Jakarta Missing

by Jane Kurtz

  Dakar shook her head. “Not even one word.”

  “Everybody in the whole world knows ‘I love you.’” Melanie showed Dakar. “One of my aunts is taking a class because she’s going to be a teacher. She’s teaching me a bunch of other words.” She signed again. “Know what I just said? ‘Help me. I’m a buttery potato on fire.’”

  “If I was a potato,” Dakar said, “I’d want to be a buttery potato.”

  “If I was a butterfly,” Melanie said, “I’d want to be an empress butterfly.”

  “If I had to be a butterfly,” Dakar said, “I’d want to be a big strong blue one.” Melanie was staring at her with a look of fascination. “If I had to be a pizza,” she added, laughing, “I’d be a greasy one with cheese sliding off in six different directions.”

  Melanie made a magnificent leap toward her room. “Inside the magic room,” she said, “we can be anything we want. Hurry.” So Dakar hurried. Melanie had put a gauzy purple scarf over the lamp so the room was lit in dim softness. Some kind of incense burning filled the room with a smell of black silk and yellow amber. Melanie pulled a green cowboy hat out of the box in the middle of the room.

  “Huzzah,” Dakar said dryly.

  Next, Melanie pulled out a scarf from a box and draped it around her head, making a veil. “Is this more like it?”

  “It definitely fits my stories better,” Dakar said. “I could think of one to go with that.”

  “Cool.” Melanie plopped on the bed. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

  Dakar looked into Melanie’s eyes, which blinked over the top of the veil. “Okay, I’ll tell you a story from Somalia. I’ve never been there. Too dangerous. But usually when my dad comes home from anywhere, he tells me stories.”

  “Why did he go to Somalia?”

  “Some medical thing.” Dakar tried to remember if he had ever told them, exactly. People desperately needing help. War probably. There were always so many sad true stories.

  “Where all have you lived?” Melanie asked.

  Dakar settled herself into storytelling position on the chair, back straight, legs crossed. “In West Africa until I was three. I don’t remember that at all. In Egypt when I was four. I think I remember Egypt, but we lived there again when I was ten, so maybe I’m really remembering that. In Maji the longest—five to seven. I went to boarding school in Addis Ababa when I was eight and nine and only went home to Maji at Christmas and in the summer.”

  “Wow,” Melanie said. “How could you stand not seeing your mom and dad for so long?”

  Dakar shrugged. “It was hard. Egypt when I was ten. Dad was in Somalia. Nairobi when I was eleven and Dad spent a lot of time in the Sudan. Now I’m twelve and I’m here.”

  “I thought you’d be eleven, like me,” Melanie said.

  “I’m used to being the oldest in my class. Mom says I was always small for my age, and she home-schooled me for the first two years, so she didn’t want to push.”

  “No wonder you’re so mature for your age. Here, put this on.” Melanie tossed a bracelet to Dakar. “It’s the most exotic thing I have. My aunt got it at the Wisconsin Dells.”

  Dakar fastened it. “You have to be absolutely quiet so I can start.” Feeling powerful and dramatic, she held up her arms. The bracelet gleamed. Dakar took a deep breath. The beginnings of stories were probably the most important parts to get right.

  “Long ago in the grasslands of Somalia lived a man who was chief of a mighty clan, so rich he had a thousand camels. The man loved his camels and his horses, his sheep and his goats, but more, far more, he loved his daughter, Donbirra, who was graceful as a leopard.” She was relieved to discover she hadn’t forgotten anything. She’d loved this story from the first time Dad told it. She loved “graceful as a leopard.” She loved it that Donbirra’s father loved her more than anything in the world. “Nothing was too good for Donbirra,” she went on. “She always had hippopotamus hide sandals for her feet and amber beads to hang around her neck.”

  “Wait,” Melanie said. “I’m sure we can find the hippopotamus hide sandals in here.” She rummaged, giggling.

  “Year after year,” Dakar said, not waiting, “the man and his daughter and his clan moved with the rains, following the water.” Then there was this terrific place, when the story started to flow, the words blossoming out of her mouth like fancy, flapping butterflies. Fat, smooth words she could almost taste.

  Melanie abandoned the box. “Go on,” she said. She sat on the floor and stared up at Dakar.

  “Okay. Well, when the Dhair rains were few and water was scarce, they settled by a river. There the young men drove the camels out to find grass. And there Donbirra watched the sheep and goats and made rope, and in the evening she took smoke baths of myrrh and frankincense.”

  “I knew it,” Melanie said triumphantly. “The smell in this room is perfect, isn’t it?”

  “Day followed peaceful day,” Dakar went on. “But one day a mighty noise shook the camp. When the chief stepped out from under his awning of palm branches and went to see what was happening, he found three young men standing in the middle of his camp.

  “Two of the men were dressed in new clothes with ostrich feathers in their hair and ivory bracelets on their arms. By this the man knew they were great warriors. The first stepped forward and lifted his shield of rhinoceros hide. ‘We have heard of your wonderful daughter,’ he said.

  “The second stepped forward and shook his spear. Then he said, ‘Do you give me your daughter?’

  “The chief looked at Donbirra where she sat with her sheep and goats, but he saw no softness in her eyes when she looked at the warriors. So he said, ‘But there are two of you. If I choose one and not the other, I may offend your father who will come and do me harm. And what about this third?’

  “The oldest brother laughed. ‘This son of a hyena? He is our youngest brother, Jama. He never fights but plays his shepherd’s pipe all day and half the night. We brought him along to carry our things.’

  “The father looked thoughtful. ‘I cannot choose,’ he said. ‘Give me time to think.’”

  “How come he gets to choose, anyway?” Melanie asked.

  “Well, what am I supposed to do?” Dakar said. “Change the story because we don’t happen to think that’s the right way to do things? My dad always says we have to meet people where they are. He also says, ‘Just be quiet and listen to what people have to tell you about their lives.’”

  She paused. Did it make Donbirra mad or did it make her feel loved? Daughters of chiefs and kings couldn’t reveal their feelings. They had to be secretive to survive. Did Alexander I and Alexander II and those other Russian czars have princess daughters? Why didn’t school teach you the important things, like whether the daughters ever got to choose and how they felt when their fathers were off solving the important problems of Russia.

  “Anyway, in the days that followed,” she went on, “Donbirra’s father consulted the Koran and talked to the wadad, who was always wise. Every day the brothers came to him and asked him to make his choice. Every day Donbirra’s father looked at his daughter, but her eyes were cool and smooth as eggshells as she watched the warriors. So he said, ‘I cannot choose.’ The brothers walked by the river, waving their spears and talking. As for Jama, he played his flute so sweetly that Donbirra’s sheep and goats seemed to smile as they grazed.

  “Finally, one day when the brothers came to the man, he said, ‘I still cannot choose. But the wadad has made a suggestion. Tomorrow we will begin a contest to see which of you is most worthy to marry my daughter.’

  “Next day, when the morning sun was hot in the sky, all the people gathered. ‘Now,’ the chief said to the first brother, ‘what do you have to show us?’

  “The first brother stepped forward. First he boasted of the many battles he had fought. Then he lifted his spear. He took a silver coin from his pouch and tossed it high in the air. For a moment it spun. Then the warrior hurled his spear. Whoosh. The spear pierced the si
lver coin while it was still spinning. The people cried out. The chief nodded in admiration. But when he looked at Donbirra, she was laughing at Jama, who had charmed some monkeys into throwing their fruit to him.”

  Dakar looked at Melanie. She could tell Melanie was wanting to ask something, but when Dakar frowned, Melanie clamped her hand obediently over her mouth. “If you want to know where he got a silver coin, I don’t know,” Dakar said. “They had silver coins in Ethiopia before Jesus was born, even. Maybe they have in Somalia, too. So, back to the story.

  “Donbirra’s father sighed. ‘I cannot choose. Go back to your tents, and we shall continue the contest tomorrow.’

  “All that evening he weighed one stone in his hand and then another. He consulted with the elders and muttered and thought, thought and muttered. As for Donbirra, she helped Jama teach the milk camels how to dance.

  “When the next day was golden with sun, the crowd again gathered. The people laughed and argued together, favoring first one brother and then the other. Finally the second warrior stepped forward. First he boasted of how fierce he was in battle. Then he said, ‘Look. With my spear I can take the twig that the boy over there holds between his teeth.’

  “The boy stopped chewing and stood up. All the people watched. Almost before they could breathe, the spear shot through the air and knocked the small stick right out of the boy’s mouth.

  “The crowd clicked their tongues in awe. The chief looked at Donbirra. But she picked up her water jug and started down to the river to get water. ‘I cannot choose,’ the chief muttered. The warriors shuffled impatiently.

  “Suddenly two eyes rose up out of the river like bush fruits, and the water began to ripple. Just as Donbirra lifted her full water jug from the river, a crocodile sprang half out of the water, twisting its head sideways to open its mouth.”

  Melanie gave a satisfying gasp.

  “Donbirra leaped back,” Dakar said dramatically. “The crocodile’s mouth crashed shut, catching the corner of Donbirra’s maro. With a cry Donbirra dropped the jar.

  “‘Your spears,’ the chief shouted to the warriors. ‘Throw your spears.’

  “But the oldest brother said, ‘In my clan only slaves and outcasts hunt animals. It would be beneath me to kill a beast.’

  “‘For me it is just the same,’ the second brother said.

  “No one noticed Jama running toward the river. The crocodile opened its huge mouth again.” Dakar moved her arms wide apart to show the crocodile jaws, just the way Dad would if he were telling the story. “Donbirra fell backward against the bank. The crocodile’s teeth flashed in the sun.

  “Then Jama was there. Kneeling close to the crocodile and putting his flute to his lips, he began to play. The music tickled the leaves of the tamarisk tree and set the goats frisking in the grass. Slowly the crocodile closed its mouth. Then it slid back into the river and rolled over and over in the water, rippling bubbles as it went.”

  Dakar paused for just the right moment. “As for Donbirra,” she said triumphantly, “perhaps the music charmed her also. In any case, her eyes, as she looked at Jama, were soft as moonlight on leaves. And when Jama stood before the chief and asked, ‘Do you give me your daughter?’ the chief smiled and called to his people, ‘Let us all celebrate. May the feasts begin. At last I think I can choose.’”

  Melanie sighed and flopped back. “How romantic,” she said. “Even if the dad did get to think he was choosing. Or do you think he knew?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Isn’t it cool that we’re having a sleep-over? I can’t believe that I’m sleeping in the same room with someone who has slept in Africa. The most exciting thing I’ve done until now was wearing socks that don’t match.”

  Dakar closed her eyes. She had done such a good job telling the story. She could just imagine the audience clapping and clapping. Thunderous applause, the books always said. But tonight something about the story made her sad. Something about Dad. It wasn’t that Dad would ever choose anything important for her. He was too big into JUSTICE, with capital letters. But would Dad study her eyes, trying to see if there was any softness in them? No, he would be busy thinking about something much more important, like finding a cure for river blindness.

  “Tell me something you really, really remember from Africa,” Melanie said.

  Dakar slid off the chair with her eyes still closed and balanced on one leg like the tall warriors she used to stare at, fascinated by their blue-black skin and their clay hairdos. Where should she start? Could she make the exact sound the lizards made when they woke her up in the morning, sliding down the tin roof? Could she explain about mornings Jakarta was gone, when Dakar scrambled up the hill to the village through a lion’s mane of fog, the lion’s tongue licking her all over, leaving her dripping wet? The sweet mist of eucalyptus smoke over the town? The thicker, warmer smoke smell inside Wondemu’s house, and Wondemu’s grandmother leaning over to hand her a fat, fleshy banana for breakfast?

  She opened her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “I live here now. Let’s dig through the box, okay?”

  SEVEN

  Sunday morning Dakar woke up with princesses dancing in her head, and she couldn’t get them out, even though Melanie’s mom served omelets for breakfast. Where did Melanie get her genes from? Dakar looked back and forth between the two of them as they bent over a catalog. Melanie’s mom had broad shoulders and a generous, practical face. Melanie was like a river sprite, delicate and small with almost white hair and river-colored eyes. Maybe she was a changeling. A jinn baby.

  As if she had read Dakar’s mind, Melanie looked up and gave her an elfin grin. “Come on,” she whispered into Dakar’s ear. “I want to show you the most magical spot in Cottonwood. I’ve never showed anybody else.”

  “What would you do,” Dakar said as they started to walk, “if you were a princess trapped in a high tower, and an evil hen gave you three impossible tasks you had to solve or you could never, ever get out and go home?”

  “Well, what would the tasks be?” Melanie asked.

  “One would be to turn that tree over there into a pomegranate tree,” Dakar said. “And the next would be to pick a pomegranate from the very heart of the tree and count its seeds.”

  “First, she’d have to know what a pomegranate was,” Melanie said.

  “Well, she’d know that,” Dakar said impatiently. “All princesses do.” She imagined that she was holding a pomegranate seed lightly between her front teeth. She loved the way the seeds felt—all smooth and self-contained—just before you bit. Just before that sweet and bitter pomegranate taste came into your mouth.

  The third task would be to find the three magic seeds and take them with her on her quest once she got out of the tower. What if the princess failed at her tasks? Then she would be frozen. The cold would creep upward, starting at her feet. Or downward, starting at the top of her head. Either way, when it reached her heart, she would be done for. Maybe the princess had to find a true friend. Only a true friend would know the answer to the pomegranate problem. Melanie could be the true friend.

  “I love that story you told last night,” Melanie said. “It’s so perfect that you’re not from here. And it’s so obvious. Because people from here don’t talk in paragraphs. I wish you would tell me more about Jakarta.”

  Jakarta! “She’s incredibly smart,” Dakar said. “If she were the princess in the tower, the evil hen wouldn’t be able to hold her more than a few hours at most.”

  “Why?” Melanie said. “How would she get out?”

  Dakar kicked a stone down the sidewalk and wondered if she’d be able to pick out that same exact stone when they caught up with it again. It seemed terribly important that she recognize it. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not nearly as smart as Jakarta. Oh, also, she’s beautiful. She’s like Donbirra. Boys fight their way through dark and miry bogs to touch the edge of her cloak. And she’s a soccer star.”

  “Will she like me?” Melanie asked.

  �
��Sure.” Dakar bent down to study the pile of rocks. If she could find the exact stone, what she had just said would be true. Jakarta would like it here. “Thanks for coming on ahead of me,” Jakarta would say. “I’m eternally grateful.” There. That was the stone. Wasn’t it? Dakar felt a flutter of panic. “Stop it,” she told herself. You made that test up. There is no evil hen. Switch off the imagination. How long would it take Jakarta to fly back to the U.S.? “You know,” Dakar said, “I think I should go home.”

  “Hey! We were going to the magic place.”

  “Oh, right.” Dakar started to trot. “We have to go quickly, though. I should go home and see if they’ve got Jakarta’s plane schedule yet.”

  “It’s on my uncle’s land,” Melanie said, hurrying to catch up. “I always knew it was magic, but I didn’t have anyone else who would know, too.”

  Melanie’s uncle’s land was on the edge of town, and they both were panting by the time they got to it. Melanie pointed to a house but shook her head. She steered them into a grove of trees.

  Dakar looked up. Above her head, leaves flickered as if they were candle flames and the wind were trying to blow them out. Trees in Cottonwood were mostly shaped the way Jakarta had first taught her to draw a tree with a fat crayon—two lines, curved at the bottom, and a round top. It made them look friendly and old. Okay, not as old as the old frangapani tree she and Jakarta had loved to visit. But a lot older than the feathery jacaranda trees Yusef had just planted in the Nairobi yard.

  If only this magic grove were full of eucalyptus trees. She’d climbed the boarding school eucalyptus trees with Jakarta at least a hundred times, always pretending she wasn’t afraid, hoping the skinny branches were as tough as they seemed to be, imagining Jakarta was a red rose and she was a briar. But maybe Melanie’s leaves would actually fall off when the weather got cold, the way leaves did in books. They looked green and sturdy, but she could see dabs of interesting colors at the other end of the grove.

  “This way,” Melanie said, “for the mysterious, magical place.”