The Jade Notebook by Laura Resau Read Free Book Online Page B

he’s said that? Or has he always ended conversations that way and I never noticed until Doña Elisa gave us the same warning? I glance at Wendell. Judging by his expression, the same questions are going through his head. “Next?” he asks.
    “Meat.”
    We head to Carnicería Ernesto, wait in line for Don Ernesto. At least, I guess that’s his name, since he’s the only one we’ve ever seen working here. He’s middle-aged and hefty,always dressed in a stained white T-shirt with his ample gut poking out over his leather belt. A small mustache grazes his upper lip like a black carpet scrap. His eyes look small, embedded in his puffy face. We usually get a backup chicken from him, since there are often a couple of guests who don’t like fish.
Telenovelas
blare on the little TV hung from the wall of his little cement store. It’s somewhat disconcerting to see Ernesto chopping through meat and bone with one eye glued to the crying or kissing or dying on the screen.
    Despite a couple locked in an embrace on TV, his attention is fully directed to a customer now. It’s a beautiful woman with a curtain of long, dark hair, wearing a black cotton huipil that just grazes her knees. She’s about Layla’s age, midthirties, although it’s hard to tell with her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat and huge sunglasses. She looks different from most local women, who joke around with vendors, their children in tow, comfortable rolls of fat around their waists, fake gold earrings and necklaces, jeans and polyester tanks, bulging plastic shopping bags.
    This woman carries herself like some regal water creature—a swan or a heron—her head high, her neck long and graceful. Her fingers are laden with silver rings, her wrists and neck draped with beads of seashell and stone. With her traditional woven huipil and elaborate jewelry, she looks like the Mexican painter Frida Kahlo. It occurs to me this might be someone famous—maybe an artist or writer—on vacation.
    “Buenos días, señora,”
Don Ernesto says, keeping his eyes cast down.
    “Buenos días, señor,”
the woman responds in a low voice.
    Hardly any other words pass between them. Don Ernesto knows what the woman wants without asking. From a large bucket behind the counter, he scoops piles of raw, glistening, goopy cow organs—hearts, livers, kidneys, stomachs—and a random assortment of bloody bones. Flies are buzzing like mad. A ripe, foul smell rises from the innards, makes my stomach turn. He dumps them into three bags, each of which must weigh five kilos.
    Now, I’ve observed plenty of people—all over the world—who immediately captivate me. Usually they exude something special, like a zest for life or generous wisdom. This woman radiates none of these qualities. In fact, she appears completely closed off, as if there’s a veil between her and the rest of us.
    What captivates me about her is how out of place she seems. Too elegant for her surroundings … and for her bizarre and disgusting purchase. What on earth would a woman like this do with three bags of bovine innards and bones? My fingers are itching to open my jade notebook, grab a pen, and interview her.
    With graceful movements, the woman takes the putrid bags, her arm muscles taut, and pays Don Ernesto a few bills. Then she says,
“Gracias, señor,”
in a voice barely over a whisper.
    “Gracias, señora,”
he replies, still making no eye contact, and breathing a visible sigh of relief when she leaves.
    I watch her walk away. She even limps like Frida Kahlo—who, as I recall from a movie I saw in France, was hurt in a streetcar accident. I wonder what happened to this woman.Somehow, her uneven gait comes across as dignified, as if the limp is another accessory, suggesting some hidden tragedy.
    Don Ernesto perks up considerably when she turns the corner and is out of sight. His eyes flicker to the TV screen for a moment; then he greets me with a warm smile. “Now, what can I offer you