Chapter One
The Crates on the Pavement Before Sunrise
Mariam Haddad woke before the sun and before the city. The room was dark and cool, and the only sound was her own breathing and the soft tick of the clock on the wall. She sat up slowly, because her knees asked her to be slow in the morning, and she put her feet on the cold floor and waited for her body to agree with the day. She washed her face in cold water. She put on her long dark dress and her headscarf, and she tied the scarf the way she had tied it every morning for thirty years. She ate a piece of bread with a little cheese and drank a small cup of tea standing by the window. The street below was still empty. The lamps were still lit. The sky over Beirut was the color of ash and then, very slowly, the color of pale gold.
She loaded the crates one by one. First the potatoes, heavy and earthy, their skins rough against her palms. Then the onions, in their dry papery skins, piled in a neat mound. Then the leeks, long and green and white, laid in rows like soldiers standing at attention. Then the leafy greens, fresh and damp, their leaves still holding the cool of the night. Then the tomatoes, red and round and soft to the touch, placed on top where no heavy thing could bruise them. She covered the crates with a clean cloth and tied her tin cup into the pocket of her dress. She put a folded plastic bag into the other pocket. She checked the door twice, the way she always did, and she stepped out into the street.
The walk to the corner was short, and Mariam took it slowly. The pavement was empty except for a cat sitting on a step, washing its face with great seriousness. A shutter rattled somewhere above her, and a man called out a greeting from a balcony, and she called one back. The air smelled of night rain and dust and bread from the bakery two doors down, where the ovens had been lit an hour before. She liked this hour best. The city had not yet put on its noise. The street belonged to the sweepers and the cats and the early bakers and to her.
At the corner she set down the first crate. The pavement there was worn smooth by feet and by years, and there was a shallow dip where rain gathered in winter. She knew every crack in that pavement the way she knew the lines on her own hands. She put the potatoes down first, on the side nearest the wall, where the morning sun would not reach them too soon. She put the onions beside them, and the leeks beside the onions, and the greens in the shade of the shop awning, where their leaves would stay fresh. She put the tomatoes last, in the front, where their red color would catch the eye of the first customer of the day. She stepped back and looked at her work. The crates stood in a neat row. The cloth was folded and put away. The plastic bags were ready. The tin cup waited in her pocket.
She arranged each crate with care, and care was not a small thing. She turned the tomatoes so the best side faced the street. She lifted a leek that had fallen sideways and laid it straight again. She brushed a speck of earth from the potatoes. She straightened the greens so their leaves did not trail onto the pavement. She had done this for thirty years, and her hands knew the work without her having to think about it, but she still gave it her full attention, because the crates were her shop and her living and her name on the street. A customer would see the care before she saw the price. That was what Youssef had always said. A neat stall tells the truth about the person who keeps it. Mariam believed it still.
The sun rose over the rooftops and touched the top of the building across the street. The bakery door opened and the smell of fresh bread rolled out onto the pavement, warm and rich. Mariam breathed it in and smiled. She sat down on the low stool she kept behind the crates and folded her hands in her lap. She said a short prayer for the day and for her grandchildren. Enough to pay the rent. Enough for her medicine. Enough to keep the grandchildren in school. Enough, and a little left over for the tin cup to sing.
The first customer was still an hour away, and Mariam did not mind the waiting. She watched the street wake up around her. The man who sold bread opened his shutters. The woman who sold flowers carried her buckets to the curb. A dog trotted past with its head high, on business of its own. The city stretched and yawned and began its day, and Mariam sat at her corner with her crates in a neat row, ready. The pavement was hers by habit and by years, and by the quiet agreement of everyone who lived on the street. She had earned it one morning at a time. This morning was like all the others, and she had no reason to think it would be different. The sun climbed higher. The crates waited. The day began.
Chapter Two