B: A Small Price to Pay

"If I'm going to use this bloody market," Joan said, the crowd
thronging around her, "I'm going to need something - anything! - to
consolidate my purchases."

"Yes, dear," Bob answered, his eye on a young woman hanging her laundry
out to dry. A slight breeze set the clothes to flapping over the busy
street.

"Don't 'yes dear' me," Joan said, following her husband's gaze up to
the young woman, who was stretching so far out of her window that Joan
caught a glimpse of her midriff. Two-penny tart, if you ask me, she
thought.

A toothless old man in a wool poncho and jodhpurs grinned as he waved a
half-plucked chicken in Joan's face. "Dos, dos," he said.

"Oh, Christ!" Joan yelled, the chicken inches from her face as she
turned. "Bob? Bob! Pay attention to me and tell me what this man is
saying."

"I think he's saying 'two.' Yes, that's right: 'two,'" Bob said,
stealing another glance at the woman and her laundry.

"Dos, dos," said the man again.

"That means nothing to me," Joan said, instinctively patting her
stomach where the money belt lay hidden. Satisfied, she rummaged around
in her large purse for a book of Spanish phrases. She flipped through
the book rapidly, and finding what she wanted, looked at the man with
the chicken and said, "No."

"That did the trick." Joan watched the man waddle towards a group of
Americans, then put the phrase book back in her purse. "Bob? Bob! What
else should we get for dinner? So far I've got that rather anemic piece
of beef, two small potatoes, and that funny fruit with the knobs
sticking out all over them that that crazy woman convinced me to buy. I
don't even want the bloody things. I think I'll take them back. Here,
hold these."

Bob accepted the bags from Joan, as well as Joan's purse, which was so
heavy he looped the strap over his shoulder. Thus equipped, he watched
the man with the chicken haggle with the Americans, all of whom were
laughing and patting the man on the shoulder. Finally, the largest
American, a man with white hair and a red face, handed over a colorful
piece of currency and took the chicken. The boy next to him, blond but
equally red-faced, pinched his nose and laughed even harder.

"What a horrible, horrible woman!" Joan said, back at Bob's side. "She
wouldn't let me return these?these?whatever they are!" Joan held the
offending fruit at arm's length, her face a mixture of fury and
disdain. The bag swayed beneath her grasp like the testicles of a
charging bull.

"Perhaps we should just eat them," Bob said, wondering when Joan was
planning on retrieving her purse. The strap was cutting into his
shoulder.

"Oh, yes, why don't we just?" Joan asked, yanking her purse hard enough
for the strap to fall off of Bob's shoulder and pull him slightly
towards her. She left the other bags for him to hold.

They walked, Joan stopping at every other stall and touching fruit and
vegetables despite the protestations of the vendors. She found three
suitable carrots and argued over the price, eventually handing over
several small coins that Bob was sure was twice the quoted
amount.

"Well, I am finished," Joan said, "And just a little hungry. Shall we
head back to the flat and eat?"

Bob nodded his head, falling in behind Joan as she walked in a straight
line through the crowd. After several minutes he saw the group of
Americans again. This time they surrounded the doorman of a
decent-looking hotel, presumably theirs. The older man who bought the
chicken held it up for the doorman to see, and everyone laughed. The
group filed into the hotel, the doorman nodding after them. Just as the
older American reached the door, he paused, held the chicken over a
trashcan, and let it drop.

Bob drew parallel to the American just as the chicken disappeared, the
image of the young woman hanging her laundry out to dry at the
forefront of his thoughts.