Most, I remember the smashed watermelons. They were in season. And rabbis keening, clutching long wiry beards and prayer books, standing around in groups. Mobile phones passing in a circle, on a silent chain of arms. A woman with long curls sobbed with shock. She sat on the ground; blood on her face and legs disappearing into rubble. Paramedics shouting. Everywhere smashed fruit. Lemons scattered like marbles. Watermelon pulp and blood. The smell of burnt hair.
Earlier, two men strolled into the market with a suitcase. It was a hot afternoon and the crowd surged like fish in a drying creek, back to back. Pushing, seething. Criers hawking the days best deal.
Bananabananabanana!
They held hands before they detonated the device. Watermelons exploded. A fishtank shattered. Herring flipped in thin puddles.
After the bomb I went to see my friend in the deli. The one who sold me pickles and aubergines. He liked me and the others behind the counter teased him. I liked him too, but was shy with him. It was silent in the shop. It was silent in the whole market for days afterwards. He was cold. He stared at me with an apartness, as though I was some other. Someone else who might try to kill him? Someone who didnt matter. He was curt, officious and I had no words to bridge the gap between us. It was nothing so simple as bereavement one death, some delicate words of condolence. I stood with a dryness in my throat. Guilt?
I left.
We never spoke again.
