“They are,” Mariam said. “Can you smell them, too?”

“I cannot,” the robot said, with some evident regret. “Are they beautiful in that, too?”

“They’re strong,” Mariam said. “The souk smells like a perfume shop, I sometimes think.”

“The tomato plant,” the robot said. It had come at the end of the day.

Mariam was tired, but at least the press of traders eased and people buying flowers for their loved ones had all gone off to meet them, so it was quiet, and she could indulge a chat. It was almost time to close. “I’m sorry?” she said.

“Oh, do not be,” the robot said, which was the sort of awkward if well-meaning thing robots sometimes said.

Mariam wanted to point out she hadn’t apologised, the words were phrased as a polite query of incomprehension, but the robot didn’t mean it in the way men sometimes did, and so she didn’t.

“What about the tomato plant?” she said instead.

“When the tomato plant reached Europe for the first time, no one thought to eat the strange round fruit it bore,” the robot said. “Instead they grew it for its beauty, as a decorative plant. They had never tasted it and still appreciated it. I cannot smell a rose but I can still admire it, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Mariam said. “Yes. Would you like to buy one?”

“My funds are few,” the robot said apologetically. “I am sorry if I am keeping you from your work, I had stopped and thought to pass the time of day with small talk, but if I am in the way—”

“No, no,” Mariam said, “you are welcome to stay. I will be closing soon.”

“It is a nice time of day,” the robot said.

Mariam had to admit it was. The heat of the day began to ease, and the sun was low on the horizon and the sky was a riotous canvas of purples and reds with only a little yellow. The market emptied by degrees. Already some of the stalls were shuttered for the night, though the smell of the flowers lingered and many of the small cafés dotted around only came alive then.

“It is,” Mariam said. “Nice.”

“The night flowers will open soon,” the robot said. “Late-blooming jasmine and the like. I had noticed it grows in profusion throughout the city.”

“It does,” Mariam said, surprised. She hadn’t thought of it, but the city smelled of jasmine and sweet peas. “Will you stay long in Neom?”

“I fear not,” the robot said. “I am merely passing through. In truth this is no town for an old robot like me. I feel out of place, with my rust spots and my creaking joints. Everyone here is so young, so wholesome.”

“Not everyone,” Mariam said.