Jonathan Dodd

 

 

So what is my life anyway? Every day I set up my stall on the street, raise the awning that protects my head from the sun and the rain, once brightly coloured and now the colour of dried mud, weathered like the skin on my head. Balam and I arrange the piles of fresh vegetables and the not-so-fresh ones, moistened to look better, and I leave him to watch the stall while I push the cart away down the side street. Always the same time, always the same place. I did not expect to enjoy such routine. Once I would have thought it worse than death, but I know now there are many things worse than death.

So. Every day except one each week, Balam and I sell vegetables in the street. I leave him in charge at quiet times and go to eat and to bargain with the farmers in the cafes. Balam takes great pride in arranging beautiful piles of vegetables, and I accuse him of being an artist. He’s a good boy with a ready laugh, not too much between the ears but a willing worker, and honest. Even the worst threats won’t deter a dishonest man from stealing, and I am content with his lack of conversation in exchange for that. We watch the street and the weather and look out for trouble, which comes less often or more often according to seasons invisible to us.

There must be about fifty traders with stalls in the market in the centre of this small town. We sell everything a person might need for the ordinary business of living – meat and bread and vegetables and fruit, cheap clothes and things for women to wear, and shoes, and knives and bowls and cooking pots. Sometimes a newcomer will arrive with a stall full of tourist things, but they never last. There aren’t enough tourists here to make a living, or I would stop selling vegetables myself. There’s enough bustle and custom with the townsfolk to keep us busy, and the market is as large as it needs to be for the number of people living here and the little money they have to spend.

We have our regular customers and we know their habits. Most we know by name, and greet, like Mrs Suneeta, who smiles all the time and is always given a little extra for her money, especially from Balam.  And there’s Mrs Partika, who handles everything roughly and scowls and never buys from us. Every day she turns away and crosses the road to buy from Ben, who has broad shoulders and short-changes her while she looks down and acts the shy schoolgirl.  Balam and I always say that her scowl is deeper than her purse, and laugh. We all must live and eat, especially those of us with extra mouths to feed.

The high point of my day is when my daughters come home from school. You may ask how is it possible that a man who never married, with one damaged arm, can have two daughters? I often wonder myself at the surprises life hands us. But a girl needs a father, especially if she also has no mother, and sometimes any father is better than none.

Something in my head knows when my girls are coming, like radar. It turns my eyes and tunes my ears before I can see or hear them. And every time they come into sight and I hear their sweet voices, always chattering and laughing, my Channy and Gila, my heart leaps. They are so different, Channy tall and very dark, who will soon have the shape of a woman, and Gila, slight and shy, almost under her wing. To se them you would not think they were in one family, and in truth they were never meant to be, but they are sisters now as much as if they shared parents.

Some people resent paying money to the school. Me, I would pay more, if I had it, and I take vegetables to the schoolteacher when I have some to spare. When I think of what the school has done for my girls, I give thanks with the whole of my heart. They laugh and chatter now, and carry books, and their talk is of homework and who they will marry when they are women. Sometimes I tell them that their heads and conversation are as empty as those of little chicks, but secretly I am more than content that they are like this and I wish fervently that they might remain happy for the rest of their lives.

This is a small town where new people are noticed. We have a tradition of being respectful to strangers, and if they stay we accept them readily enough, as I was accepted once. The Uniforms, police and military, are here, as they are everywhere, but they leave us alone, mostly. We are usually cautious and wait to see whether they show interest in any new people. We get by with minding our own business and not opening our mouths too wide. Everyone would like to die in their own bed. I have no opinions. I make a living, I feed my girls, I lead a quiet life, and trouble passes me by.

 

And then Maya Orbone appeared.

I saw her one day, walking through the market. All the men saw her, and so did the women. She was striking and very tall, more handsome than beautiful, her features fine, as if carved, her bearing dignified and very erect. There was always a feeling of stillness around her, of tension and force held rigidly in, like a leopard forced to imitate a gazelle. One moment everything was as usual, and then it was different, when she walked through the market as if through long grass, looking straight ahead, and the crowds parted for her on either side. Because of my girls I noticed a little child walking very close to her, with huge eyes and a thumb in her mouth, clutching an old doll. Everyone else just saw the mother, but I saw them both. As they passed by I held up a shiny apple to offer the little girl, who looked right back with those big eyes. But her mother didn’t stop, and I put the apple back.

Later on, in the café where I was eating my lunch and buying vegetables from my farmer friends, all the talk was of her.

“Ay! She is trouble, that one! Did you see the Uniforms watching her?”

“Who is she? She looks like a rich woman, or a film star!”

“She’s so tall and strong! If she was a tree I would like to be a monkey!”

Men are no doubt the same everywhere.

We did not know who she was then, or even her name. Over the next few days the gossip flowed, heads nodded wisely and shook sadly, and the comments changed.

“Ay! The poor woman! No wonder the soldiers keep her in their sight!”

“Her husband was a doctor with the Government!”

“What happened to him?”

“They say he was taken away! Poor woman! Why is she here?”

“All his family are dead, and she has only one aunt, who lives outside town. She was visiting when her husband was taken.”

“I guess they’ll be taking her soon!”

“Oh yes! Surely!”

Nobody mentioned her little daughter.

After a while Maya Orbone became part of the parade of shoppers passing through the market. Every day I would hold up a piece of fruit and smile, and every day her daughter would move a little slower and begin to hold out her hand, until the day she took a ripe plum before scuttling back to her mother’s skirts, still clutching her doll. Maya Orbone turned to see what had happened and gazed at me for a moment, and I was able to nod very slightly back. The only person to notice was Balam, who joked with me.

“I see you’re falling in love with that woman. She’s too good for you!”

I cuffed him round the head, but not hard. He made a great show of ducking and laughing.

After that, each day the little girl would come to my stall and I would hand her some more fruit, sometimes two or more items, even a small bundle wrapped in paper. It was a small thing between the two of us, and not noticed by anyone else. Her mother always acknowledged me, holding my eyes with hers for a moment before moving on, and I would always nod back gravely. I felt for her, and for the dignified way she held so much inside.

 

Today Maya Orbone did not appear in the market. It was as we had always expected, and nobody said anything of course, but there was a great moving of heads up and down, and a straining of necks, and voices became quieter, and looks were exchanged. Thw whole town slowed down as if waiting for Maya Orbone to appear so they could move out of her way, and time moved slowly. At lunch one of the farmers told of two large black cars arriving at the aunt’s house, and men in suits taking two women away.

There are three kinds of taking away. Soldiers will always be very rough but you might return. Of course you will never speak of your ordeal and you may never be healthy again, but you may retain your life, and with luck you may even live long enough to see your grandchildren. Men out of uniform with masks will always kill you, and what is left of your body will be found in a field or by the roadside. Men in suits just take you away and you’re never seen again. They are the worst and most frightening, because nobody will ever find out what happened to you. Maya Orbone and her aunt went with the men in suits and that was that. Her aunt’s house wasn’t looted and it was as if a cloud came to hang over the town. Shame visits even those who are powerless.

After my lunch I went back to stall and I was waiting as if holding my breath for my daughters to come home from school, waiting with my mind yearning and my heart threatening to stop every moment. Nobody was buying anyway. I felt a tug at my sleeve and looked down. There was Maya Orbone’s child, her face was filthy and tracks of tears ran through the dirt on her cheeks. She was still clutching her doll, wrapped in a bulky old blanket. When I squatted down she offered it to me. Solemnly I exchanged it for a large apple. I could feel papers inside the blanket, so I unwrapped it carefully and handed the doll back. It was time to take a gift of vegetables to the schoolteacher again. My radar told me that Channy and Gila were about to arrive from school.

“What is your name, child?”

“Shona Orbone.”

“Shona Orbone. That is a pretty name. And you are a brave girl.” She nodded. I wiped her face with a corner of the blanket.

I stood up and introduced her to Channy and Gila, who admired her doll and took her off home by the hand.

I sighed and turned back to my stall. Now I have three daughters to feed and worry about.