I remember the market.
It was behind the restaurant. Three streets over. Past the church. Past the old houses with the peeling paint. The market was a square. Cobblestones. Wooden stalls. Canvas awnings. The awnings were green once. Now they were gray. Faded. Like everything else in winter.
I went every afternoon. After lunch. Before dinner. The lunch dishes were washed. The dinner dishes were not yet dirty. The hour between. That was my hour. I went to the market to find things. Things no one wanted. Cabbage leaves. Potato skins. Tomatoes too soft to sell. Bread from the day before. Hard. But still bread.
I learned which stalls had what. The vegetable stall at the corner threw away the outer leaves of cabbages. I took them. The bread stall at the north end saved the old loaves in a basket behind the counter. I asked. They gave. The fruit stall in the middle threw away apples with brown spots. I took those too. I learned to go late. After the housewives left. After the old women with their shopping bags. When the stallholders were tired. When they didn't care who took what.
I remember the old woman.
She was at the back of the market. The farthest stall. The one no one wanted. Her stall was small. A wooden table. A scale. A basket of tomatoes. A basket of cucumbers. A basket of onions. She was small too. Smaller than me. Her back was bent. Her hands were red. Cracked. Like mine. She wore a gray coat. Too big. The sleeves were rolled up. Her head was covered with a flowered scarf. The flowers were red. Faded. Like everything else in winter.
She never called out. She never waved. She never tried to sell. She just stood behind her stall. Waiting. Her tomatoes were not the best. Some were cracked. Some were soft. The cucumbers were small. The onions were dry. But she was there. Every day. The same place. The same time.
The first time I went to her stall, I had nothing to say. I didn't have the words. I stood in front of her table. She looked at me. Her eyes were gray. Light gray. Like the sky before snow.
"You want?" she said. In Polish. Her voice was low. Cracked. Like her hands.
I shook my head. "No money."
She looked at me for a long time. Then she reached into her basket. She took out three tomatoes. She put them on the table. In front of me.
"Take," she said.
I didn't move. I didn't understand.
She pushed the tomatoes toward me. Her hands were red. The fingers were thick. The knuckles were swollen.
"Take," she said again. "You need."
I took the tomatoes. I said the word Anna taught me. "Dziękuję."
She didn't smile. She just nodded. Then she looked away. At the market. At the people walking. At the other stalls. At the gray sky.
I went back to the restaurant. The tomatoes were in my hands. They were cold. But they were not rotten. They were good. I saved them. For something.
I remember the days after.
I went to her stall every afternoon. Not to buy. I had no money. I went to see her. To stand in front of her table. To say "Dzień dobry." Good day. She would nod. She would reach into her basket. She would put tomatoes on the table. Three. Always three. Some days they were cracked. Some days they were soft. Some days they were perfect. Red. Round. Firm.
I took them. I said "Dziękuję." She nodded. That was all. Every day. The same words. The same tomatoes. The same gray sky.
I never asked her name. She never asked mine.
I remember the day she spoke more than three words.
It was raining. Not snowing. Rain. The first rain of spring. The market was wet. The cobblestones were black. Shining. The awnings dripped. Water fell from the edges. She was under her awning. Dry. Her tomatoes were in the basket. Covered with a cloth.
I stood in front of her stall. The rain was on my face. On my hands. On my shoes. I was wet.
"You," she said. She pointed to my hands. "Come."
I came closer. She took my hands. Her hands were warm. My hands were cold. She turned them over. Looked at the cracks. The scars. The white lines on my knuckles.
"You work," she said. It was not a question.
I nodded.
She let go of my hands. She reached into her stall. Under the table. She pulled out a small jar. Glass. The lid was metal. Rusted. She opened it. The smell was strong. Something I didn't know. Fat? Oil? Herbs?
She took my hands again. She dipped her fingers in the jar. She rubbed the stuff on my hands. On the cracks. On the scars. It was thick. Greasy. It smelled like the earth. Like the market. Like the old woman.
She rubbed for a long time. Her fingers were thick. The knuckles were swollen. But her hands were gentle. Slow. She rubbed until the cracks were covered. Until my hands were warm.
"Now," she said. She let go. She closed the jar. Put it back under the table.
"What is it?" I asked.
She shook her head. "For hands," she said. "Your hands. They work too much."
She reached into her basket. She put tomatoes on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm.
"You eat," she said. "Good for you."
I took the tomatoes. I said "Dziękuję." She didn't nod. She looked at my hands. Then she looked at my face.
"You come back," she said. "Tomorrow. I put more."
I went back to the restaurant. My hands were warm. The smell of the jar was on them. Earth. Fat. Herbs. I held the tomatoes. They were cold. But my hands were warm.
I remember the woman who sold cucumbers next to her.
She was younger. Forty maybe. Her hair was blond. Her face was red. From the cold. From the work. She called out to customers. She waved. She smiled. She was loud. The old woman was quiet. They never spoke. But they were there. Together. Every day.
One day, the cucumber woman saw me at the old woman's stall. She called out. "You! The Chinese!"
I looked at her. She was holding a cucumber. She waved it at me.
"She give you tomatoes?" she said. Loud. So everyone could hear. "She give you tomatoes every day?"
I didn't answer.
The cucumber woman laughed. "She never give me tomatoes. I sell cucumbers. She sell tomatoes. We are friends. She never give me tomatoes."
She laughed again. The old woman didn't look at her. She put tomatoes on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm. She pushed them toward me.
"Take," she said. "You need."
I took the tomatoes. I said "Dziękuję." The cucumber woman was still laughing. I walked away. My hands were warm. The tomatoes were cold.
I remember the day the cucumber woman told me about her.
It was late. The market was closing. The other stalls were packing up. The old woman was already gone. Her table was empty. The basket was covered with the cloth. The cucumber woman was putting her cucumbers in a crate.
"She lost her son," she said. She wasn't loud now. Her voice was quiet. "The war. Not this war. The old war. He was young. Eighteen. He went. He didn't come back."
She put the last cucumber in the crate. She looked at the old woman's empty stall.
"After that, she changed. She doesn't talk much. She doesn't laugh. She doesn't smile. She sells tomatoes. That's all."
She picked up her crate. She walked away. Her shoes were loud on the cobblestones.
I stood there. The market was empty. The stalls were closed. The awnings were down. The old woman's stall was dark. The cloth was on the basket. The tomatoes were underneath. Waiting.
I thought about her son. Eighteen. Gone. The old war. She didn't talk. She didn't laugh. She didn't smile. But she saved tomatoes. For me. Every day. Three tomatoes. Red. Round. Firm. For the Chinese boy who washed dishes. Who had no money. Who said "Dziękuję" every day. Who came back every day. Who had hands like hers. Cracked. Scarred. Working too much.
I remember the day I brought her something.
I made spring rolls. The same ones I made for Anna. The same ones I made for Old Li. Cabbage from the market. Flour from the kitchen. A little oil. The doubanjiang from my mother. I made six. Three for her. Three for me.
I wrapped hers in paper. Brown paper. Like the woman in Chongqing. The one with the cart. The one who wrapped spring rolls in brown paper. The oil soaked through. You could see the spot. Dark. Greasy.
I went to the market. She was behind her stall. The tomatoes were on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm.
I put the package on the table. In front of the tomatoes.
"For you," I said.
She looked at the package. She looked at me. Her eyes were gray. Light gray. Like the sky before snow.
She opened it. Slowly. Her fingers were thick. The knuckles were swollen. She took out a spring roll. She looked at it. She bit into it. Chewed. For a long time.
She didn't smile. But her eyes were different. Not gray. Something else. Something lighter.
"Good," she said.
She put the spring roll down. She reached into her basket. She put tomatoes on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm. She pushed them toward me.
"You eat," she said. "Good for you."
I took the tomatoes. I said "Dziękuję."
She nodded. She picked up the spring roll. She took another bite. Chewed. Her eyes were on the market. On the people walking. On the other stalls. On the gray sky.
I went back to the restaurant. My hands were warm. The tomatoes were cold. I saved them. For something.
I remember the last time I saw her.
I was leaving Warsaw. The train was in the morning. I went to the market in the afternoon. Before dinner. Before the last night in the basement. Before the last shift in the kitchen.
She was behind her stall. The tomatoes were on the table. Three. Red. Round. Firm.
I stood in front of her. I didn't say anything. She didn't say anything. She put the tomatoes in my hands. Three. Red. Round. Firm. Her hands were warm. My hands were cold.
"You go," she said. It was not a question.
I nodded.
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were gray. Light gray. Like the sky before snow.
"You come back?" she said.
I didn't know how to answer. I didn't know if I would come back. I didn't know if I would ever come back to Warsaw. To the restaurant. To the basement. To the market. To her.
"Maybe," I said.
She nodded. She reached into her stall. Under the table. She pulled out the small jar. Glass. Metal lid. Rusted. She put it in my hands. On top of the tomatoes.
"For hands," she said. "Your hands. They work too much."
I held the jar. It was heavy. The glass was cold. The lid was rusted. The smell came through. Earth. Fat. Herbs.
"Dziękuję," I said.
She didn't nod. She looked at my hands. Then she looked at my face.
"You eat," she said. She pointed to the tomatoes. "Good for you."
I went back to the restaurant. The tomatoes were in my hands. The jar was in my hands. My hands were warm. I saved the tomatoes. I saved the jar. I took them with me. On the train. Out of Warsaw. Out of Poland. Into another country. Another city. Another language. I still have the jar. Somewhere. In a box. With other things I don't know what to do with. The lid is rusted. The smell is gone. But I remember her hands. Red. Cracked. Thick fingers. Swollen knuckles. Putting tomatoes on the table. Three. Every day. For the Chinese boy who washed dishes. Who had no money. Who said "Dziękuję." Who came back. Every day. Until he left.
I remember the words she taught me.
Not with her voice. With her hands. The way she put tomatoes on the table. Three. Every day. The way she rubbed the salve on my cracks. Slow. Gentle. The way she said "You eat. Good for you." The way she said "You come back?" The way she said "Maybe." The way she nodded. The way she didn't smile. But her eyes were different. Not gray. Something else. Something lighter.
She taught me that some words are not words. Some words are tomatoes. Saved. Every day. For someone who has nothing. Some words are hands. Warm. On cold hands. Some words are a jar. Rusted. Heavy. Full of earth. Fat. Herbs. Some words are "You come back?" Even when you don't know the answer. Even when you know the answer is no. Some words are "Maybe." Because maybe is not nothing. Maybe is the tomato that is not rotten. Maybe is the hand that is warm. Maybe is the jar that still smells like earth. Even when the smell is gone.