Page 61 of The Deepest Lake
And there it goes, from intimidation to platonic girl crush.
I have to resist the urge to commandeer her attention all evening. But Eva, seeing us chatting at the far end of the lawn, approves. I know she wants me to chaperone Zahara. On top of that, Eva’s hoping to ask Zahara to perform a casual duet sometime this week.
Eva nods toward us both just before going to a microphone, where she welcomes everyone and launches into a speech about how everyone is broken but everyone is beautiful and if we listen, we all will succeed and all of our stories matter equally, et cetera.
A few days ago, I would have been shedding an inspired tear. Now I feel dry-eyed and somber.
A chant has started up—call and repeat, with applause between each round.
“Cracks?”
“Cracks and all!”
“It lets the light in. You are all standing in that light. You are broken but you’re beautiful.”
“Cracks and all!”
Zahara, standing next to me, raps her French-polished fingernails against the wineglass. She gives me a knowing, skeptical look and mouths the words: Leonard Cohen?
“That’s it!” I shout back, but instead of catty pleasure, I just feel numb.
There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in. That isn’t Eva’s line. She “borrowed” it. Why am I not surprised?
The next morning around ten, I find Eva in the kitchen, hurrying to grab a bottle of sparkling water, face flushed with the pleasure of the morning’s first workshop, which is now on coffee break. I have less than five minutes, which is more than enough. I’ve been tying myself in knots since going to bed last night, telling myself there’s a simple explanation, while also aware I don’t want to blame or panic anyone.
“Eva, I’m worried that someone stole my passport.”
Her rebuke is swift. “You can’t leave valuables out in the open.”
“It wasn’t out in the open. It was in a drawer. I trust my roommates.”
“And I trust my staff. But people wander around. We get visitors. A shifty guy was seen up on the road, by the gate, just the other day.”
The shifty guy. Mauricio’s uncle.
“So you think someone took it?”
Her expression softens and her glance wanders, like she is remembering something, or else making up a story. I want her back on earth. It’s my passport. Something I can’t easily replace.
I stammer, “Be . . . because I—”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts, laughing as she cracks the cap on the fizzy water, leaning back against one of the counters. “It’s in my safe.”
Dismay must be etched on my face, because she rolls her eyes, adding, “Hotels keep people’s passports while they’re checked in. It’s more secure.”
“I’m relieved, I guess,” I say, though I’m not. Not at all. “But my journal is missing, too.”
“Oh, that. I just wanted to take a look. You can run up to my office to get it. It’s next to the printer, where Barbara works.”
Heat flares through my body. I try to remember everything I’ve written about: my starry-eyed worship of Eva—she would like that part. But I also scribbled a bit about Barbara, Hans and of course, Mauricio. She won’t be happy to know I’ve been canoodling with her darling orphan.
“You read it,” I say, straining to control the tremor in my voice.
“Not every page. I don’t have time for that.” She winks. “And don’t worry. I’ve heard you and Mauricio chatting in Spanish, like you think no one will understand. I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
My blood is boiling with indignation and embarrassment. I don’t believe for a minute that Eva understands much Spanish beyond “taco” and “guacamole,” but it still unnerves me to think she’s been spying on us.
“I’d like to get my passport back, too.”