The Jade Notebook Read Online Free PDF Page A

That’s documentation.” She obviously feels proud using the word
documentation
. Something she’s famously terrible at, something I always have to force her to deal with so we won’t be deported from our country-of-the-year.
    “We need a contract, Layla,” I say firmly. “Today. For five years. At least.”
    “Fine. I’ll write the agent an email.”
    “Good,” I say, making a mental note to keep on her about this. The only documents she’s ever been able to keep track of for any length of time are our U.S. passports and American citizenship papers. And when I was old enough—around seven—she dumped the job on me.
    The one piece of paper Layla treasures is her List. She began her List shortly before I was born and over the past seventeen years has been jotting down every new place recommended to her by fellow travelers.
    I glance over at the List, which Layla has nailed to the wooden beam over the kitchen sink. At times this List has been the bane of my existence, reminding me of all the places Layla would uproot us to and from. But now, I appreciate the poetry of what I see. The first place on Layla’s List might be—no,
will
be—the final place we live. Mazunte.
    That was the final clue that led us here—the realization that my father must’ve been the traveler who suggested visiting this town. Layla started the list eighteen years ago, thenpromptly forgot who gave her the first recommendation. If only she’d recorded the names of travelers who’d recommended each place—we might’ve traced my father to this town years ago. It wasn’t until I’d narrowed his likely hometown to Mazunte last fall that I noticed the connection.
    Layla did scrawl some notes after
Mazunte: sea turtles, jade water, jungle, mole.…
As a kid reading this list, I wondered why moles would be an attraction. At some point, I discovered it must be
mole—MO-lay
—which travelers have told me is the world’s most delicious sauce. Not surprisingly, chocolate is the main ingredient.
    “Layla, have you had any
mole
here yet?”
    She shakes her head. “But I want to get my hands on some. Right here in southern Mexico was the birthplace of
mole
. Cacao beans were sacred to the Maya and Aztecs. Food of the gods …”
    She rambles on, picking up a tray with the pitchers of cream and bowls of sugar, as I flip through the pages of the List, mentally ticking off places we’ve lived—Senegal, Thailand, India—and noting the places we haven’t. I notice, on the last page, some fresh writing, new countries that weren’t there last week. Madagascar, Portugal, Mongolia.
What?
She’s still adding potential new homes?
    Before I can ask about it, Joe the clown straggles into the kitchen. I groan at the sight of him in a pink wig.
    “Sweat of the stars,” he murmurs with a slight Spanish accent, betraying his Mexican roots, despite his insistence on speaking English with us.
    Layla smiles as if she knows what he’s talking about.Maybe she does. “Morning, Joe.” His real name is something like Joani, but he likes to be called Joe.
    I raise an eyebrow. “Sweat of the stars?”
    “Another name for chocolate,” he says, rubbing sleep from his eyes and adjusting his wig. How he can wear a wig in this climate is beyond me. To complete the look, he’s donned a pair of baggy rainbow patchwork pants held up by orange suspenders.
    His first day here, before he understood how sweltering the heat on the coast is—unlike the climate of his native Mexico City—he wore sweat-streaked clown makeup, and I briefly entertained the idea that he might be my father. After all, in France, my father’s face was hidden beneath white paint, his hands inside white gloves, his hair tucked into a black skullcap. But while my father seemed gentle, timid, respectful of people’s space, Joe the clown bumbles around, always in your face, droning on loudly, practically tripping over everyone’s feet, an air of desperation clinging to him.
    Layla hands