Mariam Haddad counted coins into a tin cup. The cup was old and dented, with a small chip on its rim, and it had belonged to Youssef before it belonged to her. She kept it in the pocket of her dress, tied with a short string so it would not fall, and when a customer paid she took the coins in her hand and counted them into the cup, one by one, with a soft click each time a coin landed. She counted aloud, softly, so the customer could hear, because a count heard aloud is a count that can be trusted. One. Two. Three. The coins were warm from the customer's hand. The cup grew heavier as the morning went on, and Mariam liked the weight of it. The weight meant the day was going well. The weight meant the rent and the medicine and the school fees were a little closer to being paid.
She counted carefully, and she smiled at each customer as she counted, because a smile costs nothing and buys a great deal. The teacher's coins were counted with a question about the school. The baker's coins were counted with a joke about the flour. The old man's coins were counted slowly, to match his pace, with no hurry in her voice at all. The young mother's coins were counted with an extra tomato slipped into the bag, because a mother with two small children and tired eyes deserved an extra tomato, and Mariam had decided that long ago and never once regretted it. Each count was a small ceremony. Each customer left with the feeling that she had been seen. Mariam believed that was the real work. The vegetables were only the reason people stopped. The seeing was the reason they came back.
The money was for rent, for medicine, and for her grandchildren's schooling, and Mariam kept the three purposes separate in her mind, the way she kept the crates separate on the pavement. The rent came first, because the roof over her head was the roof over the grandchildren's heads too, and the landlord was a man who knocked politely and waited politely and expected to be paid on the first of the month, politely and in full. The medicine came second, because the small bottle on her shelf held the pills that kept her heart steady and her knees willing, The schooling came third, because Rami's university fees and Nour's schoolbooks were the future, and the future was the whole reason for the crates and the cup and the corner. She had told Youssef, before he died, that the grandchildren would be educated. She had kept that promise for years, one coin at a time, and she intended to keep it until the last fee was paid.
At midday she paused in her counting and took the cup from her pocket and looked at what the morning had brought. The coins lay in a small shining heap, and she tipped them gently with one finger and counted them again, silently this time, her lips moving. She did the arithmetic in her head. The rent was a fixed sum, and the medicine was a fixed sum, and the school fees were a fixed sum, and the morning's coins were a step toward all three. It was not enough yet. It was never enough by midday. But the afternoon would bring more customers, and the evening would bring a few more, and by the time Rami came to help her carry the crates home, the cup would be heavy enough. She had learned patience from thirty years of mornings. Patience was a kind of arithmetic too. Add a coin. Add another. Add the afternoon. Add the week. In time, the sum would be reached.
A customer she did not know came and bought tomatoes, and paid with a large note, and Mariam counted the change back carefully, coin by coin, into the woman's hand, and the woman watched her face as she counted and then smiled and said that Mariam counted like a banker. Mariam laughed, a real laugh, deep and surprised, and said that she had been counting longer than any banker in Beirut, and the woman laughed too, and bought a bag of leeks as well, as if the laugh had been part of the bargain. Mariam put the note away in a separate pocket, folded small, and the coins went into the cup with their soft clicks. One. Two. Three. The cup sang its small tin song, and Mariam sang along with it in her head, a wordless tune that matched the rhythm of the street.
Late in the afternoon, when the sun had moved past the rooftops and the shadows had grown long, Mariam counted the cup one last time before the evening customers came. She poured the coins into her palm and counted them back into the cup, slowly, and she nodded to herself. It was a good day. The rent would be paid. The medicine would be bought. The school fees would be a step closer. She tied the cup back into her pocket and sat up straighter on her stool. The crates were lower now, and the tomatoes were fewer, and the greens were nearly gone, and that was as it should be. A stall that sold out was a stall that had done its work. Mariam counted her coins into her tin cup and smiled at the street, and the street, in its busy careless way, smiled back.
Chapter Four