Reasons to Be Happy Part 14

I could've sat there writing to him for hours, if Aunt Izzy hadn't come in and told me it was nearly midnight and I'd better get some rest if I wanted to go with her to the Bonwire kente village the next day.

We left at a painful hour the next morning, so early I didn't have time to email Jasper. I tried not to obsess over it. I told myself it would give me something to look forward to all day.

Long before the sun even thought about rising, our film team piled into the van to head to Bonwire. They were going to interview an orphan from Tafi Atome who'd become an apprentice to a kente cloth weaver last year.

I slept most of the drive and was groggy when we arrived at the shop. The s.p.a.ce was crowded for filming, so I stayed in the courtyard of the shop and watched three workers weaving. The courtyard rang with the click-clack of their wooden shuttles on the looms. They even used their feet to weave, as well as their hands. They wove narrow strips, about four inches wide and over five feet long. I caught myself already describing it to Jasper in my head.

One tiny, shriveled man with a buzz of white hair wove a piece in brilliant purple and white that I loved, its design intricate and complicated, like my cities. I watched the old man complete the final strip of the purple piece he had been working on for four days, then bring out the other strips and begin to sew them together into one piece the size of a tablecloth.

I wandered into the shop, but couldn't find that purple and white design.

I looked through single strips of cloth. I found another one I liked-this one red and yellow, with a design that made me think of Jasper.

Should I buy Jasper a souvenir from Ghana? My stomach fluttered. Emailing him was one thing, but the thought of facing him after what he'd seen me do made me want to creep away and disappear into the rain forest. Besides, I watched people bargaining for kente cloth, that aggressive, insane ritual that made me want to hide.

Thinking of Jasper reminded me of that day, after the awful art cla.s.s fiasco, when he'd said, "They don't have the power to stop me from doing what I want."

What did I want?

I walked back across the courtyard, heart pounding. When I reached him, the old man said, "You like this piece." It was not a question.

"I think it's the most beautiful piece in the whole shop. I'd like to buy it."

He looked at me, then looked at the finished cloth folded in his lap. "Sit," he said, gesturing for me to sit across from him. I did.

He looked at me as if expecting something. After a long pause, he leaned forward and said softly, "You must ask me my price."

Oh! So he was willing to sell it? I grinned. "Uh...okay. What is your price?"

Very formally he said, "700,000 cedis."

That's roughly $70. That was reasonable, I thought.

"Okay!" I unzipped the little purse I had slung across my chest.

But he raised his hand and made that Sss! noise.

"Sister, now you must tell me your price. What would you offer for this cloth?"

Oh G.o.d. Not this. Where was Ben, our guide? I looked around, but Ben was nowhere to be seen. I hated this bargaining. My shoulders slumped.

The old man laughed. "Sister, it is a game."

"But..." I took a deep breath.

"Do not be afraid," he said.

I looked up at him, startled. The man looked me in the eye, and I swore he knew everything about me. I was afraid. I was afraid of everything. It had gotten so boring.

He leaned forward in his cross-legged position and whispered to me, as if we were onstage and the audience shouldn't hear, "Offer me half."

Half? For this piece he'd worked on for weeks? He nodded again, encouraging me.

I couldn't bring myself to offer only half, so I said, "400,000 cedis."

His sweet, encouraging face changed and his chest puffed out. "Oh no!" He shook his head, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "This cloth could never leave for so little as that!"

Little? "But you told me-"

He leaned forward again and whispered, "Come, sister, you can learn the game."

Do not be afraid.

I braced my shoulders. "500,000 cedis," I said.

Again, he looked outraged. "This cloth would never leave for less than 600,000 cedis!"

I c.o.c.ked my head. "If I pay 600,000, may I also have one of those?" I pointed to a strip hanging nearby.

He laughed and clapped. "Yes! That is how to play! Yes, yes!"

He stood and formally handed the purple cloth to me. I formally handed over my money. Then, he took down the strip I had pointed to and gave it to me.

"Actually," I said, "there is another strip inside that I liked better. Could I have that instead?"

He threw back his white head and laughed as if I'd told the best joke he'd ever heard. He squeezed my shoulder. "Yes, sister, yes. You should always get what you want."

I went inside the shop and picked up the strip I'd thought of buying for Jasper.

When I thanked the old man, he bowed to me.

Back in the van, Aunt Izzy said, "Do you know that old man is the chief of Bonwire?"

"What old man?"

"The man who made your cloth."

I peered through the window. The old man stood in front of the shop. He waved to me.

I have kente cloth woven by the chief of Bonwire!

As we hit the rutted red dirt road again, I hugged my purple cloth and thought about the chief's words: You should always get what you want.

Did I even know what that was anymore?

We stopped at another village, Ahwiaa, on the way back to Tafi Atome and I got a brief reminder of what I did want.

In one shop, the floor was tiled like mosaic, with broken china pieces. I was flooded with the wish to make one of my cities. I wanted to be crouching, hands in the dirt, with lots of little pieces of bright, gaudy material to work with. "This is beautiful," I said, pointing to the floor. The shopkeeper looked at me like I was insane for praising the floor instead of his wood carvings.

He shooed two red hens out of the way and tried to entice me toward his carvings-and that's when I saw the necklaces.

The necklaces were bright, strung with the most colorful, vivid beads I'd ever seen.

"Ah, sister likes the beads," the shopkeeper said, seeing the change come over my face.

The beads pulled me to them. Some, tiny as poppy seeds, were painted. Green with yellow stripes, red with green and yellow stripes, the most perfect robin's egg blue, cobalt.

I selected ten necklaces-that I planned to unstring-and a bulging bag of individual beads. I loved plunging my hand into the bowl of beads the shopkeeper showed me. How long had it been since I'd finished one of my cities? I'd started that one for my mom, but hadn't finished.

I threw back my shoulders and did the bargaining myself.

When we returned to Tafi Atome, the sun had begun to set, the sky that b.l.o.o.d.y red. I stretched and then ran the perimeter of the monkey sanctuary.

Sanctuary.

Running was my sanctuary. Running was the one place where I found the old Hannah still strong, still real, still beautiful.

I thought about what Jasper said-You don't strike me as a cowardly person-how I'd mistakenly thought that meant he didn't know me. Actually, the truth was the opposite. If he thought I was brave, then he knew the real me. He'd been able to see her, even when I couldn't see her myself.

Running, I saw her again.

She'd been there all along. I'd just forgotten where to find her.

124. Having more than you need

125. Seeing an elephant (not in a zoo) 126. Drum music 127. Weaver birds 128. That mouthwatering, stomach-growling aroma of grilling meat Running wasn't the only thing I returned to. I craved my art; I craved my cities. Each evening, I brought out the beads I'd bought in woodcarver's village and spread them on my bed, examining them by flashlight. I collected sh.e.l.ls, strange nuts, and pebbles. I also collected these great bra.s.s figures that Philomel made.

Philomel had been trained in this way cool art called the "lost wax technique." He carved a figure out of wax-usually a traditional figure that had a proverb that went with it-then shaped a coal-clay ball around the wax figure. He'd bake the coal ball hard as cement, then nail a hole in the bottom of the ball so the melted wax ran out, turning the ball into a mold. Then he poured molten bra.s.s through the hole into the mold. He'd let it set several days before cracking the clay to release the tiny, s.h.i.+mmering bra.s.s crocodiles, turtles, birds, and abstract symbols. I ran my hands through clattering piles of them and longed to build one of my cities. I envisioned re-creating an African market in miniature form.

One day, the village of Tafi Atome had a feast. For some reason I never quite grasped, someone slaughtered a goat, roasted it, then made a fantastic groundnut soup with goat in it for the whole village to enjoy. The roasting meat smelled divine, and even Dimple-a vegetarian-closed her eyes and moaned appreciation at the aroma. When I asked her if she was going to eat some, she shrugged and said, "Of course. Being vegetarian here feels a little harsh and indulgent. I would never, ever refuse what they offered me."

The feast turned into a village party. Everyone pitched in and made whatever they could to share. I helped Modesta fry plantains, one of my favorite treats.

Everyone cheered when someone arrived in a big green van with lots of warm beer. When the soup was ready, people brought benches and chairs from their homes and we all ate, balancing bowls and plates in our laps, in the schoolyard.

The goat stew was really good. I mean really. For the first time in ages-what? almost a month?-I ate until I was full.

Full. The feeling upset me. The uncomfortable, stuffed sensation reminded me of a binge, although I hadn't meant to binge. I stopped eating, giving what was left in my bowl to little Englebert. I pressed a hand to my stomach and tried to shrug the new tension out of my shoulders.

Wouldn't it feel good?

No. No, no, no. Stop it.

You haven't done it in so long. What harm would it do just every now and then?

No, no.

I turned to Englebert, quelling the panic inside me. I noticed a bra.s.s lion hanging around his neck on a black string. "Did Philomel make that?" I asked.

He nodded.

"He's really good," I said.

"Thank you, Hah-nah," Philomel said, from a few chairs over.

"I really like them," I said. "I want to buy some."

Philomel, never one to miss a sale, pulled a clinking bundle from under his chair. As drumming and dancing began, he brought the bundle to my chair and opened the cloth on the dusty red ground, revealing hundreds of the tiny bra.s.s figures inside. I loved them even more, out here sparkling in the sun. They'd be so, so perfect to incorporate into my cities.

Modesta stirred what was left of the stew, watching us.

"Which one would you like to buy?" Philomel asked.

"All of them."

I thought his eyes would leap out of his face. I'm sure he thought I'd revealed myself to be a millionaire. I could've bought his entire stock for the equivalent of fifty dollars.

"I love them. I want them to-" How did I explain the cities? "I'd like to use them in some art I make."

"They are not just to look at," Philomel said. The crocodile I held, for instance, he told me represented adaptability. The turtle stood for a secure home. A beautiful piece of four curls coming together was the ram's horn that meant humility and strength.

An intriguing bird figure caught my eye. The bird's neck was turned, looking behind itself over its back. My mother would've adored this, especially since she called me magpie. I picked up the bird, half expecting it to smell of lemon. "What does this one mean?"

Philomel nodded as if in approval. "Return and get it," he said.

"I don't understand."

"Return to the past. Learn from the past. Never forget the ancestors who have already gone away from us."

I swallowed. Oh.

My stomach was so full.

Return and get it.

But I couldn't return, now could I? My mother was gone. I sniffed.