Perusina, Perusino, and Franz in Rioja

Perusino put on the hat.

That was the beginning of the problem.

Actually, no one should have touched the hat. It lay on a table in the middle of Rioja's Plaza, under a fabric roof, guarded by three women, two drummers, and a boy who looked very important, although he only wore a whistle around his neck.

The hat was light, finely woven, and had a pattern around the brim that looked like small waves.

"Just for a moment," said Perusino.

Perusina turned around. "What are you doing?"

"I'm checking if it fits."

"Why?"

"In case the hat needs help."

Franz put both paws over his eyes. "Oh no."

Then the boy with the whistle blew it.

"The hat bearer is ready!" he shouted.

"Which hat bearer?" Perusino asked.

Three drums started. Two men lifted Perusino onto a small wooden box. A woman threw a colorful ribbon over his shoulder.

Rioja was in Carnaval fever. Colorful cloths hung across the Plaza. Children ran around with water cups. Stalls displayed Bombonaje hats, bags, and woven baskets. Everywhere smelled of wet palm, paint, food, and rain still lingering in the gutters.

An old hatmaker pushed through the crowd. "Don't move!"

The man took the hat off Perusino's head and held it up. "This is the festive hat. It must not get wet."

Franz blinked. "At a Carnaval with water cups? Brave."

The hatmaker pointed to the brim. "This pattern is old. It shows how my grandmother wove. Today, it is to be shown to the children. But if the hat gets wet, the fibers contract. Then you won't see the sequence anymore."

Perusina stepped closer. "The sequence?"

The man nodded. "Bombonaje isn't just woven any old way. Each fiber goes over, under, over, under. Whoever can read the pattern can weave it again."

At that moment, water splashed across the square.

"WATER SNAKE!" someone shouted.

A boy with a painted mask ran past, a bamboo pipe hose in his hand. The jet of water shot across the Plaza. Everyone laughed, screamed, and jumped aside.

Perusina reached for the hat.

Too late.

The water jet hit the table.

The hat was gone.

For a moment, only rainwater dripping could be heard.

Then Franz said, "I'd like to point out that Perusino started it."

"Not helpful," said Perusino.

Perusina knelt by the table. Where the hat had been, a single light fiber stuck. Beside it lay a tiny drop of red paint.

"The hat wasn't washed away," she said. "Someone took it."

The hatmaker turned pale. "If someone copies the pattern..."

"Then we'll find them," said Perusina.

Franz sniffed the fiber. His ears perked up. "Wet palm. Paint. And something sweet."

"Masato?" Perusino asked hopefully.

"Maybe."

The trail led through market stalls. Past hats hanging on strings. Past baskets full of Bombonaje fibers. Past a stall where a man stirred colorful paint in bowls.

Franz stopped there.

"Here."

On the ground lay a drop of red paint. Then another. Then a whole small blob on a palm leaf.

Perusina picked it up. A pattern was pressed into the leaf: over, under, over, under, double around.

"That's from the brim of the hat," she said.

Then a music group pushed through the alley. Drums, flutes, masks, laughter. Perusino was carried away by the crowd.

"I'm undercover!" he shouted, as someone put a mask with a giant nose on him.

Perusina followed. Franz jumped under a table, came out the other side with a strip of Bombonaje in his mouth, and ran on.

The trail led to a small workshop at the edge of the Plaza. Inside, the festive hat hung over a wooden frame. Beside it sat a girl trying to transfer the pattern to a fresh band.

Perusina stopped in the doorway. "Stop."

The girl flinched. "I was going to bring it back!"

The hatmaker stepped into the workshop behind Perusina. His face grew stern.

The girl clutched the band. "My mother also weaves. But no one looks at her hats because we don't have a famous name. I wanted to learn the pattern. Just once."

The hatmaker exhaled slowly. "You could have asked."

"Would you have shown me?"

He remained silent.

Outside, a drumbeat crashed. Water splashed against the door.

Perusino, still wearing the giant-nosed mask, poked his head in. "Quick question: Is this the part where no one knows who's right?"

Franz sat down next to the hat. "All I know is: The hat smells panicky."

Perusina took the girl's fresh band. "She almost got it right. But here." She pointed to a spot. "The fiber goes over twice there. On the real hat, it goes under first."

The hatmaker looked more closely. Then he took a Bombonaje fiber and sat down at the table.

"Then I'll show it to all of you."

They carried the hat back to the Plaza. This time it stood under a larger roof. Children crowded around it. The hatmaker placed the festive hat next to the girl's band.

"A pattern doesn't belong in a locked box," he said. "But it also shouldn't be stolen. You learn it with respect."

Then he slowly demonstrated: over, under, pull, twist, hold.

The girl joined in. Perusina observed. Franz sniffed. Perusino tried it too and accidentally wove himself to his own sleeve.

"I'm part of the craft," he said proudly.

Then the boy with the whistle returned. "The parade is starting!"

The hatmaker placed the festive hat on a tall stand. Rain drummed on the roof. Water cups flew across the Plaza. Drums whirled.

And the hat stayed dry.

Franz stood in front of it like a guard. "No one is going to splash the hat."

Perusino raised his hand. "Not even by accident?"

"Especially not you."

Perusina laughed. Rioja smelled of rain, Bombonaje, and Carnaval. And this time the pattern hadn't disappeared. It was passed from hand to hand. Just as a good secret sometimes should.