Sacrifices of Joy (18 page)

La Bohemia Café.

The smell of spices, mint, vanilla, and cinnamon that greeted my nostrils as I walked through the threshold awakened me. The jolt to my senses stirred my consciousness as I realized what I was doing, as I realized that I had come to a defining stop of a twenty-year journey.

What would this final destination look like? I wondered anew as my eyes adjusted to the candlelit dining space. The orange chandelier, the rustic furniture looked familiar, but the layout of the room was different. Tables had been pushed to the side and most of the seats were arranged in single file rows facing the stage where the guitarist had performed just five days earlier.

Five days.

Was that all that had passed since I'd last come this way? I thought about Ava's comments on “mirror moments” and reflected on the truths held within her observations. Yes, it had only been five days, but the hours they'd contained had been ones that were making me look at myself, at my life, at my relationships with both my family and men, with God. I was seeing, experiencing my shortcomings, my doubts, my anxieties, and my fears.

And I was growing, becoming.

I had to take this mirror moment, and make sure that my life looked its best.

I dropped my bags into an empty seat and settled into one next to it as the space began filling with intellectuals, nonconformists, and art types.

Somehow, for some reason, I felt like I belonged.

“You're back!” A woman passing out cookies squealed and rushed toward me.

Skyye, I remembered even without looking at her crocheted name badge. She put her plate of cookies down and bent down to give me a hug. Though I didn't know her, and didn't understand why she acted like we were sisters, I didn't resist, and hugged her back.

“How'd the present work out? Did the sixteen-year-old girl you were getting it for like it?”

She almost looked nervous to hear my answer. I understood. That joy bag had been a labor of love, her favorite creation; and she'd sacrificed it by giving it to a complete stranger who was going to give it to someone she would never see. She was trusting enough to believe her handiwork would serve its purpose, would be well cared for, would bring as much joy to another as it had to her in making it.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that the bag was still sitting in the back seat of my car in Baltimore and I had never even talked to the girl who it was intended for. I'd meant to mail it earlier in the week, meant to put it in my carry-on bag before I got on the plane. For some reason, the part of me that should have remembered had blocked all thoughts of it out.

“It was the perfect gift.” My answer. An honest answer.

“Great!”

“How old are you?” I asked as she passed me a thick lemon sandwich cookie.

“Twenty.”

“I remember twenty.”

She nodded solemnly, as if she knew that I was twenty when I left RiChard in South Africa and returned stateside to really begin my life. I was twenty when I discovered after leaving him that I was carrying RiChard's child, a son who he would never hold. I was twenty when I decided I would prove my mother wrong, that I had not destroyed my life by running off “with that rebel man,” dropping out of college and leaving behind a full scholarship to do so. I was twenty when I decided that I would do whatever I had to do to take care of my son first, myself second, and still manage to make an impact on the world. I decided I would go back to school, no matter how much it cost me in money and time, no matter how long it would take to finish.

I was twenty when all that happened. Now, I was turning forty next year, and I had achieved all I'd set out to do. I'd more than doubled my station in life and my salary. My son was in school. I'd gone beyond my initial dreams and had my own booming practice. I'd done all these things, achieved enough to fill Laz's envelope for me to overflowing.

And yet, I'd never felt worse.

Skyye was gone and I was left with the lemon cookie. Tart, sour, but sweet on the way down, I closed my eyes and swallowed as the crème filling melted in my mouth.

When I opened them, a man stood on the stage.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We're ready to begin.”

I took another bite of the cookie, willing my heart to stop racing.

“Tonight, we are privileged to have a special guest with us all the way from Los Angeles. His research on the connections between food and the way we relate to others over meals served as the blueprint for the way we created our cozy little café here. We are especially grateful that he agreed to come at such short notice given our cancellation tonight. I am pleased to introduce to you Professor Juan D. Perez.”

He gave a short clap into the microphone as I tried to understand what he'd just said.

Where was Kisu?

As a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing a brown sports jacket and blue jeans took the stage, I struggled to catch my breath. I could see his mouth moving and see the shoulders of the medium-sized crowd jerking in laughter as he spoke, but I did not hear a word he said. When he paused momentarily to take a sip of water, I gathered my things and headed toward the café's door, where Skyye stood greeting late guests.

“Another man was scheduled to be here tonight,” I spoke, out of breath, although I'd only walked about ten steps to the door.

“Yes, Mr. Felokwakhe.”

“Kisu.”

“Yes, Kisu Felokwakhe. I'm sorry. He came by earlier today and said he was not going to be able to come tonight. We were pretty bummed about it, but Dr. Perez is renowned in his work.”

“I . . . I flew all the way from the East Coast to see him, to see Kisu.” I could hear the heartbreak in my own voice.

Skyye's face dropped. “Oh, I'm so sorry. That is a long way to come to not get to see him.” She put a hand over her mouth, but then her smile returned. “Wait, I have an idea.”

I stepped outside the café as she disappeared for a moment into the kitchen. The sun had just set over San Diego and the temperature was right around sixty. I ran my fingers over my arms where small goose bumps had begun forming. Hugging myself, standing alone, I had no idea what to do next but wait for more direction.

My heart told me it was coming.

“Here.” Skyye had rejoined me. A small scrap of paper was in her hand. “I talked to one of our cooks who's been our contact with Mr. Felokwakhe. He said that Mr. Felokwakhe runs a small library in the basement of a cathedral in Old Town. The cathedral is one of the historic sites in that area, but not one of the more popular ones among tourists, so you may be able to gain an audience with him. I've called a cab for you and they already know to bill us for the ride. I feel so bad that you came this far just for our event.”

“It's okay. This trip was necessary. Thank you.”

She passed me the paper in her hand. “Give the driver this address. It's only about a ten- or fifteen-minute drive from here. Raul, our cook, thinks the library closes at nine, but my understanding is that Mr. Felokwakhe actually lives in a small room behind the library, so you should be able to catch him regardless. He cancelled his lecture tonight because he said he had to finish working on a time-sensitive major project. We rescheduled him for October.”

“Again, thank you.”

“No problem. I've got to get back inside. Good luck.” She gave me another hug and then I was alone again.

But not for long. A taxi pulled up alongside the curb and the passenger window rolled down.

“You the lady who needs a ride to Old Town?” the driver, a man with a thick accent, called out from the window.

“That's me,” I replied, getting into the back seat after he clicked the doors open. I handed him the address.

“Ah, that's a little-known cathedral on the outer edges of Old Town. Not many people know about it, but
mi bis-abuela,
my mother's mother, tells me my family attended there when it was just a little mission church years and years ago. In fact, they have a sculpture garden they keep adding to on one of the newer porticos. My cousin, Cesar, designed one of the sculptures. You should check it out on your visit.”

The driver continued to ramble on about the history of the church, of Old Town, of other more famous cathedrals in the area, of San Diego, of California, but my mind could not keep up with his words. By the time we pulled up to the cathedral, I was numb mentally and physically. My fingers felt like heavy weights as I dug through my purse to give him a generous tip.

“Did you want me to wait for you?” he called out of his window as I stood staring up at the edifice. Dull lights showed from just a few of the windows.

“No,” I stated, giving no thought to my words or my plans as my heart raced inside of me.

“Okay,” he shouted as he drove off.

He had been right, I realized, as I looked around me. I was definitely somewhere on the outer edges of the area. In the darkness, I could see crowds in the distance milling about the shops, museums, restaurants, and other attractions of Old Town; but where I stood, there was nothing except landscaping, quiet, solemnity, reflection. I looked up again at the white adobe cathedral that towered over me and glistened in the moonlight. I noted that a pathway led to a side door marked V
ISITOR
E
NTRANCE
and I headed toward it.

The side door opened to a narrow staircase made of stone. I headed down it and entered a long, wide corridor. The air in here felt different. Cool. Moist.

I was in the basement of the building.

I noted a table next to the wall across from me. A series of brochures filled the surface, and I realized the church offered visitors a self-guided tour. At the moment, I was not interested in the history of the old building: its chapels, gardens, or service times.

I only wanted to find the library.

I picked up a pamphlet that served as a map of the cathedral, including an outline of the original mission building it had been built around. I noted the library's location on the illustrated directory. The library appeared to be at the end of the basement, past several rooms and corridors, beyond entrances to hallways that led to the main sanctuary, gardens, and porticos.

I began walking toward it. My footsteps sounded flat on the red stone tiled floor. Wrought-iron scones on the wall flooded the hallway with warm light.

But the deeper I walked through the basement, the more the hallway narrowed, and the dimmer the lights became. As my footsteps became silent plods, I realized that the stone tiles had given way to an earthen floor. Obviously I was in the part of the church that had served as the original mission. The smell of clay and dirt filled my nostrils and the adobe walls looked slightly yellowed. I imagined the Spanish settlers from yesteryears walking the same narrow passage, which now began to turn and twist as it snaked around the small hillside that had been its foundation. No wonder few visitors ventured here. This place needed to be updated and renovated, starting with the lighting. Then again, I was in the basement. For all I knew, the main areas were probably pristine and inviting. It was hard to tell much about the building at night.

As I passed several doorways and stairwells that led to portico entrances, I studied my map again, wondering if I was still on the right pathway to the library. However, after one last sharp turn in the hallway, I exhaled. Tiled floors welcomed my feet again and the narrow pathway opened up into a large, well-lit space. I was at the end of the basement.

Across from me was a paneled wooden door atop three steps made of red brick. A gold nameplate was nailed to it with the word LIBRARY written on it in plain, black letters. I checked my watch. 8:33.
It should still be open.

My heart felt like a percussion band as I ascended the steps and put a hand on the door.

It gave easily.

I opened it fully to reveal a room about the size of my entire office suite. It was lit by two stained-glass chandeliers that swung overhead and the space was filled to the brim with books, scrolls, maps, and other curious implements. There were no windows, and much to my disappointment, no persons.

My heart slowed its pace as I struggled to fight off a sapping disappointment that threatened to overtake me. I stepped fully in and shut the door of the library behind me. I began walking down the narrow, cramped aisles fashioned from a series of wooden tables. The smell of musty papers and rotting wood clogged up my nose. Books about the Bible, history, and theology cluttered every available space. I also noted thick hardcovers addressing politics, world history, philosophy, and sociology, and recalled that one of the brochures on the visitor's table detailed the church's current focus on social issues. One corner of the room had a handmade sign that hung overhead, which read RARE BOOKS.

“Hello?” I called out and my voice seemed to fall flat on the leather-covered volumes and delicate, yellowed papers.

There was one last door, in the corner of the room. Kisu's living quarters? That had to be it, as I recalled Skyye saying he lived in a small room behind the library.

I went over to it and knocked. No answer. I tried the knob.

It opened.

I'd come this far; of course I was going in. I entered the living space and pulled on a chain that hung from the center of the room. A naked bulb screwed into the ceiling flooded the space with uncomfortable white light.

A wooden chair.

A small table.

A twin-sized metal-framed bed with a thin mattress, worn blanket, and a single pillow.