The Paper Swan(37)

Hours passed, but Esteban waited. It was quiet. Too quiet. None of the help was around, and the gates were never chained down. Where was the guard? Where was the gardener? Esteban refused to believe they were all gone. He knew Skye would never leave without saying goodbye. He knew.

When the stars came out, Esteban limped to the entrance and looked through the gate. The outside lights had not come on and the path to the staff’s quarters remained unlit. He climbed over the hedged fence in the back, and up the tree outside Skye’s window. Esteban tried jiggling it open—it was still unlatched.

Esteban turned on the light and looked around. It felt weird being in Skye’s room without her. It felt wrong. Her bed was made, but her closet looked like someone had been through it in a rush. All her favorite books and clothes were gone. Esteban felt something crunch under his feet. He looked down and saw that the floor was littered with paper—all the magical, mythical things he had fashioned out of the most colorful, special paper he could find. They were carelessly discarded around him. Some of them had been trampled into grotesque, malformed pieces.

Esteban picked up an origami scorpion. It had taken him a long time to get the folds just right. The body was flattened, but the stinger remained upright. He thought about what Victor had said. Maybe he was right. Maybe Warren didn’t give a f*ck about him or MaMaLu. Maybe Skye didn’t care. Maybe he and MaMaLu were just like all of this paper—folded and molded to suit a purpose, and then stepped on, on the way out.

Esteban flung the scorpion away and winced from the blows Victor had inflicted on him. He looked out the window and saw the new moon reflected in the pond. He remembered when Skye had been curled up in bed and MaMaLu told them about the magic swan that hid in the gardens of Casa Paloma, a swan that came out once in a while, on the night of a new moon.

If you catch a glimpse of it, you will be blessed with the greatest treasure, she’d said.

Esteban hadn’t believed her then, and he didn’t believe her now. It was all made up—all the magic, all her stories, all the happy endings. They were all empty and meaningless and hollow. His father had never been a great fisherman. He had never loved him or MaMaLu. MaMaLu had lied. Skye had never been his friend.

You think Se?or Sedgewick gives a f*ck about you?

You think he’s going to bring MaMaLu back?

You are as expendable to these rich gringos as yesterday’s newspaper.

That was the cold, hard truth.

Esteban turned off the light and stood alone in the empty darkness. When he climbed out of Skye’s window that night, he left something behind: his childhood, his innocence, his shining, naive ideals—all scattered on the floor like limp, trodden paper dreams.





ESTEBAN SAT ON THE CONCRETE stairs of La Sombra, one of the small cantinas in Paza del Mar. Its sloping tin roof protected him from the torrential downpour. He stared at the water, collecting in rivulets down the dirt street. It reflected yellow pools of light from kerosene lamps that hung on porches of the shops that were still open. A stereo was blasting Luis Miguel’s “La Bikina”, a tune about a beautiful, scarred woman with a pain so deep, it provokes rivers of tears.

“Hey, boy!” a man called from inside the restaurant.

Esteban turned around. “Me?”

“Si. You hungry?” he asked.

Esteban had noticed the man watching him. He assumed it was because his face was swollen and heavy. It was obvious he’d been in a fight.

“Juan Pablo,” the man gestured to the waiter, “bring the boy oreja de elefante and something to drink. What’s your name?”

“Esteban.”

The man nodded and continued eating heartily, washing his food down with sips of michelada—beer with lemon and seasonings. He had a baby face, countered by eagle eyebrows, from which gray, unruly hair sprouted upwards. His hair was jet black, obviously dyed, and slicked back from his forehead. He must have been in his late forties, maybe a little older. A polished wooden walking cane rested on his table. It was glossy black, and the gold metal tip flashed like a shiny promise in the simple, run-down cantina.

Esteban sat across from him. His stomach growled at the sight of the man’s dinner. Red enchiladas stuffed with cheese and topped with cream. The waiter brought him warm corn tortillas, a bowl of green jalape?os and agua fresca. Esteban forced himself to eat slowly, stretching it out until his dinner arrived—two large pieces of veal that look like elephant ears.

They ate in silence at the formica-topped table, listening to the rain and music, while murals of Pedro Infante and Maria Felix, stars from the golden age of Mexican cinema, watched them from a bullet-riddled wall. Casa Paloma had sheltered Esteban from the reality that lay beyond its iron gates, but now he was thrust into a different world. Not only did he have to look after himself, he also had to find a way to get MaMaLu out.