Black Coffee in a Porcelain Bowl

Coming down from the mountains exhausted, skin brittle with cold and his eyes gone squinty from staring over fields of ice. In the town there is heat, noise, the endless traffic of things and people. He works towards the plaza. Short, dark people inquire of him with short, dark glances. They are a race of traders known for the ability to measure value at a glance.

In the alleys off of the plaza he identifies the guesthouses not by the wooden placards, but by the air of weary excitement. The people who stay here have been to this city before, but not so many times that their feet can carry them without their eyes’ advice.

At one guesthouse he shows his money to the man behind the counter. The man sneers. What is he to do with foreign currency? At the next, a little girl points at the amulet he wears around his neck. It is a charm against evil spirits, given to him by a woman who’d said that he had a knack for attracting demons. He takes off the amulet and hands it over to the girl, who disappears behind a curtain of beads. In a moment, her mother appears and leads him into a hammam. She takes off his shoes, washes and massages his feet. The little girl brings mint tea. Exhaustion reaches up through his feet, expands outwards from his belly.

The next morning he awakes confused by white sheets and sunlight filtered through yellow curtains. He smells soap and lilacs. How long since he slept in a bed?

In the garden he sits with his face to the sun. The mother brings him black coffee in a porcelain bowl. She meets his eyes for a moment, smiles shyly, and is gone. The little girl points at his belt. He got this belt on the other side of the ocean, traded a money clip and a bar of chocolate for it.

This city is like many he’s seen before. In the plaza men sell tapestries, copper jewelry, sweetmeats and brightly colored songbirds in small cages made of split reeds. He trades a half bottle of asprin and a pen for a bag of tobacco, a heavy wool sweater for a new pair of leather boots. With another trader he changes his money, which he uses to buy iodine, dried fruits, cotton socks.

Passing by the guesthouse, he sees the owner beckon. She guides him, without touching, to a table in the garden. Her daughter brings mint tea. The mother brings beef, rice, lentils and sliced tomatoes. He eats, rolls a cigarette, lets the sun enter through his face. When the woman returns, he offers her a handful of coins. She smiles and meets his eyes, shakes her head no. He leaves one of the larger coins on the table before he goes.

The next morning, rain drumming on the tin roof. Lilacs and ozone. The traveler laces his new boots. Black coffee in a porcelain bowl, and the woman speaks to him in her own language. “I slept very well, thank you,” he replies. She nods. Yes, I understand you. The daughter points at his silver ring. It, too, was given him as a gift, but he can no longer remember by whom. Possibly it is from Barcelona. Maybe from Delhi.

She pockets the ring and shows him a deck of cards. “Okay,” he says, and she sits and begins solemnly to explain the game. Her mother sees them playing and smiles at him, brings another bowl of coffee on a tray with sugar, warm milk, a filtered cigarette and a book of matches. “You know, I grew up in a town like this,” he tells the little girl. She nods yes, yes, I understand you, just play the game. He plays an ace, she takes it with a two. She smiles, and then begins wiggling a tooth, tells him in her language that it’s going to fall out. Yes, yes, I understand you. Rain on tin.

The next morning, more rain, and he pays with a digital watch. The next, with a stone carving he’d intended to bring home for his mother to put in her garden. The morning after that, the little girl shakes her head at a pewter bowl. No payment today.

On the first sunny morning, small eyes peep around the corner while he’s packing. When he returns to his room, towel around his shoulders, he sees that his boots are missing.

Black coffee in a porcelain bowl. Sugar, warm milk, a cigarette and a book of matches. “Your daughter stole my boots,” he says, pointing at his feet. The woman shakes her head, pretends not to understand. He points at his feet again, and the woman leaves, returns with her daughter who holds his large boots in her small hands. He reaches out for them, and she shakes her head. No. “They’re mine,” he says. “Me.” He points at himself. “Boots, me.” She shakes her head no. He looks at the woman. She says nothing. Smiles, rests her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. He understands, but pretends he does not. “Boots, me,” he says again, as if to remind himself.

On all sides of the traders’ city, mountains and snow. Here, lilacs and rain.