awkwardly in the dust and said, ‘A good cook is always in demand, and her fame has spread beyond the village.'
The wrinkles on the old man's face assumed a less satyric aspect as he folded his hands and sighed.
'I have heard tales of how magnificently she can cook. I could relate for you a description of a morsel of her honey-almond cake, a delicacy which is light enough to melt on the tip of the tongue and yet it lingers on the palate with its subtle flavours long into the dream-filled reaches of the night. I could sing the praises, second-hand, alas, of her traveller's soup, a concoction of smoothly blended and balanced vegetables and herbs guaranteed to put heart and strength back into the bones of the weariest voyager. I have heard of her pepperpot, wherein meat from the hunt simmers slowly all the day long in a fantastic chutney of seasonings, selected spices, peppers, and green pawpaw. And forgive my tears, but I have just this moment recalled a certain jar that sits in her kitchen, filled with dried fruit steeping in spice spirit, red wine, cinnamon, and nutmeg, patiently awaiting that day months or even years hence when it will be baked into a festival cake that will turn the head of the most seasoned toper.'
He sighed again and stopped for a moment. They both swallowed at the thought of such culinary genius.
'Pardon me for raising what must be a painful subject, but it sounds as if you have not tasted Paama's cooking for yourself,’ Kwame noted.
'You are too perceptive. I have indeed missed the golden years of Makendha. My business requires me to travel, and it seems to me that whenever I am away, Paama is cooking here, and whenever I return, she is cooking elsewhere. It is a cruel trick of fate, but I pray it shall soon be ended.'
'What is your business, if I may ask?’ Kwame inquired.
It was best not to appear to pry too openly, and the subject of self was always a welcome change. As he expected, the storyteller was happy to talk about his work.
'I am a storyteller. I travel to collect stories, and I return to tell the stories of one place to the people of another. That is the important part of the trade. You must never tell people their own stories. They have no interest in them, or they think they can tell them better themselves. Give them a stranger's life, and then they're content.'
'But the court is empty now?’ Kwame pointed out.
'Of course it is. Do you think that one simply spouts off before an audience, impromptu and unprepared? I was rehearsing for this evening's performance. But we digress. We were speaking of Paama and her cooking.'
'Yes,’ said Kwame, glad that he had returned to Paama without being prompted. ‘Perhaps you could tell me where I could find her, so I could ask her about her experience.'
'Haven't you been listening? These days, if I am in Makendha, it is almost a guarantee that she is not.'
'But someone must know where she's gone,’ Kwame insisted.
The old man shrugged. ‘I can tell you nothing about the matter.'
'Then I am wasting my time,’ Kwame murmured, using the slightly forlorn look of a man who has travelled far only to waste his time.
It seemed to work, for the storyteller continued. ‘Never mind. Keep searching for her; she is worth the finding. She will be an asset to any restaurant. Already she is accustomed to cooking for twenty at a time?'
'How so? She has operated her own restaurant?’ Kwame asked.
He chuckled. ‘Nothing as lucrative as that. She has had a huge mouth to feed, a real belly-beast to pacify. But surely you have already heard the tale of Ansige the Glutton?'
Kwame shook his head, no.
'Well, since you're a stranger and thus entitled to the tales of this village, I'll tell you.'
And he told Kwame the entire tale of Ansige.
The day after that, Kwame returned to the House of the Sisters. His face was very still, as if he had heard something that had provoked such a strong feeling in him that he could not risk letting any sign of it show in his features. When the Sisters saw him, they realised that something was very wrong.
'Why didn't you tell me about what happened to her husband?’ he demanded.
They looked a little surprised. They had not expected that the tribulations of Ansige were at all relevant to the search for Paama.
'We didn't know it was that important,’ said Sister Carmis.
Kwame closed his eyes as if gathering patience. ‘When a woman goes missing after first leaving her husband and then being left by her husband, no matter how strong her ability to face gossip and speculation, I think that it might be a factor in her disappearance. When the husband has been publicly ridiculed, I grow even more suspicious.'
Eyes thus closed, he did not catch the frantic look exchanged between the Sisters, who knew just how off the mark he was.
'I will go and question this Ansige,’ he declared.
'But—'
'I would not be at all surprised if he knew where she was.'
'Wait a mo—'
'In fact, I would not be surprised if she were with him right now,’ he continued.
'There's more to it than—'
But Kwame was already striding through the gate and back down the trail, his destination now certain.
Sister Carmis was the only one who recovered herself in time to dash after him and say, ‘But there's more we have to tell you! There's more to this situation than meets the eye.'
He stopped and smiled at her. ‘You're the one who dreamed me, aren't you?'
She nodded shyly. She was the youngest of the Sisters, not yet confident in her skills, and hesitant to wield authority.
He touched her arm gently in reassurance. ‘Trust your dreams. Perhaps there's more to
Waving a farewell to the House of the Sisters, Kwame set off to begin his hunt for Paama.
21
paama comes full circle and learns the djombi's lesson
The village where Ansige lived was nearly large enough to be called a town. The main street was busy, but the crowd was not yet so anonymous that Paama felt comfortable with the idea of sauntering up to the front door. Respecting her desire for discretion, the djombi brought her to the back garden of Ansige's house. She stood for a while staring at the grounds in silence.
'Do you want to go back, Paama?’ the djombi suggested gently.
Pity from a being so pitiless made her feel angry, though she could not understand why. She muttered something about the herb beds being overgrown and then walked with a grim face towards the back door. As she raised her hand to knock, a loud voice came from inside the house.
'You ate an hour ago! The doctor said you should not be eating so often—'
'I pay you to prepare my meals, not to repeat some quack's words in my ear!'
Paama's breath caught in her throat. The first voice was unknown to her, but the second voice was only just recognisable as Ansige's. It was weak and querulous, ten years aged in sound.
The first voice, which was closer to the door, was heard to mumble that no amount of money could be worth the aggravation of standing watch over a man intent on eating himself to death.
'Are you going to bring my food to me or not?’ Ansige demanded.
Paama wondered if the servant could hear the edge of fear in Ansige's voice.
