An Old Man's Wares

Ghassan walked with quick steps between the fruit stands. With each skim of an apple, a deep rumble shook his frame. The soft fur of plump peaches brought shudders. His empty pockets made him desperate. Fresh aromas mingled in the air, and his mouth watered. He kept his lips pressed against the dry desert air. A surge of stampeding feet thundered from behind. People rushed past, shoving his shoulders as they picked over the laden barrels. Ghassan’s heartbeat thumped in his ears, and his window of opportunity was shrinking.

Small children leashed to parents jumped and tugged and pointed as the rare market delicacies vanished. A mass of hands clawed and wrenched forward, the pace furious. A frenzy of people crowded the baskets, raising their goods to the merchant for purchase, while others pushed to reach. Ghassan charged in, but the crowd blocked him. Before he could make an attempt, the seller was waving fleshy arms and stacking empty baskets with a grin as large as his swollen purse. The beat dulled.

Ghassan tucked his chin and sucked air. He rolled the captured bubble from cheek to cheek, Not nearly as tasty as a peach. He sighed and walked away with slumped shoulders.

As he searched for food, the market din slowed as people hid from the high pulsing sun. Ghassan ducked beneath the shade of a small stand. An equally small man sat on a mat behind his items, cheap jewelry and timepieces. They exchanged polite pleasantries with shared disinterest in the other’s business. Ghassan leaned against a wood post and scanned the clusters of food stands.

Dust blew up in his face as gusts of wind swooped under the canvas roof. Hunting hawks drifted in the desert sky, their shrieks scattering hyraxes in all directions. The traveling market was encamped around the town’s oasis full of mudflats and date palm trees. People wandered among the stands, and squealing children ran between the spindly legs of tethered dromedaries. He spotted a stall with green gourds hanging from thin strings and missing a watchful owner. Several confident strides brought him beneath newfound shade.  

Ghassan rapped his knuckles against a gourd rind and grinned at the soft hollow resonance. Vapid glances at passersby and ignorant neighboring merchants hinted at safety, and his hand crawled to a knife tucked at the waist. With a pounding heart in his throat, Ghassan slashed the knife upward with blinding speed, turning on his heels to catch the gourd behind his back as he faced the bustling crowd. The serene market atmosphere continued.

He slipped the succulent prize into his camel-hair satchel. Three steps into his escape, a powerful hand gripped Ghassan’s bicep, freezing him. Pain shot like tendrils from each finger. Incredible pressure from the hand made Ghassan’s legs tremble.  

A hoarse male voice said, “Do you intend on finding the owner of that fruit?”

Ghassan’s arm was numb, and he tried to spin around only to feel the pain intensify. He twisted angrily. With a furious yell, Ghassan kicked his heel out. The muscular leg caught nothing. He spun on his heels to face an old man two heads shorter and would have laughed if not for the purpling marks on his arm.

Ghassan, cradling his arm, mustered his toughest voice, “No. Got a problem, old man?”

“My name is Hakim, and I think you should return the fruit.”

Ghassan glared at Hakim. “You’ve got some courage to grab me like that, but I don’t care what you think and don’t touch me again.”

As he walked away, Hakim called out, “Will you return this fruit?”

Without looking back, Ghassan strode through the crowd. He was crouched against a palm tree when he looked into his empty satchel.

* * *

Hakim sat in front of the stand, the green fruit before him like an obedient pet. He chuckled at his long weathered fingers resting in his lap and frowned as darkness fell upon them. Ghassan’s eyes glowed in the late afternoon sun. “Old man, you had better give that fruit back to me.”  

Hakim grinned, “As I’ve said before, it’s Hakim and I’m not keeping it from you, am I?”

Ghassan looked at the gourd between his feet, then back at Hakim shaking inside his shadow. Blood boiled in his veins and rushed to his head.  Great peals of laughter erupted from Hakim, the white hairs dancing along the sides of his tanned balding head, his snow-flecked beard waving in the dusty wind.

            Ghassan reached for the knife at his hip—but grasped the rough fabric of rags. His eyes twitched side-to-side, brow furrowed, as he searched for an answer. His pupils blossomed as he met Hakim’s melancholy stare. He rolled up his sleeves, “Take mind, old man, I’m about to—” Ghassan’s knife flashed from the blur of Hakim’s throw, splitting the previously immaculate fruit and producing a sickening sound. Ghassan paled.

            Hakim, calm and with closed eyes, waved at the bare ground beside him. Ghassan took two measured steps before easing down, gaze locked on Hakim. Minutes inched by as they remained beneath the canvas of the fruit stand, the sun’s descent undercutting the aromatic shade. Ghassan scratched his ears and adjusted his pants before Hakim silenced him. When he could bear no more, Ghassan stood and glared at Hakim’s unremittingly stoic face. Hakim looked a clay statue. 

            “I’m leaving, old man. Thanks for cutting open my fruit.”

            Without opening his eyes, Hakim said, “You wait with empty patience. Want to know why the mosquito died of impatience? Nevermind. And for the last time, my name is Hakim.” 

            “I don’t care what your name is; I’m not going to sit all day with a stranger that steals from me.”

            “Exactly my point. You dislike being stolen from, yes?” Hakim peered at Ghassan through one squinted eye. “Theft is a door is big enough for a camel. You cannot live life one way but expect others to live differently. We all play by the same rules. Hence why I borrowed your knife.” 

            Ghassan picked up the split gourd, withdrew his knife and wiped it back and forth along a clean rag, keeping a wary eye on Hakim. He sheathed the small blade and looked around before regaining his confidence, “I’ll play my part, and you play the doddering rundown merchant. I live a long and prosperous life, and you die somewhere in the desert asking your weak camel to give you a proper burial. Those sound like the right kinds of rules to me.”

            Hakim stared at the ground. He said, “And what of your part? Have you ever considered how fragile life can be? You live like locusts, taking always and never giving.”

            “Then why bother with me? Leave me alone, as everyone does locusts.” Ghassan turned his shoulders away from Hakim but took no steps. His feet pawed at the dusty ground. 

            “No one speaks to locusts because they do not listen. Care not to listen. But what of a young man, one who can hear reason? You live like locusts, but you are human. Do you wish to live as a pest?”

Before Ghassan could reply, Hakim stood and dusted himself. He touched at his bald head as if to reaffirm its existence. He smiled with glossed eyes and walked away.

Rooted to the spot, Ghassan’s mind raced. The beat roared in his ears, louder than any larceny. He caught up to Hakim and asked through heavy breathing, “Is that it?”

They walked in silence, Hakim greeting other merchants, waving at them and beaming. Ghassan kept by his side, eyes averted and face burning from sun and shame. After a time, Hakim turned and found no sign of Ghassan. He sighed and continued on in the late rays of the summer sun. 

* * *

Hakim waited at the oasis well to fill his worn water bag. His mouth was dry, and the vast crags of his forehead shifted with every blink. He smiled to the children in front of him filling pots for evening meals. The fading sunset lit the sky with cascades of brilliant pink and orange, while the dark violet blue waited to hang over its empire of sand. Desert sounds of night gathered force with dusk and mixed with the packing of merchants and the hum of gathering families.

From beside his camel, Hakim watched. His joints ached and tears ran through his cracked visage. He sniffed. In the ghostly light of the full moon, a shadow loomed above him and punched his backside.

Hakim fell against his groaning but unalarmed camel, his hand scrambling for purchase among the coarse hairs. He spun to face the attacker, and his wild grin shone against his dark skin, “So the locust returns.”

Ghassan said, “You humiliated me, old man. I hate you for that.” His voice was muffled through wrappings over his face. “Whatever your advice was meant to do, it failed.” He punched Hakim in the face but paused to relish the feedback in his fists. He flexed his hands in exultation.

Hakim shook his head to clear his vision and sidestepped from the camel. They faced off in the empty, lunar street. Hakim spat a glob of blood and said, “Clearly, my advice failed. The reminder is unwarranted. So you intend to kill me for helping you? You ungrateful—”

The desert took no notice as Ghassan screamed, “Shut up you worthless old—”

“I’m worthless?” Hakim jabbed a finger at Ghassan and said, “Look at you! Embarrassed by an old man, the only way you can feel better about yourself is by ambushing him at night? You are worthless.” Hakim’s last words rang in the cool air.

            Ghassan’s skin burned with rage as he charged Hakim, a bestial expression of hubris flowing from the beating drum of his heart. At the last second, Hakim stepped into his reaching arms and turned with the attack. Ghassan’s eyes expanded with shock as Hakim’s powerful hand gripped the nape of his neck and threw him to the ground. A tooth came loose, and his eyes and mouth and nose filled with sand. He felt his knife slide from its sheath and the brisk metal brought to his throat. The sharp edge of Hakim’s voice shook him, “Would you like me to put an end to your worthless young life?”

            A whimper wept from Ghassan’s torn face. A dark pool bloomed from his pants. His mouth moved, a whisper deathly quiet, “I’m sorry.” The weight of Hakim lifted from Ghassan, but a burden remained heavy upon him. 

            “Get up.”

            Ghassan rose with shaking legs, face cringing at the rank smell of urine, mouth of sand, bile and blood. He stood hunched and waited, staring at the ground. Blood dripped unattended from his battered nose, and his lower lip was ripped and quivering. 

            The edge in Hakim’s voice dulled, “You are indeed sorry.” He breathed, “But for what truly?” 

            Ghassan looked up, for the first time meeting Hakim’s gaze as a man, his hands sweeping widely, “Everything, I guess. I’ve done nothing right.” 

            He flinched when Hakim roared with laughter, “Seems to be the case, given today.”

            As Ghassan began to smile, Hakim threw the knife. Bloody spit choked his instinctive cry as Ghassan stumbled backward and fell down. He gaped in confusion as Hakim laughed, the knife stuck in the ground like a half-buried crescent moon. Ghassan rose and laughed, the movement causing pain and joy throughout, tears streaming. When he wiped his eyes, Hakim was atop his camel and turning away.

            “Hey, what about your fruit stand?” Ghassan asked.

            With his hand holding the rein, Hakim waved a stumped forearm at Ghassan, “It’s not mine. You had better pay for that piece of fruit.”

            Ghassan watched him fade into the darkness. “I’ll pay it back, Hakim. I swear.”