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 the Plaza in Rioja, under a fabric canopy, guarded by three women, two drummers, and a boy who looked very important, even though he only wore a whistle around his neck.

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

"Just for a moment," Perusino said.

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.

"The hat wearer is ready!" he shouted.

"Which hat wearer?" Perusino asked.

Three drums began. 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 in the Plaza. Children ran around with water cups. Bombonaje hats, bags, and braided baskets lay at the stalls. Everywhere smelled of wet palm, paint, food, and rain still hanging in the gutters.

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

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

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

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

Perusina stepped closer. "The sequence?"

The man nodded. "Bombonaje is not just braided any old way. Each fiber goes over, under, over, under. Whoever can read the pattern can re-braid it."

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 could be heard dripping.

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

"Not helpful," Perusino said.

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

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

The hat maker turned pale. "If someone copies the pattern..."

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

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

"Masato?" Perusino asked hopefully.

"Maybe."

The trail led between 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 swept away by the crowd.

"I'm undercover!" he shouted as someone put a giant nose mask 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 festival hat hung over a wooden frame. Beside it sat a girl trying to transfer the pattern to a fresh ribbon.

Perusina stopped in the doorway. "Stop."

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

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

The girl pressed the ribbon to herself. "My mother braids too. But no one looks at her hats because we don't have a famous name. I wanted to learn the pattern. Just once."

The hat maker exhaled slowly. "You could have asked."

"Would you have shown it to me?"

He was silent.

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

Perusino, still with the giant nose 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 ribbon. "She almost got it right. But here." She pointed to a spot. "There the fiber goes over twice. On the real hat, it goes under first."

The hat maker looked closer. 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 canopy. Children crowded around it. The hat maker placed the festival hat next to the girl's ribbon.

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

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

The girl joined in. Perusina watched. Franz sniffed. Perusino tried it too and accidentally braided 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 hat maker placed the festival hat on a high 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 splashing 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 be.