Mezquina

She was the only woman sitting on the terrace, and the only American. At the other tables were men that she did not know and had not spoken to. She spoke only to the waiter, and then just to order another drink. Her drink was a tinto de verano, and under the shade of the awning over the terrace, it was quite refreshing.

Out from the shade spread the square. There were yellow palms and old traveling carts around the square. Early in the season the palms provided cover, and there were always artisans set up beside their carts. They created a shady gallery that the tourists liked. The tourists came specifically for the gallery of carts. The carts were wooden and looked petrified in the sun. It was sunny. The sun shone through the sparse leaves of the palms onto the closed carts. The pavement around the carts was cracked. Dust blew from where it had settled on the tops of the carts and circled around the square in a haze to return and settle back on the tops of the carts again. The tourists and the craftsmen were gone from the gallery. The woman sat under the shade of the awning over the terrace looking at the empty square.

The woman was taking slow drinks from her tinto de verano. Across the square came a ringing sound in successions of three. A small pushcart turned onto the square. It was pushed by a man wearing all brown. Across the handle of his cart was a row of bells strung together on a piece of metal that he moved with his hand. From the racks and hooks on the top and sides of his cart swung necklaces, earrings, little woven charms, and other handicrafts.

“Hoy compro algo,” the woman said to the waiter.

“You would like something different to drink, Mrs?” the waiter asked.

“No, something from him,” she gestured with her drink.

The pushcart man had stopped beside a thin palm. There was no shade and it looked very hot. The dust that blew about the square was the same color as his clothing, and he stood and rang his little bells that sounded far away from where the woman sat in the shade.

“Es mezquina, señora,” the waiter said. “I can recommend you better.”

“No, I’ll buy something from him. The poor man is out there dead.”

The woman grabbed her waist bag and began across the terrace. The men smiled at her or pressed their chests and tipped their heads as she passed. They were all much older than her.

“Vuevlo,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

She did not mind the men. In fact, she liked them. She liked the way they held themselves at the hotel bar. She liked their reverence. She liked the way they wanted to give up their tables. She liked that they were native and old in the way that only people from here could be, and that in their oldness, they were harmless.

Thinking of their harmlessness, she stepped out into the sun. It was hot and bright, and when she looked back at the awninged terrace, she could barely make out the faces in the shadow. She could only see eyes or the glint of shades covering eyes, and she turned toward the pushcart man. He stood in the same spot beside the palm. He was faced away from her still ringing the bells in threes. The square was deserted except for him. She heard a fizzing sound behind her.

“You must have caution, señora,” the waiter said, holding a bottle of sparkling water.

With the bottle the waiter had given her she walked along until she was before the cart and the man who pushed it. She smiled. He returned the smile, tipped his head slightly, spread his upturned palms and said nothing.

The woman lifted a necklace with a little blue stone and looked at the man.

“¿Haces estos?” the woman asked.

“Sí señora. I make all these.” The man nodded and clasped his hands behind his back.

“They’re very pretty.”

“Sí señora.”

The woman lifted another necklace. This one had a light-purple stone.

“Let me ask you, do you know astrology?” the woman said.

“¡Astrología!” the man almost shouted.

The woman looked at him closely for the first time. He was very short and dark. He had shiny black hair flattened against his shiny forehead, and around his neck he wore a collection of what appeared to be scarves.

She looked past him at the eyes from the terrace of the hotel bar.

“Yes,” the woman said, looking back. “You know birthstones?”

“Birthstones?” the man laughed and spread his arms wide.

“Yes.”

“And may I ask you,” the man started. He leaned in close to her hand holding the necklace. “When is Mrs’ birthday?”

“It’s not about my birthday,” she said, dropping the necklace.

They both straightened up.

After a moment the man smiled and said, “His birthday.”

“It was the ninth of October.”

“Better late than never. As you say, eh?”

After another moment the man stopped smiling.

“Yes, I have the stone,” he said.

The man removed the crafts hanging from hooks on the side of the cart and dropped them in a pile on the top. He squatted and undid a latch and the side swung up. He reached inside.

“Here it is,” the man said.

He held out a necklace with a clear pink stone.

“That’s not it,” the woman said.

The man paused, smiled and then said, “What do you mean?”

“That’s not an opal.”

“No, Mrs. It is turmalina.”

“Why would I want that?”

The man pressed his lips together and stuck his chin forward.

“That’s the wrong stone,” she said. “I want an opal.”

“Señora. Es la roca de octubre,” and he pressed the necklace toward her.

“It’s the wrong stone.”

“Hay dos rocas de octubre. October has two stones.”

“I’ve never heard that,” she said, taking the necklace.

“Sí. And turmalina is the better. It shines. The opal is flat. Too boring.”

“It looks cheap.”

“No, no. Not cheap. Look,” and the man pulled the necklace from her hand. “It is strong, see?” He rapped the table three times with the stone and held it up to her. “See? It lives.”

“How much does it cost?” she asked, taking back the necklace.

“Thirty.”

“Oh, no. That’s too much.”

“Mrs, because it is a gift, twenty is okay.”

“It’s not a gift.”

The man stuck his chin forward again.

“Twenty is a good price,” he said.

She tried to hand back the necklace but the man pulled back.

“Fifteen,” he said. “I cannot go less.”

“If it was an opal, then I would say yes.”

“It is better,” the man almost shouted again.

“Well, I don’t want it.”

The woman tried again to hand back the necklace and the man once more pulled back, so she dropped it on the pile on the top of the cart.

The man’s eyes widened and then slowly closed, and he bowed his head.

As she walked back across the square to the hotel bar, the woman heard the bells ringing. Each round sounded smaller, and after the third, she stopped hearing anything at all. Just before the terrace she realized that she’d forgotten her bottle of water and looked back. The pushcart man was gone.

The woman’s eyes had to adjust with the sudden shift to darkness. She felt the men looking at her alone and empty handed. Their gaze made her feel empty handed and at the same time very light. She had a sudden feeling of floating on top of the dust. She sat back down at her table. She raised her hand. The waiter was beside her, setting down another tinto de verano.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, removing a towel from his back pocket.

“It wasn’t there.”

“I did warn you,” he said, picking up the glass again. He wiped the spot on the table and set it back down next to the others.

She took a slow drink.

“I really wanted to have something,” she said. “I don’t know why having something mattered so much. I wanted just one thing. It’s not nice to have nothing.”

The waiter was at another table.

The woman leaned back in her chair and looked out at the square. It was deserted again and quiet. Gusts of wind still pushed the dust up into the air and swayed the balding yellow palms. Their tall trunks cast thin columns of swaying shadows over the square.

“Don’t you think it’d be smart to start something new growing?” the woman said.

The waiter looked up from the table he had sat at and glanced at the square.

“There is no space to plant.”

“Make new space,” she said. “That’s not doing much good anymore, is it?”

The waiter said something to the man at his table and rose.

“People like having the palms,” he said, stopping near her.

“But they don’t help at all. Don’t you get tired of them not helping at all?”

“It is what we have.”

The waiter shifted weight on his feet and turned toward the square. It was getting dark.

“I’d like to have fresh new things growing there that really help,” the woman said. “I’d like to have it so the carts could always be open and you could get what you needed.”

The waiter nodded.

“And I’d like it to be less empty. And less dusty and hot and quiet and sad, and with less cheating little men that won’t give you what you want, and with something, anything at all that he would have loved.”

The waiter saw that she had finished her drink. He counted nine empty glasses on the table. He left and returned with a tray and began picking them up.

“I just wanted something,” she said. “Just an opal. If I’m going to get bitched, I can at least have an opal.”

The waiter had gone inside. He was cleaning the glasses behind the bar. The woman was laying her body on the table, her arms crossed under her chin, moving something in her fingers.

“Disculpe señora.”

The woman turned her head sideways from where she lay and then sat up. The pushcart man was standing beside her table. He held a greenish gray stone in his hand.

“Mi amigo, señora,” he said. “I was able to find the opal with him. Fifteen. I cannot go less.”