Chapter Fifty-Five

Alvi was surprised to see the children but took the new additions to the family in stride. He gave them some peppermint candy that he kept on hand for the children of his best customers, and got down to the business of mending shoes and selling luxury goods.

Donovan tried to keep working. The corn was ripe and he was slow, especially working alone, with Amalia cutting hay in the next field and Carina preparing a special meal for Alvi, but Donovan's patience only went so far. When he could stand the suspense no longer, he brought in his team.

He found the windows of Alvi's cart open, shades extended and goods spread out on Indian blankets in the shade of the mulberry tree. Will and Tasha were trying on huaraches from a wicker basket. "Is that a good fit for you, my friend?" he asked Will, who was jumping around the yard, frowning at his feet.

"There's a spot..."

"Come here and let Alvi see it. Perhaps it is a small matter, easily fixed."

Will showed him the spot where the strap was rubbing. "I can probably get used to it."

"Don't be ridiculous." He motioned for him to take off the shoe. "They must be a perfect fit or I will not let you have them. My customers must be satisfied."

Will smiled up at Donovan as Alvi got to work. "I've never had anything new.”

"Well, technically you know huaraches aren't new, right?"

"Yeah, they're just old tires."

The peddler interrupted. "But once Alvi has finished with them, they have been given new life. And they are better than new rationed shoes from the store because they are customized."

"Customized?" Will frowned at the new word.

"I fix them special for your feet, and your feet alone."

"That sounds like a good deal,” Donovan said. “Maybe I need some. Boots get hot in the summer."

Alvi fixed him with a look that said he knew his real motive for stopping by. Ever the professional, he stuck to the matter at hand. "You find a pair in that basket that you like, and I will make them yours."

Tasha came up to the workbench, clutching a pair of huaraches and a handful of yellow ribbon. "Sir?"

"I am Alvi, not Sir."

"Can you make my shoes tie with ribbons?" She held out both items for him to inspect.

The peddler handed Will his huarache and asked him to try it on. While the boy experimented with leaps beside the nopal gardens, Alvi examined Tasha's choice of sandals. "You see, Miss Tasha, we need these shoes to be strong so you can wear them a long time. These ribbons aren't made for that. Besides, the pretty ribbons would only get dirty." The disappointment on her face made him examine the huaraches again, knitting his brows in thought. "What is it you like about the ribbons? Is it their color, or did you just want to make the sandals pretty?"

Donovan sighed. This was going to take awhile. He tried to leave unobtrusively, but Alvi stopped him.

"Friend Donovan, I have something special I think you will like. Perhaps we can do some business after supper?"

* * *

At dinner Tasha could scarcely sit still for her excitement over her new huaraches, their functional black straps replaced by tough cotton bands of braided pink and yellow, punctuated with a few sequins. Everyone had been asked to admire them, and throughout the meal, the normally quiet child squirmed and twisted in her chair, trying to see her feet.

The meal was a leisurely one, with the women peppering Alvi with questions about his travels and the state of world affairs and laughing at his exaggerated and evasive answers. "No, really. The rice came all the way from China. I put a sail on my little wagon and we went to Shanghai, where I met the most remarkable geisha—"

"Geishas are in Japan," Amalia pointed out.

He gave a knowing wink. "I forget you and your sister are the last of this country's well-educated women."

"Not me," Carina said. "When I went to school, if it wasn't about animals, I wasn't interested."

"Don't listen to her. She only says things like that because she knows it's not fashionable any more for women to be book-smart."

"I'd hardly call it fashion," Alvi said sadly. "There aren't many places left where there are enough children for a school, and there is not enough leisure that they can attend, anyway. Everyone must work, even the littlest ones."

"We have school," Tasha said.

"We teach them basic reading and math in the evenings," Amalia explained.

Alvi looked at each of the children in turn. "You must do all you can to become good at reading and numbers," he told them. "Even when it's hard or it seems not important. You will be happy later. You will see."

Will fidgeted. "Tell us about how you got the rice from China."

"Oh, yes. I sailed my wagon to Shanghai." He glanced at Amalia. "After stopping in Japan to buy sake."

"What's sake?"

"Wine made from rice."

"Is it good?” Carina asked. “I don't think we've ever had it."

"We will have some after dinner and you will form your own opinion."

"So you bought sake in Japan," Amalia prompted him.

"Yes, and that was where I met the lovely geisha. She helped me disguise myself so I could trade with the Chinese, since of course we are still at war with them. But when I got to the port of Shanghai..."

Donovan toyed with his fork, trying not to appear impatient. He wouldn't be able to relax until he had his papers in his hand. He was going to read them, too. It gave him a headache just thinking about it, but he would read every word and make sure he understood what they said. Only then would he feel safe. There was still no guarantee he wouldn't get picked up as a deserter, but with 4-F papers, the prospect that he would be held more than a few hours was small. The only danger was if he got picked up by someone who recognized him, or by a unit that had access to a radio or phone line to check records at regional headquarters. He would probably never be out of danger as long as he lived, but having papers would vastly improve the odds.

"They would not feed me or let me go," Alvi told his audience. "My vile captors kept me in a dark room where I became quite gaunt and passed the time singing songs to keep myself cheerful. One day a little bird was attracted by my singing..."

Donovan looked at his empty plate. The rice had been good, a rare treat out here where rice would not grow. Only God knew where Alvi got it. But the stories! His goods almost certainly came to him by ordinary means— a trade from some wealthy hoarder's cache, or maybe a chance meeting with a tradesman who knew where a federal relief train had been diverted by rebels. He looked at Alvi, whose eyes glowed as his tale grew more fantastic. The children were staring, the women stifling their laughter at his escape down a crocodile-infested river by moonlight. The ordinary adventures of life were obviously not enough for Alvi. What sadistic turn of fate had made him a peddler on a circuit of lonely desert farms and decomposing villages? It was probably the same fate that had taken Donovan off the city streets and set him in this place, minding goats and donkeys, and trying to harvest corn.

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