The market place by the docks is always crowded this time of the day, with foreigners on their way to catch the ferry to the main island frantically stuffing their luggage with authentic made-in-china souvenirs. He’d never hear the end of it if he brought Marianne some fake silk scarf or a wooden jewel-box decorated with painted sea shells. Maybe some fruit, at least those must be authentic and with a little luck they’d still look fresh by the time he gets home.
There’s a glint in the old woman’s eyes as Harry stops in front of the little stall, laden with colorful and unfamiliar fruit. The orange one - what is it called, mango maybe - that looks decent enough. His hand hovers over the ripe fruit, but it does not look like his hand anymore - it’s a small hand, the hand of a child, with dirt under the fingernails. He feels the tremor in the the small hand and he suddenly knows the boy is hungry. He’s quite young, the boy, no more than eight and he hasn’t had a bite to eat all day. Normally he gets something for breakfast from the fisherman he helps unload their catch, but there was a storm last night and no boatman round this parts is crazy enough to venture out at sea in such a weather. Even mother came home little over midnight last night, her short red work dress soaked and her feet frozen. Business is slow on such nights so she left him no coins on the table. He’s on his own today and all he can think right now is how he’d like to sink his teeth into that ripe mango. The woman tending the stall won’t give him chase even if she does see him and that nasty husband of hers is nowhere to be seen. The woman turns around to talk to the woman selling candles, ignoring the little dirty boy wearing nothing but a pair of hand-me-down shorts, faded by many years of washing. Now is the time and boy’s hand clasps the fruit and he starts running, weaving his way past tired housewives and clueless tourists. He doesn’t stop until he reaches his favorite resting place at the feet of the general’s statue at the end of the street. He sits down on the dirty marble slab and takes out the fruit from his pocket. He’s too hungry to bother with the enticing smell, he just bites into it, filling his mouth with the sweet pulp, juice dripping down his chin, which he quickly wipes with his fingers and licks those, too. The boy is so busy eating he does not notice the shadow falling over him, he barely has time to recognize the fruit vendor’s husband before the heavy metal rod connects with his temple. Darkness.
It takes Harry more than a few seconds to remember who he is or where he is. He let’s go of the fruit in his hand as if it was poisoned. And his left temple is throbbing and this not a good time to be getting a migraine. Maybe I’ll buy something at the airport, he tells himself as he walks down the street, until he reaches the pier where the statue of some local hero soldier seems to be waving at the departing ferries. It’s still early, he could use some rest in the shadow of the big statue, but as he nears the marble slab a shudder passes him and he feels ice trickling down his spine, like he’s looking at his own grave.
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