Market Interactions

Il mio pomodoro

August 23rd

White canvases covered the square again today, my third time. Nervous I walked away from the vendor who addressed me in English, determined parlare italiano. She had pirate teeth, a weathered face of leather folds, and a headscarf that looked like the one Jill brought back for mom twenty years ago. All I needed was a tomato. Any kind would do, I couldn’t tell you in any language the difference between the five types all the canvas owners seem to stock. I lifted a red one out of one of her boxes of color and turned it over in my hand, trying to look at it with a scrutinizing authority I didn’t have, but hoped I could fake – like Matthew ordering wine. A man I hadn’t noticed handed me a plastic bag from behind the barrier of food that separated us. The women with pirate teeth yelled at him. Her Italian I couldn’t understand, but every child knows that look. Hoping to justify the man’s gift, two hastily chosen tomatoes joined the first inside the bag before I handed it to the women watching her only other customer. She put them on a scale. “Settanta centesimi.” I dug in my change purse while counting hurried Italian tens, quaranta, sessanta, settanta. Handed her venti and quaranta triumphantly. She took the change without notice and grunted with a sound of order.



“Hey lady”

August 25th

He caught me by surprise, the dark skinned man I don’t seem to notice until he moves. Walking past the pirate lady’s stand he stood up from the stool that hides his face among the edibles. “Hey lady.” Abruptly, the tone climbing upward at the end, but not enough to be questioning. He must have recognized me from the day before. I hadn’t meant to stop, but the oddness was halting. In the pause, I looked at him to see. His face is darker than Italians, but not the black brown of my own. His has a red like Michelle’s, but less like clay and more like mud on an overcast day. Black loose curls though, and thick eyebrows. He smiled, but the more I saw the more unsure it became. Hitting on someone in another language must be very difficult; I hardly know how to make change. Perhaps that wasn’t his intent. Awaking from thought, I gave him a confused look that didn’t need faking and continue on to class across the cobbled stone.



Troppo

August 27th

Took Erina to the pirate lady’s stand today. She made me explain why I called her the pirate lady before we went. Entered the rows of white squares by way of the fountain, and there, second canvas to the right, the pirate lady stood in the same faded headscarf, the dark man seated on his stool. They occupied the ends of their rectangle of operation, as far away from each other as possible, baskets of food on three sides. I never saw them speak except in scolding, her to him. We bought sunlit tomatoes and peaches, she sells them for the best price. Erin paid, she wanted to share. The pirate lady weighed and price, while the man sat and watched. “Un euro e quaranta.” Erina looked at me for help. “A dollar fifty.” Sometimes I translate a bit too thoroughly. A two euro coin dropped into the pirate lady’s palm. She moved coins back and forth in a metal box and picked up three. Walking away Erina realized her mistake, a euro fifty in change was too much. What was she supposed to say? The verb to give was either gone or had never been know, either way past tense would be problematic. Troppo and a smile should do the trick. The pirate lady had no choice. She accepted the change of girls who could neither answer her questions nor properly explain.



“Buon finesettimana?”

September 3rd

8:27am coming off a night train seat on empty stomach, the market looked hazy. The women with pirate teeth looked up as I approached. She recognized my face. The dark man doesn’t sit with her in the morning. When I handed her my bananas she asked a question. After two “Che?”s I recognized buon finesettimana and squeaked out “Si” with a nod of my groggy head in what I hoped was a confirmation that indeed I had had a pleasant weekend. Only after half the first banana had slid down my throat did I realize that, “Sono andata a Firenze e Venezia” was not only within my ability, but would have made for a much better response.

Arrivederla

September 20th

I knew it would be the last time. I picked out the peaches and tomatoes carefully, squeezing each peach slightly, fingers on fuzz. A softer one per oggi and a harder per domani. The last fruits. When I finished, I stood patiently beside a women bent over such that the crown of her white-haired head shown a foot below mine. She was speaking with the pirate lady as I had never heard anyone speak. A politeness form another era, one I will never know. The tone of the voice, the length of the sentences, the formal word endings - an italiano not wasted on Americans. Their words ran together like water on smooth stone. The honorable exchanges of old women. She was saying goodbye, the white-haired one. "Arrivederla" echoed twice. I looked her in the eyes before saying it myself, hoping they could relay the respect my words could not. Goodbye.