three-fourths of the loaf. And if water is scarce, animal blood may be used to mix and bind it all.
Anything resembling grain is consumed. Straw is plucked from the thatched roofs of village homes. The hungriest eat grass like cattle, on their hands and knees, unable to wait for it to dry; they often die of dehydration due to continued diarrhea. Men even mix what little flour they can afford with dirt, cooking it into flat cakes, consuming the very medium from which both they, and the wheat they desperately desire, have been conceived.
Patrice slides her fingers over a touch-screen phone nearly the size of her pad, pecking here and there with beak-like precision. “Technology,” she sighs. “I’m forced to keep up with it, but give me pulp and pen any day.” A vibrating beep mocks her. “Hair and makeup await outside.”
“Will this take long?” I ask.
She glances at me. “Yes.”
“Give me a minute, then.”
Wild Rise closes in ninety minutes but it buzzes with an unusual intensity, customers drawn in by the monstrous Good Food Channel bus outside the building. Gretchen assures me she can handle the crowd. “They’re not ordering much anyway. No food, really. And the bread is practically gone—they’re only here to gawk.” She assures me she’ll come find me if I’m needed.
They wait on the sidewalk, two people more like I expected Patrice to look, a post-thin man and woman, both wearing tight black jeans and t-shirts. His is flamingo pink and too small, with the words blue bells scribbled all over it, maybe by his own hand. Hers isoversized and hangs off one shoulder, fat aqua and gray stripes circling her torso. Patrice introduces them as León and Janska. I shake hands. “These nails will never do,” the woman says.
I tuck my fingers in my back pockets.
“I trust you’ll remedy that, Janska,” Patrice says. “Ms. McNamara, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Early.”
She disappears into the bus. León sweeps his palm over my hair. “My, my. When was the last time you had a trim?”
“I don’t remember.” And it’s true, though I estimate it has been at least a year.
León doesn’t need my memory. His days are measured in split ends and half inches. “I have seen worse,” he says. “Don’t worry you that. We can use the bus, but Miss Patty-Cakes thought you’d feel more comfy in your own abode. So let’s take this party up one story, if that’s good with you.”
“Uh, okay. Sure.”
I never lock the downstairs door, the one beside the entrance to Wild Rise, and we climb the narrow wood steps to the landing, where I take the key from an otherwise empty clay planter hanging on the wall. “We ain’t in the Village anymore, Toto,” León says. He and Janska laugh.
Inside, I offer them drinks and both ask for coffee. While I start the pot brewing, they agree hair before makeup or wardrobe, and León opens his suitcase, a vintage hard shell with loud, popping latches, atop the kitchen table. He shakes open a sheet of plastic and covers the floor, setting one of my chairs in the center. “Your throne awaits.”
I arrange two coffee mugs—my favorite ones, matching hand-thrown pottery with sharp angles and mottled gray glaze; I don’t want them to think I’m completely unsophisticated—on the counter with the milk and sugar. And then I sit. León wraps more plastic around my neck and paws through my hair more intently, like one baboon grooming another. “We’re gonna fix you right up, girl.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Color first. This blond does you no good at all. Too much ash, not enough sparkle.”
“Sparkle?” My voice breaks.
“Not real sparkle,” Janska tells me. She pours two mugs of black coffee. “He won’t glitter you.”
“Oh, good.”
“Chickadee, you need some major chillage. I got you read. We’ll brighten you up and add itty-bitty highlights. Nothing you wouldn’t want your mama to see.” León peers into
Anything resembling grain is consumed. Straw is plucked from the thatched roofs of village homes. The hungriest eat grass like cattle, on their hands and knees, unable to wait for it to dry; they often die of dehydration due to continued diarrhea. Men even mix what little flour they can afford with dirt, cooking it into flat cakes, consuming the very medium from which both they, and the wheat they desperately desire, have been conceived.
Patrice slides her fingers over a touch-screen phone nearly the size of her pad, pecking here and there with beak-like precision. “Technology,” she sighs. “I’m forced to keep up with it, but give me pulp and pen any day.” A vibrating beep mocks her. “Hair and makeup await outside.”
“Will this take long?” I ask.
She glances at me. “Yes.”
“Give me a minute, then.”
Wild Rise closes in ninety minutes but it buzzes with an unusual intensity, customers drawn in by the monstrous Good Food Channel bus outside the building. Gretchen assures me she can handle the crowd. “They’re not ordering much anyway. No food, really. And the bread is practically gone—they’re only here to gawk.” She assures me she’ll come find me if I’m needed.
They wait on the sidewalk, two people more like I expected Patrice to look, a post-thin man and woman, both wearing tight black jeans and t-shirts. His is flamingo pink and too small, with the words blue bells scribbled all over it, maybe by his own hand. Hers isoversized and hangs off one shoulder, fat aqua and gray stripes circling her torso. Patrice introduces them as León and Janska. I shake hands. “These nails will never do,” the woman says.
I tuck my fingers in my back pockets.
“I trust you’ll remedy that, Janska,” Patrice says. “Ms. McNamara, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Early.”
She disappears into the bus. León sweeps his palm over my hair. “My, my. When was the last time you had a trim?”
“I don’t remember.” And it’s true, though I estimate it has been at least a year.
León doesn’t need my memory. His days are measured in split ends and half inches. “I have seen worse,” he says. “Don’t worry you that. We can use the bus, but Miss Patty-Cakes thought you’d feel more comfy in your own abode. So let’s take this party up one story, if that’s good with you.”
“Uh, okay. Sure.”
I never lock the downstairs door, the one beside the entrance to Wild Rise, and we climb the narrow wood steps to the landing, where I take the key from an otherwise empty clay planter hanging on the wall. “We ain’t in the Village anymore, Toto,” León says. He and Janska laugh.
Inside, I offer them drinks and both ask for coffee. While I start the pot brewing, they agree hair before makeup or wardrobe, and León opens his suitcase, a vintage hard shell with loud, popping latches, atop the kitchen table. He shakes open a sheet of plastic and covers the floor, setting one of my chairs in the center. “Your throne awaits.”
I arrange two coffee mugs—my favorite ones, matching hand-thrown pottery with sharp angles and mottled gray glaze; I don’t want them to think I’m completely unsophisticated—on the counter with the milk and sugar. And then I sit. León wraps more plastic around my neck and paws through my hair more intently, like one baboon grooming another. “We’re gonna fix you right up, girl.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Color first. This blond does you no good at all. Too much ash, not enough sparkle.”
“Sparkle?” My voice breaks.
“Not real sparkle,” Janska tells me. She pours two mugs of black coffee. “He won’t glitter you.”
“Oh, good.”
“Chickadee, you need some major chillage. I got you read. We’ll brighten you up and add itty-bitty highlights. Nothing you wouldn’t want your mama to see.” León peers into
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