Jade

I’d never been to Cafe Luna. At times my father, Dario, would retell seemingly insignificant stories that’d take place near it but never actually inside of it. It's that little cafe right around the corner from his home, you know, the house he was born in because Hilda doesn’t trust doctors. I guess single mothers can develop trust issues after the father makes enough empty promises. I never actually took the time to imagine what it looked like because, well, why would I? For so long it was simply a setting to the memories he’d re-live, nothing more.

The closest airport is in Guatemala City, so we drove a few majestic hours south while witnessing the gorges and mountain peaks that adorn the terrain. Jalapa is one of those towns that feels like a village when you stroll its unpaved streets, dust sprinkles the faces of the natives who consider it home and the Volcan Jumay is likely within the peripheral vision of your gaze. Dario started reminiscing again by pointing to certain landmarks saying things like “I once played in a soccer tournament there” or “That’s where I shared my first kiss.” Once we arrived at the hovel Hilda lives in, we joyfully greeted her then decided to go for a walk, typical. 

I swung open the door to a wave of warmth that suddenly spilled in then slowly sipped me out into a pool of heat that engrossed Dario’s streets. You really can’t see it, but there’s no question it’s there. You can just feel the difference in air pressure, the way sweat plummets down the crease of your back and bleeds through your shirt. We peregrinate through memories my father longs to recount with me, and then, on the other side of the road, she catches my eye. She was standing by el escaño in a flowery white sundress looking at street performers dance underneath the traffic lights.  It was like something out of a John Keats poem luring me into an anesthetic fantasy. No, I mustn’t dip in. I’m entertaining Dario’s babbling like a polite son, how dare I ruin his monologue. As torn as I was, I felt an ever so slight pull bobbing me towards her that I willingly let daze me. A whim compelled me to step right onto the road in hopes of courting her. 

Luckily, I’ve clearly jaywalked in a foregin country before, so when the taxi cruising along the claustrophobic road crept up beside me I made sure to get abruptly tapped by it like a fool. Naturally, this commotion drew attention to my pretentious and ditzy self. The locals began to peer over me with unwelcoming stares and I became acutely aware of how exposed I am. I look back to where she stood expectantly but caught her turning away, as if I wasn’t worth her trouble. It didn’t matter though, I was in too deep and needed to see this through! I wish the people surrounding us would’ve spurred me on, but they honestly didn’t care. I began marching toward her again but realized the soft ringing in my left ear were the echoes of Dario crying out to me. 

“Mi hijo, ¿estás bien? Que te pasa?” he exclaimed! Continuing my charge, I toss my glimpse of hope at him and mouth the quote 

“Sorry I had to go see about a girl” as if I were Will Hunting. We love that movie, so he’ll understand. 

Finally catching up to her, I eagerly bark out 

“Senorita!” In an unhurried manner, she swivels to face me and answers “Mande?” 

This could mean “Yes?” or “at your service,” It’s a cultural term that’s curious to translate. I pause for a millisecond and revel in the details of her rostro. You see, it wasn’t her ravishing look or chic outfit, era simplemente ella. There was something about her spirit that stole my undivided heart from Dario’s tales and drove me to her. Obviously, I didn’t rehearse this conquest whatsoever, much less prepare an eloquent script or proper introduction. In broken spanish I nervously stuttered out 

“Would you like dinner have at this cafe?” 

I wasn’t aware of it moments before, but after being kissed by the taxi I mentally photographed a sign that read “Cafe Luna,” and we were standing right under it. She looked at me inquisitively and with a hesitant breath said “Bueno.” I could tell I slightly intimidated her, I think it was my posture. The way I carried myself announced my touristic presence which created an unspoken wall not just with the natives but specifically her. 

“¿Cómo te llamas?” I asked more comfortably. 

“Jade” she answered. 

“Soy Gio” I said as I reach out my hand to meet hers.

Even in the midst of this ludicrous pandemic she chose to offer hers back, which pleased me. We entered the rustic and ever-told cafe I’d heard so much around, it was honestly quite anticlimactic. Even if I had taken the time to envision it, this wasn’t the sight I’d conjure at all, and yet it was fulfilling finally experiencing it. We are soon seated beside an ashy window and have managed to maintain a casual talk about her hometown. I was impressed actually, usually women are too frightened to be themselves with me at first, I’m not sure why. I still couldn’t identify what it was that enticed me, but that wasn’t really pending my conscience anymore, I was resting. I was lost in the laughter of our questions and simply enjoyed conversing with her about the simplicity she and my father experienced growing up in Jalapa. Jade has one of those ticklish smiles full of pearly whites and sincerity, there wasn’t a hint of disingenuity in her aura. Listening to her humble beginning led to my personal endeavors, I was a student of architecture in Boston at the time and I was ashamed of my first world problems. 

As we finished our dinner the waiter offered us a few cheap wines because the legal drinking age is eighteen, but none of them peaked her interest. She was craving dry wine but they didn’t have any. Suddenly, I remembered the gift my father bought in Beacon Hill for his cousin Chepe. Era vino! I had no knowledge of what kind it was, let alone being poorly versed in eclectic wine whatsoever, but I needed to check. I surreptitiously text my father under the table and ask him to graciously bring me the bottle. It may seem hard to believe but my father is an even bigger hopeless romantic than I am, so he was quick to slide over and slyly slip the bottle through the cracked window beside the table. I like to think of this as a clever feat but honestly Jade is pretty oblivious so it was quite simple to execute. 

“Esto será suficiente?” I ask cheerfully.

“Hay caramba, eso es merlot? Es! ¿Dónde lo encontraste?” she astounds. 

“Ya tu sabes, un regalito de ‘África’.” I say suavely. 

She shakes the chuckle from her mouth reluctantly then begins to decant the merlot. It’s as if we couldn’t stop ourselves from giggling or exchanging sweet glances throughout the toasty night. “Africa” is actually my father’s renown nickname in all of Jalapa. To this day, if you wander its street corners and speak his victories to the townspeople they’ll undoubtedly remember them. I wouldn’t go as far to say he was a prodigy but his soccer team left an unrivaled legacy. Jade’s father actually went to grammar school with him, but that’s a tale for another day. 

Before she savors the last sip of her dry drink she offers some to me. I don’t drink since I’m not of age but I decided to try it anyways. It was surprisingly fairly fruity. She tosses back the rest and we soon dive into the rest of our adventure. Jalapa doesn’t have any man-made attractions or expensive activities to participate in, and yet we indulged in the riches of the elysian night. The longer we locked eyes the deeper our vivacious tension sunk us into bliss. It was but a dream. 

After frolicing through the populated streets and rustling past consignment shops, we eventually found ourselves in a famed park with a masoned fountain at its center. She’s visited this park miles de veces ever since her childhood, it’s just one of those places you walk through if you’re from there. We’ve all seen parks like this, I’m sure, but that night this one felt different. Africa’s old coach lives nearby, just a block down 5th avenue. There were palm trees soaring above the city skyline and rich brick walkways that streamed from the oasis. We came across a pedestaled stone which was once a rugged tree trunk that had been petrified by el océano Pacífico. I can’t remember exactly when it happened but there was a lovely moment where Jade suddenly began to hear the tunes that played in Cafe Luna earlier that night, she’s an intentional listener so this didn’t surprise me. She electrified me by the hand and set about swaying me side to side like a tempered pendulum. You’d think people clapped or stared politely but the passersby just giggled on, as did we. 

It’s been moments upon moments stringing themselves together throughout the ceaseless night, and yet so much of what we did is lost in the oblivion of our memories. Somehow we found ourselves walking down 7th avenue right by the Iglesia del Ultimo Dia. It’s not a fancy cathedral but the roof was high enough to see the giant “Jalapa” sign on the eastern peak. To be honest, it’s a rip-off version of the “Hollywood” sign in Los Angeles, but it was special to Jade because she grew up seeing it outside her window. I wanted to accentuate her view of the sign by letting her see it from a fresh angle. 

“No. No, no, no! ¡No podemos subir allí! ¿Qué pasa si alguien nos ve?” She said. 

“Tranquila, nadie nos va a ver, ven conmigo!” I said as I started scaling the chimney. 

“Xergio! Espere, espere… no puedo escalar como tu. Qué pasa si me caigo?” She said in a distant panic. I gently responded by saying 

“Lo haré contigo, estoy aquí a tu lado.”

Daringly, she began the climb! One leg after another, one brick after the next, we elevated our butterflies and drained the suspense. I was careful to have my left arm curtained around her as a safeguard while also boasting in that I could complete the twenty foot climb with a single arm. Once we reached the top we laid atop the ceramic shingles and breathed in the scent of the elysian night.

Yes, it was her ebullient spirit that aroused my curiosity and centered my thoughts, I was wonderstruck. Her child-like purity enlivened my soul and I delighted in listening to her insights about womanhood. As surely as the dawn eased us back to reality, so was our farewell. I could’ve asked for her number, I know that, but I just didn’t want to. We knew that if we continued to enjoy nights like this it’d be that much harder to say goodbye once I returned home. I didn’t want to jolt the lucid dream, so instead of being interrupted by the deepest stage of reality’s REM cycle, I chose to wake willingly. At least this way I could linger the inevitable despedida. 

In hopes of alleviating her disappointed heart, I leaned in for a kiss, but not for her lips. Her lips would tether my hope in an irretrievable and unwise way, also, Africa wouldn’t approve. He says a true gentleman waits for permission. So, I rested on her cheek. Unlike the unapologetic heat of Jalapa, I knew not if I would see her again, but I wondered if she’d remain there, waiting for me.