Potatoes, Onions, Leeks, and the Smell of the Morning
The morning market woke slowly, the way a house wakes when the first person rises and the rest follow, one by one, drawn by the smell of coffee and the sound of a door. First came the bakery man with his trays, and then the flower woman with her buckets, and then the man who sold bread from a cart with a bell that rang each time he stopped. The shutters went up along the street with a rattle and a clatter. Voices rose. A radio played somewhere behind an open window. The smell of the morning changed as the street woke. It was bread first, and then coffee, and then the green smell of the crates at Mariam's feet, the clean earth smell of potatoes and the sharp clean smell of onions and the fresh smell of leeks and greens, and over it all the warm ripe smell of tomatoes in the sun.
Mariam knew her customers by name and by what they bought, and she had known most of them for years. The teacher came first, as she always did, hurrying a little, her bag over her shoulder, her hair still damp from her morning wash. She bought tomatoes and greens, every day the same, and she always asked after Mariam's knees. Mariam always told her the knees were fine, which was not quite true and not quite a lie, because the knees were fine enough for the work and that was the truth that mattered. The teacher paid and took her bag and hurried on toward the school, and Mariam watched her go with affection. The teacher had been a girl when Mariam first set out her crates. Now the teacher had girls of her own in the school.
The baker came next, wiping flour from his hands onto his apron. He bought onions by the bagful, and potatoes too, and he always tried to pay too much, and Mariam always gave him the change back, coin by coin, because the price was the price and a friend did not cheat a friend. They talked about the weather and about the price of flour and about the baker's son, who was learning the ovens and burning the first batch of bread every morning, the way every baker's son had done since the world began. The baker laughed and shook his head and went back to his shop with his bag of onions, and the smell of bread followed him like a cloud.
The old man with the cane came after the baker, slow and careful, his shoes polished, his hat set straight. He bought one leek and a few potatoes, no more, because he cooked for one now and he did not like to waste food. Mariam chose the best leek for him, the straightest one, and she wrapped his potatoes in a small bag and tied it with a twist. The old man paid in small coins and counted them out slowly, and Mariam counted them back to him with a smile.
The young mother came with a child on her hip and another holding her skirt. She bought greens and tomatoes, and the child reached for a tomato with a grubby hand, and Mariam let her hold it and smell it, and the child laughed and put it back, very carefully, as if it were made of glass. The mother bought a bag of potatoes as well, and Mariam slipped an extra tomato into the bag when the mother was not looking, the way she did for mothers with small children and tired eyes. The mother thanked her and went on her way, and the child waved at Mariam over her mother's shoulder until they turned the corner.
Between customers, Mariam kept the crates neat. She turned the tomatoes. She shook the greens to keep them fresh. She swept a little dust from the pavement with the edge of her shoe. She called out her prices in a clear voice, not loud, not pleading, just clear, so that the people passing could hear what she had and what it cost. Potatoes. Onions. Leeks. Greens. Tomatoes. The words fell into the morning like stones into still water, and the street answered with feet and voices and the rustle of bags.
By midmorning the sun was high and the street was full. The crates were lower than they had been at sunrise, and the tin cup in Mariam's pocket was heavier, and her stool felt harder under her, and her knees reminded her that they existed. She did not complain. The morning was a good morning. The customers had come, the produce was fresh, the prices were fair, and the street was kind. She thought of Rami, her grandson, who would come after his classes to help her carry the empty crates home, and of Nour, her granddaughter, who would ask her about her day at supper and listen with her chin in her hands. She thought of the rent, and of the medicine in the small bottle on her shelf, and of the school fees, and she did the quiet arithmetic in her head that she did every day. Enough. It would be enough. The morning smelled of bread and coffee and earth and tomatoes, and Mariam sat at her corner in the middle of it all, steady and proud, with her crates in a neat row and her name known on the street.
Chapter Three
The Old Woman Who Counted Coins Into a Tin Cup