peasants here can read. The bus makes many stops and people get on and off. Finally, it is our turn to get out in
a gray sort of place, gray streets, gray buildings, gray people.
Where is the grass? I ask Jack.
Someplace else, he says, laughing. He nudges the sack that says
GAP
, into which he has placed my jewel case. Whats the smallest thing you have in there?
None of my jewels are small. A ring, maybe? I start to take out the box, but Jack stops
me. Not here. He rushes me behind a pillar and blocks me from sight as I extract the smallest
bauble, a tanzanite ring given to me for my twelfth birthday.
Thats the smallest? The stones as big as my eyeball.
A slight exaggeration. I am no more thrilled to part with it than Jack is to have to sell
it. Still, I hand it to him, and he leads me into a store with all manner of things guns,
jewelry (nothing near as lovely as my ring), and other objects I cannot identify, although
I do see something which resembles Jacks music maker.
Jack approaches the shopkeeper, a hairy and rather frightening sort of person, and holds
up my ring. We need to sell this. Her mothers, um, sick and needs medicine.
The bear-turned-man stares at us rather strangely, then asks, Parlez-vous Fran�ais? Jack
does not respond. Ah! He thinks he is so smart, but the fool speaks no French!
Oui. Je parle Fran�ais, I say. I turn to Jack. Tell me what I am to say. Okay, but dont agree to his first offer.
I nod, then turn to the man and say in French, We need to sell this.
Fifty Euros, he says before I can even get out the part about my mother needing
medication. This I add.
I dont care if you need it to buy drugs, the man snarls. Fifty.
I repeat this to Jack. Are you kidding? he says. This is worth thousands.
The man must understand because he tells me, I cant sell fancy stuff like that. This isnt
an antique store.
I am about to tell him that my ring is no antique. Then, I realize it is. Indeed, I am an
antique.
Ask him if he can do any better, Jack says. I do, and he says, Two hundred. Thats it. I
give him my sweetest look, the one that almost always persuaded Father to do my bidding, and I say, Please, sir. If you could make it four
hundred Euros for my poor, dear mother. And when I think of Mother, Mother whom I may
never see again, whom I have disappointed, my eyes begin to tear up. You know you are
getting a bargain.
Three fifty, the man growls. Now, if you were for sale, for that I would pay a thousand.
Are all women for sale now? In my current attire, I can certainly see how one might think
I was such a woman. But I say, I will take three hundred seventy-five Euros, monsieur.
The man opens a cash box under the counter, hands me a wad of money, which he does not bother to count, then whisks away my precious ring
before I have time to bid it good-bye. I note that he is chuckling, pleased with his bar-
gain. I bite my lip and resist the urge to sob.
Hey, you werent a total disaster in there, Jack says, counting out the money as we leave.
I understand this is a compliment, and I manage a smile, accepting it.
Our next stop is a door with peeling green paint. Jack knocks upon it, and a man who might
be the twin brother of the last man answers.
What do you want? he asks in French. I look at Jack. Jolie sent us, he says in English.
The man nods and allows us to pass. You have money? he says in English. How much for a
passport? he asks. For her? The man gives a price, which is almost all we have, then says, Lets see it. I am quite sorry, sir, but we only have one hundred fifty, I tell him. He nods. If you were to only have two hundred fifty, I might be able to do it. Can you find that? I rather enjoyed bargaining with the last
gentleman. It made me feel like Father negotiating treaties, so I say, I can find two hundred.
Very well, the man says. I look at Jack. He nods and hands him the money, tak- ing care not to
a gray sort of place, gray streets, gray buildings, gray people.
Where is the grass? I ask Jack.
Someplace else, he says, laughing. He nudges the sack that says
GAP
, into which he has placed my jewel case. Whats the smallest thing you have in there?
None of my jewels are small. A ring, maybe? I start to take out the box, but Jack stops
me. Not here. He rushes me behind a pillar and blocks me from sight as I extract the smallest
bauble, a tanzanite ring given to me for my twelfth birthday.
Thats the smallest? The stones as big as my eyeball.
A slight exaggeration. I am no more thrilled to part with it than Jack is to have to sell
it. Still, I hand it to him, and he leads me into a store with all manner of things guns,
jewelry (nothing near as lovely as my ring), and other objects I cannot identify, although
I do see something which resembles Jacks music maker.
Jack approaches the shopkeeper, a hairy and rather frightening sort of person, and holds
up my ring. We need to sell this. Her mothers, um, sick and needs medicine.
The bear-turned-man stares at us rather strangely, then asks, Parlez-vous Fran�ais? Jack
does not respond. Ah! He thinks he is so smart, but the fool speaks no French!
Oui. Je parle Fran�ais, I say. I turn to Jack. Tell me what I am to say. Okay, but dont agree to his first offer.
I nod, then turn to the man and say in French, We need to sell this.
Fifty Euros, he says before I can even get out the part about my mother needing
medication. This I add.
I dont care if you need it to buy drugs, the man snarls. Fifty.
I repeat this to Jack. Are you kidding? he says. This is worth thousands.
The man must understand because he tells me, I cant sell fancy stuff like that. This isnt
an antique store.
I am about to tell him that my ring is no antique. Then, I realize it is. Indeed, I am an
antique.
Ask him if he can do any better, Jack says. I do, and he says, Two hundred. Thats it. I
give him my sweetest look, the one that almost always persuaded Father to do my bidding, and I say, Please, sir. If you could make it four
hundred Euros for my poor, dear mother. And when I think of Mother, Mother whom I may
never see again, whom I have disappointed, my eyes begin to tear up. You know you are
getting a bargain.
Three fifty, the man growls. Now, if you were for sale, for that I would pay a thousand.
Are all women for sale now? In my current attire, I can certainly see how one might think
I was such a woman. But I say, I will take three hundred seventy-five Euros, monsieur.
The man opens a cash box under the counter, hands me a wad of money, which he does not bother to count, then whisks away my precious ring
before I have time to bid it good-bye. I note that he is chuckling, pleased with his bar-
gain. I bite my lip and resist the urge to sob.
Hey, you werent a total disaster in there, Jack says, counting out the money as we leave.
I understand this is a compliment, and I manage a smile, accepting it.
Our next stop is a door with peeling green paint. Jack knocks upon it, and a man who might
be the twin brother of the last man answers.
What do you want? he asks in French. I look at Jack. Jolie sent us, he says in English.
The man nods and allows us to pass. You have money? he says in English. How much for a
passport? he asks. For her? The man gives a price, which is almost all we have, then says, Lets see it. I am quite sorry, sir, but we only have one hundred fifty, I tell him. He nods. If you were to only have two hundred fifty, I might be able to do it. Can you find that? I rather enjoyed bargaining with the last
gentleman. It made me feel like Father negotiating treaties, so I say, I can find two hundred.
Very well, the man says. I look at Jack. He nods and hands him the money, tak- ing care not to
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