Summer market

Summer market

It happened twenty three years ago when my now clumsy legs were kind of flimsy and almost pretty… reconsidering … they never got to be flimsy, especially on the upper part, but if you were generous you could describe them as graceful. I used to wear hills, daily, because I enjoyed their cheerful clicking on the hot pavements. This detail is going to be important: semi-fancy heels, always, intricate shoes with laces. And on that fateful day I picked bluish heels with floral design and laces. If I were a nineteenth century aspiring writer trying to mimic the Bronte sisters, I would repeat: remember the heels and the laces, reader.

So, on a given summer day when I was …n… kilograms younger and prettier I overslept because of the useless and stupid party the previous night. I ran after the bus and didn’t manage to catch it. I knew for sure I was going to be late for work and Solomon-not the king would be furious and would definitely lecture me for 90 minutes or so about discipline and responsibility. I envisioned my day, and was nearly exhausted before I got a proper chance to get tired.

Solomon-not the king was best defined by black baseball cap and bushy moustache. He never smiled and told caustic jokes, not smiling and cursing occasionally. He expected the staff to enjoy that kind of behaviour and sincerely considered it stylish. He ran a small hostel in the holy city of Jerusalem. I was desperate for a job and ready to tolerate not-the-king’s toxicity which was relatively mild compared to what I had endured before. Mostly, he left me alone provided I did my job and wasn't late in the mornings. Solomon-not the king was most sensitive to morning routine. He would sit on a plush sofa in the lobby and go over the records drinking his coffee which was as strong, as black and as sweet as it gets. On the day in question I got a reprimand and a sanction. Frankly speaking, Solomon-not the king was right, it was my third belatedness that week. So, as a punishment, I was sent to the market to buy coffee, fruits and vegetables. Seeking to improve my situation I commandeered a wheelie bag from the storage room. Solomon saw me taking it and didn’t voice any objections.

The morning was slowly turning to noon, and the day was scalding.

- Take a hat, you little chunk of craziness! - cried Solomon - and stop wearing these stupid heels to work!

- Sure - I retorted, and left, hat in hand.

He called me fifteen minutes later.

- Get back! I need you at the reception now. You can do the market after lunch, around 16:00. Won’t be so fucking hot then.

(I know I will be corrected to “go to the market” - but being grammatically correct it sounds totally boring and unauthentic. In Jerusalem, people do market bargaining and sweating and sharing gossip with vendors they've known for years). In fact, nobody even calls the market market, they say shuk or Mahaney Yehuda - Yehuda’s camp, literally. It was a Jehuda tribe territory, indeed, thousands of years ago. When I arrived in Israel four years before I was initially shocked by how outrageously biblical the place felt, I mean I did my homework in elementary history, I knew it was old testamental, but how naturally unintentionally biblical it felt - was a surprise. But let’s get back to the day in question. It was June and we were all going through the heart, stomach, and bloody intestine of the second intifada. You never knew for sure if the bus you boarded would take you directly to your destination, directly to heaven or directly in the opposite direction. Solomon-not the king instructed me to take a cab to the shuk and back but I chose to pocket the cab money, I was insanely saving for the coming fall vacation.

So it came to be that on a scalding summer afternoon I took a city bus to the shuk. The shuk was relatively cheap at this hour, I was not in a hurry and took my time picking black cherries, pink cherries, and lemon yellow cherries, and golden yellow cherries. We had had a rainy cold winter which rewarded us with plenty of fruits. I also bought peaches, plums, and nectarines (nectarines are a smoother version of a peach). Of course, I bought honest plain arabic coffee for the hostel and was planning to walk by Noah’s shop to treat myself to a cup of gourmet coffee with a delicate layer of foam and a hint of chocolate. Around me people were pushing’ yelling, clapping, jumping, singing old songs, calling for Mashiah through the rusty loudspeaker, begging for money to provide a Shabbat meal to their families, declaring the insanity of the vendor ready to sell their product cheap as dirt. It was reminiscent of Goblin Market “Come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy…” I enjoyed being at the shuk, actually I love the place so much I often lose track of time. Solomon-not the king called me around 17:00 when I was ungracefully devouring a huge slice of watermelon, courtesy of a friendly vendor.

- Where are you? - he asked - On your way back, I assume?

- Eh… actually…

- Stuck again, chattering and wasting time - he sighed,- you have forty minutes to get back here. If you don’t, you work on the weekend.

- Fifty!- I yelped, trying to bargain for my coffee time.

- Forty five! - he was adamant - not hanging out at Noam’s.

The scalding afternoon had turned out not as fine as it might have.

I considered taking the cab and decided against it, the bags were almost too heavy but bearable for me to opt for a bus. I was turning in the direction of the bus stop when the lace on my left shoe got loose. I had to stop in the shadow of a nearby spice shop, put the bags on the ground, and kneel in order to readjust the lace. When it was restored to its previous position I looked up to see the bus slowly approaching in the traffic. I picked my bags and was ready to run for it. I swear I had enough time to catch the bus! I jumped and made a giant leap… At that point I heard a sudden shrill cry behind my back:

- Olenka!

I froze. It was a sudden gush of chilly wind in the midst of the bright summer afternoon. I hadn’t heard someone calling me that name for more than ten years. “Olenka!” my great-grandmother shouted from the fourth floor balcony. I was somewhere behind the thick trees surrounding our playground, invisible to her. If I didn’t appear in a minute or two, she would give another cry. If I pretended not to hear, she would have someone locate me on the playground and bring home. In that case I would be grounded for three days, at least.

I stood there for ten seconds, hesitating. The bus was approaching. I decided to give a run for it, I gave a giant starting leap, waving my bags in a comical way, - and someone behind me repeated, nervously:

- Olenka!!

It sounded like her voice, no doubt about it. Besides, I was sensitive to this version of my name and insisted I shouldn’t be called that, it was too intimate, reserved for the closest people who were entitled to use it. No one at the shuk could possibly call me Olenka. While I was looking around, the bus finally arrived at the stop. People started boarding it. I cursed the heat which had probably caused a peculiar hallucination and started running. Sure, the driver closed the doors right at my nose.

- Son of a bitch! - I shouted.

Now, I definitely had to call a cab. On the other hand, I had ten minutes to fetch a cup of coffee at Noam’s.

I exchanged greetings with Noam and was about to ask for my regular, when we heard a stentorian boom coming from the direction in which the bus I tried to catch disappeared. We had no doubts.

- Bitches! - Noam shouted.

I nodded silently in agreement.

It was another suicide bomber on the bus. We had plenty of them that year. You can call them noble freedom fighters if you wish. We will never reach an agreement on this point. We dashed outside and stood at the door watching people running up and down the street in all directions, disoriented. Sirens started whaling.

- Should we rush there and offer help? - I asked, not sure I wanted to see the scene.

- Are you qualified? - Noam retorted calmly.

He sensed I was hesitant and needed an excuse not to be at the scene of the attack.

-Which bus was it? - yelled a disheveled man running past us.

- Fourteen - another passerby answered briefly.

Another gust of cold wind. I was chasing line 14 when someone called me. Maybe, it was something. Maybe, nobody yelled behind my back. Maybe, it was the dusty cloak of invisible death. Maybe, the black merciless angel with cold eyes and hot sword was passing by and I heard the quiet whistle of his robes. I knew for sure I wouldn’t share that experience with anyone, not orally, not as an actual thing which happened to me. Some issues are awkward while speaking about but perfect for writing, especially if you start: “there was a woman who…” and then you can go like: “it’s not about me, it’s about that random fictional character.”

Solomon-not the king called me in five minutes. I heard notes of panic in his voice when he asked:

- Where the fuck are you?

- Stuck in traffic. - I lied.

- No wonder, - he answered,- it’s almost six o’clock.

I took a cab. The driver was eager to discuss a hot political issue. At six sharp he switched on the radio and we listened to the news. The small clouds passing above us were like wispy hair of my great-grandmother