They wandered back and forth under the rays of the Jerusalem sun, which were hotter than those etched in his memory. How he wanted her to stop him as she had done so many times in the past. To tell him to quit fooling around, and then solve their predicament herself by asking a passerby for directions. But she didn’t say anything, only wiped the sweat trickling down her forehead and struggled to keep up with him as he picked up his pace. They were utterly exhausted by the time Sammy noticed the flow of people coming in and out of one of the alleyways. He dragged Lilian after him, and they found themselves standing in front of stalls laden with vegetables, breads, and nuts. Sammy smiled contentedly and quickly looked at her with anticipation. After a few moments, as he had hoped, Lilian closed her eyes without knowing why.

When they were young, she had remarked that the market-goers let their senses deceive them. They think the experience boils down to a few colors and smells and don’t know that it’s all about finding a sense of quiet within the great noise. Afterward, to illustrate her point, she would take him to the most crowded spot in the market, next to the spice seller with the painted eyebrows, and make him close his eyes; to try to feel the motion of the people passing by, through, and over them like living water. Now he tried to close his eyes again, but just as back then, he was still too afraid.

He hadn’t visited the market in over sixty years. On his twenty-third birthday, they left Jerusalem, and he hadn’t been back since. He couldn’t imagine himself wandering the market like a tourist, like a foreigner. As a child he had worked every summer at Dudu’s bakery, and vividly remembered those florid, sweaty tourists who passed by the stalls with their wide straw hats and fancy Italian shirts, their anthropological gazes announcing the brevity of their visit. Sammy wondered whether they had made the long, winding journey to Jerusalem only to remind themselves who they were not. Lilian, on the other hand, had returned to the market several times as a teacher, chaperoning field trips. On those occasions, he would close the welding shop earlier than usual and dart home, eagerly awaiting her return by the wooden kitchen table. When she walked in, even before managing to put down her bag, he would bombard her with questions about the prices of tomatoes and eggplant and potatoes and cauliflower, and about Dudu’s stall, although Dudu had long since passed away, and about the new goods that had appeared and those that were gone. She would answer slowly; words upon words upon words, knowing he needed to hear about the market like a man of faith hankering after a prayer’s melody.