Through the spray, he sees a shape sitting on the far side. Just a silhouette blurred by the rush of water.
“You can go talk to him,” Kayana says. The young woman is one of the Naboo here. She’s a minder, one of those who watch the children.
“No, it’s okay,” Mapo says. “It’s fine. He’s busy.”
“I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”
She gives him a little shove. He grunts and thinks, Nobody wants to meet me. Maybe that’s why Kayana is shoving him, because she’s shuttling him off to someone else. He heard the minders talking a couple of weeks back and they said he was a real downer.
Still, maybe she’s right. And it’s not like he has anything else going on. Mapo won’t be adopted today. Or tomorrow. Or never ever ever.
Mapo walks the circumference of the fountain. The wind carries the mist over him, cooling him down. He lets his finger trail along the stone top of the fountain’s border, drawing lines in the water that fast disappear.
And then there he is:
The Gungan stoops down, sucking a small red fish into his mouth with a slurp. A tongue snakes out and licks the long, beaklike mouth, and the funny-looking figure hums a little and sucks on his fingers.
Mapo clears his throat to announce his presence.
The Gungan startles. “Oh! Heyo-dalee.”
“Hi,” Mapo says.
The two of them stare quietly at each other. The silence stretches.
The Gungan has been here as long as Mapo has. Longer, probably. Since children started coming in by the shipload as refugees, the Gungan has served them, performing for the kids once or twice a day. He does tricks. He juggles. He falls over and shakes his head as his eyes roll around inside their fleshy stalks. He makes goofy sounds and does strange little dances. Sometimes it’s the same performance, repeated. Sometimes the Gungan does different things, things you’ve never seen, things you’ll never see again. Just a few days ago, he splashed into the fountain’s center, then pretended to have the streams shoot him way up in the air. He leapt straight up, then back down with a splash. And he leapt from compass point to compass point, back and forth, before finally conking his head on the edge and plopping down on his butt. Shaking his head. Tongue wagging. All the kids laughed. Then the Gungan laughed, too.
The clown, they call him. Bring the clown. We want to see the clown. We like it how he juggles glombo shells, or spits fish up in the air and catches them, or how he dances around and falls on his butt.
That’s what the kids say.
The adults, though. They don’t say much about him. Or to him. And no other Gungans come to see him, either. Nobody even says his name.
“My name’s Mapo,” the boy says.
“Mesa Jar Jar.”
“Hi, Jar Jar.”
“Yousa wantin’ some bites?” The Gungan holds up a little red fish and waggles it in the air. “Desa pik-pok fish bera good.”
“No.”
“Oh. Okee-day.”
And again, silence yawns between them like a widening chasm.
The boy can see that the Gungan is older than some of the others he’s seen here in Theed. Already Jar Jar’s got wiggling chin whiskers dangling—not hair, but little fish-skin protuberances. They dance when he moves, like when he gently brings a fish to his lips, his movement slow and hesitant as if he’s not sure he should. The Gungan is watching Mapo more than he’s watching his fish, though—and suddenly it slips out of his hand. He tries catching it with his other hand, and the fish slips from his grip there, too. He makes an alarmed squawk, and suddenly his tongue shoots from his puckered lips, capturing the fish midair and launching it into his mouth. Jar Jar winces as a little sound (grrrkgulp) comes from him.
Mapo laughs.
Jar Jar offers a big smile. Like he’s not even embarrassed by it.
It just makes Mapo laugh harder. Jar Jar seems pleased by the sound. As if it’s music to him.
“Where yousa comin’ from?”
“Golus Station.” The blank look in the Gungan’s eyes tells Mapo that he doesn’t know where that is. So Mapo tells him: “It’s above Golus. Gas planet in the Mid Rim. The Empire was there. They used us as a refueling depot? But when they left, they decided to…blow the fuel tanks. I guess so nobody else could have them. Take my toys and go home, that sorta thing. My mom and dad…” Mapo is angry with himself that he can’t say it even after all this time. The words lodge in his chest and he just looks away.
“Oie, mooie.” Jar Jar shakes his head, looking down in his lap. “That bera sad-makin.” Then his eyestalks perk up. “Yousa wantin to see a trick?”
Mapo arches his one remaining eyebrow. “Okay, sure.”
The Gungan chuckles and dips his head in the fountain, filling his face with water. His beak and cheeks bulge. Mapo expects him to spit it out, but he doesn’t. Instead he seems to tighten his body, his neck thickening with tension and his eyes popping wide.