The Jade Notebook Read Online Free PDF

him the tray to take out to the tables. He knows the routine. Joe arrived just a couple of days after us and immediately became enamored of Layla. Her blood must contain some secret clown-attraction potion; Joe is definitely not her first suitor of this profession. He convinced her to give him free room and board in exchange for work as the cabanas’ maintenance man. Just until he could wrangle up some clown gigs, he assured us—something I honestly don’t see happening, given his utter lack of talent. Apparently, he got hooked on clowning somewhere in the American Midwest, where he studied building design and learnedEnglish. Inept clowning aside, I have to admit, despite his ridiculous attire and annoying personality, he does have skills we need—plastering, framing, roofing, repairing furniture.
    “Another day and the world’s still here,” he says, humming under his breath as he arranges the sugar bowls and cream pitchers on the tables. A few months ago, Joe woke up feeling sure the end of the world was near. So he sold the construction business he inherited from his father in Mexico City and set off on a journey—as he tells it—to spread joy to everyone he meets during these last days of existence. His clowning is apparently tied in with the spreading of joy. Unfortunately, his obsessive rants about the Mayan prophecy—the impending destruction of the world as we know it—put a damper on his clown act.
    Layla, an eternal optimist, reassures him that the completion of the cycle will be a new beginning rather than a bad ending. He counters that the world is a horrific mess, that the end is inevitable. She shrugs and says that people have always been certain their world was a horrific mess. But they find a way to tolerate the messiness and survive. “Just focus on the good stuff,” she keeps telling him.
    “I had another apocalyptic dream last night,” Joe announces, picking up three oranges from the counter and juggling them. “Involving torrential storms of geckos.”
    I make a face. Once Joe gets started with his end-of-the-world prophecies, he can go on for hours. Not to mention, his juggling skills are lacking, and there are plenty of breakables in this kitchen.
    When he drops the oranges, I scoop them up and washthem off, then put them back in the bowl. Unfazed, he keeps talking about the storms of geckos. Before he can grab any more oranges, I shoot Layla a look. She hands him another tray, puts on her Rumi-quoting face, and calmly whispers, “
A
white flower grows in the quietness. Let your tongue become that flower.”
    Joe presses his lips together in a smile. “So wise,” he murmurs. Thankfully, his tongue is quiet as a flower while he fills the tray with coffee mugs and spoons.
    Meanwhile, the guests have begun trickling in. Layla greets every one with a huge smile and a
qué onda, güey
. Inappropriately street-talky, but the guests either don’t understand or seem amused by the slang.
    Our guests are the same breed of backpackers we’ve hung out with all over the world—the kind who stay in out-of-the-way places and embrace the lack of electricity and hot water. Two twentysomething Norwegian women stroll into the palapa and plunk themselves sleepily on the tree-trunk seats in front of the counter. They’re followed by a blind, middle-aged Chilean named Horacio who arrived last night. Even with a guitar strapped on his back, he seems to be navigating the irregular stone path fairly well using his white cane—better than some of the hungover guests who can see, in fact. On his heels are three Australian guys in their twenties with half-open eyes; a bright-eyed American couple, who must have gone to bed early; two Canadian women who’ve brought their own organic herbal tea bags; and a groggy Spanish man who reeks of stale tequila. Finally,along comes a Brazilian couple, who look elegant from the time they open their eyes.
    As the guests work their way through their tea and coffee, they