins, onions, peanuts, garlic … so many ingredients, I can barely keep up. It feels good to focus on this smattering of smells and tastes and textures and heat. Lupita shows me how to turn over the chiles and stir the seeds, until everything is almost to the point of burning, but not quite. Then she has me scrape the roasted ingredients into a giant stone bowl, add a little oil, and, with a big pestle, grind everything together in a paste.
“So how’s your boyfriend?” she asks, watching me work.
For a moment, I tense up, not wanting to break the spell of the chocolate and chile and spices. Struggling to control my emotions, I tell her about his art school news, how cold he’s been acting.
“Will he take the scholarship?” she asks solemnly, understanding the gravity of this situation.
“He claims he doesn’t want to,” I say, pounding the pestle with more force than necessary. I wipe the sweat from my brows. “But I know I’m the only reason he wouldn’t take it.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“To tell the school he needs more time to decide.” I pause to stare at her. It’s as if she can see through me, right into my selfish center. “I want him to stay,” I admit. Then, glancing at our mole, I add, “He’s the main ingredient in my paradise.”
She considers this. “Is he happy staying?”
“Not since he got the email. If he passes on this opportunity … I think he’ll regret it.”
She hands me a cacao bean. “Bite.”
I do, and grimace. “Bitter,” I say, instinctively spitting it out. An old dog moseys over to inspect it. After a few sniffs, he deems it not worth the trouble, and settles back down under a tree.
“Yes, bitter,” she says, “but if you add the right ingredients, this bean becomes mole. You only need to add the right thing—tanginess, spice, sweetness. Then it transforms.”
Once the mole paste is smooth, she scoops it into plastic bags, which I knot and pile into a small mountain. “Now, my husband,” Lupita says, “he’s a cacao bean! Stubborn, set in his ways. For years, he’s run that little corner shop I mentioned, Abarrotes Rogelio.”
“Hmm.” I mentally scan downtown Mazunte’s cluster of stores. “I haven’t noticed it.”
“That’s because it’s hidden up there on that hill!” she cries, pointing. “Years ago, people stopped by his store on the way to Playa Mermejita to hunt turtles and gather their eggs. But once the laws changed and the Turtle Center was built, other shops cropped up, in more convenient places for tourists. No one comes out this way to Playa Mermejita anymore. Except the turtles,” she adds with a giggle.
“Couldn’t he change locations?”
“Oh, that’s what we all told him, but he wouldn’t listen. Of course, the store started losing money, but he refused to change. And he sells exactly the same things, year after year—canned food, powdered milk, dried goods like salt and sugar, soda, beer. Cositas like that. Some of those cans must be ten years old!” She titters again. “But he dusts each can every day. I argued with him at first, then just accepted it.”
She moves her head close to mine, letting me in on a secret. “You see, I changed my attitude, added sweetness and spice. I decided to be grateful he wasn’t around to bother me, happy I could talk to my friends and customers in peace! He stays busy all day, dusting those cans until he dozes off in front of his telenovelas. It’s fine with me now. We own the property, so we’re not losing money on it. And we earn enough through renting some properties and selling my mole.” She leans back and folds her arms across her chest. “See, now our lives are a big heaping plate of mole.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
“Oh,” she clucks, “far, far from perfect! But still delicious.”
Sweetness and spice. How can I transform Wendell’s news into something delicious? It’s beyond me. Wendell and I are walking along Playa Mermejita, our moon shadows stretched long across the beach, which is spotted with leatherbacks. Some are lumbering up the beach, some digging nests, their back flippers blindly going deeper and deeper. We keep our distance, careful not to disturb them. Of course, we’re not supposed to even be on this beach, but I figured being around the giant turtles would put him in the best possible mood to talk about the scholarship.
Wendell’s been quiet ever since I dragged him out of his cabana earlier tonight. Suddenly, he stops and says, “This is it. Our handfasting spot.”
In the moonlight, I can make out the landmark—a large driftwood log riddled with holes, soft and worn.
“I don’t want to miss it, Z.” He cups my face with his hand. “I’ll be here on August second, with you. I promise.”
I know what I need to say. The words taste as bitter as raw cacao, but I force them out. “Don’t stay for me. You’d regret it, Wendell.”
He presses his face into my hair, speaks in a muffled voice. “I emailed the prof, said I needed to think about it.” He draws me to him, kisses me, pulls me gently down to the sand. “I’d be miserable away from you, that much I know,” he murmurs, his breath warm on my cheek, my neck. “And I won’t miss our handfasting.”
I bite my quivering lip. “We’ll figure something out, okay?” And even though we haven’t figured anything out yet, it seems better, now that we’re talking again, touching again.
As we kiss, there’s a new urgency to it, since we know our future is, once again, uncertain. I focus on his fingertips brushing over my skin. The night breeze, soft. Starlight, moonlight, the waves. The salty, delicious feel of our lips, together. At some point, we fall asleep, curled up into each other in the sand.
Some time later, my eyes open. I take in the rush of nearby surf, the moonlit beach, the dark forms of turtles in the distance. I’m covered in goose bumps. I press myself against Wendell, savoring his warmth. Then I notice voices up the beach. Men’s voices. And far-off headlights shining onto the sand.
“Wendell,” I whisper, shaking him gently awake.
His eyes open, and his lips, automatically, find mine.
“Wendell, look.” I gesture in the direction of the voices. “There are people nearby. Probably the guards.”
Furrowing his eyebrows, Wendell rubs his face and sits up. His voice comes out scratchy. “Then why are the headlights on? Any volunteer should know that lights bother the turtles.” He pauses. “Let’s check it out.”
“But we’re not supposed to be here. We could get in trouble.” I stand up, arranging my clothes, brushing the sand from my legs, combing my fingers through my tangled hair. My lips still feel tender from so much kissing.
“Just a peek, Z,” Wendell urges.
I relent. As we walk, I glimpse the large forms of leatherback turtles. I can just barely make out human forms farther ahead. And the hulking shape of a truck. Low, hip-hop salsa beats grow louder as we move closer. We slow down, still in the shadows, but close enough to the headlight beams to see what’s going on.
There are silhouettes of three men with shovels. They’re digging into holes and plopping the contents into a bucket.
“Poachers,” Wendell whispers fiercely. “What the hell?”
My insides freeze. “No one’s seen us,” I say, glancing around, feeling exposed in the middle of this stretch of sand. “Let’s go.”
He nods. “We’ll call the cops.”
Suddenly, one of the men yelps. He drops the bucket and his hand flies to his arm.
Another yelp, louder;
more of a scream, actually. A second man drops his shovel.
A third man cries out, clutching his thigh and cursing.
It’s as if they’re getting hit by invisible punches. One man grabs his arm, the other his leg, the other his stomach. Then the first clutches his head, the next his cheek, the next his back.
The men look around, panicked. One runs into the jungle. “Who did that?” another man calls out, shielding his eyes in the beam of headlights.
I squeeze Wendell’s hand, wondering if we should run now or if that would attract attention. I glance at my clothes. I picked the wrong night for a white sundress. At least Wendell is wearing dark colors.
“It came from the trees!” another man cries.
The others follow. “Who’s throwing stones?”
When I see the glint of steel in one man’s hand, I gasp. Slowly, I back away. “A machete,” I whisper.
Wendell’s arm tightens around me. “Let’s leave,” he says, “quiet and slow.”
When we’re far enough down the beach, we tear up the jungle path toward the cabanas. With shaking hands, Wendell uses the phone in the office hut to call the police. The clock reads three a.m.
Over the phone, Wendell launches into an explanation of what’s just happened. When he hangs up, he still looks worried. “It was Chucho. He said he’ll drive there himself right now.”
“Great,” I say flatly. “The most competent guy on the force.”
“He was mad.” Wendell scowls. “At us. Said we could’ve been killed. Told us to stay off that beach.”
I take his hand. “Well, at least we did something.”
“Right,” he says, “which is more than we can say for the no-show volunteers.”
“Did Pepe ever email you their names?” I ask.
He shakes his head, looking ready to tear his hair out in frustration.
“Hey,” I say in a soothing voice. “We probably saved some eggs tonight.”
We lie in the hammock outside Wendell’s cabana, tucking the mosquito net around us, swinging slowly, talking. When my eyelids are nearly too heavy to keep open, I ask, “Who do you think was throwing stones?”
“Whoever it was has great aim,” Wendell says sleepily. “He might’ve even scared off the poachers.”
I snuggle closer to Wendell, losing myself in his cinnamon-soap smell. “Or she,” I point out, dozing off, vaguely wondering what Meche knows about the poaching.
The next morning, we wolf down breakfast and head to the police station. Gerardo is there, eyes fixed on a TV on one of the file cabinets. When he hears us come in, he straightens up and shuffles some papers around on his desk.
Wendell gets straight to the point. “Officer, buenos días. We’re checking on what happened last night.”
“Last night?” He stares up at the clicking fan, obviously clueless.
“We called in another poaching incident,” Wendell says impatiently. “Chucho said he’d drive over there and catch them in the act.”
Gerardo frowns and unlocks the file cabinet. He flips through folders for a few minutes, then turns to us, puts up his hands. “Chucho must not have finished the report yet. Maybe he went straight home after checking out the beach. It was probably the end of his shift. My guess is he’s asleep now.”
Wendell whispers to me, “Are we supposed to bribe this guy? Just to get a report filed?”
I shrug. I’ve met my share of corrupt small-town cops, enough to know that offering a bribe could get you in more trouble. It’s best to be cautious. “Maybe they’re just really inept,” I whisper back. “We can always go over their heads later.”
In the meantime, being pleasant is probably our best strategy. “Officer,” I say, forcing my voice to stay polite and steady, “could you tell Chucho to call us when he gets in?”
“And tell him we want to see his report,” Wendell adds with a scowl. Before he can say another word, I drag him by the arm out the door.
Next stop, Pepe.
We spot him just as he’s walking into the Turtle Center. When he catches our eyes, he waves. “Qué onda. What brings you here so early today, amigos?”
Wendell delivers the news. “We saw poachers on Playa Mermejita again.”
Pepe raises his eyebrows in alarm. “Really?”
“They were digging up the nests. And no guards in sight.”
“What did you do?” Pepe asks, wrinkling his eyebrows.
“Called the police. Chucho dealt with it. Supposedly. We haven’t heard back from him.”
Pepe rubs his forehead. “Well, I’m sure he’ll handle it. In the meantime, I’ll talk with the volunteers, make sure they stay on task.”
Wendell still looks distraught. “Is that it?”
“Don’t worry. But remember, muchachos, stay off the beach. Not just for the turtles. These poachers could be dangerous.”
“What about the volunteers, Pepe?” I demand. “Isn’t it dangerous for them?”
He closes his eyes for a long moment. “They’re specially trained.”
“Then where are they? We need to talk to them. The police need to talk to them!” I’m getting so worked up, sweat is pouring down my face.
“I’ll put the police in touch with them,” Pepe assures us in a measured voice. “It’s not your job to interrogate them, muchachos.”
Wendell’s jaw stiffens. “We have to stop these guys, Pepe. Every night of poaching—it’s thousands of eggs gone.”
Pepe rests his hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “I appreciate your passion, man. We’ll take care of it. I promise.” He gives us a stern look. “But you have to promise to keep off the beach, stay safe.”
Wendell looks at me. “I can’t promise that, Pepe.”
“What?” Pepe’s obviously not used to people disagreeing with him.
“Sorry,” Wendell says, “but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect the turtles.”
“Me too,” I add in a gesture of solidarity. “Playa Mermejita—it’s like my backyard. This is my home now. My responsibility.”
Early the next evening, I’m trudging down the path to the cabanas, laden with bags of chile and cheese and eggs from the market. I’m planning on trying out chiles rellenos for dinner. But Layla isn’t in the kitchen. She’s supposed to be making cream of squash soup, but the squashes are sitting on the counter, abandoned. I glance at the clock. Nearly six. We have to get cooking soon.
On the way to Layla’s cabana, I pass Linda from Venezuela in her black bikini and straw hat. “Hey, have you seen Layla?” I ask.
“There she is,” Linda says, gesturing toward the beach. “Building a sand castle.”
A sand castle? I breathe out in exasperation. “Thanks.”
I jog toward the beach, not sure what to make of this.
Sure enough, there she is with Joe, kneeling in the sand. The sun is low on the horizon, the water silvery. The last rays of sunlight illuminate a moat around a lopsided castle. What’s she doing playing around when we have fifteen guests to feed in an hour?
Annoyed, I storm up to her. “Having fun?”
Her hair covers her face like a golden curtain.
“Did you think dinner would make itself, Layla?”
“Stay playfully childish,” she says, quoting Rumi in a shaky voice. “Your face will turn rosy with illumination like the redbud flowers.”
Joe pats her on the shoulder, then quietly offers to juggle shells. When she shakes her head, he murmurs that none of this matters anyway because we’re all doomed.
Words of comfort? I pull back her hair. She’s crying. I should have realized something was wrong. When the going gets tough, Layla builds sand castles. My voice softens. “Hey, what’s wrong, Layla?”
She looks at me, her hands covered with wet sand. “The real estate agent sent me an email.”
My muscles tense. “And?”
“The owners decided to give this land to their son. They’re not renting it to be managed anymore.”
“What?” I sputter
. “If you’d done the contract on day one, this never would’ve happened!”
“I know, love. I’m sorry. I just haven’t gotten around to it, I’ve been so busy.”
I explode. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted some excuse to move on to the next country, right?”
“Of course not, Z!” Layla shakes her head, and then dissolves into sobs. “I love it here. It’s our home.”
I study her face. She looks truly miserable. “Really, Layla? What about the new countries you’ve added to the List?”
“They’re places to visit, love. For vacations.” She cups her hand to my cheek. “I promised you. And if I could make it happen, we’d stay in Mazunte for good. But now we have to leave.”
“Leave? We could find a property nearby—”
“There’s nothing, Z. I’ve looked. No English-teaching jobs either.” She wipes her eyes and starts with more Rumi. “Don’t let your throat tighten with fear. Take sips of breath—”
“Layla,” I say firmly. “Have you talked with the owners? I mean, you had a verbal agreement. Maybe we can convince them to honor it.”
She shakes her head. “Apparently, the owner’s son has been asking for the land for years. For whatever reason, they decided now’s the time to give it to him.”
I consider this. If we leave, where would Wendell go? And what if I never connect with my father? What if he’s somewhere in this town? What if he needs me to draw him out? What if he’s on the verge of showing himself? My mind sifts through all the possibilities.
“I’m going to talk with the owners,” I say, my voice hard. To make Layla feel on board with my plan, I add, “Give me some of your amulets, Layla. And a bunch of pink from your heart chakra.”
“Oh, love …,” she sighs, pulling me close.
“We’re meant to be here, Layla. It’s perfect. And I’m not letting a ridiculous curse or flaky owners mess it up.”
Layla gives me a weak smile, brushes the sand from her hands. “Ready to make dinner?”
We walk back through the jungle, my arm around her shoulder, Joe the clown at our heels.
