The festival of trade sparks a lively wave of chatter. The atmosphere shifts entirely.
Fatutu: There's a trade season here too? I never knew ...
Barcarola: Certamente! Think about it. When you used to trade your goods, they would be passed along through more trades and end up in even farther places!
Barcarola: So, with so many goods and people moving around, it's only natural to hold a festival here!
Fatutu: I guess ... that kind of makes sense?
Barcarola: It makes complete sense, Fatutu! Just think, now, of course, not every place people trade is like your island, so there aren't any ships around, but it's really very similar.
Barcarola: The one we have here is called ... um ...
She darts her hand backward. Her nimble fingers portray an obvious message in precise and desperate motions: "Help."
Vertin: ... The "Suitcase Trade Fair."
Barcarola: Sì, yes! The Suitcase Trade Fair! What a lovely name, simple but with a solid musical quality.
Barcarola: And, out there, it's not just the Nukutaeao trade seasons and the Suitcase Trade Fairs. There are so many more like ... the Gem Sparkle Fair, the Fruit Showmarket, the Lakeside Market, the Secondhand Beach ...
Barcarola: All year round, there's always another market!
Fatutu: For the whole year?! Then when do you outsiders ever stop?
Barcarola: We don't! Everyone's always on the move from one trade season to the next, round and round.
Fatutu: That's ... that's ...
The island girl's eyes widen. The sights and sounds of the outside world leave her momentarily stunned.
Fatutu: That's incredible.
Fatutu: Back home, once the trade season ended and the ships left, we stopped thinking about it entirely. We'd go back to repairing our fishing boats and keeping the pests out of the fruit trees.
Fatutu: We'd prep our canoes for the races, sort and polish shells, or kick a ball around before the sun went down.
Fatutu: We wouldn't think about it again until the ships returned, and then the sailors and merchants would trade our fish, fruit, and crafts for other goods.
Fatutu: We always just waited for someone to come and trade with us.
Fatutu: Nukutai people need time to live our lives, time to relax.
Barcarola: Ma certo! But the trade season is still important to the Nukutai people, isn't it?
Fatutu: Of course. During the trade season, we'd trade for medicine, tobacco, and dyes. Once, I traded for some little ceramic flowers that I shared with Selone—one for each of us.
Fatutu: And once a butterfly made of tin, but the sea air rusted it away only a few days later.
Fatutu: The trade season has always meant a lot to the Nukutai.
Kindred spirits. Barcarola lights up and clasps Fatutu's hands in hers, as if anchoring herself to a newfound certainty.
Barcarola: And the Suitcase Trade Fair is important too!
Barcarola: We'll have a huge festival—two days long, with vendors, customers, and everyone involved!
Hearing this, the usually composed Sonetto draws a sharp breath.
Barcarola: That is why, Fatutu, we truly, truly need you!
The passionate young musician locks eyes with her, holding such a sincere and joyful gaze that Fatutu can't help but grab her hand.
Fatutu: If there's anything I can help with, I ... I'll do my best.
Fatutu: If the Suitcase Trade Fair is anything like the Nukutaeao trade season, then—
Barcarola: It's nothing like it!
The musician's energy surges into a crescendo in a tempo impossible to fully keep up with.
Barcarola: What I mean is, we haven't got nearly enough goods to sell. We need to design our invitations, and the venue setup still needs to be figured out.
Barcarola: When it comes to holding a trade fair, we're nowhere near as experienced as the Nukutai.
Barcarola: But! We're already moving full speed ahead with preparations, and I—
She pats her chest with elegant pride.
Barcarola: I intend to grace this Trade Fair with a musical performance—a show for the ages!
Barcarola: Now, Fatutu, we have but one major problem.
Fatutu: What kind of problem?
The flurry of energy comes crashing to a focal point. Fatutu seems unable to imagine what sort of problem there could be.
Barcarola: We ... must light up the night!
Barcarola: You see, the Suitcase Trade Fair is set to last two days and ... one night. But we've run into some issues, because we don't have, uhm ... light ... for the nighttime ...
The gifted musician is nearly as capable at improvising events as she is with music, but still trips over a sour note.
Luckily, someone else is able to carry the tune.
Vertin: Here's the situation. We have a researcher in the Wilderness who's using our backup power for some experiments.
Vertin: I suspect his energy usage has gone well beyond what he noted on his official application.
Vertin: And more than that, we have a woman here who depends on a steady supply of power to keep her medical devices operating.
Vertin: As you can see, we're in a predicament. The energy reserves inside the suitcase aren't quite stretched.
Vertin: We can provide lighting from sunset to about ten p.m., but after that ...
She subtly shifts her gaze toward the musician. The bow is rosined, and the stage is hers once more.
Barcarola: After that, we'll be cast into total darkness!
Barcarola: In the dark, vendors won't see their crates, customers won't see the goods, and no one will be able to see me playing!
Barcarola: An unspeakable tragedy, I'm sure you'll agree.
Just imagining a lonely, pitch-black performance is enough for her to conjure a well of tears at the corner of her eyes.
Hands still held tightly in the musician's delicate grip, Fatutu can't help but start worrying alongside her.
Fatutu: I have an idea!
Fatutu: We can make Sea Mother's Eyes, just like we did on the boats.
Fatutu: They'll stay lit all night long. If we make enough of them, they can light up the festival long after it gets dark.
She reaches over to wipe away Barcarola's tears. The gesture is natural, unthinking, intimate.
Fatutu: I'll even set up extra Sea Mother's Eyes around your stage.
Fatutu: That way, everyone will be able to see you shine like a star above the ocean as you play!
Barcarola's tears come to a sudden stop, and she looks deeply into her friend's eyes.
Then, she throws her arms around her with an emotional hug, bursting into even louder sobs.
Barcarola: You—You're just—
The words tumble out like notes from a melody she never quite finishes. In the end, she still can't say exactly what kind of girl this islander is.
